Coercion (22 page)

Alex forced himself to get back up before his muscles went on holiday and began to climb the Siberian spruce.  The grueling trek had sapped his legs, so he used his arms to do most of the lifting.  Fortunately the wind had died toward dusk, so the sways were not extreme.  It was a strange feeling, climbing up into boundless darkness in a place like this.  The stars shone as bright and low as he had ever seen thanks to the cold, clean air.  Alex found the climb to be physically exhausting but psychologically refreshing, the former being unavoidable and the latter being something every endurance soldier knew to be crucial.

Once he was as high as he could safely go, Alex stopped, allowed his eyes to adjust, and soaked up the view.  It was beautiful, but he found that the combination of his physical condition with the swaying of the tree and the serenity of the scene w
as lulling him to sleep like a Siren’s song.  He had to hurry with his task and descend.

Alex began a
methodical three-hundred-and-sixty degree scan of his surroundings, from the foreground to the horizon.  He was looking for three things: movement, light, and smoke.  He saw … nothing.  Then he spent a full five minutes scouring the route he had taken to get there.  Again, nothing. 
Amen
.  He descended feeling like the only man left on Earth, and almost wished it were so.

Alex had planned to make his way down the ridge to spend the night in a less-ex
posed, less-visible location, but he could not bring himself to move any farther.  It was time to bivouac.

He selected two adjacent boughs from the mighty tree’s lowest ring and stripped them of their little branches.  Then he tied the ends of the boughs together
with parachute cord so they formed an ellipse about eight feet in length.  Next, Alex used thick, fallen branches to prop up the distal end at the spot where the boughs were tied, making the makeshift bedrails more-or-less parallel with the ground.  Finally he finished the bed by looping the parachute very loosely around the boughs twice and then tying it off to create what amounted to a layered tube that flanked the wind.  It had been quick, and it would be comfortable.  Rest was one of the few weapons he had, and Alex had to make sure it was fully loaded.

Yarik awoke at three a.m. in the fork of a tree, stiff, sore, and smiling.  He was on the hunt.  The tree’s trunk had shielded him from the wind, and its height had protected him from the wolves, but as he sat there stretching out the kinks, he was not sure it was worth it.

He pushed his chin up and to the left with the palm of his hand until his neck cracked, then repeated the exercise on the right. 
Better than a cup of coffee
.  With a quick roll of the shoulders, he dropped to the ground like a gladiator entering the ring. 

Alex had stayed ahead throughout the previous day, expertly camouflaging his trail as he went.  As a seasoned tracker, Yarik had been able to follow
his quarry easily enough, but at a frustratingly slow speed.  He had fallen further and further behind as the initial kilometers clicked off, but had studied his quarry’s technique each step of the way.  After a couple of hours he reversed the trend, and by the time Yarik hugged the tree there was but an hour between them.

Alex’s endurance was a pleasant surprise.  The treadmills in America’s clubs and the flat trails of her city parks were but a distant cousin to the mountainous terrain of the Siberian outback.  Yet after a day of running, Yarik noted that Alex’s footfalls were still spaced as they had been at the beginning of the chase.  He was not tiring.  Alex’s aptitude had changed the chase from child’s play to man’s sport—Yarik’s favorite sport.

Yarik had followed the trail until midnight, at which time he made the decision to sleep for a few hours rather than risk a fatigue-induced error.  Three hours of sleep was enough for him in situations like these.  He had trained his muscles for rapid recharge, and his mind was eager to hit the trail.  Leaning up against the tree’s trunk, he forced himself to give his legs a quick stretch.  He felt like a child at an amusement park gate. 

Yarik took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air and set off over the moonlit landscape in a rapid trot.  He hoped the chase would last a week.  It had been three years since he had enjoyed a good chase, one where he had to struggle to keep up rather than restrain
himself from finishing too quickly.  Given the remote location of their landing, a week or even two was not entirely out of the question, at least theoretically.  Four days was the longest anyone had ever eluded him, and that man had been a pro, a trapper fleeing through his own backyard. 
One could only hope
.

As much as Yarik wanted the chase to last a long time, he could not allow that to happen.  He had to catch Alex before they reached a city and Alex vanished into the masses.  He could still kill Alex using Peitho in the city, but he needed to interrogate him first.

