Last of the Breed
Chapter 22

    Peshkov met them in Aldan. Colonel Zamatev took an instant dislike to the man, but that was the trouble with this business. You encountered many such, and you had to handle them with gloves for they might know something. Yet they were liars as well as traitors, and one had to be careful. Always, there was the chance of an ambush such as had occurred a few months ago, when several KGB officers were led into a trap and murdered. There was so much crime these days. It was never in the newspapers unless there was a trial and the judgment reported.
    Peshkov would lead them to the village. Stegman glared at him from cold blue eyes. "If anything goes wrong," he said, "if there is trouble, I will kill you first."
    Peshkov swallowed. "There will be no trouble. These people will not fight. Most of them are old people or children."

    Hours later they descended on the village. They struck swiftly and from all sides. And they found nothing.
    At one shack, there was an old man sitting in the sun, with several grandchildren playing nearby. Inside the crude hut was an old woman with a samovar, making tea. 
    Every other house was empty.
    "I tell you," Peshkov said desperately, "they were here! The man Stephan Baronas lived there, with his daughter! Day after day I have seen them here!"
    Alekhin looked around the cabin. He touched the ashes of the fire with his fingers. "Cold," he said. He knew he could find something, and later he would look. He did not like Peshkov and enjoyed seeing the man sweat.
    "They are gone," Peshkov said. "I cannot understand it." He was bewildered. "Where would they go? How would they go?"
    "You have led us up a blind alley," Zamatev said coldly. He walked across to the old man sitting in the sun. "Grandfather"--he pointed--"where are the people who lived in that house?"
    The old man's eyes were vague. His voice trembled with age. "Salischev? He has gone. I do not . . . I do not remember when. Long ago, I think. Sometimes campers come." He looked up, suddenly angry. "Men come and stay; they kill game; they take food from us. They stay in that place or"--he waved a hand--"in one of these. They steal. Evil men--" 
    "We are looking for Stephan Baronas and his daughter, or the man Borowsky."
    The old man shook his head. "They never say their names. They come and they go. They are strong young men and should be in the army or working on BAM. BAM? Is that the railroad? We had a railroad when I was a boy. It was down by the Amur." He shook his head. "I never liked it. Too close to China! Those yellow bastards, one cannot trust them! I wouldn't trust them!"
    "Baronas," Zamatev said patiently. "We were told he lived in that cabin."
    "We are alone. Alone! I do not want to be alone! I want to talk! And there are only those strangers. They are hooligans, all of them! Hooligans!" 
    "Did you know Stephan Baronas?" Zamatev was patient.
    "They come and they go. Sometimes they speak, sometimes they do not." He puckered his brow and squinted. "Baronas? Is that a Russian name? I think not." 
    Zamatev turned angrily. "Peshkov? Do you know this man? Who is he?"
    Peshkov was sweating. "I do not know him. He is here. He has always been here. There's been no reason--" 
    "You brought me here to find the American. You spoke of this man Baronas. There is no such man here or the daughter. You have lied to us."
    "No! No, please! I have not lied! They were here. There were many of them, but they are gone!"
    "That place," Zamatev pointed, "has not been lived in, probably, for months!"
    Alekhin sat on a fallen log and watched. Of course it had been lived in, but they had not asked him. It had been lived in not long since, and only a clumsy effort made to conceal the fact. He did not care about all this. It was a waste of time. Soon he would be on his way, and he would find this American. He knew where he was going now and knew the farther he went the easier he would be to catch. There was no hurry. He would get him in his own good time. Meanwhile this crazy old man was making a fool of them. And if they tortured him they would get no more from him.
    Alekhin was contemptuous of Peshkov, and he was pleased to see him embarrassed.
    Obviously the people here had scattered and might return again when things quieted down. What interested him was where the American had lived, certainly not here.
    He got up and walked across the small clearing. If he had visited the Baronas family, then he would have left from there. He stood in front of that shelter and looked around. After a bit he walked past the corner of the place and looked up through the trees.
    Gathering fuel, they had broken the dead branches from the lower part of the aspen trunks. They had picked up whatever had fallen to the ground, too.
