Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “It would help,” she said, “if I found him. Or if he was turned over to me. I can assure you Colonel Zamatev would be most grateful.”

  “Of course. I am an admirer of the Colonel. I wish him every success.” He hitched around in his chair. “His capture might mean a lot to the Colonel. It might even take him to Moscow.”

  A move, Wulff thought, that would please a lot of people. Zamatev was too sharp, too hard to deal with. Or perhaps the trouble was that he would not deal at all. If he failed to recapture this American, he might be with them always. That in itself was incentive enough. Colonel Zamatev had many admirers, but it would be easier to admire him if he were in Moscow.

  “How he ever got such a man is beyond me. The GRU—”

  “It was Colonel Zamatev who arranged it”—she smiled—“as he arranges many things.”

  Wulff stood up. The interview was over. “If I can help, call on me, but I believe your American is dead.

  “Where would he go? How could he live? Winter is here, and that is a vast wilderness out there. Believe me, comrade, I have traveled it. When I was younger—”

  “This man is different. He is a Red Indian.”

  Wulff was astonished. An Indian? He had believed they were all dead. He had not heard of any Indians since he was a boy and saw those American movies. Exciting stuff, too.

  “How could that be? I understood he was an officer in the American air force?”

  “He’s that, too.” Kyra turned toward the door. “What you must understand is that he is a man who knows how to live in the taiga.”

  Outside, Kyra was irritated. Nothing had come of that. What would Wulff do? Would he cooperate? Or try to take the American himself? Or would he work with Shepilov? She drew her belt tight against the wind. He would do what was expedient for Wulff.

  Stegman was waiting with a car. He was a lean but powerful man of some forty years who carried himself like a man ten years younger. He was one of Zamatev’s best men.

  “Nothing definite,” she told him. “Whatever is done we must do ourselves.” She paused. “Does he know you?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “I will walk. But what I want is to find out what Comrade Wulff does next. It could be very helpful.”

  Stegman got in the car and drove away around the block; then he parked some distance off where he could watch the door. Kyra Lebedev went back to the hotel and getting out the maps she had brought, spread them out on the bed. She was dismayed. Even she, who had lived and worked in Siberia, was always amazed at its sheer size. Now, thinking of finding one man in all that vastness, she was appalled.

  So many rivers! So much forest! Yet if he was an Indian he must be a hunter, and he would try to live off the land. In the dead of winter that would be almost impossible. Wulff was probably right. The man was dead or soon would be.

  They had to be sure. Studying the map, she started to think, trying to imagine what the escaped prisoner must have done.

  First he had to get away from the prison area, and he dare not be seen. Yet he might have gone in any direction, and they had no leads, nothing except Alekhin’s belief that he had gone east, a belief based on something so flimsy—

  A missing knife that might have simply been lost. The chance of some missing food. The food might never have been there at all, or it might have been eaten by some hungry workman who came to the place, saw the food, and simply took it.

  Yet she had heard much of Alekhin from Arkady and from two Yakut friends. They did not like him. He was a surly brute who kept much to himself and was notoriously cruel. Nonetheless, all agreed nobody was better at capturing escapees. She must talk to him. But where was he?

  The helicopter again—that was the fastest way of searching, and Stegman was a superb pilot.

  Earlier they had tried to check every abandoned building of which there was record, and they had followed streams and roads and landed to make inquiries…nothing. Simply nothing.

  There was a tap on the door. It was Stegman.

  “He left immediately after you did, and he walked to a small building on a side street.” Stegman looked up at her. “The man within deals in furs.”

  “Ah? In furs. A man, then, who might know trappers and hunters. And Wulff did not send somebody? He went himself? That’s interesting.”

  “Yes.”

  She thought about that while Stegman waited. Aloud, she said, “It might be some personal affair, but if not, why would he go himself and not have somebody else go?”

  “A source?” Stegman suggested.