Vasily also wanted him to take Alex alive, even unblemished.  The General had not explained his intentions, but he did not have to.  Yarik knew that everything Vasily did was calculated and that he did not make strategic errors.  For this reason, Vasily was the only man to whom Yarik ever truly deferred.  Yarik found that he actually liked to please Vasily.  He never understood why.  Regardless, take Alex alive he would.  Pity about the unblemished requirement though.  Still, there were many ways to inflict pain and suffering without leaving marks.

Yarik stopped running for a moment so he could inspect the ground more carefully, but first he sniffed the air.  It was going to be getting even colder.  That also made the extended vacation fantasy much less likely.  If he didn’t find clothing or reach shelter, Alex would be a meat
popsicle within forty-eight hours.  Technically frozen was unblemished, but...

Yarik liked the feeling that it was just the two of them out there.  Only about thirty million people lived in all of Siberia, and over ninety percent of them lived in the cities and towns.  That left only three million people scattered over a territory that was roughly the size of the United States.  It was one hell of a private playground.

Alex was headed east, in the direction of Novosibirsk.  That made sense; Novosibirsk had both a US consulate and a major airport.  Yarik’s job became a lot easier once they had clicked off enough kilometers that he could be certain Novosibirsk was Alex’s true destination, rather than a decoy.  Knowledge of the goal took the guesswork out of pursuit, and made it that much faster.  Even if he lost Alex’s trail, he could proceed with confidence, knowing he would pick it up again once the mountainous terrain narrowed the breadth of navigable options.  But Yarik didn’t expect to lose Alex; after a day of pursuit, he not only understood his quarry’s technique; he was beginning to anticipate.

By waking at three a.m., Yarik expected to catch Alex in his sleep.  That would make it easy to comply with
Vasily’s request.  He suspected that Alex would have been so afraid to stop last night that he would have run until he dropped.  If that were in fact the case, it would be a fatal error.

The
moon had risen while he had slept, augmenting his advantage.  He found it easier to follow a fresh trail in bright moonlight than broad daylight because the moon highlights the subtle reflections that result when someone dislodges a pebble or puts the pressure of a footfall on a dusting of snow.

Reflecting on
the finer points of tracking, Yarik found himself admiring Alex’s expertise.  When snow or other factors made it nearly impossible for Alex to cover his tracks, he just barreled on through without wasting time trying.  When the topography was accommodating, Alex would occasionally change direction by five or ten degrees, taxing his pursuer without costing himself any delay.  It was a risky strategy for a man without a compass, and Yarik generally took it as a sign of desperation, but Alex somehow managed to stay on course.

Alex’s overall strategy seemed to be one of speed, probably because he had chosen a des
tination that was easy to guess.  Instinct told Yarik that Alex would change course radically once they neared Novosibirsk, in an attempt to intersect one of the approaching tangential motorways.  It was a good strategy, but it would be at least a day before he could deploy it, and Alex would not last that long. 

Forty minutes after starting out that morning, Yarik came to the tree on the ridge where Alex had slept and cursed the darkness. 
Was it possible that Alex was not afraid?
  When would he stop underestimating this man?

He quickly inspected the campsite before continuing.  There was no sign that Alex had eaten.  Yarik would have been surprised if there were, but it was reassuring to be certain that they were on the same diet.

As Yarik resumed the trail, his thoughts shifted back to the man who had freed Alex.  Who was he and how much did he know about the Knyaz?  Yarik was very concerned by the implications of the Knyaz being blindsided that way.  For decades, they had led an invisible existence.  For that to change now was unthinkable.  The timing was just too critical.  The bulge slapping against his thigh reminded Yarik that he would get his answer soon enough; he had a helping hand. 

Yarik cracked his neck.  He shouldn’t overreact.  While this incident might indicate a major strategic complication, it could just as easily
be nothing at all.  They had kept the lid on for a decade now. Vasily had everything brilliantly camouflaged in plain sight under the cloak of the KGB.  No Russian was going to poke around there.  Of course, one corner of the Knyaz operation lay beyond their circle of secrecy and control: the United States.  Once again, Victor’s territory appeared to be the most likely cause of their security breach.  He would certainly have words with the boy the next time they met.