    There were old tracks under the trees. Some big square heels he recognized as tracks made by Peshkov. Smaller, older tracks evidently left by the woman. He moved up through the trees. Peshkov's tracks were days old but had not been disturbed. Nothing had been up here since.
    Alekhin stopped and studied the ground. Faint smears over Peshkov's tracks here. He studied them thoughtfully, then went on. Peshkov had stopped, flatfooted, his two big feet side by side, the tracks blurred a little as though he had moved. Something had stopped him right about here, stopped him abruptly. There were smudges behind him. He walked about, came back to the tracks, and studied them some more. Somebody had slipped up behind Peshkov and stopped him. A knife in his back, or a gun. The American probably had no gun and did not even want one. He could have taken the AK-47 from the soldier he had killed at the helicopter, but he had left it.
    No ammunition in it, of course, but that was not it. The American wanted to kill silently. A gun was noisy. It attracted too much attention.
    Why had he not killed Peshkov? He was weak, this American. He should have killed him and just carried the body off and dumped it. With a man like Peshkov, who would care?
    He worked his way up through the trees. The American was wearing something soft on his feet. What they called moccasins. His shoes had worn out, and he had used the skin of an animal to make shoes.
    It was not an easy trail to follow and it was many days old, but nobody had been this way before. He lost the trail, found it again, and then found the cave.
    A nice place. Oh, a very nice place! Spots of grease from cooking left on the rock, the ashes of his fires. Very small fires of dry wood. Very little smoke, not much light from the fire. Yet this place would have been warm.
    Alekhin went outside and stood looking around. He could hear the mutter of voices from what they were calling the village. The American would have wanted a way out, a way to leave here quickly if necessary.
    Alekhin took his time. He was learning something about this man he was following.  Men and animals form habits. They have certain ways of doing things, and once you have visited a camp or two you always know how that man will camp again. You will know what he looks for, how he builds his fires. And this one was cautious.
    Alekhin was pleased with the American. The man used his head. Now what would the next step be? He would have wanted an escape route. He would have wanted a second camp and perhaps a third. If the American had been here long, he would have prepared for escape.
    When he came upon the opening in the trees, the hair prickled on the back of his neck. Ah? So! He found a faint smudge here, a piece of a track there, and he turned to look back.
    Shrewd! The American had chosen a way of escape he knew. It was not straight away; it curved back on itself, but always gave a smooth way to go. He had used this way at night; that was why there were any tracks at all.
    Slowly Alekhin was building a store of knowledge about the American. If he had planned such an escape route once, he would do so again. It would be something to remember.
    Alekhin turned and walked back to the village. The soldiers were assembling.
    Zamatev was irritable. He looked up angrily. "Where have you been?"
    "I look about. He was here. I must know what he did here. "
    "That old fool knows nothing! Peshkov has lied, I think, hoping for a reward."
    "He did not lie. He is a fool and a traitor, but he did not lie." 
    "The American was here?"
    "He was." He jerked his head. "I found his place. It is a good place." As Zamatev started, Alekhin said, "There is nothing there." 
    Zamatev stopped. "You looked around?"
    "He wears moccasins now. His boots wore out, so he wears moccasins." 
    "Moccasins? Where could he get them? We must find--" 
    "He made them," Alekhin interrupted. "He is an Indian. Indians can make soft shoes. He can make clothes to wear. He can live off the country." 
    "Can you track him?"
    "Of course. No need to track from here. I will go to where the helicopter fell. Track him from there." 
    Together they walked back, passing the soldiers, who fell in behind them. One, a noncommissioned officer, saluted. "Shall we burn the places, sir?"
    "Let them be," Zamatev said. "They will come back. Then we will get them."
    When they parted, Alekhin took a helicopter and four men to the site of the crash. "Stay behind me," he told them, "and stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Maybe we see him." 
    "You don't think he's still around?"
    Alekhin stared at the soldier from his heavy-lidded eyes until the soldier began to sweat and back up. "We do not know what he is doing. We do not guess. This man is dangerous." He stared at them. "One man died here, and two died up there. He is but one man, but three are dead and a helicopter smashed and burned."
    He looked at them with contempt. "Keep your eyes open or you will be dead, too."
