The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  With these words Chrapow turned on his heel and went back to the car. The others followed him hesitantly. Two minutes later, the SUVs had disappeared from the woods.

  Mischka breathed a sigh of relief. He had heard what he wanted to hear. His plan was set. He would hide in the forest for a few more days, and then continue his journey by motorcycle under the protection of the night. He could not yet say exactly which direction he wanted to take. For this decision he had to take some time. His situation was serious, very serious.

  ◆◆◆

  "Don't move! Otherwise, you're a dead man!"

  Mischka was startled. He must have dozed off by morning. How long he had slept in his crouch position, he did not know. But now something pointed pieced between his shoulder blades.

  "Stay where you are, and don't dare to turn your head! We'll make short work of you!"

  Mischka's perceptions became clearer. The voice behind him sounded like that of a twelve-year- old. What the Siberian tracker hadn't been able to do, children apparently had. They had him!

  "So, now slowly put your hands behind your head. Don't try any tricks, or Pjotr will tie you up, or I'll shove my lance right into your heart!"

  Mischka's first horror had vanished. He found it strange that he had been overwhelmed by children. On the other hand, he was disturbed by their brutal threats. Apparently, their imagination had already been thoroughly corrupted.

  Slowly he raised his hands to the level of his shoulder blades. Then he leaned forward imperceptibly. The pressure of the lance in his back disappeared. Mischka swirled around in a flash. His left hand pushed the lance to the side and pulled it to the ground. A narrow figure flew through the air and overturned twice. Shocked, the blonde boy looked up and stared at the man who had thrown him to the ground and stood above him. The lance was now aiming at his belly.

  "Booh!" Mischka heard Pjotr say next to him. The brown fuzzy head looked up at him almost reverently. "Man, how'd you do that?"

  Mischka smiled at him, swirled the lance once over his head and pushed it into the ground.

  "Your friend has been careless. He pushed the lance with all his might into the void, because I was suddenly gone. That's why he lost his balance and fell."

  "Where'd you learn all this?"

  "During my training time, I trained Sambo and Systema, the Russian close combat techniques, for many years. I could use that now if I have to deal with the villains of our society."

  "But you don't look like a KGB official," Pjotr threw in.

  "The KGB has other responsibilities than me. My mission is much more secret. But I can't talk about that."

  The blonde boy raised himself up and rubbed his back groaning.

  "Well, Boris, you didn't expect that, did you," Pjotr grinned at him.

  "No, so far as I know he isn't the wanted criminal. Is he a special agent?"

  They sat down together in the grass to chat a little.

  "So, you wanted to hunt this Michail Wulff all by yourselves," Mischka asked the two boys.

  "Yes," Boris replied meekly, "we were hoping to catch him and get a reward for it."

  "So, you're modern bounty hunters!"

  "Not that, but it's exciting to hunt down a criminal."

  "Are the other villagers also looking for this Wulff?"

  "No!" shook Pjotr his head. "They think he's long gone."

  "I myself am also looking for Michail Wulff. I know him well. That's why I'm waiting here. It's the only place I can find him. But you can't talk to anyone about that. That's top secret!"

  Boris and Pjotr nodded. They liked the blonde special agent from the start. One KGB official they had only been able to look at from afar with a slight shiver. But this man was friendlier than the village policeman. That's why it wasn't hard for them to decide to help him.

  "So, you can keep quiet?"

  "We will be silent as a grave," both answer as if in a choir.

  "Great Yakut honor?"

  "Great Yakut word of honor!"

  "Something else," Mischka looked at them seriously. "Don't mess with criminals. Look, if I were a criminal, you wouldn't be alive now."

  Boris and Pjotr looked down on the ground.

  "Hunting criminals isn't child's play. In novels, adventure stories are told in which children outsmart and overwhelm criminals. But they're all just fairy tales. In reality, the little heroes of the novel would have no chance against a real criminal. They're not as stupid as they are in the books. And what you can do with a weapon against an adult, you have just experienced yourself."