Yarik followed Alex’s trail for a couple of hours along a ridgeline.  Then the ridge turned south while Alex’s trail continued east, going steeply downwards into a snow-filled valley.  He had not bothered to try to hide the change of direction.  It was an encouraging sign of weariness or fatigue.
  Making a bed and sleeping soundly were different matters altogether.

Judging by the tracks Alex was moving rapidly, even recklessly, taking advantage of gravity and keeping to the snowy grooves rather than the rocky ridges so the
powder would absorb the shock of his descending bounds.  And bounding he was.  Alex’s footprints were spaced nearly two-meters apart.  He was becoming reckless. 

In this game of fox and hare, Alex’s desperation became Yarik’s necessity.  Alex was really moving, and Yarik had to follow suit if he wanted to keep up.  No problem.  Alex was not going to gain time that easily.  Speaking of time, although the
strong intermittent wind made it impossible to be certain, instinct told him that Alex was now not more than thirty minutes ahead.

Bounding down the snowy mountainside, Yarik felt the freedom and exhilaration of the slalom skier. 
Perhaps biathlete was more appropriate.  He would likely be shooting once he stopped.

Yarik raised his nose to the wind. 
He could almost smell his quarry.  He certainly sensed him. 
It would not be long now
.

Shortly after
Yarik hastened his pace, the groove he was descending took a jagged turn, exposing the valley below.  It was a long narrow valley, no doubt carved in eras past by a raging river.  Only a meandering stream remained.  Yarik could just make out its frozen silvery face through the dusting of windblown snow.  He could also make out something else, bobbing along a willowy thicket parallel to the bank.  It was Alex.

The sight of the American brought a Mona Lisa smile to Yarik’s lips; he was glad to catch Alex
before the wilderness did, but sorry that the hunt was ending.  Of course, he would still have the interrogation…

Alex was about half a kilometer ahead
moving through a thicket.  He did not seem to be making much progress.  Could it be that his foot was stuck in a hunter’s snare?  Or was it just deep snow slowing him down?  Actually, from this distance Yarik couldn’t even be certain that it was Alex, but who else could it be?

Yarik felt the adrenaline kick in and
further increased the speed of his rhythmic downward-bounding strides without taking his eye off the mark. 
Hrunk…hrunk…hrunk…
his footfalls crunched the snow. 
Scratch…scratch…scratch
, his trigger finger began to itch.

An arctic hare
scurried from the side of the path a few meters ahead, the first Yarik had seen.  It had been nibbling on—something.  Instinct flashed a warning.  Yarik thudded to a stop on both feet, sending a spray of snow surging forward like a breaking skier. 

He drew his Stetchkin pistol and crouched at the spot where the
hare had been.  Then Yarik brushed aside the powdery snow with his left hand.  He found a piece of taught rope.  It was a length of white parachute cord.  Alex had strung it out across the crevice and then concealed it with snow.

Yarik directed his full attention to the ground at his feet.  He brushed aside more snow and found another trip-cord an arm’s length further down, and then another.  The third was followed by a series of concealed stakes, which pointed viciously upwards beneath loose white powder.  Alex had lured him into a deadly trap.  If it had not been for the
hare chewing the rope, he would have uncovered those stakes with his chest, rather than his hand.  A nesting rodent had saved his life.  Yarik would have to rethink his hunting habits.

This, however,
was no time to dwell on might-have-beens.  The hunt was about to end.  Alex had paid for the trap with his lead and it had failed.  He was just a couple hundred meters in front now, and struggling.

Yarik felt like whistling
as he resumed the chase, but he could not afford the noise.  He still had to take the American unharmed.  As he came to the top of the last small hill before the stream, Yarik realized that Alex was waving and bobbing, rather than struggling and receding.  Yarik had been chasing a scarecrow.

A minute later, s
till shocked by the thoroughness with which Alex had duped him, Yarik reached the object that had made him reckless.  It was the liner of a coat, strung up to bob in the wind between the branches of two birch trees. 
Cunning bastard
.

This was a disappointment, but not a defeat.  Alex had lost time making the trap and its accompanying decoy, and now a wiser Yarik had
discovered them.

