Loius L'Amour The Last of the Breed

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catch him "
"I know," he admitted.
He put away his razor and picked up his shirt. She was getting out of bed and
he averted his eyes. Somehow it always embarrassed him to see a woman
dressing. It was stupid of him, after all that had passed between them, but
still the feeling was there.
"What is he like, this American?"
Zamatev paused, buttoning his shirt. He stared at the mirror but remembered
the American. "Tall," he said, "strong looking. Arrogant. " He paused,
buttoned another button, and added, "He was not afraid. All of the others, all
of them, were afraid, but not him."
"I heard he is an Indian?"
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"He is."
"But they were savages! Primitive!"
He shrugged. "Once. Now I hear they are heads of oil companies. Suvarov tells
me one of them was Vice President of the United States."
"But he is an Indian? Shepilov is wrong, then. He is looking in the cities.
He is looking along the Amur."
"Where do you think we should look?"
"In the taiga. If he is an Indian "
"That's what Alekhin believes."
"Alekhin is looking for him?" She shuddered a little. "He frightens me,
Alekhin does. There's something about him, something ugly."
Zamatev knew what she meant, but he shrugged. "He is a Yakut."
"I've known many Yakuts. Two of my closest girlfriends are Yakuts. They are
afraid of him, too."
Zamatev finished dressing and reached for his coat. Alekhin always got his
man. The trouble was that by the time the GRU got to them they were dead. It
happened too often, much too often. Often one killed from necessity but
Alekhin seemed to like killing. Well, he must speak to him. This American he
wanted alive, if possible. The American was no good to him dead.
Strange, that in all this time he had not been seen or heard from. Alekhin
believed he had a clue. The Yakut was sure he knew where he was but as yet had
not caught him. Arkady Zamatev did not like leaving for the taiga himself. It
gave his enemies too much of an opportunity. While he was around they were
afraid of him, and he wanted them to remain so.
She was buttoning her blouse. "Arkady? Do you want me to help?"
Astonished, he glanced at her. "You? How could you help?"
She smiled at him. "I can help. I worked in the bureau for three years."
"You believe that taught you enough?" he scoffed gently.
"It taught me that most of them are time wasters. Most of them are stupid
plodders. They have no insight, no intuition. If he has evaded you this long,
something new is needed."
Zamatev could not have agreed more. Yet how could she help?
"Perhaps a new viewpoint," she suggested. "Let me work with you."
He shook his head. "No. This" he gestured at the room and the bed "is one
thing. Work is another."
"I want no favors," she replied coolly, "and would expect to be treated as
the others." Her eyes met his directly. "I, too, am ambitious. For you as well
as for me. There will be times when you must be gone, and I can be there.
Also, I know Comrade Shepilov."
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Zamatev shook his head, but not as decisively. "Think about it," she added,
and went into the bathroom.
He stood for a minute, undecided. It went against everything he believed,
every resolution he had made, yet it was tempting to have an ally in the
bureau. Or was she a plant from Shepilov himself? She had worked in his
office.
It was cold in the street. He stood for a moment looking along the avenue,
noting the cars that were there. It was an old practice from his days as a
military attache in London and Paris, where one could almost expect to be
followed. He seemed to be merely buttoning his heavy coat and turning up the
collar against the wind, but his eyes were busy. The little car was there
again today. He waved his driver aside and started walking briskly along the
street.
As he turned the first corner he stopped abruptly, tugging on his gloves. A
moment later the little car swept by. He chuckled, and crossing the street, he
went on to the office.
On his desk the usual work awaited: papers to be read and initialed, others
to be read and discarded. He went through the stack methodically until he came
to the reports on the search for Major Makatozi. They were arranged in four
neat stacks. Nothing ... nothing ... at Albazino near the Amur border, guards
had shot and killed a Buriat attempting to escape into China ... a Yakut
tracker had followed tracks for some distance only to have the trail vanish
under his eyes.
The American's boots had left a distinct impression when the tracks could be
found at all. Now they were gone, as if the man had been whisked away by what
the Americans called a flying saucer.
Zamatev swore. Maybe he did need Kyra. Certainly, he needed somebody with
brains. By this time they should have captured any number of escapees. Always
before it had been a matter of hours only, occasionally of days.
Yet what could Kyra do that was not being done? What could he do? Carefully,
he went over in detail what had been done.
The quick, immediate search that caught eight out of ten who escaped from
anywhere. Then the wider, more complete search, the issuing of orders to the
Amur troops, search parties sent out from various centers, people everywhere
alerted. Nobody had seen anything.
Alekhin claimed to have a lead, flimsy at best. The possible theft of a
knife, unproved; the possible theft of canned supplies, also unproved. The
remains of a sheep Alekhin said had been butchered by a hunter before wild [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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