Last of the Breed
Chapter 41

    Evgeny Zhikarev was frightened. Across the river was China, not a mile from where he stood looking out the dirty, flyspecked window. Now that he was so near, his courage seemed to have drained from him, and for the first time he thought of himself as an old man.
    Once he could have swum that river. Once he could have ducked and dodged if necessary to escape them. Now he was no longer agile, and his poor stumps of feet were crippled and broken. To move swiftly or adroitly was impossible.
    Worst of all, he had promised a beautiful young woman that he would help her escape from Siberia.
    How could he have been so foolish? Was it not enough that he escape himself, without trying to help another? And what did she mean to him, anyway?
    She meant nothing. He scarcely knew her. Actually, he did not know her at all. She was the daughter of Stephan Baronas, and he had known, slightly, Stephan Baronas and respected him as a man and as a scholar.
    He shivered. Escape was so near, and he so desperately wanted to live his last years in warmth and contentment. He wanted to be away from fear of the authorities, from fear of questioning, of harassment. He just wanted to sit in the sun again, to doze quietly and watch the boats on the bay, any bay at all where he was free.
    He wanted to eat well again, to sit in a cafe, order a meal, and talk with people at other tables near him. He wanted to read a book, a newspaper, anything that was simply what it was and not something first approved by the state. 
    He was an old man, and he was tired.
    Yesterday he had ventured into the streets for the first time. He had found his way to a small place where river men went to eat or drink and where fur trappers sometimes came, although free trappers were scarce these days. Soldiers came there sometimes, and he had heard them talking among themselves. Lieutenant Potanin was stationed here, and the men liked him. He was easy on them, demanding little except alertness when superior officers were around, or the KGB.
    It was quiet along the border. The Chinese were over there, but they bothered nobody, and a little undercover trade went on across the river. The Chinese had vegetables, fruit, and many other things unavailable across the Ussuri.
    What fruit could be found on the Russian side of the river was packaged and sent elsewhere.
    He heard the door open behind him and turned. It was Natalya. How lovely she was! She could have been the daughter he had never had, the family he had wanted.
    She came over to the window. He gestured. "There is China, and now I am afraid."
    "I know." She was silent for a few minutes, and then she said, "We must not be afraid now, no more than we need to be to be careful. I think we will escape, you and I." 
    The road that ran along in front of the house was hard-packed snow with hoofprints, footprints, and tire tracks.
    There were piles of dirty snow along the walks, which were only paths now between the buildings and the drifts. Soot was scattered over the snow, and drifting dust and dirt. Soon the snow would be gone and spring would come. The ice on the river had broken up. 
    "Potanin is here?"
    "He is. I listened to soldiers speak of him and of others. He is here now, and I must find a way to speak to him, but not at his post. It must be here in the town and quietly if possible."
    "You do not know where he lives?" 
    "No, and I cannot ask. I must watch, listen, and hope for a word or to meet someone I know. That truck driver, the one who brought us to town, he knows him." 
    "But he is gone!"
    "Of course, but he will return. " Evgeny peered into the street. "I do not like this. Something is wrong! Something feels wrong! I am afraid." He looked at her. "Do not think me a coward, but we are so close now, and this feeling, this sense, this foreboding--I do not like it.
    "That truck driver? He was kind to give us the ride, but what is he to us? Nothing! Suppose he is picked up by the police and just to get them off his back he speaks of us? Suppose we were seen getting out of the truck? It was night, I know, but there is always somebody up and about, and people report on their neighbors, their own families, even! So what are we? Nobody! He could inform on us with a clear conscience. It is better to trust nobody." 
    "What of Potanin?"
    "I do not worry about him. Not much. He believes he will make a little from dealing with me. He will let me go over, thinking I will come back with a fat piece of whatever it is for him. He lives well, that one. He eats well, he has a few things to give to the girls, and he sends a few things to his family in Irkutsk. Because of him, they live well, too."
    A big Kama truck growled past, laboring with its heavy load on the icy street.
    "I must be careful," he grumbled. "On my feet I can move only slowly, and I think they look for me. I think they look for a man with crippled feet."
    "I can go. I am not afraid." 
    He hesitated. "It is a risk. If you are stopped--?" 
    "I will be in trouble," she said, "but nothing is gained without risk, and how long can we stay here?"