He considered abandoning his measured pursuit
to sprint after Alex.  The American could not be that far ahead.  Once he caught sight of him, it would all be over.  It was a tempting prospect, but instinct flashed caution.  Yarik had to consider his prey.  Alex was proving to be something of a hunter himself.  It would not be out of character for him to anticipate that reaction and plant a second trap to take advantage of his rage.  Hell, it was even starting to seem conceivable that Alex might be planning to attack him.  No, Yarik decided, he would not change his tactics.  He was a bulldog, not a greyhound. 
The bastard even has me second-guessing myself
.

For hour after hour Yarik kept on, swift and steady, knowing that Alex was just beyond his visual reach but not
managing to close the gap.  Ferris was the best he had chased, ever.  Accepting that, Yarik recovered from his near-fatal stupidity and found sport in the chase once again.

There were times when he went for extended periods without a single sign that he was on the right t
rail.  Those were intriguing tests if not agonizing trials, but a scuffmark or a fractured twig inevitably vindicated his instincts.  It seemed that Alex was getting better at concealing his tracks as time progressed.  That was unusual.  Usually people got worse over time as they fatigued and the lack of nourishment diminished their power of concentration.

Yarik
crested the fourth rise of the day around noon.  On three prior occasions he had sprinted the last hundred meters to the top in anticipation, and all three times he had met with disappointment.  Would this one be any different?

He reached the top and found the woods were thicker than before.  He couldn’t tell if his quarry was now within visual range, so h
e climbed a tree to survey the ground ahead.  Half way up he found the spot where another climber had torn away a piece of bark within the hour. 
They were thinking alike now
.  He would remember that.

Yarik finished the ascent and
quickly scanned the countryside ahead, searching for movement rather than color.  Nothing in the foreground attracted his trained eyes, but he saw smoke coming over the top of the next rise.  He drew a mental azimuth to the point and picked out a few landmarks along the way.

Yarik knew that Alex might not be the source of the smoke, but he was confident that the American would at least head in that direction.  Smoke meant food
.  He hoped Alex liked his meat well done.

It took
twenty minutes at top speed to get to the crest of the next ridge.  The smoke was still visible—not a good sign—making it possible for Yarik to get an azimuth from the ground and saving him the time and energy required to climb a tree.  Five minutes later, he emerged from the woods onto the valley floor at the edge of a frozen lake.

It was a beautiful location, a pristine lake surrounded on three sides by foothills.  This was just the type of place Yarik would eventually choose to retire.  There were lots of fish and game, but no people.  Somebody else apparently had the same idea, as there was a large cabin on the other side of the lake, situated at the edge of a pebbly shore.  The smoke that brought him here was billowing from one of the cabin’s two chimneys.

If I were in Alex’s place, Yarik thought, I would sneak up on the cabin and dispatch the occupant.  Then I would sit there sated and warm behind a curtain with one of the dead hermit’s rifles, watching for me to walk out of the clearing.

Yarik had been shot nine times
in the course of his career.  None of them had been bad.  In fact, aside from the inconvenience he had not minded them much at all.  There was something romantic about the whole experience.  But here, Yarik could not allow that to happen.  The stakes were too high.

He
surveyed the surrounding area thoroughly before beginning a slow circle around the house.  He did not see any movement through the back windows, and he could not get a good look in through the front windows without exposing himself.  Nor could he wait around watching for movement.  If Alex was not there, he was gaining time.  It was maddening.

Yarik
found a large oak that had a view of the front door and concealed himself behind the trunk.  He was about eighty meters out and set the Stetchkin’s sight accordingly.  Keeping the tree trunk between himself and the cabin, he removed his coat and draped it over the forked end of a fallen branch.  Then he pushed it up to shoulder height and swayed it back and forth so the movement would catch attention—
peek-a-boo for professionals
—before propping it up there with a full shoulder and arm exposed.  He listened, and he waited.  Nothing.  If Alex was watching, he was not taking the bait.  It was time to up the ante.

Yarik stood up and put his coat back on.  Still concealed by the tree trunk, he fired a single shot through the upstairs window where he guessed Alex would be perched, and then switched the Stetchkin back to fully automatic.  Ten seconds later he heard the front door open.  Yarik stole a quick peek at the front porch.  Alex had come out, and he was holding a rifle.  So much for
Vasily’s wish to keep him alive and unblemished.  Now that Alex had a rifle, Yarik would have to aim for the legs and then unload the clip on full auto.  It would take less than two seconds for the Stetchkin to launch the nineteen remaining rounds.

