Jossif Karatajew hadn't quite spoken yet, when Lieutenant Litschenko was already holding the telephone receiver in his hand. "Please connect me immediately with the operational officer in Kestenga. No! Right away I said. Priority one!" He covered the mouthpiece. "Chrapow, tell the pilot we're leaving in half an hour. By then, you'll have loaded your luggage. Jossif, you take care of my things. I'll talk to the KGB on the phone so everything's ready when we get to Kestenga."
The men rushed out of the office. The receiver clicked.
"Yes, please? Is that you, Comrade Smirnov? Good, good, good. We have reason to believe that a long-sought dissident who fled from a Siberian camp about two years ago wants to cross the border in the next few days. His name? Michail Wulff. Priority one. The man is up to every trick. Please don't underestimate him. ... Don't be under any illusions! Your border fence and your dogs are no obstacle for him. That's all he laughs about. Nobody's been able to stop him yet. ... I beg your pardon? No. Has the train from Kotlas arrived yet? Four hours ago, you said? Then have every wagon checked. Investigate thoroughly. He must have left a trail! If you discover anything, call me here immediately. I'm leaving in about twenty-five minutes. Thank you, comrade, for your cooperation."
He hung up the phone, dialed again and told the KGB official on duty in Kotlas that he and his men would immediately fly to Toposero Lake in Karelia because the fugitive was expected to cross the border there. The official should also inform Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko.
Litschenko sat down to study the map closely. His fingers nervously drummed onto the desk top. Again and again he looked at the telephone in the hope that it would ring. But it remained silent. The minutes seemed to stretch to hours. Litschenko felt the sweat under his armpits. His hands were wet, too. He was seized by hunting fever. Like Chrapow, he was now absolutely sure that Michail Wulff was at the Toposero Lake and was definitely heading for the border.
Litschenko jumped up and began to walk around the room. Again and again he looked at the clock. Why didn't this Smirnov call?
Karatajew appeared in the doorway. "The pilot is ready to take off. Our equipment is stowed. Can we fly?"
"Two more minutes," Litschenko replied hesitantly. "I'm expecting another call from Kestenga."
Silently, the two men stood in the room. Karatajew was rocking on his toes and puffed his cheeks as if he were a tuba player, while Litschenko stared through the window. Finally, the lieutenant turned around on his heel. "Come on, let's go. Maybe we'll learn more tonight in Kestenga. We can't lose any more time. If anyone can pick up Wulff's trail, it’s Chrapow. But every minute lost brings Wulff closer to the border."
They were halfway out the door when the phone rang. In one leap Litschenko jumped back to the desk and picked up the handset. "Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko. What's that? Your men found something? In an infantry fighting vehicle, you say? Put your dogs on the trail. Yeah, I know, I know, I know. Tonight we will arrive in Kestenga. Good work, comrade! I'll pass that on."
Litschenko threw the receiver back and stormed past Karatajew out of the room. "Come on, come on, man! Chrapow had the right instinct. Wulff actually took that freight train to Kestenga. In an armored infantry vehicle!"
The two men ran down the corridors and stormed down the stairs.
"Smirnow's men found out someone had been in one of the infantry vehicle being transported." Litschenko took three steps at once. "It smelled as if someone had lived there for a week, exactly the time the train was on its way. We're still in the game, Jossif, we're still in the game!"
◆◆◆
It was four o'clock in the morning when the freight train arrived in Kestenga. Mischka repeatedly compared days and time with the timetable with Aljoscha's wristwatch and a calendar, and when the train passed Louchi, he got ready.
While the wagons bumped over the switches, Mischka opened the hatch of the infantry fighting vehicle, lifted out his luggage, closed the hatch again and jumped from the wagon into the soft snow. Then he walked through the dark alleys of the village and submerged himself in the forest that began just behind Kestenga. In this area it was too dangerous to use the road. In the immediate vicinity of the border he had to reckon with numerous controls.
