"L'Amour, Louis - Last_of_the_Breed14" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

Last of the Breed
Chapter 14

Evgeny Zhikarev was disturbed. He was a small man with rumpled gray hair and a thick black mustache. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that were perpetually resting near the end of his nose and seemed in acute danger of falling off. He wore this morning a gray shirt with a vest of worn velvet on which arabesques were embroidered in red, gold, and green thread.
Around the shop he wore slippers. Several times during his earlier years he had undergone torture by the Cheka, and as a result his feet were crippled. He wore shoes only when it was necessary to leave the shop. As his living quarters were in the rear alongside his storeroom, his absences were rare.
His father had been substantially well off under the Tsar, operating a highly successful fur business in what was then called St. Petersburg. The Revolution had ended all that, and having lost everything in Russia, the elder Zhikarev had fled to Siberia, where a source of his furs was still operating. There, far from the seat of power, the Zhikarevs had carried on. There was always a market for furs in Russia, as there was in Manchuria and China. The Zhikarevs, father and son, had done well, maintaining a low profile in rather shabby quarters, outwardly conforming to all the rules, but operating with a comfortable margin of profit.
It was understood that officials such as Wulff could always secure furs from him at a modest price; in Wulff's case this meant fur coats for himself, his wife, and at least two other ladies at no cost at all. Moreover, on occasion fur coats had been made for people Wulff wished to impress, and Wulff himself looked the other way as to some of Zhikarev's other dealings. He took what was given, made occasional discreet suggestions, and maintained a nice relationship with Zhikarev without saying anything at all.
Wulff promised nothing, offered nothing. His comments were few but understood. He would simply say, "Comrade Thus-and-such is looking for a fur coat. You know, something very fine. He asked if I could recommend a furrier," That was the way such matters were handled.
The shop smelled faintly of the cooking Zhikarev did in his own rooms. It also smelled of fresh leather, in which he also dealt in a modest way.
The walls of the shop and of the rooms behind it were thick. It was never actually warm however, as Zhikarev kept the temperature down because of the furs on display. Usually, there were stacks of hides and furs about, single furs or in bales.
Unknown to Wulff or to anyone else, Evgeny Zhikarev maintained a private account in a Hong Kong bank, a procedure he handled as he did other things, quietly, efficiently, and with skill.
Evgeny Zhikarev thought of himself as a loyal Russian. He loved his country. He did not love some of its officials. He had survived a revolution, several purges, and a number of inquiries. These last had left him somewhat crippled in body out not in mind.
For the past dozen years events had moved quietly along, and now he was thinking more and more of retirement. This would mean leaving Russia, but it would also mean freedom from inquiries and a time to relax and read. Somehow he never had found time to read all the books he wished, many of them books difficult to obtain in Russia.
Lately he had been thinking more and more of an apartment in Hong Kong, in Japan, or even in California. His feet had been hurting more of late, and it worried him. Was it a warning?
He went back into his shabby living quarters and put cabbage on the chopping board. He would have cabbage soup again. The smell of it was always reassuring to officials, for it had the odor of innocence.
Ever since opening the new bale of furs he had been disturbed. It was an especially fine collection, especially the blue fox and ermine. Squirrel skins were there in plenty, but those ermine and blue fox skins--
He added water and dropped cabbage into the pot, adding a few slices of carrot. As he stirred and thought, he was mulling over Wulff's visit.
The bale of furs had been there on the table, but Wulff had merely glanced at them. He had come right to the point.
"Comrade, there is an American at large. He is a Red Indian, and he must be taken. You know more hunters and trappers than anyone. Put the word out. We want him. I want him! I want him, and I want him alive. If we do not find him, there will be soldiers all over the country. There will be rest for nobody until we do find him!
"If you hear anything, see anything, suspect anything, you are to come to me at once. At once! Do you hear?"
He paused and said, more gently, "I would not want anything to happen to you. I would not want anybody asking you questions. Do you understand?
"Find him! Find him at once! Put the word out. The man is an enemy of the Soviet."
Wulff had strode out, and Zhikarev had turned to making his cabbage soup, but he was worried. Comrade Wulff rarely spoke so forcefully. He had no need of it. Everyone knew what he could and would do, if necessary.
Zhikarev brushed a lock of gray hair away from his brow. He peered at the soup. He liked it a little thicker. He hesitated, hearing the outer door open. Turning, he looked toward the front of the shop.
A young woman was standing there, a very attractive young woman, but one of those sharp ones. He knew their kind. They were quick, crisp, and demanding and almost impossible to please. He wiped his hands on a cloth, put it down, and went toward the front of the shop.
She was looking at the furs.
He ran his fingers through the gray hair. She had turned to look at him. He hoped he had spilled nothing on his vest.
Looking past her out the window, he could see a car standing in the street; a big, strong-looking man stood beside it. That could be trouble.
"I am Comrade Lebedev. You are Evgeny Zhikarev?"
"I am."
"You have heard of the escaped prisoner? Of the American?"
He shrugged. "There has been talk, but I meet so few people. You see, I am busy with the furs--"
"I know. You do business with trappers?"
He shrugged again, letting his eyes blink vaguely. "If they have furs to sell. Often it is with someone who has been out in the taiga who buys furs. I don't see many men who trap. They do not come to the towns."
"I work with Colonel Zamatev. We are looking for the American." She gestured toward the just-opened bale. "Have you just bought these?"
"Yes, They come from far away."
"Who sold them to you?"
A direct question and hard to evade. He shrugged again. "A trapper, I--"
"I want his name. His location." Her eyes were cold. "I want it now!"
Zhikarev blinked. "He is only an occasional trapper. I do business with so many. This one," he scowled, shaking his head, "I believe it was Comrade Borowsky."
"Tell me about him."
Zhikarev was wary. This was a very bright young woman, and if Colonel Zamatev was involved--
"One knows so little. No doubt Comrade Wulff has a dossier on him. There is gossip, of course. One hears he was a soldier who fought bravely against the Germans, but his father was a Jew, and he wished to leave the country. He was sent out here and his family with him. Borowsky was not wanted anywhere, so took to trapping. I do not know if this is true."
"Does he come often?"
"Once, twice a year."
"Where does he live?"
Zhikarev shrugged. "They do not talk, these trappers. They are afraid others will come where they are. I believe," he lied, "he traps branches of the Sinyaya, north of here. I suspect," he added, "he sells most of his furs in Yakutsk."
"Open the bale."
Evgeny Zhikarev picked up a knife and cut the strings, partly opening the bale. Did she know anything about furs? He spread the furs and stepped back from the table. His heart was pounding heavily.
She turned the skins rapidly, glancing at this one and that. He watched her, and fear mounted. She did know something. She did. He could see it.