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"You are not KGB?"
"I am a soldier," the man said. Then, "How will they find me?"
"I shall build a fire and leave some fuel for you. There is much lying about.
And I found a flashlight in the plane." He had found two of them, as a matter
of fact. One he intended to keep. He had also found emergency rations, such as
every such ship carried in this country, and matches.
He built a small fire and made tea, hot, black, and strong. "Best thing for
shock, they tell me."
He drank some tea himself and moved a packet of the emergency rations close
to the wounded man.
"I won't be able to stay, you know. In fact, I'd best be off and away."
"I am obliged. You could have killed me."
"You are a soldier. I am a soldier. In combat I might have killed you or been
killed, but you are wounded. It is a different thing."
"It is said you are a Red Indian?"
Joe Mack smiled. "I am."
Obviously in pain, the man bit his lip and held himself hard against it. Then
he said, "Do not Indians take scalps?"
Joe Mack shrugged. "That was long ago, in another world almost. Yes, it was a
way of keeping score. I have never taken one, although in a couple of cases I
might be tempted."
He gathered his things, rummaged in the plane for more ammunition, found it,
and took what other rations were available. Then he brought more wood for the
fire. There was not a shortage of that, except that it needed gathering.
"It will keep a small fire going, and from up there they will see it easily.
I must be off now." Yet he lingered. "Yakov, you say? Where were you to pick
him up?"
"Near Khonuu. It is not far," he caught himself and was silent for a moment,
"if you are flying."
He paused again. "The KGB are holding him at the airfield." He glanced up. "I
have feeling for him. They will be rough, I think."
"When were they not? I do not know your country. I did not think there were
rebels here."
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The flyer shrugged. "There are none, or at least few who speak out. There is
corruption, of course, and the black market. Many are discontented but have
faith that everything will be put right."
Joe Mack went into the darkness and gathered fuel. There were few trees here
and scattered, but there was much debris fallen from them and dead trees,
blown down or struck by lightning. He dragged some heavy stuff closer.
"You will not escape, you know," the flyer said. "Alekhin knows where you
are. He will find you."
"I shall be expecting him."
"You are not afraid?"
"He is a man. I am a man. We will see."
He added a few sticks to the fire. "Good luck, Russian. Next time, tell your
pilot to stay out of matters that do not concern him."
He walked away into the darkness.
Of course, he had delayed too long. When there was no word from the
helicopter, a search would begin. Once the helicopter was found, they would
know where he was, approximately.
Khonuu? It was a town on the Indigirka, and Yakov was a prisoner there.
Yakov, who had helped him, gone out of his way to guide him. Yakov, who was a
free spirit and partly of Tungus blood. Yakov, who refused to be harnessed.
Yakov was a prisoner. Yet what could he, Joe Mack, do? He did not know the
town or the airfield. The chances were great, however, that Yakov would be
held at the airfield awaiting transportation to wherever the KGB wanted him.
After interrogation, Yakov would be killed. Of that there could be no
question.
Khonuu was not that far out of his way, yet he had avoided populated
districts, knowing he would be recognized for who he was almost at once.
When it was light enough to see, he began to run. He ran easily, smoothly,
careful of each step. Black, bare trees stretched bare black arms against the
lightening sky. He ran into the dawn, an Indian, feeling himself an Indian,
and when he found a dim game trail he went along it, finding it led him down
the mountain.
The long hard months had left him lean and strong. As a cold sun arose from
the far-distant gray clouds, he ran toward it, and then the trail took him
north. He was going the way he must. Was it fate? He did not believe in fate,
but something seemed to be guiding him as he ran.
He was a warrior, and another warrior, brother to him in spirit, was in
trouble. He knew the risk, knew the slight chance he had of even finding where
Yakov was held, but he took the chance freely.
Once, long ago, he had seen a young Chinese on the gallows waiting for the
noose. He had said, "Some mans spend nice new money. I spend nice new life."
"If I must, I will," he told himself. "I am alone, and nobody awaits me."
Nobody? What of her? What of Natalya? Did she await him somewhere? Or was he
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forgotten, something that had drifted across her life like a passing cloud?
What had she promised? Nothing. What had he offered? To come for her, when
both knew it was a vain, desperate promise to which no sane person would hold
him. Yet in that respect he might not be sane, for he truly expected to
return, to take her from the shore at Plastun Bay.
Foolish? Of course, but so many things worth doing may seem foolish to
others, may seem impossible.
He ran down the mountain in the morning's gray light and found his way into
the shadowed firs, the black guardian firs that clustered along his way. He
crossed frozen streams and ran through patches of thin snow where his
moccasins barely left a track behind.
When the sun was warm he found a place among the willows and slept, and when [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]