Leaning from his seat, he called to the driver behind him. “Boris! Take this one to Evensk! Call Colonel Zamatev! If you cannot, speak to Comrade Lebedev! Quick now! Then bring him back to me unless the Colonel wishes him.”
He looked at Ostap. “You speak to him. Tell him. You better have good information, or I will speak to you after. Go now. ”
In Evensk, the connection was not a good one, but Boris got Kyra on the phone for him. “What can you tell us, Ostap?” She sounded abrupt, impatient.
“I have seen him,” he said, “the American.”
“What?”
“I want Katerina released,” he said, “and a little something for our trouble. You see?”
“You have actually seen him?”
“He is not waiting for you,” Ostap said, “but if you move now, he cannot have gone more than a few miles.”
“Describe him.”
Ostap was a good observer. His description was quick, accurate and brief.
“It was one of Alekhin’s men who called. How did you meet him?”
“Alekhin has gone north searching for him. I told him nothing. I want Katerina released.”
“I know,” she replied brusquely, “and a little something for yourself!”
“I could have called Comrade Shepilov,” he replied.
“Katerina will be freed. Take Alekhin to where you saw him. I shall be there within the hour. If this is just a story — !”
“It is not.”
When he left the office he said to Boris, “Take me to Alekhin. I know where the American is.”
“I heard you,” Boris replied. “You should have told him on the road.”
“Katerina is my wife. Shepilov arrested her. I want her free.”
“And a little something for yourself,” Boris said. “All the Soviet Union needs is a few more such patriots.”
Ostap flushed, but he did not reply. Boris was a very tough, competent-looking man. The less said to such a man the better.
Boris was speaking on the radio. Then they drove off, moving rapidly. Ostap hung on desperately as the car careened around sharp curves and raced over bumpy roads that were hardly more than trails.
Alekhin was waiting beside the road. He reached a hand into the car and jerked Ostap out of his seat. “Tell me! Where?”
Frightened, Ostap led the way to where he had stood and pointed. “Over there, at the edge of the trees.”
“Stay back!” Alekhin ordered. Then he walked over. Ostap watched and then said, “By that old tree! To the left!”
Alekhin moved and then stopped and began to look around, very slowly, very carefully. The American left so little sign. He moved a step, looking, then looking again.
Yes, there was a slight indentation in the moss at the foot of the tree. Something or somebody had been there. Slowly, carefully, he began to work out the sign left by the American. As always, there was very little.
He walked back to Boris and indicated what must be done. “There are roads on three sides! I want patrols, very slow patrols! Night and day! He must not escape this area! You understand?”
“I do. It will be done.”
“What of him?” Boris jerked a thumb at Ostap.
“Let him stay. We have no time to take him back. Besides, the Colonel wishes to speak to him.”
Alekhin paused, thinking about it, and then he added, “If we do not have him by dark, I want cars with headlights on the road. I want him taken. I want him stopped. If you must shoot, shoot at his legs. Break his legs, but do not kill him.”
By midday Joe Mack knew he was trapped. Through a gap in the scattered trees he glimpsed several cars on the road below. Moving further north he glimpsed more cars cutting him off in that direction. So they knew he was in here. Somehow they had seen him. Somehow they knew without doubt he was here. Warily he worked his way further north and west into the roughest terrain. They had cornered him in one of the few places around that had roads on three sides, even though they were scarcely more than trails.
At a steady trot, he headed north. They knew where he was, and this time they would not let him get away. He would try, but his chances were slight. They were going to get him, so what could he do?
He could try to escape again, of course, but they would give him no chance this time. They would cripple him or put him so tightly in manacles that he could not escape. Yet, suppose he could?
He would hide his bow and arrows. He would hide his knife. He would hide the little meat he had that was dried and smoked. He would hide his goatskin coat, or better still, the suit and shirt.
Soon they would be making a sweep with helicopters and then ground troops. He could, of course, fight until they killed him, until they had to kill him.
That was one way.
He moved on north into the woods, but when he had gone only a little further he saw from a mountain ridge, saw afar off, the glint of sunlight on the windshields of cars. He could try to run between them, but they would be expecting that, and they would shoot him down.
As he walked, his eyes searched for a place to hide, any place at all where they might not find him.
There was nothing but bare rocks, sparse trees, and occasional clusters of birch. North of here there were, he had heard, no trees at all.
He slowed to a walk. He had the AK-47 and some ammunition. He had the pistol. He would cache the pistol, too. But it must be soon.
Well, Joe Mack, he said, you gave them something to worry over. Now we will see. To hold out here, where defensible positions were few, would be wasted effort. He could get a few of them before they got him, but he would not get the ones he wanted.
He walked now, choosing a careful way, ever alert for a place to hide. He found nothing that they would not find within minutes. Some stretches had had many good places for concealment, but this seemed to have none.
Was it all over, then? Talya, he said to himself, you would not like to see this. But we had our dream. We had it for a little while.
He could not give up. He could not surrender. But these men were not the men he wanted. Zamatev was the one and Alekhin. These others were but tools to be used by them. Good men, some of them, men who did what they were told the best they knew how.
He fought to keep cool. Now he must think, he must plan. Night was coming, and with night there might be a chance.
From a ridge he looked down toward the road. Two cars had stopped, and the soldiers were talking. Others were scattered along the road, the road that was barely a trail.
Crouching at the base of a tree, he tried to think of something he might do, anything he could do.
Nothing. There was nothing. He was trapped.
He could expect some rough treatment. He could expect torture. They would take no more chances with him now. He thought of Pennington’s family, never to know their husband and father had not abandoned them.
Never for a moment had he forgotten them or what his message to them would be.
Alekhin! The big Yakut would win after all.
Slowly, carefully, he moved down the slope, keeping from sight. He knew that Alekhin was behind him. He knew his trail was slowly being worked out, and Alekhin would have soldiers with him. There were waiting lines of soldiers and moving cars on three sides now and he was moving down toward the north. Behind him was Alekhin.
He looked at the cars and the men. Could he shoot his way through? There was no chance. There were simply too many, and they were too scattered out.
He crouched by a tree to study a route and saw a long crack in the rock. Suddenly he moved. He laid his bow and arrows in the crack, thrusting the pistol and ammunition into the quiver. When all was hidden, he placed bark over it and then leaves. The earth was too frozen to use.
They had seen him with the AK-47, so he kept it.
He could go down there shooting, but he doubted if they would let their men fire, except at his legs. They wanted him alive, and he did not want to be crippled. If he were crippled, his last chance would be gone. He was going to need his legs.
Zamatev was not down there. Neither was Alekhin.
He walked down the slope and stepped into the open.
“Are you looking for me?” he asked.