  The two nodded in agreement.

  "So, promise me, no more hunting criminals! You'd better leave that to the officials and the authorities. It would therefore be good if you avoid this forest in the next few days. Don't put yourselves in danger. Will you promise me that?"

  "All right, we'll do that. You're right. But will we see you again?" Boris asked him.

  "I'm sorry. I don't think so." Mischka smiled at them again. "You're two brave fellows. I really like you guys. I would also like to teach you something about life in the forest and have real adventures with you. But I don't know where my path will lead me."

  Pjotr looked a little disappointed. He would have loved to go to school with the special agent, and Boris would also have loved to learn Sambo or Systema with him immediately.

  Mischka guessed their thoughts. "Well, we still have a little time left. Let's use them. I can show you a little more."

  Throughout the day Mischka taught them how to free themselves from clutches, sweatboxes and handholds, showed them how to harden and decorate a lance or build a bow that is not worn out on the second day.

  "Get your tendons at the butcher's. They're more stable than twine. Wrap the handle in the middle of the bow so that there is a straight arrow rest at the top on the left side. If you place an arrow on the string, it must be exactly at right angles to the string. Mark this spot on the string with paint so that you can shoot the arrows quickly and safely."

  Boris and Pjotr were very quick learners. Like a dry sponge, they absorbed all knowledge. In these few hours, they learned more about adventure, self-defense, and boy scouts than in any previous year. But their teacher also tried to inspire them to protect the weak and help old, single people.

  "One day, you might be like them. Perhaps you will need friends to stand by you as badness and lies are spread over you. Or you are old and sick and have no one to chop wood for you or help you in the garden. Imagine a Boris and a Pjotr knocking on your door at such a moment and saying, "Rest yourself, grandfather. You've worked hard enough. We'll help you. Wouldn't that be great?"

  The farewell in the evening made the two boys sad. They had the special agent firmly in their hearts. So, it was easy for them to keep their promise not to tell anyone about their encounter. It was their secret. In order not to forget anything, they wrote their new knowledge in a notebook, and also practiced their self-defense techniques secretly. The new knowledge gave Boris and Pjotr a greater self-confidence than they had before. This alone led to their comrades paying them more respect in the future.

  When they ventured back into the forest the following week, they found a boy scouts sign pointing to a described piece of bark between the branches of a birch tree.

  "Don't forget what you've learned. Yours Mischka. One more thing: It is not a crime if someone wants to be free," they read with big eyes.

  "So, it was him!" Boris shouted when he read the name.

  "It was him, but he wasn't a criminal," Pjotr replied.

  "True, a criminal would have behaved differently. Michail Wulff remains our friend. They probably tell lies about him and hunt him down unjustly. If he only wants to be free, he has done no evil."

  "We have given our word of honor not to tell anything about him. Are we sticking to it, although he did not tell us the truth?" Pjotr now wanted to know.

  Boris nodded. "He didn't lie to us. He just didn't say everything. He couldn't either, or we would
have distrusted him. But after we met him, we know better than the KGB. You're chasing the wrong man. Come Pjotr, let's have a look at old Vera Sergejewitsch. Maybe she could use our help. Since her son and husband are dead, no one from the village will take care of her."

  That same night, when he estimated the time from the stars at two o'clock, Michail Wulff had set off. He did not distrust the two boys at all, but they could talk to each other, and he did not want to take this risk.

  He pushed the motorcycle up to the road and let it roll downhill. Only after he was far enough away from the village did he start the engine and let the machine roll along the road. He wanted to make as little noise as possible.

  After a few miles he turned into a dirt road. To blur his tire marks, he tied a bush to the Dnepr's carrier that swept them way. While he now continued his journey, Mischka switched on the radio. Maybe he was able to learn something about the actions of his pursuers.