The snow was knee-deep. So, he strapped his snowshoes on, which he had woven from willow rods and leather straps during the trip. They weren't a masterpiece, but they did their duty. Nevertheless, he only made slow progress. He had to bring as many miles as possible between himself and the place. When the day dawned at ten o'clock, he needed a safe hiding place where he could stay until the early afternoon.
According to the map, he now walked parallel to the shore of the Toposero Lake. There must have been many people living by the lake, whom he could unexpectedly run into even in the early morning. That's why he went further north.
From about nine o'clock he began to cover his tracks with a Fir branch in the fresh powder snow. He wasn't very successful, but he hoped that the wind would smooth them out so much that his trail could not be seen from afar. However this action cost a lot of time. He therefore progressed more slowly than he had planned.
When the first glimmer of the day appeared between the trees, Mischka looked for a suitable hiding place. He finally found a spruce that had collapsed under its snow load, forming a natural shelter.
Mischka didn't give in to the illusions of being safe here. As long as it did not start to snow, an experienced tracker could follow him. This be a piece of cake, not only for Olejnik Chrapow. Nevertheless, he was glad that he had finally lost the hunter.
He tried to estimate the distance covered and thought he was about ten miles from the town. Not enough. When, around four o'clock in the afternoon, the night sank across the country, he immediately wanted to set off again in order to have the border behind him by the next morning. If all went well. If!
Mischka did not dare to think about what could still happen. He crawled into his sleeping bag and fell into a restless slumber. When he woke up, it was ten past three, and dawn was already setting in. In the distance he heard the barking of dogs and the rattling of snowmobiles. Immediately he was wide awake. Of course, he had left treacherous traces in the infantry fighting vehicle. Maybe that's why they were after him already?
Mischka hastily stuffed a piece of black bread into his mouth and laced his backpack. He put the baton sticks into a side pocket of the backpack so that he could pull them out quickly. If he had to, he'd fight. Now that freedom was within reach, he wouldn't give up.
In the meantime it had become dark. Mischka stepped out of his hiding place, searched for the North Star with the help of Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper and made his way west. The night was dark, although the moon shone weakly through the trees and the snow reflected its light.
Mischka felt a never-before-seen energy. The longing for freedom drove him forward just as much as the fear of being caught shortly before his destination. The engine noises had faded away. He may have worried in vain after all.
Two hours later he reached the shore of a river that flowed down to Pjasero Lake and finally into Toposero Lake. Mischka threw a stone at the ice rink. It didn't sound very trustworthy. So, he marched along the shore to the northwest. Actually he wanted to avoid the mountain range in front of him, because the way up would cost him a lot of time. But further south below the mountains the course of the border made a bend towards the west, so that he had to cover more miles here.
In the meantime, a veil of cloud had moved over the moon. Isolated snowflakes swirled down from the sky. Then they fell closer and closer. Soon Mischka could no longer see a hand in front of his eyes. That was all right with him. The snowfall would cover his footprints within minutes.
Suddenly he was standing on a street. Probably it led from Kestenga to the border. The solidified snow cover under the new snow showed that it was often used. With a fir branch Mischka covered his tracks at the roadside, unbuckled his snowshoes and walked along the street. He pulled the fir branch behind h
im. As he had hoped, the road led across the river. After he had crossed the bridge, he soon stepped again sideways into the forest. On the street he could be discovered too easily despite the snow flurry or run into someone unexpectedly.
He had just climbed a hill when the humming of trucks broke the silence of the night. Their headlights weren't turned off. There had to be several trucks driving along the road. They stopped. Although Mischka was already far away, he heard doors being slammed and orders being given. Then the trucks drove on.
Had they discovered his tracks? Have they been after him yet? Or did the soldiers try to block his escape route? Mischka wasn't sure. Finally, he calmed down with the thought that the bridge had probably only been used as a post. It had nothing to do with him. In addition, the snow drift had certainly already blown his tracks on the road.