  “Just what I was thinking. A private source.” She glanced at Stegman. “Did you notice the fur coat hanging in his office? Excellent fur.”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe I will have a talk with this furrier. Did you get his name?”

  “Zhikarev, Evgeny Zhikarev, in business in the same location for fifty years.”

  “Ah? A survivor. Well, we shall see.”

  Her heart was beating faster. Maybe Wulff knew something, maybe he was just fishing, but a furrier?

  Maybe this was it, the break she had been hoping for. If it was—

  To move swiftly, that was the thing. If this was the lead she needed, she might have Makatozi before the week was out. Maybe even today!

  She was almost running when she reached the car.

  Chapter 14

  *

  EVGENY ZHIKAREV WAS disturbed. He was a small man with rumpled gray hair and a thick black mustache. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that were perpetually resting near the end of his nose and seemed in acute danger of falling off. He wore this morning a gray shirt with a vest of worn velvet on which arabesques were embroidered in red, gold, and green thread.

  Around the shop he wore slippers. Several times during his earlier years he had undergone torture by the Cheka, and as a result his feet were crippled. He wore shoes only when it was necessary to leave the shop. As his living quarters were in the rear alongside his storeroom, his absences were rare.

  His father had been substantially well off under the Tsar, operating a highly successful fur business in what was then called St. Petersburg. The Revolution had ended all that, and having lost everything in Russia, the elder Zhikarev had fled to Siberia, where a source of his furs was still operating. There, far from the seat of power, the Zhikarevs had carried on. There was always a market for furs in Russia, as there was in Manchuria and China. The Zhikarevs, father and son, had done well, maintaining a low profile in rather shabby quarters, outwardly conforming to all the rules, but operating with a comfortable margin of profit.

  It was understood that officials such as Wulff could always secure furs from him at a modest price; in Wulff’s case this meant fur coats for himself, his wife, and at least two other ladies at no cost at all. Moreover, on occasion fur coats had been made for people Wulff wished to impress, and Wulff himself looked the other way as to some of Zhikarev’s other dealings. He took what was given, made occasional discreet suggestions, and maintained a nice relationship with Zhikarev without saying anything at all.

  Wulff promised nothing, offered nothing. His comments were few but understood. He would simply say, “Comrade Thus-and-such is looking for a fur coat. You know, something very fine. He asked if I could recommend a furrier.” That was the way such matters were handled.

  The shop smelled faintly of the cooking Zhikarev did in his own rooms. It also smelled of fresh leather, in which he also dealt in a modest way.

  The walls of the shop and of the rooms behind it were thick. It was never actually warm, however, as Zhikarev kept the temperature down because of the furs on display. Usually, there were stacks of hides and furs about, single furs or in bales.

  Unknown to Wulff or to anyone else, Evgeny Zhikarev maintained a private account in a Hong Kong bank, a procedure he handled as he did other things, quietly, efficiently, and with skill.

  Evgeny Zhikarev thought of himself as a loyal Russian. He loved his country. He did not love som
e of its officials. He had survived a revolution, several purges, and a number of inquiries. These last had left him somewhat crippled in body but not in mind.

  For the past dozen years events had moved quietly along, and now he was thinking more and more of retirement. This would mean leaving Russia, but it would also mean freedom from inquiries and a time to relax and read. Somehow he never had found time to read all the books he wished, many of them books difficult to obtain in Russia.

  Lately he had been thinking more and more of an apartment in Hong Kong, in Japan, or even in California. His feet had been hurting more of late, and it worried him. Was it a warning?

  He went back into his shabby living quarters and put cabbage on the chopping board. He would have cabbage soup again. The smell of it was always reassuring to officials, for it had the odor of innocence.

  Ever since opening the new bale of furs he had been disturbed. It was an especially fine collection, especially the blue fox and ermine. Squirrel skins were there in plenty, but those ermine and blue fox skins—

  He added water and dropped cabbage into the pot, adding a few slices of carrot. As he stirred and thought, he was mulling over Wulff’s visit.