    He cast about for tracks. The Indian was a tall man with a fairly long stride. If you found one track, you looked the approximate length of that stride for another track. This American did not always choose the easy way. He often stepped on stones. He did not have to try to be careful. He was always careful in the woods. It was his nature.
    By nightfall he had learned more about the American's methods of travel.
    He did not stop to hunt, so he had a store of food. He had smoked and dried meat back there. Alekhin had not found the rack, but he had found holes where it had been set into the earth. He was carrying a pack. Alekhin could tell that from the increased depth of the tracks since leaving the cave. It was very slight, but it was there.
    At the sight of the attack where Joe Mack had killed the soldier, Alekhin had correctly deduced the reason. There was no cover for a man on the ground. When the soldier turned around, he would have been seen.
    That night around their fire, Alekhin went over every move in his mind. To follow a trail one had to decide what it was the pursued wanted to do.
    To escape? Of course, but to what? To where? It was unlikely the American had friends, so his one object would be to get away, to get out of Siberia, to return to his home. Alekhin had never believed in the border of China. This man was an Indian. He would follow the old migration route, the way the ancient hunters had gone when they followed game into America.
    Of course, they had not known they were going to America or even from one continent to another. They had simply gone hunting and followed the game to where they could kill them. And they had continued to follow the game.
    The shortest way across the water was at the Bering Strait. He would choose that way. Zamatev had never believed that, but then Zamatev was a city man, a man of the streets and towns.
    The American was an Indian, He would go where the game was because that was how he must live. He dared not go to the towns because he did not know the language.
    Zamatev could do it his way. Alekhin had no interest in towns.

    Zamatev drew the cork from the bottle and filled two glasses. "I came as quickly as possible," he said.
    "I am sorry. When I sent word, I thought they would be there. When we located the village, I did not believe it would be empty." 
    "Somebody talked," Zamatev surmised.
    She lifted her glass. "Perhaps. More likely they just got in a panic and fled. I think the American had already gone." 
    "Alekhin has his trail. He will get him now." 
    "Maybe." 
    "You do not believe it?"
    "Who knows? This one is different." She looked across the table at him. "You fly back tomorrow?" 
    "I must."
    "I shall fly to Magadan. Something might be done from there." 
    He nodded. "Grigory is there. He's a good one." 
    "I was thinking of him." She paused as if uncertain of what to say next. "Shepilov is there, also. "
    Zamatev's glass came down hard on the table. "Shepilov is in Magadan? Why?"
    She shrugged. "That is why I am going. He knows something or believes he does. You know how it is with him. He does not move if he does not have to. Something important would be needed to take him to Magadan. He does not like the place." 
    "How do you know that?"
    "I worked for him. Don't you remember? It was gossip in the bureau. He did not like Magadan, but he had been posted there once, long ago."
    "So he will have friends there?" Zamatev was thoughtful. "Perhaps he has some word from them? Is that what you believe?" 
    "Grigory will know." 
    "Yes. Do you think he is loyal to me?" 
    "Oh, yes. He has told me so, and I know he hates Shepilov, as much as he can hate anyone. It isn't in him, you know."
    "Hate clouds the mind. It is better to have no emotion when it is work. Do what needs to be done, and do it coolly." 
    After she was gone he took out the map again. The net was drawing tighter now. They knew where he was. Not exactly--that would come later--but they knew where he had been, and Alekhin was following his trail. Kyra would be in Magadan, and Grigory would know what to do. Suvarov was in Nel'kan, even closer.
    But what had taken Shepilov to Magadan? Shepilov would not move from his comforts unless he was sure of something. But Makatozi could not be that far along, not unless he had stolen a plane or caught a ride on one.
    Of course, Shepilov would dearly love to capture the American. Zamatev could just see the smug satisfaction on his face.
    Again Zamatev stared at the map. What a fool he had been not to keep the man in irons. Now all he had done, all he lived for, all he hoped to be, depended on capturing the American.
    He stared at the map, stared at the area where he must be. Stared as if his very gaze would make Makatozi emerge from the map in a living presence.
    He had to have him. There was no other way. He had to take the American.
    There was no time.
    Why had Shepilov gone to Magadan? 
    Why?