Kurun-Uryakh? There was a good flying field there, a good base for aircraft. The American was east of the Maya River and living in the forest. The food he had taken would not last long, so he would have to kill for meat.
“We will get him,” Alekhin said quietly. “We will get him now.”
Suvarov! That fool! Sitting there with all his soldiers, and the American had slipped around them and left them sitting. Alekhin chuckled. Suvarov had failed, but he would get him. He got into the car. “Drive me to the helicopter,” he said.
“Is there anything we can do?” Peter asked.
“Stay out of the way,” Alekhin replied brusquely. “We do not need you.”
The helicopter would fly him to Kurun-Uryakh. There was a gold mine there, he remembered, and they should have communication facilities.
When the helicopter was aloft. Peter Petrovich drove back to Topka. He was a quiet, studious young man who worked quietly at his job and tried to make no waves. He was an able administrator, often impatient with the restraints the bureaucracy placed upon him, but a loyal Soviet citizen. He had read much of America and had often listened to the Voice of America and the BBC, preferring the latter. He did not approve of America. Their government was too confused, too weak. As a Russian he had never known anything but a strong central government. Nor had his parents, grandparents or great-grandparents. Before Lenin and Stalin, there had been the Tsars.
He owned two pairs of blue jeans from America, a few rock and roll records, and even some American books translated into Russian.
He had read everything he could find written by Jack London, and because of that he had strong sympathy for that lone American out there in the taiga. If he had seen him, he would have reported it promptly, but nonetheless, he sympathized with him. Someone had said the man was a Sioux Indian, and Peter Petrovich had read an account of the Battle of the Little Big Horn.
They said the Indian had been a flyer, and he could not imagine that. It seemed impossible. Yet there were Yakut flyers, and one of his favorite writers was a Yakut. He himself was from Kiev. He had volunteered to come to Siberia because the pay was so much greater and the chances for advancement were better.
He drove back to his building and put the car in the garage. He was thinking of a mug of tea with maybe a touch of vodka to take away the chill.
He opened his door and stepped in, closing the door carefully behind him. Now, to relax! To have his tea, the drop of vodka, and to read!
He turned away from the door and looked into the muzzle of a pistol.
The man holding the gun was the American. He was the Indian. And the gun was very steady; the gray, icy eyes held no mercy.
“First,” the American said, “we will eat.”
Twenty-Seven
Peter Petrovich was surprised, not only by the American’s presence but by his reaction to it. He was not afraid. He was not even nervous.
“I am hungry, too,” he spoke in English. “You can put down that gun.”
“Thank you, but we have an affinity for one another, this gun and I. Be careful, because I do not want to kill you.”
“You had less compassion for the man in the car.”
“He tried to shoot at me, leaving me small choice. One of us had to die, and I was reluctant, as you can imagine.”
“You can’t get away, you know. They are following you. Alekhin himself is here.”
“Here?”
“He was here. He’s flown north now, as he judged you would be going that way. He flew to Kurun-Uryakh, on the Maya.”
Peter was heating up some stew. It smelled very good. “Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Either is all right. I’ve been drinking tea here in your country. I prefer coffee.”
“So do I.” Peter glanced at him. “They tell me you are an Indian?”
“A Sioux. The term Indian is too indefinite. It is like saying European.”
“But you have gray eyes?”
“One grandfather was a Scot. But it is not unusual. Crazy Horse had gray eyes and sandy hair.”
It was warm in the room. The smells of stew and coffee and the warmth were lulling him into comfort. Deliberately, he stood up. “Are you likely to have visitors?”
“No. They know that I read much at night. Unless someone comes looking for you.”
“If they do, please stay out of it. I would not want to kill a good cook.”
Peter smiled. “I am not a hero. When you are gone I shall report it at once. You understand that?”
“Of course.” He tucked the pistol behind his belt. “They were all ready for me up north, so I circled around. I doubted they would expect me to come back here.”
They talked quietly, and Joe Mack tried to keep talking. The warmth and the comfort were making him sleepy. To go to sleep would be fatal. He doubted if this young man would attack him, but he would certainly try to capture him. To gain possession of his gun, at least.
When the stew was ready they sat down on opposite sides of the table, with Joe Mack facing the door. The window was thick with frost, and he doubted anyone could see in.
“Don’t be ambitious,” Joe Mack said, “because I have the gun in my belt. I am very quick.”
“I have heard about your cowboys and the fast draw. Is it true, then? Were there really gunfights like in the films?”
“Much more so. Of course, you had them here, too, only you called them duels. Your poet Pushkin was killed in one.”
“You know Pushkin?” Peter was surprised.
“Of course. I’ve read many of your Russian writers.”
The stew was good, and for a time they ate in silence. Joe Mack was listening, waiting for a noise from outside and hoping it would not come.
His eyes searched the room. This man read a great deal. There were maps, also. He would have a look at those. He finished the stew and poured coffee for both.
“You do not appear like a savage.”
Joe Mack smiled. “Most Indians are not. They are civilized, industrious people.” His eyes met those of Peter Petrovich. “I am not like them. I am a savage.”
“But — ”
He gestured. “All this — the forest, the wilderness — it is my home. With each day I find myself regressing. In here” — he put a hand over his heart — “I am an unreconstructed Indian. I am supposed to be escaping, and to win my own battle, I must escape. Nevertheless, in many ways I’d rather stay here.”
“Become a Russian? But I am sure that can be arranged.”
“They have already made offers. But you misunderstand. I am tempted not to try to escape but to remain here, in the forest, and wage my own private war against the Soviet Union.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“Is it? Perhaps. But your people declared war on me. They forced my plane down at sea, captured me, and intended to question me. When that was over they would have killed me, I believe.” He emptied his cup. “It was demeaning and to me, an insult.”
Peter Petrovich refilled both their cups. “You Americans are preparing for war. We have to know how you are preparing.”
“Americans do not want war. No sensible person does. Why should we? We have all we need. What we do not have, we can make or buy. We can travel to any place in the world. We have no Berlin Wall to prevent it.”
“Many of us travel, too,” Peter declared.
“Of course. There are thousands of you in Afghanistan, and many are dying there. Perhaps travel is bad for Russians.” He smiled. “But we need get in no discussion; I am sure we’d not agree. But if we talk about books?”
“I am curious about you.”
“So was Colonel Zamatev. But to him I was nothing, something to be used and cast aside. This is an offense against my country, but it is also an offense against me, and for this he shall pay.”
Peter Petrovich smiled, incredulously. “Pay? How can you make him pay? You cannot even see him. You cannot get to where he is; you cannot reach him in any way. You are simply one prisoner among many.”
“I am different. I am the prisoner who escaped.”
Peter shrugged. “It will not matter. Here, why don’t you surrender to me? I shall see if I cannot arrange some special treatment.”
Joe Mack got to his feet again. He hated the thought of going out again into the cold, of finding a place to sleep in a snowbank, but there was no choice. If he slept here, he would sleep too soundly. Even if he tied Peter Petrovich tightly, he still would not be safe. The man might work himself free.