  After about ten minutes the message came over radio that the search for the fugitive and dangerous criminal had not brought any results yet. The manhunt will now be extended further east and south. Probably the wanted person would already be beyond the Ob.

  Maybe this is just a trick, Mischka shot it through the head, an attempt to lull me to safety. But I'm not falling for that, comrades!

  Minutes later Mischka came across a piece of woodland. In the distance he discovered a semi-circular glimmer on the deep black firmament, in whose light the stars of the night faded. It couldn't be the dawn of the new day yet. It was too soon for that. He was probably only a few miles away from the town of Kargasok, whose artificial lights lit up the sky and betrayed civilization with its industry and houses.

  Originally, he wanted to bypass this city south. But now he was insecure. He had to rethink his route thoroughly. In order to be able to think undisturbed, Mischka pushed the Dnepr into the forest, hid it in dense bushes and leaned against a fallen beech not far away. But after a few minutes of pondering he had already dozed off.

  The next morning he woke up to the sound of raindrops clapping on the leaves of the trees. It was a grey day with no hope of weather improvement, unpleasant for him, but good for his escape. In this dirty weather, the soldiers certainly lost the desire to search the field and forest for traces. They would be superficial and soon long for home.

  Mischka shivered slightly. Despite the dense canopy of leaves, the rain had penetrated into him and had soaked his clothes. In order not to be a drowned rat, he pulled Vera's umbrella out of his backpack and stretched it open.

  "Well, it's not that bad," Mischka cheered up. Then he picked up breakfast. A grey titmouse watched with interest as he chewed some blueberries and plantain leaves. Its little spherical body hoped from one birch branch to the next, while it uttered a bright "zirr" as if to say, "Leave my berries alone!"

  "You won't starve to death, sister," laughed Mischka. "Siberia is great, and we both need so little. There's enough for everyone."

  After breakfast he returned to the edge of the forest and watched the far road on which he had come here yesterday. The clouds hung grey and heavy over the landscape. The wind blew so weakly that they were hardly driven forward. A mist pulled over the fields and blurred the transition between heaven and earth.

  In such weather, you don't send a dog to the door, Mischka thought and cowered behind two bushes on a tree stump, so that he could watch everything without being seen himself. The traffic on the distant country road consisted of a few agricultural vehicles and cars, among which, however, he could not make out a military vehicle. Probably they were looking for him somewhere else and did not suspect that he was less than five miles away from Muchtuja.

  He wanted to hide here for another day. But after that he planned to drive northeast. There he had to meet the Ob, a broad river that ran northwest with numerous tributary rivers, not far from the penal colony in Surgut. Because his pursuers considered it unlikely that he would choose this direction, he would take exactly this path. So far it had been right to always do the unexpected.

  With a raft of birch trunks and the motorcycle inner tubes, he wanted to drive about 200 miles along the Ob, to then continue his way east over the Jenisei into the Central Siberian mountain range. There he had to find supplies and accommodation as quickly as possible in order to survive the severe Siberian winter.

  Mischka had no illusions: The next weeks and months would be hard, very hard! But he would get through this time and grow with the difficulties. Every blister, every feeling of hunger or cold would become a school of his character. In the protection of the Siberian wilderness, he would prepare himself for the actual destination of his hike.

  "One day I'll be ready to head west and march the 3000 miles to freedom, and no one will suspect I'm alive and still on my way!" Mischka knew that Vera's prayers were with him. Even if he was not sure whether there was a God at all, this thought comforted him.

  The cave

  Brakes screeched, tires scrapped over the rough asphalt. Litschenko pushed the brake lever of the Uas as far as it would go, but the all-terrain vehicle skidded and slipped right towards the truck.

  Around midnight, he was on his way with Chrapow to the barracks in Kargasok, when the truck emerged from a side street like an evil shadow and blocked the road.

