"L'Amour, Louis - Last_of_the_Breed39" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

"Yakov. We do not have a patronymic. He was known to the KGB."
"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."
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 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 the sun was higher still he awakened. For a long time he stood, listening to the wind, hearing what was moving, watching the flight of birds, and they seemed unafraid and undisturbed. He began to run once more, for he had far to go and did not know how much time he had.
He saw no one and heard nothing but, once, far off, the ring of an ax chopping wood.
The morning opened wide before him, and the forest thinned again. In the distance he saw the smoke of cooking fires in the homes of those he did not know, and far off a city against the sky and a river between.
He slowed to a walk. A running man would be seen and would invite questions to which he had no answers. Now he must find the airfield. He was guessing, judging Yakov would be held waiting for the transportation to take him away. Now to scout the field and see where such a man might be held. And after that?
He was a warrior, and for a warrior any day was a good day to die.
Only he expected to live. He needed to live to free Yakov, to count coup on his enemies, and to meet a golden lady on a distant shore.
He was no longer an officer and a gentleman, no longer a flyer for the American Air Force; he was, for now, an Indian. And he had enemies.
There were scattered houses. One man, carrying an armful of wood, glanced at him, then went inside.
He walked steadily on. He saw a small plane take off and knew where the airfield was. He changed direction, walked among some houses, and crossed a bridge. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. His AK-47 was hidden under his coat, his bow appeared to be a staff, no more than that.
It was very early and very cold. Nobody went willingly into the cold on such a day.
Two men walked before him, two thick men in thick coats and dark fur hats. They walked steadily and did not look back, but the walk of one was familiar. He unfastened the string that tied his coat and let his hand touch the butt of the AK-47. He was ready, but he took longer strides to move faster without seeming to hurry.