Mischka continued on his way. It went on uphill. The wind blew directly into his face and drove the snow crystals into his eyes. If he didn't advance faster, he wouldn't reach the border until dawn, and the risk of being spotted by a patrol grew. He realized that now. Although the weather favored his escape, it was precisely for this reason that his success was on the knife's edge.
He had been trudging through the deepening snow for about an hour when he heard the rattling of a two-stroke engine. Then the engine died. He snuck closer. Word fragments came to his ear. In front of him were men who tried to entertain themselves in the noise of the wind. Mischka listened eagerly. Maybe he could find out who the men were and what they wanted.
"...catch this guy ...," he heard someone say.
"Lousy weather ... anyway ... KGB," replied another.
"...no mouse ... I've sealed everything off."
"...role?"
"Woodfire..."
"I'm gonna go ... Good."
Mischka didn't have to think for long. He was in the immediate vicinity of a pre-control strip that ran parallel to the border and was strictly guarded because of a fugitive, and he was that fugitive! If the men hadn't talked, he would have run straight into the guard. He was feverishly thinking. Should he try to sneak through in the protection of the snow flurries? That was risky. The backpack would betray him immediately. Or should he bluff the men? That was just as risky. But the chances were not bad, especially since the dense snow was on his side. Instinctively, he decided to bluff. He'd done well with it so far. The unexpected and unbelievable deceives a vigilant more than the secret.
Mischka unbuckled his snowshoes, took some important utensils out of his backpack and stowed them under his snow suit, including the saw, wire scissors and battle-sticks. Then he pushed his equipment under the branches of a fir tree, pulled the hood in front of his face and stepped towards the spot from where the voices had come.
A soldier appeared before him. He stood in the middle of the road, staring hard into the darkness. The man visibly twitched when Mischka with his head down approached him from the snow flurry. He ripped off his AK-47.
"Stop! Password?"
"Woodfire, comrade," Mischka replied. "Woodfire. I'd rather be in here than freeze my ass off."
The soldier hesitated. "Where are you from?"
"Had to pee. I almost got lost. Bad weather! Can't they build heated shelters for us?"
The man laughed relieved and threw the gun over his shoulder again. "I've wished for this many times before. In summer we are bitten by mosquitoes and in winter we are frozen."
"Yes, life is hard, comrade," Mischka replied. "Where can I find the snowmobile? I've completely lost my bearings."
"To the right, down the path, just before the road next to the fence," the soldier willingly told him.
Mischka greeted briefly and marched down the path, past other soldiers standing guard here. They paid him little attention. He found the snowmobile, started it and drove across the road towards the border. Apparently, nobody got suspicious.
"Whew," he said in low voice when he was out of range of the men. He still felt the hammering of his heart and the sweat under his armpits. It had been easier than he thought. Nevertheless, it had been Russian roulette. He could have stormed into the darkness immediately, but then the whole pack would have been on his heels, and many dogs are the death of the hare. He hoped not to have to take any more such risks.
He made good progress with the snowmobile. Suddenly he stopped short for a moment. A suspicion arose in him. He tried to remember the voice of the man who had spoken to the soldier on the way. The wind had half swallowed his words. But now he heard them again. Like a recorder, his memory had recorded them.
Of course it was Karatajew! Jossif Karatajew! It must have been him. Then they were on his heels again, Litschenko, Karatajew and Chrapow, the hunter. They'd seen through his plans, found his trail. How many trains drove without being controlled from Kotlas to the Finnish border?!
Mischka got warm despite the cutting wind. He was sweating under his clothes. Chrapow was breathing down his neck again! Couldn't he shake this guy off at all? This man was the greatest risk factor for him, because he knew no mercy. He was used to hunting his victims to the end, until they whimpered panting for mercy. Chrapow was a predator. He had to fear him till the end. He was able to stop his escape at the last moment.
Mischka accelerated the snowmobile, as if he could outrun the hunter. It was possible that he was already waiting for him at the border. Mischka shook his head to dispel all doubts, questions and fears. He had to be vigilant and not do anything rash, but fear and insecurity would paralyze him.
