He walked on into the forest. From the ridge where he had looked at the passing truck he had seen what appeared to be a large farm in the distance. In Yakutia, he knew, there were many large farms, and although he had passed out of that area he was apparently coming into another such.
Steadily, he worked his way east through dense forest, avoiding roads and signs of cultivation. From time to time he glimpsed people, mostly dressed in furs as he was, from what he could make out at the distance. From now on it would be more and more difficult to hide; nor could he leave traps here. Joe Mack had no desire to accidentally injure some unsuspecting person. Those who were trailing him did so at their own risk, but a trap left for them might be stumbled upon by a trapper, a hunter, or simply some wanderer in the forest.
In a thick forest of larch, he found a corner near a huge fallen tree and bedded down for rest. The hour was early, but he must travel by night. Yet he was not forgetting the tiger track he had seen.
With only his bow and quiver of arrows, he had no desire to encounter a tiger.
He was alone, and he was tired. Not physically tired, but tired of running, tired of hiding. The sky was a pale blue, the spruce a dark fringe, almost black against that sky. He stood, looking about him, wondering if it was here, in this far land, where he was to die.
What was he, anyway? Was he an Indian or a white man? And what difference did it make? His blood was Indian blood, but the world in which he lived was that of all men, having nothing to do with race or color. To exist is to adapt, and if one could not adapt, one died and made room for those who could. It was as simple as that. Beating one’s fists against the walls did no good. It was an exercise in futility.
The terrorist lives for terror, not for the change he tells himself he wants. He masks his desire to kill and destroy behind the curtain of a cause. It is destruction he wants, not creation.
A political revolution always destroys more than it creates. It had taken the Soviet Union thirty years to rebuild what the revolution had destroyed, and the government that had resulted was no different. Only the names had changed, the names of the people as well as the institutions.
He was a Sioux, and for the Sioux as for most Indians war had been a way of life. More than one Indian had said that without war they could not exist. But it had been the same for the Vikings, whose very name stood for raiding and robbery. It had been no different for the Crusaders, who masked their lust for war under the banner of a holy cause.
When the Sioux had first encountered the white man, the white man was despised. He was a trader for fur. If he was any kind of man, why did he not trap his own fur?
His people had no way of gauging the power behind the westward movement or the white man’s drive to own land, to live on the land. Only the first white men to come had been free rovers like the Indian; the rest had been settlers who came and built cabins, who plowed up the grass and planted corn.
Not until too late did the Indian realize what was happening to his country. He and many of the white men, too, bewailed the killing of the vast herds of buffalo, but where millions of buffalo roamed there were now farms that could feed half the world; there were hospitals, universities, and the homes of men.
He was a warrior of the old school. It was the life he had always wanted, the life he knew best, but he could still appreciate the changes that had taken place. Nothing ever remained the same; the one inexorable law was change.
Major Joseph Makatozi, once an athlete and flyer known as Joe Mack, walked down into the forest again, an Indian.
Thinking of what was to be or what should have been did no good now. To exist, to survive, to escape, these must be all his thought, all his wish, his only need.
This was not a war between the United States and the Soviet Union; it was a war between Colonel Arkady Zamatev and himself.
It was also a war with Alekhin, out there somewhere, searching for him and someday, somewhere, finding him.
Twenty-Five
Natalya Baronas stood in the opening of the small, deep valley where they had found a home and looked out over Plastun Bay.
Her father came from the cabin and walked down beside her. “I wonder where he is?” she said.
Baronas shook his head, “Who knows? He is a man of the forest, you know. He does not fight it as we did. He understands it and lives with it.”
“They search everywhere. I do not see how he can escape.”
“Do you love him?”
She did not answer for several minutes, looking out across the bay, wisps of hair blowing gently in the wind. “How can I know? I do not even know what love is. I only know that I felt good when near him, lost when he went from me. I think he is a strong man. I do not know if he is wise.”
“What is wisdom?” Baronas asked. “I have often wondered, and I am not sure. Understanding of life and men, I presume. It goes beyond mere knowledge, as knowledge goes beyond information.
“Your young man has learned how to survive in one world, at least. Colonel Zamatev was unwise in not realizing he had captured something wild that could not stand being imprisoned. He is elemental, your friend. He is basic. His thoughts are simple, direct thoughts, I believe, although I do not know him well enough. I am a little afraid that when Zamatev had him captured he bought more than he bargained for. To Zamatev his action was totally impersonal. He captured a man to squeeze information from him, then to cast him aside. To Makatozi his capture was a deadly, personal insult, I believe. Something to be wiped out in blood.”
“He said he would come back. Do you think he could be so foolish?”
“It would not be foolish to him. I think your friend lives by a very simple and ancient code.” He paused, watching the gray waters of the bay. “I wonder if anyone has ever understood him? I am sure none of his fellow officers ever did. Probably they took what was on the surface as the man and looked no further. Not many men are given to study of their companions, anyway. They are concerned with themselves, their jobs, their families. Rarely do they question the motivations of their companions unless somehow it affects their own lives.”
“I liked him.”
“So did I, but I am afraid you cannot hold too long to a dream. He has gone, the odds are a million to one that he will be captured or killed or will die out in the taiga. That he could ever come back for you is almost impossible. Every inch of this coast is covered by radar and patrolled constantly.”
Baronas paused. “There is something else, however. We might escape.”
Surprised, she turned to look at him. “But how?”
“I do not want to raise your hopes, but the American started me thinking of escape. Until then I had only thought of existing and staying away from officials. He started me thinking of what might be done. I have said nothing because I did not want to raise hopes I could not gratify, but escape is contagious, and if your friend did nothing more he started me thinking of what might be done. We are not far from China.”
She gestured. “And Japan lies just over there.”
He shook his head. “We cannot think of the sea. We have no boat, and I know nothing of the sea or of boats. Also, there is the radar and the patrols. I was thinking of the border.”
“It is guarded.”
“Of course, but guards are men, and men have failings. Where men live, there are men who wish to live better. To live better they must have money.”
“We do not have enough.”
“What is enough? Let us think of that, and let us think of where we are, what the closest border is, and let us make some friends of the soldiers. Sometimes they are allowed to come down here to fish.”
“So?”
“We must buy a boat, a small one for fishing on the bay, and we can lend it to soldiers. Soldiers are men and they talk, especially to a pretty girl. From them we will learn how the border is patrolled, and we will listen to their gossip about their comrades and their officers. We will find which ones might be open to persuasion. We might even find a guard who would look the other way for a few minutes.”