"L'Amour, Louis - Last_of_the_Breed09" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

Last of the Breed
Chapter 9

Colonel Arkady Zamatev was shaving. He looked at himself in the mirror, but without approval. There was still power in the heavy muscles of shoulders and chest, but there was a hint of softness, too, and he did not like it. He finished shaving and cleaned his razor. Looking in the mirror he could see the girl. She was sitting up in bed, watching him.
Kyra was, he reflected, the best of them. This one had brains. She would make a good wife. The trouble was there was no place for her in his plans, though marriage was an important part of them. To marry the right woman, that was important. Deliberately he had avoided entanglements, avoided anything that hinted at permanence. When he married it would be the daughter or sister of an important man.
Arkady Zamatev knew where he was going, and he knew how to get there. So far, he had made no mistakes. So far, all the pieces had been falling into place, all but this damned American. His escape could ruin everything.
"You're a handsome man, Arkady."
He glanced at her, making a slight bow. "I thank-you."
She was beautiful, and there was something special about her, something different. Or was that his glands speaking? He looked at himself wryly in the mirror and said in his mind. Don't be a fool.
"I think," she was lighting a cigarette, and for a moment a flicker of irritation went through him, "you will go far, just as far as you wish." She paused. "If you catch the American."
"You know about him?"
"Everybody does. When the Army is alerted, word gets around. You will catch him, I think. How could he get away?"
Zamatev did not like talking about it. This one was closemouthed; he had already made sure of that. Nevertheless--
"He may already be dead. How could he survive? Without food? And it is growing cold."
Arkady Zamatev said something that had been in his mind but unspoken until now. "This one is different," he admitted, "but we will get him."
"Shepilov wants him, too. "
"What do you know about Shepilov?" Zamatev's eyes were cold. "I did not know you knew him."
"I worked in his bureau."
"I knew that, but--"
She smiled teasingly. "No, I didn't, if that is what you're wondering. Anyway, Shepilov does not encourage the girls. He is too afraid of his wife. She's a terror. Or so I hear. "
Zamatev knew all about Masha. People avoided her, and Shepilov had been passed over for promotion at least once because of her. Associate with a man and you associate with his wife, and she was not liked. It was a mistake Zamatev did not intend to make. He told himself that again.
"Shepilov"--she brushed ash from her cigarette--"wants him. He wants to say you lost the prisoner and it took Shepilov to catch him."
"I will get him."
"I am sure you will. I hope you will. You are a good man, Arkady, good for Russia, but you have enemies. You stand in the way of too many people. Shepilov, for one. Until now there has been nothing they could say; now they are saying it, quietly and among themselves. Tomorrow, if Shepilov should 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?"
"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."