Forty-Five
They were wary. Slowly, guns pointed, they moved in around him. One jerked the AK-47 from his hand; another, a man in civilian clothes, struck him viciously in the kidney with a rifle butt. He started to fall, caught himself, and remained erect. His hands were jerked behind him and handcuffs put on.
Several men moved in around him, pushing the soldiers away. These were KGB, and there seemed no good feeling between them and the soldiers, who watched with expressionless faces. Joe Mack stared straight ahead, his mind busy.
What else could he have done? He was surrounded, there were too many of them, they were closing in, and up there he had no place to hide. Not even a good place to make a stand. It was bare rock, a few scattered trees, a few spots of snow.
He knew he would be beaten. He expected to be tortured. He could endure pain. He had been through that before, but what he must do was escape again. If they had shot his legs from under him, he would have had no chance. Now there was still hope.
Long ago, when his people had been captured by other Indians, they had endured torture, and as the poet had said, they ‘had not winced or cried aloud.’ Indians had known how to endure pain and to laugh at those who tortured them. Often, if they showed bravery, the tortures were stopped and they were adopted into the tribe. Some of the mountain men had survived the same treatment. Joe Mack had taken the greatest gamble of his life, and the chances of escape were a thousand to one against him, yet shot down and crippled he would have no chance at all.
An officer was on a radio, talking. The soldiers stood around, staring curiously. He ignored them, standing tall, looking toward the mountains where he had hoped to be. His heart was pounding heavily and he was asking himself if he was brave enough, if he was the man he wanted to be, the man he had trained himself to be. Now, he whispered to himself, you will find out. He had been told the story of a great-grandfather who had been captured by the Blackfeet and tortured and finally burned at the stake. Even as the flames rose around him, he had laughed at them. He had sung his death song in a voice that did not quaver, and the Blackfeet had marveled. An old warrior of their tribe had told him the story. Was he that kind of man?
One of the KGB men came to him. “Alekhin comes,” he said. “If he leaves anything, we get our chance.”
Joe merely looked at the man, and infuriated, the man slapped him across the mouth. Joe Mack’s expression did not change. Angered, the man shoved him, then kicked his feet from under him. When he fell the man kicked him brutally in the ribs. Then he stepped closer, drawing back his leg for another kick. Joe Mack rolled over, the kick missed, and the man fell. The soldiers laughed.
Furious, the man lunged to his feet and caught up a heavy club. Frantically, he began beating Joe Mack, striking him on the head, shoulders, and back. Bobbing his head, Joe Mack avoided the worst of the blows, but his scalp was split and blood trickled down over his face.
Suddenly a car wheeled up and stopped. Alekhin stepped down. Joe Mack knew him at once by his size and the small blaze of white where the hair had lost color over an old scar.
Alekhin walked over. “So! We have you. Now we shall see!” He turned to the KGB men and motioned to an old stable that stood nearby. “Take him inside.”
A Russian officer started to speak and Alekhin turned his back on him, saying over his shoulder, “You are not needed anymore. Go!”
Ostap got out of the Volga. He stared at the blood on Joe Mack’s face and felt sick inside. He did not know what to do. Nobody had sent him away, and he had no way in which to leave. He must stand and wait for them. He was frightened.
The officer had turned away, angrily. His men were forming up and moving to their trucks. Ostap wanted to go with them, but he had not been dismissed and he feared to displease Alekhin.
It was very cold, and he wished he was back in Magadan. Was Katerina free? Had they lived up to their bargain? Why would they want her, anyway? She knew nothing.
He hunched his shoulders against the wind and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Several KGB men were standing around, talking among themselves.
Suddenly he heard a loud thump from within the stable, then more. He heard no screams. One of the KGB men came over to him, grinning. “They will teach him! They are artists! They know how to beat a man! You will hear him scream!”
He did not scream. Two men came out after a while, dripping with perspiration, their fists bloody. Two others went in. Ostap turned away, sick to his stomach. He had done this. He had told them where the American was. Many times before, when hearing of such things, he had laughed and shrugged. “Serves them right!” He had said that, said it several times.
He could hear the impact of blows, hear the grunts of the KGB men as they struck.
He walked off a little way, shuddering, wishing he dared leave, that he even had a way to leave. The KGB cars were the only ones left.
Alekhin came out and gave orders. Zamatev was coming. They were to put up a tent for him. He would ask some questions here. Then they would take the American away and fly him back to prison.
Alekhin smiled. “No more beatings!” he said. “We must leave something for the good Colonel!” He looked around, his eyes going from one to the other. “But we’ve softened him up! We’ve softened him for the Colonel! Now let’s have a drink!”
The tent was rapidly going up, and some folding chairs and a table were taken inside. Alekhin breathed deeply of the mountain air. Suddenly his eyes lighted on Ostap.
“Ah? It is you! Come have a drink with us, and then I’ll send you back to Evensk! I would come, too, but the good Colonel wants to see him before he is moved.” He chuckled. “Not that there is much to move.”
“I did not hear him cry out,” Ostap burst out involuntarily. “I thought — ”
Alekhin shrugged. “He did not cry. He is tough, that one.” He smiled, looking at Ostap from his flat black eyes. “Zamatev will see to that, and after Zamatev, me again.” He clapped Ostap on the shoulder. “It is good! Without your help, we’d not have had him! Maybe for weeks!”
Ostap glanced toward the stable. The door had been closed and an iron pin on a short chain dropped in place to keep the hasp closed.
Two KGB men loitered near the Volga Alekhin had come in. A third man stood near another Volga. “Mikhail,” Alekhin said, “I shall give this lad a drink. Then you can drive him back, eh? No need for him to be here, and you won’t be needed.”
Alekhin took Ostap’s arm. “Come! One glass of vodka before the road!” Alekhin pinched his arm. “Maybe two glasses, eh?”
It was an hour before he staggered into the darkness outside the tent. The two KGB men were sitting in Alekhin’s Volga, sharing a bottle.
Ostap had to pass by the stable to get to the other Volga, where Mikhail seemed to be asleep, waiting.
What made him do it, he did not know, but he lifted the pin and let it down against the door. He opened the hasp. “Now!” he said, and walked on to the Volga.
Mikhail awoke. “Good!” he said. “I want to get into town.” He glanced at Ostap. “I’ve a friend there, and maybe she has a friend. Do you have any rubles?”
“Some. I’d like to meet your friend.”
He hunched down in the seat, trying not to think about anything at all. Why had he done that? The man was helpless, but — He shook his head to drive away the thought. If they found out, he would be the one in trouble.
Lying on the filthy floor in the freezing cold, his body heavy with pain, Joe Mack heard the pin drop, heard the low voice and the word “Now!”
His brain was fogged with pain. Some vagrant thought told him he had a concussion. What did it mean, “Now!”? Suddenly through the fog in his brain an arrow of clear light penetrated.
“Now?” And the rattle of a chain. He shook his head and almost passed out at the resulting agony.