  The bale of furs had been there on the table, but Wulff had merely glanced at them. He had come right to the point.

  “Comrade, there is an American at large. He is a Red Indian, and he must be taken. You know more hunters and trappers than anyone. Put the word out. We want him. I want him! I want him, and I want him alive. If we do not find him, there will be soldiers all over the country. There will be rest for nobody until we do find him!

  “If you hear anything, see anything, suspect anything, you are to come to me at once. At once! Do you hear?”

  He paused and said, more gently, “I would not want anything to happen to you. I would not want anybody asking you questions. Do you understand?

  “Find him! Find him at once! Put the word out. The man is an enemy of the Soviet.”

  Wulff had strode out, and Zhikarev had turned to making his cabbage soup, but he was worried. Comrade Wulff rarely spoke so forcefully. He had no need of it. Everyone knew what he could and would do, if necessary.

  Zhikarev brushed a lock of gray hair away from his brow. He peered at the soup. He liked it a little thicker. He hesitated, hearing the outer door open. Turning, he looked toward the front of the shop.

  A young woman was standing there, a very attractive young woman, but one of those sharp ones. He knew their kind. They were quick, crisp, and demanding and almost impossible to please. He wiped his hands on a cloth, put it down, and went toward the front of the shop.

  She was looking at the furs.

  He ran his fingers through the gray hair. She had turned to look at him. He hoped he had spilled nothing on his vest.

  Looking past her out the window, he could see a car standing in the street; a big, strong-looking man stood beside it. That could be trouble.

  “I am Comrade Lebedev. You are Evgeny Zhikarev?”

  “I am.”

  “You have heard of the escaped prisoner? Of the American?”

  He shrugged. “There has been talk, but I meet so few people. You see, I am busy with the furs—”

  “I know. You do business with trappers?”

  He shrugged again, letting his eyes blink vaguely. “If they have furs to sell. Often it is with someone who has been out in the taiga who buys furs. I don’t see many men who trap. They do not come to the towns.”

  “I work with Colonel Zamatev. We are looking for the American.” She gestured toward the just-opened bale. “Have you just bought these?”

  “Yes. They come from far away.”

  “Who sold them to you?”

  A direct question and hard to evade. He shrugged again. “A trapper, I—”

  “I want his name. His location.” Her eyes were cold. “I want it now!”

  Zhikarev blinked. “He is only an occasional trapper. I do business with so many. This one,” he scowled, shaking his head, “I believe it was Comrade Borowsky.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Zhikarev was wary. This was a very bright young woman, and if Colonel Zamatev was involved—

  “One knows so little. No doubt Comrade Wulff has a dossier on him. There is gossip, of course. One hears he was a soldier who fought bravely against the Germans, but his father was a Jew, and he wished to leave the country. He was sent out here and his family with him. Borowsky was not wanted anywhere, so took to trapping. I do not know if this is true.”

  “Does he come often?”

  “Once, twice a year.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Zhikarev shrugged. “They do not talk, these trappers. They are afraid others will come where they are. I believe,” he lied, “he traps branches of the Sinyaya, north of here. I suspect,” he added, “he sells most of his furs in Yakutsk.”

  “Open the bale.”

  Evgeny Zhikarev picked up a knife and cut the strings, partly opening the bale. Did she know anything about furs? He spread the furs and stepped back from the table. His heart was pounding heavily.

  She turned the skins rapidly, glancing at this one and that. He watched her, and fear mounted. She did know something. She did. He could see it.

  Suddenly she picked up an ermine. “This skin was not treated by the same man as were the others. It is different. See? It is much more expertly done, as by someone who loves a nice pelt.”

  She turned them one by one, checking each one. There was no way out of it now. She saw what he had seen.

  She stepped back and turned toward him. She looked at him, coldly, curiously. Then she walked to the door and called out. A moment later the big man appeared in the doorway.

