Suddenly he sighted someone he knew. He started forward and then relaxed. His truck driver friend was involved with the black market, among other things, and might not wish to be seen. However, glancing over, the driver saw him and came over. “Still here? What do you know? I saw Potanin the other day!”
“Potanin?” Zhikarev concealed his excitement. “Where?”
“He’s got a post near Iman now.” He lowered his voice. “Up to his old tricks, too. If you’ve got some furs — ?”
“Are you going that way?”
“Midnight.” He glanced around, “Furs,” he said, “Potanin an’ me. Trouble is, we’ve nobody over the river. You know?”
Evgeny Zhikarev forced expression from his face. “There’s a man in Hulin, just across the river,” he suggested.
“His name?” The driver was excited. “Just the one I need!”
Zhikarev shook his head. “It is not that simple. He is not Chinese, and he had relatives in Yakutia. If it should be discovered that he was involved in anything, they might suffer. He will deal, but only with people whom he knows.”
“Could you come? You know Potanin. He trusts you. It is a big deal, and for you there would be something. You could have an edge of the deal.”
“Well,” he seemed to hesitate. “I am happy here, but — well, I like to be dealing. This — ” he waved a hand, “is a bit tame.”
“At midnight, you say? Here?”
“Right here.”
“Expect me,” he said, and hobbled away along the street.
Iman! It was right on the river! If he could not wangle some way to cross the border to make their deal, he would be surprised. This was it, his great chance. He must be careful not to betray himself to his cousin or his family.
There was always the risk, too, that the truck would be stopped and inspected. There were few roads and they were watched, although carelessly.
When he stepped into the house his cousin was waiting for him, along with his wife and their son, their faces stern.
“Evgeny Ivanovich,” his cousin said, “I must ask you to leave this house.”
Evgeny Zhikarev tried to look startled. “Leave? Why?”
“We have just heard it. You are to be arrested. The KGB looks for you. We cannot afford — ”
“Of course,” he said, and waved a hand. “I shall leave at once. I would not wish you to be troubled because of me. I did not know, but — ”
They had expected trouble. They had expected argument, pleading. They were both astonished and overjoyed.
“Please. Think no more about it. You are my own cousin. You have a wife, a family! However,” he paused, “if you could make up a little bundle? Some food? Anything to keep me alive?”
“Of course! Sonya?”
She hustled about while he gathered his few things. This was easy, almost too easy. So they knew of the order for his arrest? Where were the KGB then? Or was it GRU? He must be careful, and if he could get away, it would be none too soon.
“But how — ?” said his cousin.
He put a finger to his lips and looked sly. “I know a fisherman! A good man! He will take me up the coast to Magadan.”
At midnight, when the truck drew alongside, he was ready to move from the dark doorway where he waited.
He heard it rumbling over the pavement before it reached him, and he was prepared. Despite his crippled feet, he moved quickly when the door opened. He scrambled in, and the truck roared off before he was fairly seated.
“I am taking a risk, my friend,” the driver said. “For anyone else I’d not do it, but we have made a bit together, you and I, and perhaps again, but now they search for you. I’d be arrested if they found you in my truck, so keep low and sit well back. The fewer who see you the better.”
“You have heard something?”
“They look for you. Look everywhere.” The driver glanced at him. “They must think you important.”
“It is the American, the one they search for. Maybe some of the furs I bought were trapped by him. At least, that is what they think. I know nothing! I never saw the man! Some of the furs — well, let us say they were different. Let us say I recognized a strange hand. But know? I knew nothing. I know nothing! I do not wish to be questioned, that is all.”
“Is Iman good for you, then? I hope so. I can’t risk taking you further.”
“You say Potanin is there?”
“He is. We did some business. Oh, just a little bit! But he is hungry, that one! He has found a woman, and she makes demands! If you have a proposition, I promise you he will listen.”
The truck rumbled on, climbing a steep, winding road. Evgeny Zhikarev leaned back and closed his eyes, praying to an almost forgotten God. “Please, dear God! Just this once! Let me escape them! Let me cross the river into China! I haven’t the strength anymore!” He whispered it in his mind, praying, fearful of what lay ahead and of what came from behind.
The dark walls of the forest closed down. Thank God he was not out there, walking that dark forest in the snow!
Where could the American be? How could he escape them? As a boy he had traveled through the dismal forests of fir in the urman, or taiga, in western Siberia. He had been frightened, terribly frightened of the bears, although he had never seen one. And in the eastern forests, he had been afraid of the tigers, and he had seen one take a woman from a field.
There were tigers here, in this forest. He spoke aloud, saying that, and the driver nodded. “Saw one my last trip. Big fellow, standing in the road when my lights caught him. He wasn’t afraid, either! Not afraid of me or the truck. He crouched, and for a moment I thought he was going to jump right over the lights at me. I swerved, almost skidded off the road, but when I got the truck straightened out he was gone!”
They rumbled on into the night and Zhikarev slept, awakened, and slept again.
Once, atop a ridge, they stopped, and the driver awakened him. He had a thermos of tea. “Here! You can share!”
“A thermos?”
The driver gave him a knowing smile. “I do good business and with the right people. I can get anything! Anything at all!” He patted the wheel. “That’s what this does for me! I have a truck and I can move! Everybody wants something! Even the leaders! Believe me, if I stopped driving, a lot of people would suffer! They are all on the take! Everyone!”
“Even Zamatev?”
The driver shook his head. “Not him! Nobody can touch him! Offer a bribe and you find yourself in a labor camp! He has plans, that one! I can see it in him! He thinks he will be very big someday and wants nobody hanging to his coattails reminding him he owes them favors!”
He drove on in silence. “Don’t ever cross him. Take it from me, he’ll have you hunted down and killed! It has happened! When he was on the way up, there was a man who knew him, saw him show cowardice, and spoke of it. That man disappeared.
“Gone! Like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Everybody is afraid of him! He has big ears! If anyone breathes in Magadan, he hears it in Yakutsk!”
The truck slowed. “Look! Somebody walking! And we are fifty miles from a town! Well, of all things! It is a woman!”
She turned toward them. “Stop the truck,” Zhikarev said. “I know her.”
Thirty-Four
Joe Mack lay on a ridge under a wind-wracked cedar, its gnarled and twisted branches almost as thick as the trunk. It was an old, old cedar, over which many cold winds had blown, but now nothing stirred on the ridge, and Joe Mack lay quietly on the cold ground.
Not far away, there was a drift of snow, and it showed a little darkness along its lower, southern edge, where some melting had begun.
Spring was coming, and thus far he had survived the winter. His eyesight, always excellent, seemed to have improved with use. Now he could see, far away, the smoke of a fire. Nothing moved that he could see, for the distance was too great, but men were there, men who were hunting him.
Somewhere out there was Alekhin, and Alekhin was a tracker. A man of his skills could eventually find almost any trail. He was cunning. He had trailed wolves, as well as men, and would know every trick of the wilderness. Yet there were some worth trying. What he needed most of all was a good, safe hideout. Once in such a place he could remain still, and if he made no tracks he would leave none. He could just wait them out.