Such a trap was a gamble, of course, yet the American knew he was being followed. Perhaps there had been other traps, further back, which they had avoided simply by accident. Alekhin was angry with himself. He should have been more careful. He knew the sort of man he was pursuing.
Or did he?
His calls were getting no response. “Make a litter,” he said. “Get two strong poles and get the coat from the dead man. Your comrade must be carried.”
The two soldiers looked at him, staring. “How far?” one asked.
“As far as need be,” Alekhin replied. “As far as you would wish to be carried if it were you.”
After a minute he said, “There is a village. It is about twenty miles.”
“Twenty miles!”
“Perhaps further. We’ve wasted enough time. Move!”
Alekhin consulted his map. The village was Mar-Kyuyel, and it was on a road. He looked at the wounded man. He looked bad. He had lost much blood before the bleeding had been eased by cloth pads. Next time he would have a man along who understood first aid.
Next time? His face was somber. He did not care for these soldiers, but he hated to be defeated, to be hampered. He had a feeling they would lose more men before the American was found and captured.
The worst of it was that it would be Suvarov who got him, and he, Alekhin, wanted to capture this one.
They loaded the man on the crude stretcher and started to walk. Alekhin waited, thinking. Should he go with them or continue the search alone?
They would want a report. They always wanted a report. Everything came second to the paperwork these days. Bureaucratic minds could not comprehend unless it was written out for them or drawn in pictures. Besides, who knew what these soldiers would do if someone did not watch them?
Colonel Zamatev was at his desk when word reached him. Another man dead and one seriously injured.
At least Major Makatozi was not in Magadan. It was a relief to know that somehow Shepilov was not ahead of him.
Yet he still might be. Makatozi might be headed for Magadan and Shepilov might know why. It was on the sea. Suppose the CIA planned to steal him away from there?
Unlikely, but possible. Yet how could it be done? Suppose the American had managed to communicate with his own people?
Just suppose it could have been done? Suppose something had been set up and Shepilov knew of it? If so, Shepilov might capture them all, circumvent him completely, and walk off with all the prizes. Why else would he go to Magadan?
Nobody wanted to go to Magadan. Nobody went there unless they must. Yet Shepilov had gone of his own free will. Surely, he knew something and wanted to be right where he could claim all the credit, personally.
Kyra was there, and Kyra would find out.
Could he trust Kyra?
He sat back in his chair and tried to order his thinking, He liked everything lined up, everything neat and clear.
Fact one: Shepilov never moved unless he had to. He preferred comfort. And Shepilov had gone to Magadan.
Fact two: Makatozi was somewhere north of the Uchur, moving in the general direction of Magadan.
Fact three: headed in that direction, Makatozi would have to escape by sea, and Magadan was a seaport.
Fact four: the Soviet buffer zone was supposed to be impenetrable, but suppose the Americans used one of their new stealth planes? It would be a test, and if they brought it off, what a coup!
Fact five: if such a thing happened, heads would roll, and his would be one of the first. If Shepilov were in Magadan and the CIA succeeded in getting Makatozi out of the country, Shepilov’s head would roll.
But Shepilov never left himself in a vulnerable position. If he was in Magadan, he was there for a reason and he was sure he would succeed.
Kyra would call in, but Kyra’s line would certainly be bugged. Shepilov would certainly know she was in the city. In fact, he had probably been informed when she had left town to fly there.
Suvarov. He must be in touch with Suvarov. If they could get the American before he reached Magadan, then they had no further worries.
He got up from his desk and paced the floor. There was no way he could have planes flying back and forth over so many miles of country looking for one man. But what if that man were confined to a much smaller area, like that between where Alekhin’s men had been attacked and where Suvarov was?
He opened the door. “Emma. Emma Yavorsky. Get a message to Lieutenant Suvarov. I want some planes out flying. ” He checked the coordinates and handed them to her. “The planes must fly across that area. A careful search.”
Emma Yavorsky’s lips tightened in disapproval. “It will cost too much,” she said. “They will not allow it.” She stared at him. “You are being foolish about this. The man will die out there. Siberia will kill him. Let him alone, let him die.”
“Your advice is usually good. But not this time. Many men will die out there; many men can die. But not this man.”
Twenty-Four
It was time for a change of direction. Joe Mack rubbed his cold hands, watching his back trail. Something moved back there, probably an animal, but instinct as well as common sense told him he was being followed.
By now they had guessed his intent, and they would prepare for his coming. He had set traps, deliberately chosen difficult ways, done what he could to slow pursuit and discourage those who followed him.
Spring was coming, but it was still some weeks away, and a move toward the coast would put him in somewhat warmer weather. It would also lead to greater risk, for villages were more frequent. To strike back into the interior would increase his distance from his final goal, so he would move toward the coastal mountains.
First, to find a suitable place to make the change. Squatting on his heels he studied the terrain. What he hoped for was a rocky shelf relatively free of snow. As his eyes sought a possible avenue of travel he was alert for any movement. In the vastness of the taiga, there were men as well as animals, and in the wilderness all men went armed. Many of them were bandits, working singly or in company, and robbing any unwary travelers.
Joe Mack carried his bearskin in his pack with the carefully folded shirt Natalya had made for him. Now he wore three lightweight garments, the outer one made from the intestines of reindeer, carefully cleaned and then cut in strips and sewn together with sinew. Such a coat would shed rain and snow as easily as a slicker. He wore the stolen sweatshirt next to his skin and then a loose jacket of wolf hide. Necessarily, Joe Mack had used what could be had, not what he preferred.
Joe Mack came down the mountain in the late afternoon and walked eastward over rock polished smooth by ice. He walked steadily through scattered trees and low brush. It was very cold, but the air was clear. Cold as it was, this part of Siberia had more clear days than any other part of the Soviet Empire. Several times he saw deer, and once a moose, a huge old bull who raised his head, staring at him. He had been expecting moose as he had seen their teeth marks on aspen trunks.
Leaving the rock, he climbed up a steep slope, placing his feet with care to disturb none of the smaller rocks, which might mark his passing. He avoided limbs, ducking under them or passing without brushing them where possible. Some had a light coating of snow that could be disturbed, others might be broken or the leaves pushed out of shape, all evidence of his passing if seen by a skilled tracker. When stepping back on a rock surface again, he was careful to knock the earth, sand, and leaves from his moccasins before reaching the rock, so as to leave no traces. These things were done without thinking. They had become habitual.
Crossing the mountain slope, he next went down a gorge filled with a dense growth of spruce, weaving a careful way through them. He did not stop to leave any traps, that would come later, when a follower was apt to be tired and less cautious. He slept that night in a huge hollow tree, the hollow trunk serving as a chimney for his small fire, perfectly shielded by the tree itself. The place was snug, and in a few minutes, with a fire going, it was warm. The opening in the hollow tree had been covered by a crude door made of evergreen boughs woven together.