  “Stegman, I want to know all this man knows about a former soldier, a Jew named Borowsky. I want to know about these hides.” She showed him the hides, turning them rapidly. “I hope he will tell us here so we will not have to take him away.”

  “He will cooperate,” Stegman said. “Comrade Zhikarev and I are old friends.” He smiled, showing big white teeth. “How are the feet, comrade?”

  Zhikarev was frightened. He stood back against the table. Why had he waited so long? He could have been away. There was all that nice money in Hong Kong, and he knew how to leave the country. Knew exactly how.

  “Whatever I can do to help,” he said calmly, “I will do. Trappers do not talk of where they trap, or how.”

  “This batch of skins,” Kyra asked. “When did you buy them?”

  “It was only yesterday.” There was no use lying about that. It could be so easily checked. “Borowsky brought them in. I do not know this, but I believe that when he comes he brings pelts from other hunters as well. The ones you indicate are new to me. I have not seen anything like them in years. The trapper”—he was honest in this—“is extremely expert both in trapping and curing.” He gestured toward them. “Look! They were taken with snares. The fur is undamaged. This trapper did not have steel traps.”

  Kyra Lebedev was excited, but she masked her feelings. This was a fresh lead and a good one. She must move carefully. If she could bring this off, if she could recapture the American—

  “The Sinyaya, you say?”

  “It is tributary to the Lena. It joins it well this side of Yakutsk.”

  “I know it.” Her tone was sharp. “I know the area very well.” Her eyes were cold. “We will look. If we find nothing, we will be back.

  “I suggest”—her eyes were hard—“you shake up your memory, comrade. I would suggest you begin to remember everything you know about this man Borowsky and these furs.

  “Who else has come in here with him? Exactly how often does he bring furs? Why did you suspect the Sinyaya? I had believed it was trapped out.”

  She smiled, but attractive as she was, the smile was not nice. “You see, I had an uncle with whom I lived as a child. He was a furrier and a trader in furs.”

  She started for the door. “Come, Stegman. It wi
ll take only a few hours to visit the Sinyaya and return.” She smiled again. “I hope we are not wasting our time!”

  They left, and Stegman closed the door carefully behind them. For a moment after they had gone, Zhikarev did not move. Had he said anything wrong? Quickly, he reviewed the few minutes of conversation. He had hoped to steer them away, and now he was hoping there actually was some trapping on the Sinyaya and its branches. Formerly, it had been good, and during the interval it could have recovered.

  He did not know where Borowsky came from. He had made it a policy not to ask questions. He did not wish to know more than was essential to conduct business, and he knew there were escapees and others who did not wish to be found. Wulff knew it, too.

  Those people out there in the taiga, they had to live. They were harmless. They had been there for years, some of them, and had done no harm to anyone. All they wanted was to live quietly in the woods.

  Wulff had slowly been getting rich from the furs they brought to him and would not want them disturbed. But what was Wulff to Colonel Zamatev? A word or two from Zamatev, and Wulff would find himself a mere clerk in some remote outpost. Zhikarev had seen it happen.

  So what to do? Wait and see. But meanwhile to prepare. There was little to do. He had had this in mind for so long, determined never again to go through questioning by the KGB or anyone else. He was one of the few in a position to prepare an escape, a procedure carefully developed over the years through his fur trading.

  At a remote post along the Amur he had quietly arranged to buy furs from Manchuria. The officer at the guard post allowed the furs to cross and received small favors in return. After more than a year of this, the officer had permitted Zhikarev to cross to pick up the furs. This had become an established procedure, so all Zhikarev now had to do was to cross and not return.

  Would his place be watched?

  He knew nothing of this stranger, this man who sent furs along with those of Borowsky and others. He might be the American. Evgeny Zhikarev felt an affinity with the stranger because of his handling of the skins. He treated furs with respect. He was not careless. He did not treat them in a slapdash let’s-get-it-over-with manner. The stranger was known to Borowsky, and Borowksy was a good man.