Okay, here we go.  Yarik spun around, brought his clenched fists to rest on
a supporting branch, took quick but careful aim, and … it wasn’t Alex.  The man was Alex’s height, and he was wearing the same military camouflage jacket as Alex, but the nose was too big and the face was too old.

Yarik dropped his pistol to his side and walked out of the woods.

“Good afternoon,” Yarik said.

“Afternoon…?”

“Are you alone?”  Yarik asked, closing in quickly.

“Who’s askin’?”  The man still had his rifle at port arms, but he looked ready to draw and Yarik knew that anyone living out here would certainly
be an expert with his weapon.

“General Yarik, KGB.  I am chasing an escaped prisoner.  Have you seen anybody lately?”

“Didn’t see him, but he was here not more than twenty minutes ago.”  The hermit had the slow-speak of country folk.

“Damn.  How do you know he was here?”

“I put some fish out to smoke over the fireplace and then went out to check my traps.  When I got back them fish was gone.”

“Did he take anything else?”

“That’s what I was checking when I heard the shot.  I thought you were him but I don’t smell the fish on you so I know it wasn’t.”

Yarik ignored the implied insult.  “You mind if I get some food while you finish looking?”

The man did not look pleased with the request, which was understandable since Alex had just robbed him of his catch, but he nodded and motioned toward the door.

It was a nice place.  The main room was reminiscent of a hunting lodge, full of leather, fur and hardwood furnishings. 
Yes
, Yarik thought,
he had a lot in common with this guy
.  The man brought Yarik a pitcher of water, half a spit-roasted hare and some strips of dried venison.  Then he went back to his investigation.  Yarik tucked into the food like, well, like a man who had not eaten for twenty-four hours.  The food was gone a couple of minutes later when his host returned.

“As best as I can tell he took a blanket, a canteen, a reel of fishing line and some hooks—don’t know how he plans to use those without an ice-drill, he didn’t get one of those—a hand-axe, some old snow shoes, and a couple cigarette lighters.”

“No guns missing?”

“Nope.  I keep those locked up and he didn’t get in.  I got the impression he was in a mighty hurry, which was a smart thing ‘cause I’d a shot him if I’d a caught him.”

“How close is the nearest town?”

“Depends on what you mean by town.”

“The nearest telephone?”

“Over in Krasnoe, which is about twenty kilometers southeast of here.”

“How far are we from Novosibirsk?”

“A hundred and seventy kilometers.”

“Also southeast, right?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t happen to have a two-way radio, do you?”

“Nope.”

“What would you do if there was an emergency?”

“I’d use Vanya’s two-way.  He lives about three kilometers to the north.”

“I didn’t see a road or any kind of vehicle outside.  How would you get there?  How do you get here?”

The double question seemed to have confused the hermit.  “An old service buddy flies me in and out on his sea-plane.  I spend January through April with my daughter in Novosibirsk.  The rest of the time I’m here.”

Yarik borrowed a pen and paper and wrote a quick note to the regional KGB chief.  In it, he ordered a roadblock to be set up on the highway from Krasnoe to Novosibirsk, and any other roads along that vector.  He included a description of the American Alexander Ferris posing as the Russian Alexander Potapov.  He wanted to send a message to Vasily as well, letting him know that somebody was on to the Knyaz and giving him Alex’s Peitho code as a precautionary measure, but there was no way to do that discretely so it was out of the question.  To this day, the Knyaz’s power depended on keeping the relationship between its members secret.

“Okay, listen.  I have got to continue chasing after the prisoner, so I am heading toward Krasnoe.  You have another task to perform for your country.  Read through this and make sure you understand it.”

The man took his time reading the note while Yarik paced.  At last he looked up.

“You are to take this to Vanya’s and call it in on this frequency.”  He circled the number.  “Use my name and they will be most cooperative.”

“But there’s a storm coming in.  It’s going to get down to fifty below, colder in the wind.”

“Well then you better get moving.  Take along a bottle and plan to spend the night.  And lest you think of turning back before you make that call, you remember that I know where you live.”  The man paled.  Yarik put on a mean look to reinforce it.  “Now, I need a pair of snowshoes, a sleeping bag, and some more of that venison.”