  The left front tire of the Uas burst under the load of the emergency braking with a dull bang. Sparks sprayed out when the car torn around and crashed sideways against the truck. Litschenko could no longer hear the sounds of shattering glass and bursting metal. All he could feel was a giant fist hurling him against Chrapow. Then his senses faded.

  Next thing that came to his mind was the cold barrel of a gun to his temple. Dazed, he looked up and looked into the masked face of a man.

  "Don't make a sound, comrade, or I'll blow your miserable brain out of your skull!"

  A threatening hand movement underlined the words of the masked man. Litschenko didn't dare to move. His whole body hurt as if a Sambo wrestler had thrown him around on the mat for hours. Chrapow moaned next to him, but didn't move. Something warm dripped on the lieutenant's forehead and ran down his cheek. Apparently the hunter was unconscious and bleeding on his head.

  "Give me your weapons," the masked man hissed, "and don't try to play the heroes of the people!"

  Slowly Litschenko loosened his belt and handed it together with the weapon from the smashed car.

  "Your comrade's weapon too, if you please!"

  While loosening Chrapow's belt, Litschenko noticed that a second masked man pulled the two AK 47s and an ammunition box from the back seat of the car.

  Criminals! He drove it through his head. To get their hands on guns, they rob the military. We always claim that there are no serious criminals in the Soviet Union. So, our ideology does not change people for the better any more than the do-gooders of the past did.

  "And now the wallet, comrade, but a little faster!" the masked man admonished him impatiently.

  Litschenko handed it to him. The man tore them out of his hand and disappeared into the darkness with his comrade. Immediately Litschenko straightened up and began to examine Chrapow. The hunter had a laceration on his forehead. His right arm was strangely twisted. The lieutenant could not determine whether his ribs were also broken or his legs injured. He picked up the radio. It stayed dead. Surely it had been destroyed on impact.

  With aching limbs, he crawled out of the wreckage of the car. Apart from bruises and strains he could not detect any injuries. Chrapow caught and protected him on impact with his body.

  The night was pitch dark. Heavy clouds had moved over the sky and covered the sparkle of the stars. Only a lantern at the end of the street and the headlights of the Uas illuminated the spooky scene.

  Litschenko looked to the windows of the surrounding houses. One curious face after another disappeared in the dark shadow of the window openings. All these people would later claim that they had slept soundly. They lived in a state where it was better not to see
, hear, know and say anything.

  He knocked on several front doors. But only two opened, and sleepy voices denied being in possession of a phone. Litschenko felt how rage made the blood in his veins explode. He had heard that in capitalist countries most households had telephones, so in an emergency you could call for help within minutes. But they lived practically in the nineteenth century!

  A young man who lived with his parents on the next street corner offered him to take his bicycle to the hospital. Litschenko breathed a sigh of relief. He searched the ruins of the Uas for the first aid kit to help Chrapow.

  Thirty minutes later, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics carefully lifted the injured man out of his seat and placed him on a stretcher. Chrapow awoke from his unconsciousness and screamed in pain. Probably his right tibia had been shattered. Litschenko felt a little compassion. As conceited and cold as the hunter was, he had protected him with his body on impact, albeit without intent.

  Shortly after the paramedics, the militia also arrived at the scene of the accident. Lieutenant Litschenko gave the duty officers a brief report and rode in the ambulance to the hospital. It was no use standing around here any longer. The bastards were long gone. Even the militia wouldn't be able to do much in this case. The robbery had been carried out so skillfully that the men would certainly not find any traces.

  ◆◆◆

  "I'm pretty bad off, Lieutenant," Chrapow growled when Litschenko visited him the next day. "Two ribs are broken, the right arm was dislocated, and the right ankle is shattered, not to mention the laceration on the head and bruises.”

  Litschenko pulled a chair next to the hospital bed and sat down groaning. He still felt like a beaten up fairground boxer.

  "I got off easy. Fortunately, nothing happened to me except bruises and a slight concussion."

  “You had a stroke of luck!" grumbled Chrapow. "Any word from the militia investigation?"