An hour later, he turned south off the road. The border couldn't be far. The snow drift subsided. Only a few flakes were still whirling through the air. Finally the sky ripped open for a few minutes and the moon cast its pale light on the snowy landscape. Mischka throttled the engine on a hilltop and looked down into the valley. At the bottom a dead straight line ran through the white landscape. The border! Every five kilometers, a watchtower towered over the fence. Then black clouds moved over the moon again and plunged the landscape into darkness, so that one could see only a few yards far.
Mischka switched off the engine, looked around and let the sled slowly slide down the hill. He stopped at a piece of forest, selected a slender spruce and sawed it off with slow cutting movements in order to cause as little noise as possible. The tree fell to the ground with a hissing sound. Mischka shortened the branches with the wire scissors so that they formed ladder rungs. He only left the branches on the back so that he could draw the tree to the border more easily. Finally he tied it to the snowmobile and glided down into the valley.
The sled stopped about two hundred yards before the border fence. Mischka sneaked forward in the protection of crippled birches. He looked at the clock. Six o'clock in the morning. In half an hour, he'd be free, or dead. In the next thirty minutes, his fate would be decided. He felt the same inner excitement as when he had leaped into the bushes in Djatlowo under the eyes of the soldiers. The same excitement that first paralyzes, but then awakens unexpected powers.
◆◆◆
"He's here!" said the hunter. Then he got up, buttoned up his fur coat and grabbed his hunting rifle.
"How do you know?" Litschenko asked him.
"I know it. That'll do."
"Let's go, then." Litschenko knew that he could trust the feeling of the hunter. It could not be explained scientifically, but just as Chrapow instinctively felt dangers, he also perceived the presence of a human being. It was the instinct of a predator.
The lieutenant gave the soldiers sitting in the room instructions for the search operation and followed Chrapow outside. After the stay in the musty air of the barrack, the cold winter night was a welcome refreshment for the two men. The hunter had already strapped under his skis and disappeared into the darkness. Litschenko followed his trail. Although he was younger, he had trouble catching up with the Siberian. This man was driven by hate. It was his last chance to catch Michail Wulff. That's why he plowed his skis through the snow as if it was his own life at stake.
Strange, Litschenko thought while he was following the hunter, suddenly I don't care if we catch Wulff today or if he finally gets through our fingers.
Secretly, he suddenly wished the young man would make it. He had chased him through the wilderness for two and a half years now. At first, ambition and anger had driven him, and he noticed a change in himself, that he did not like himself. The hunt gradually made him like Chrapow, alienating him from his ideals and his family. He didn't know exactly when the turning point in his life had come. Maybe it was the moment when Chrapow had shot the young man. Yes, that must have been the time from which he had begun to question his mission and feel more and more sympathy for Michael Wulff. Now he even hoped that Chrapow would be the loser and thus also Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko, but also he himself! Ivan Litschenko no longer understood himself. He would have followed Michail Wulff another thousand miles through the taiga. But here, at the end of the road, he was suddenly ready to let him go.
He caught up with the hunter on a longer downhill stretch parallel to the border fence.
"You're still sure Wulff's here?" he shouted to him.
The hunter nodded, avoided some bushes emerging from the darkness and braked the skis with a hip swing.
"Someone's come down the mountain on a snowmobile."
Chrapow pointed to the tracks of the snowmobile. "But as you can see, he switched off the engine. Probably not to make any noise."
Litschenko nodded, considered briefly and said in a muffled voice: "Then Wulff must be right in front of us, if he hasn't already crossed the border."
"He hasn't crossed the border yet." The hunter shook his head. "Otherwise, an alarm would have been sounded. No, he's still here, and I'm gonna go get him now."
Chrapow turned and slipped silently into the valley. Litschenko followed him closely. The tension made him sweat despite the cold. If Michail Wulff was actually right in front of them, everything would be decided in the next few minutes. The first glimmer of the new day would determine what the future of each of the men would look like.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 33