    She was right, of course. They had no right to be here. He knew the owner was a sick man and was far away in Khabarovsk in a hospital. There had been business between them, and sometimes furs had been stored here. Nevertheless, if he returned and found them here, he would drive them out at once. The risk was too great.
    "Whatever you do," Zhikarev warned, "do not go to the post. Do not go nearer the river than you must. They are very suspicious, and they shoot first and ask questions of the body.
    "Potanin likes to live well, and there is a small place"--he traced an imaginary diagram with his forefinger--"here. There is a woman there who makes little pastries and has tea. Also"--he looked up at her--"she does a bit of business. She will have a bit of cheese and some sliced meat, and she makes an excellent borscht.
    "Potanin goes there. This our driver told me while you slept. He goes there each day for a bit of something before going on duty. He reads a little, that one. He will be a round-faced one with black hair, and he will have a book." 
    "A book?"
    "He is always with a book. He reads the old ones, Pushkin, Gogol, Chekhov--"
    He paused. "Speak to him of books. You will have his attention at once. You understand? He is friendly but aloof. I mean he does not mix. He is not one of your vodka-swilling young officers who stagger home from duty.
    "He will have a drink, of course, but all who approach him want favors; others are afraid because he is a soldier and wears that uniform. As for receiving things from across the border, many of his superiors come to him for a bit of something now and again. But speak to him of books and you will not be brushed aside. He will be curious. I know him." 
    She put on her coat and the fur hat. She was shabby, she knew. Her clothing was old and much worn. However, there would be many like her here, and it was well that she would not attract attention. She must be as unobtrusive as possible. 
    "You have some rubles?" 
    "Enough. Say a prayer for me, Father. I shall need it."
    She went out and closed the door behind her. Ah, he said to himself, she called me Father! I wish I were her father. To have such a child could make a man proud. Yet he was frightened. She had been long away from towns and people, and things in Russia had changed.
    She walked steadily, stepping carefully because of the ice, but not wanting to attract attention by hurrying too much. As she walked she was alert to all around her.
    A Volga went by, slowing a little for slippery places. Another Kama was parked at the corner. As she passed it, she felt dwarfed by its size. Few people were on the street. The Volga had gone on ahead of her and was pulling off to one side near an official-looking building of concrete, squat and ugly.
    She had to pass right by it, but she kept her head down and walked on. Two people were getting out of the Volga, a big man who stamped his feet to warm them and a woman. She was a young woman, dressed very well, but obviously an official.
    As she passed the Volga, the woman turned around. She was a sharp-looking, very attractive brunette. Her hair was drawn back, and her eyes were large. For an instant their eyes met, and she saw a puzzled expression come into the woman's face. Natalya walked on, her heart beating heavily.
    Had she been recognized? But how could she be? Who knew her? Or cared about her?
    Forcing herself not to look back, she continued on, rounded a corner, then went off down another street. Then she came back to the little place of which Evgeny had spoken.
    She went in. Several people were present, but no young officer. She ordered tea and a bowl of borscht that turned out to be surprisingly good.
    She ate slowly and had another cup of tea. He did not come. At last she arose, paid, and left. At the door she took a moment to straighten her coat and put on her gloves, studying the street. Emerging, she looked again up and down and then deliberately chose a way that would avoid the street along which she had come. Her heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to avoid looking around to see if she was followed.
    Several times she changed direction, but the streets were virtually empty in this quarter. She hurried on, returning to the little room in the corner of the old building.
    Evgeny Zhikarev was waiting inside. He reached both his hands for hers, drawing her quickly inside, and then closed the door.
    "Ah! You do not know how frightened I have been! I have imagined all sorts of things! Please, are you all right?" 
    "I am all right, but he did not come.  Your literary lieutenant did not come. I sat and waited. I drank my tea slowly, but he did not come."
    She took off her coat and hat, fluffing her hair a little after the hat's confining. "There was a car, a Volga with two people in it. The woman looked straight at me. For a minute I thought--" 
    "Two people? What was she like, this woman?" 
    "Dark hair, very striking. A handsome woman, she had manners like an official. She looked right at me." 
    Zhikarev could feel his heart beating, and there was a sick feeling in his stomach. "And the man? A tall, soldierly man? Very strong?" 
