At daybreak he went back up the narrow trail down which he had come, scarcely a trail at all, just a route along the cliffs, moving from ledge to ledge. Finding a place where the aspen grew almost horizontally from the bank, he selected one and drew it back, hauling on it until it was bent like a bow. Fastening it there with a trigger to be released by a trip string across the trail, he concealed the trip as much as possible and stepped back to survey it. The young aspen, drawn taut, would be released by the trip string and would swing around like a whip, knocking a man from the trail into the canyon if it did not break his neck or crack his skull.
A mountain goat using the same trail, if it tripped the release, would pass safely beneath it.
Spring came quickly in this northern land and disappeared just as quickly, yet it was weeks away even though here and there ice was melting briefly during the day, only to freeze again at night.
Carefully, foot by foot, he explored the little valley. When he found the escape route he sought, it was wild animals that showed him the way, as he had expected. At the back end of the place where he had built his fire, there was a hollow choked with a thick stand of birch. The animal track skirted it along the rock wall and then dipped down through a mere crack, descending steeply into a rock-walled hollow where he found an overhang with a crude rock parapet of fitted stones, obviously very ancient. Some man or men had taken shelter here in some bygone age. No signs of fire were on the floor of the overhang, these having long since turned to dust. Overhead there were smoke-blackened rocks.
Following the narrow animal trail further, he found that it branched, one branch going up, the other down. This had been, he decided, a trail used by whoever had built the shelter. In places, sections of it had fallen away into the void below; in others, rocks from above had almost blocked the trail, but it led to the top of the plateau. Perceiving this from some distance, he went no nearer, so as to leave no tracks where they might be seen. The trail seemed to emerge in a small grove of birch, several of them having grown up in the trail itself. Retreating, he prepared several traps, which he would remember but which might deal with anyone venturing to explore the area.
For four days then he ate, slept, and searched out the area. It was possible, he discovered, to climb through the forest on the mountainside to a ledge above his hanging valley, and from there a steep path, used by mountain goats, led down into the depths of the canyon.
On the fifth day a plane flew over the mountains, a small plane that could fly very slowly, searching the terrain. Joe Mack remained hidden, watching it, thankful he had been wise enough never to walk the same route twice and so to leave no tracks that could be seen. The search was on now, so no matter how cold, there must be no fires.
The search would be on the ground as well, and undoubtedly they had some kind of a lead to bring them here. It could be mere routine, but he did not believe so.
He worked on making moccasins and preparing a coat from his goatskin.
He doubted they would find how he had come to this place or even realize it existed. Flying over, it was just one more narrow place in the rock walls of the canyon, choked with trees. There would be many such, some reachable, some not. Back in Idaho he had seen old mines and cabins clinging to walls that seemed completely inaccessible. So it must be here. But there was nothing in this place to draw attention.
He would remain quiet for another three or four days, possibly longer. Impatience would be his greatest enemy, although he still had far to go.
Could he make it in the short time of warmth? The ice in the rivers usually broke up in April and by the end of August would be freezing again, or could be. There seemed no way he could cover the vast stretch of country before him in the short time available, especially as the country would be increasingly more open, with much tundra and no cover. At least, there was not much cover until he reached the Anadyr Mountains. Somehow he must cross the Kolyma River and then the Omolon. Beyond that was the limit of the trees.
Crouching under the trees he heard a plane fly over again. Had they found something? Or were they just prowling?
Another long winter? In a still more barren country? He shuddered at the thought. How much could he stand? It seemed sometimes as if he had never been warm and comfortable. Night after night and day after day of piercing, unbelievable cold when he dared not relax, not for one minute, lest he make a mistake and die. It needed but one error, however trivial.
Thinking of another winter, he was close to despair. Could he survive? How? It would be infinitely worse here than further south. By the time another winter came he would be inside the Arctic Circle.
Gloomily, he stared into the coming night. And where was Natalya? Her father? How did they fare? And what had become of Yakov? Of Botev and Borowsky?
So much was happening of which he knew nothing.
Suppose, the idea came to him suddenly, he should try living out the winter in a town? He needed shoes, but he had a suit and one shirt.
Suppose, just suppose, he could do it? Where would he find shelter? How would he obtain food?
Yet it was something to consider, and by now they would be convinced he was only a wilderness man.
And what town? Magadan? It was the closest, but he would be putting himself in the enemy’s territory. He was an Indian, and the wilderness was his. He was a part of it. He belonged here. But in a town?
He shook his head and climbed back to the little ledge he had found. There was shelter there, hidden by trees.
And in the night a great wind blew, trees fell, and rocks tumbled down, crashing into the vast gorge below. Huddled against the cold, he listened, sheltered but awestruck at the storm’s fury. A cold, freezing rain fell, turning to ice in the air, making the trails sheets of ice and the trees like crystal forests that clashed and shattered in the night.
Somewhere a great rock fell; he heard it bounding from ledge to ledge down the canyon.
As suddenly as it came it was over, and a vast silence fell upon the mountain, a silence in which at last he slept, worn from travel.
He slept, and out of the storm and the night a man came, a man like a huge bear, feeling his way along the cliffs, then pausing. At last, unable to progress further, he paused. He was near, he told himself, the American was somewhere near.
Tomorrow he would have him.
Tomorrow …
Thirty-Five
Ostap stood on the street, a cigarette hanging from his lip. Men were hurrying to work; a few cars passed and a big, clumsy truck. It was early morning, gray and dismal. Across from him was the framework of a huge, rambling structure begun months ago and left standing. In the spring they might finish it and they might not. One never knew in Magadan.
He hunched his shoulders against the cold. Not likely anybody was following him. He was small fry and wanted to stay that way so far as anybody knew. He would get his when the time came, and this affair might be an opening. Ostap was one who lived by the edge.
He had an edge here, an edge there. A piece of this and that. He did not want all of anything. To try to get it all left one vulnerable. But pieces were something else. All he wanted was a percentage.
He had a sort of loyalty to his kind, and his kind did not like Shepilov. He would like to trip Shepilov, do him a dirty one. At the same time, Shepilov was KGB and dangerous. He waited until a big truck passed, and then he crossed the street, started down an alley, and then turned into the incompleted building. In one of the completed rooms on the lower floor, three men were standing around a fire.
It was built on the concrete floor, with broken bits of lumber for fuel. Lev was there and Kraslov. With them was another man, a stranger.
Noticing his hesitation, Lev said, “This is Botev. He is all right.” Lev hunched his shoulders. He was a very young man whose face looked old. His blue eyes were perpetually red-rimmed and he had a slack mouth. Ostap did not like him, but he had connections. He was related somehow to several officials and doted upon by his mother and his aunt. He always knew when there was going to be a shakedown or an investigation, and he always knew who wanted what. He came to Ostap because Ostap knew how to get it.