“Well, as long as they are in prison — ”
“That’s just it. Some of them are out and about, only they cannot leave.”
“Ostap, you can help me. I want to catch the American first.”
“You do? Pretty as you are. I’d think you could get a man without that.”
“Don’t be silly. It is my job.” She paused. “I work with Colonel Zamatev now.”
Ostap whistled. “What do you know? He’s the one they call the Iron Man. If you’re in with him, you are really in. What can I do for you?”
“You know those trappers, too. You sell them vodka. Oh, I know, so don’t try to deny it. They all come to you.”
“So?”
“If the trappers locate him, I’d like to know it first.”
Ostap drew once more on his cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and rubbed it out with his toe. “As I said, there are a lot of people here who do not like Shepilov. I might be able to do something for you.” He glanced up, smiling slyly. “We all need something, you know? That includes me. I need a lot of things.”
“The Colonel can be grateful. He understands favors.”
“Let me get a couple of hours in bed, and I’ll get around. There’s nobody I could reach, anyway.” He paused. “Does Shepilov know you’re in town?”
“Not yet, I am sure. He will know, however.”
“Don’t come back here, then. Where will you be?”
“At Vanya’s.”
“It is a good place. All right, I will see what I can do.”
He got up, hitched up his pants, and went back into the bedroom and closed the door.
“Kyra? Please do not get him into trouble. He takes too many risks. Oh, he does not consider them risks! I know that, but he is always with those people, the black-market people, and all those who live on the edge.”
She shrugged. “Katerina, that is Ostap. You know that. He is such a man. You knew that when you married him. He has always lived on the edge. He thrives on it.”
“But Shepilov? He is vindictive, Kyra. You should be careful, yourself.”
The street was empty when she reached it, and she stood for a moment looking out. It was a gray, dismal day, and the shabby street made it look no better. It was a long walk to Vanya’s, but she knew it had to be done. She avoided Lenin Square and kept to side streets, hoping not to be noticed.
Vanya lived on a back street in a small frame house. He lived simply, and there was no better location if she wished to remain free of observation. Vanya was a writer, working on a history of the opening up of Siberia. Previously, he had written accounts of the animal life of Soviet Russia. He was a cousin whom she had often visited at his dacha near the Black Sea, but he cared little for pomp and preferred the wild country and wild animals. He was now completing research on a book about bears, as well as the much longer work on Siberia.
He greeted her with genuine pleasure. “Oh, this is wonderful! I was beginning to be lonely, and here you are!” He closed the door behind her and helped her off with her coat. “What brings you to Magadan?”
“I work with Colonel Zamatev.”
“I see.” Vanya knew all about Zamatev, had met him several times, and knew he was a man on the way up. He also knew that one did not ask questions about what he was doing or about to do. “Can you stay for a while, I hope?”
“A few days, I believe, if you can put up with me.”
“We’re not so crowded here as in Moscow. Most people live in Magadan because they must.”
“Some tea? Or would you prefer vodka?”
“Tea.” She looked across the table at him. “Vanya, you go often to the forest?”
“I have been writing about bears, and that is where they are. Yes, I have spent months in the forest, but mostly far west or south of here. Some of it is very beautiful. All of it is very wild. Here and there are mines, most of them deserted at this time of year unless they are worked by prisoners.”
“Have you heard of the American?”
He shrugged. “Very little. Lieutenant Suvarov is an old friend. He comes here occasionally, and I know that is his mission at the moment. They do not seem to be having much luck.”
“We must have him. He is very important to us, and Comrade Shepilov is here also, and for the same reason.”
“He must be important, this American. But I thought he had been taken long since. After all, it is bitter cold in the taiga, and how he could survive is beyond me.”
“He is an Indian, an American Indian.”
Vanya was fascinated. “You don’t mean it? An American Indian in Siberia? The story is that they came from Asia and passed over a land bridge across the Bering Strait into America. Supposedly, they were following game, with no idea they were making a migration.”
“Apparently that is what he is trying to do, follow that same route.”
“Marvelous! He must be an amazing man to escape in the first place and to stay alive so long in the second. But are you sure he is still alive?”
Over tea she explained about the helicopter crash and the dead KGB man found near Topka.
“He is coming this way, then?” He sat back in his chair. “Kyra, do you realize what this man is attempting? To escape through forest, much of it not properly explored even now? I would not be in his shoes for anything, and yet I envy him.”
“Envy? Are you insane, Vanya?”
“What a man he must be! Alone in all that vast forest! Is he armed, do you know?”
“We believe he is using a bow and arrows. The man found in the car was killed by an arrow.”
“Apparently he needs no weapon. Just last night we discovered another soldier has been killed, this one by falling through the ice. But it was a trap.”
“Tell me?”
“The soldier thought he was following a trail across a river. The trail seemed to lead through a small snowdrift on the ice. I did not know, but ice underneath a blanket of snow grows soft.”
“Nor did I know.” He put down his cup. “He’s an amazing man, this American of yours. I wish him luck.”
“Vanya! How can you say such a thing! He is an enemy of the Russian people!”
Vanya shrugged. “One such enemy can do little harm. From all I hear, you would be better off to let him be. If he does not die out there, he can never cross the Strait. Even for such a man it is impossible. When I was doing the book on the walrus hunters I had some experience with the radar. To cross that Strait is — it cannot be none!”
Twenty-Nine
He stumbled along on feet numb from cold. The snow was thin over the frozen earth, and the trees were scattered, offering only a little shelter from the wind. He was leaving tracks now, but he could not take the time to cover his trail. What he needed now, desperately, was food and shelter.
The icy cold had numbed his mind. He was not thinking clearly. He had to plan, he had to be evasive. He must leave some traps to slow them up. He must frighten them into caution.
If only he could be warm! Just once again!
He heard the wolves snarling and fighting before he saw them. They had pulled down a deer and were tearing at it. He shouted and they looked around at him. He tried to wave them away, but they were hungry, too. There were three of them, big wolves and in no mind to give up their kill.
He shouted again and ran at them. They backed up, snarling. At any other time they would have run off, but meat was scarce in the taiga.
He notched an arrow with stiff, clumsy fingers. He let fly at the largest of the wolves, and the wolf was no more than twenty-five yards off. The arrow took him in the shoulder and he sprang back, biting at it and snarling. The others backed off a little as he closed in. Now he had the pistol out. He did not wish to waste ammunition, but this was a time when he would chance both the sound of the gun and the loss of the cartridge.
The one he had shot with the arrow was dying now. He walked forward a few more steps. He had never fired this pistol, but he had been a dead shot since childhood, when everybody had used guns in the mountains of his birth. As he moved in, they backed off. One made a running charge at him, a bluff only. When he continued to advance, they retreated again.