    "That's the one. Do you know them?"
    "I know them." Evgeny Zhikarev sat down suddenly. "She is Comrade Kyra Lebedev. She works with Colonel Zamatev, and the man was Stegman." He gestured to his crippled feet. "He did this to me."
    He limped across to the fire and added coal from the bucket. He straightened up. "We have no time, then. Why else would they be here but for us?" 
    "She knows you by sight?"'
    "Of course. She has been to my shop. We spoke of furs together. She would recognize me at once."
    For a long time they were silent, each thinking, frightened, understanding what impended. "We have no choice," she admitted. "I must return to the tearoom. I must meet Potanin. "
    He shook his head. "I do not like it. If she looked at you, by now she knows who you must be. She saw you, and she is a very astute young woman. I have heard it said that she is Zamatev's strong right arm. His future depends on capturing that American, and if they believe you knew him they will try to discover what you know, or they will hold you to bring him in." 
    "How would he know?"
    "They would find a way; believe me, they would." Zhikarev looked at her. "Would he come back for you? Give himself up for you?"
    She shook her head. "I do not know. I hope not. They lie; they will promise and then do as they wish. I cannot let that happen. If they catch me I will kill myself." 
    He shrugged. "It is not easy to do. They will leave you nothing. Being captured by them is not good. Particularly for a woman.
    "No," he said. "We must escape. We must escape now." 
    "I will try once more to see Potanin. This afternoon--"
    "And I shall be ready to move. It must be today or tonight, no later. No matter what he says, insist." 
    When Kyra Lebedev realized who she was, would the search begin at once? Or would they try to locate her by other means? Or simply alert their people to watch for her to see with whom she was associated and where she was in hiding?
    It was late afternoon before she took to the street again. "If I do not appear by shortly after dark you had best forget about me," she advised. "I will do what I can, but they might arrest me, so I'd be unable to return."
    He went to the door with her. "See yonder?" he said. "That grove of birches by the river? If I must leave here, I will go there and wait for you until midnight. We should not try to cross by daylight, anyway." 
    "What of the Chinese? Will they let us enter?" 
    He shrugged. "It is a chance we must take. I have the name of a Chinese who might help. One never knows." 
    The small street was empty. She walked swiftly to the corner, then crossed and went into the street of the cafe, if such it could be called, avoiding the more busy street where she had seen Kyra Lebedev.
    Only four tables were occupied when she entered the cafe, and she saw Lieutenant Potanin at once. He was seated near the door, and he was reading while sipping his tea. He looked up as she entered, and she crossed the room to his table. Surprised, he stood up.
    She said, "Do you remember Ivan Karamazov, who wanted not millions, but an answer to his questions?" 
    He smiled. "I have read Dostoevsky," he said, "but do you have questions, too?"
    "Several." She seated herself. "But very little time. I bring you greetings from a friend who deals in furs. He does not walk well." 
    He shook his head, smiling. "Will you have some tea?" 
    "I also bring you"--she took the book from under her arm--"Balzac's 'Le Pere Goriot'. It was a book of my father's." 
    "A gift?" His eyes searched hers. "What is it you wish?" 
    "My friend has furs awaiting, as usual. We would like to pick them up tonight." 
    " 'We?' Does it need more than one?" 
    "It does." She smiled at him. "I do not like being abrupt, and I know this is not the way such things are done, but I have no choice."
    His eyes searched hers, and the smile disappeared. "I see." He took up the book she had placed on the table. "Fortunately, I read French." He spoke very softly then, keeping his eyes on hers and his face slightly averted from the room, although nobody seemed to be paying attention. "At fifteen minutes to midnight, then? No earlier, no later."
    "Thank you." She arose. "Until then," she said, and turned to the door.
    The street was dark but for the light from the cafe windows. Quickly, she crossed the street and stepped into the shadows of a doorway.
    The street was empty, and snow was falling softly. Hesitating a moment, she stepped out into the snow. And then she heard the car.
    It was coming up the street, the headlights pointing a lighted finger before them. With a step she was back in the doorway again and out of sight.
    The Volga drew up at the cafe. A door opened and a woman got out. On the other side of the car the driver stepped out. He was a big, broad-shouldered man. The woman turned toward him, her face momentarily in the light.
    It was Kyra Lebedev.