Left alone, the clearcut areas had begun to cover themselves again, beginning with dense ground-hugging brush and then ambitious young saplings.

Which, to the deer population, had meant a jackpot of fresh, easily accessible browse; and pretty soon the deer were multiplying all over the place, to the delight of the tigers and bears and wolves that had been having a pretty thin time of it over the last couple of decades.

On the road there was enough room for Logan and Steen to walk side by side, though Yura continued to stride on ahead. Steen was quiet for a long time, and Logan had begun to hope he was going to stay that way; but then finally he spoke again:

'It was not much.'

Startled, Logan said, 'What?'

'It was not much,' Steen repeated. 'You must admit it was not much. A minute only. Not even a minute.'

Logan got it then. Christ, he thought, he's been working himself up to this for better than three miles.

He said carefully, 'Mr. Steen, you contracted with us to take you around this area and give you a chance to see and photograph wildlife. You'll recall the contract doesn't guarantee that you'll see a tiger. Only that we'll make our best effort to show you one. Which we did, and this morning you did see one.'

Steen's face had taken on a stubborn, sullen look. 'Legally you are correct,' he said. 'But still it doesn't seem right. For all I am paying you, it was not much.'

'Mr. Steen,' Logan said patiently, 'you don't seem to know how lucky you've been. Some of our clients spend as much as a week, sitting in a blind every day, before they see a tiger. Some never do.'

Steen was shaking his head. 'Look,' Logan said, 'if you think you didn't see enough this morning, if you'd like to try again, we can set you up for another try. Add it onto your original package, shouldn't cost you too much more.'

Steen stared at Logan. 'I will think about it,' he said finally. 'Perhaps. Still I don't think I should have to pay more, but perhaps. I will come to the office in the morning and let you know.'

'Fine,' Logan said. 'I'm sure we can work out something reasonable.'

Thinking: you son of a bitch. You smug rich son of a bitch with your God-damned fancy camera that someone needs to shove up your ass and your God-damned fancy watch after it. But he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and kept walking, holding it in. The customer is always right. **** A couple of hours later they came out onto a broad clear area at the top of a hill, where a short stocky man stood beside a big Mi-2 helicopter. He had a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his back.

'Logan,' he called, and raised a hand. ' Zdrast'ye. '

'Misha,' Logan said. 'Anything happening?'

'Nothing here. Just waiting for you, freezing my ass. Where is all this great warming I hear about?'

'Bullshit. Ten years ago, this time of year, you really would have been freezing your ass out here. You'd have been up to it in snow.'

'Don't mind me, I'm just bitching,' Misha said in English, and then, switching back to Russian, 'How did it go? Did he get his tiger?'

Logan nodded, watching Steen climbing aboard the helicopter. Yura was standing nearby, having a lengthy pee against a tree. 'So soon?' Misha said. ' Bozhe moi, that was quick.'

'Too quick.' Steen was inside now and Logan didn't think he could hear them but he didn't really care anymore. He told Misha what had happened. 'Don't laugh,' he added quickly, seeing Steen watching them out a cabin window. 'He's not very happy just now. Doesn't feel he got his money's worth.'

' Shto za chort? What did he expect, tigers in a chorus line singing show tunes?' He glanced around. 'What happened to the pig?'

'I had Yura kill it. Too much trouble dragging it all the way back here, and I couldn't very well leave the poor bastard tied there waiting for the wolves.'

'Too bad. We could have taken it to Katya's, got her to roast it for us. '

He unslung the Kalashnikov and handed it to Logan. 'Take charge of this thing, please, and I'll see if I can get this old Mil to carry us home one more time.' **** 'So,' Misha said, 'you think it was the same one? The big one, from last fall?'

'I think so,' Logan said, pouring himself another drink. 'Of course there's no way to know for sure, but the location's right and I can't imagine two males that big working that near to each other's territory.'

It was late evening and they were sitting at a table in Katya's place in Khabarovsk. The room was crowded and noisy and the air was dense with tobacco smoke, but they had a place back in a corner away from the worst of it. There was a liter of vodka on the table between them. Or rather there was a bottle that had once contained a liter of vodka, its contents now substantially reduced.

'In fact,' Logan went on, 'it's hard for me to imagine two males that big, period. If it's not the same one, if they're all getting that big, then I'm going to start charging more for screwing around with them.'

Misha said, 'This is good for us, you know. If we know we can find a big fine-looking cat like that, we'll get some business.'

He scowled suddenly. 'If some bastard doesn't shoot him. A skin that big would bring real money.'

'The market's just about dried up,' Logan said. 'The Chinese have too many problems of their own to have much interest in pretty furs--drought and dust storms, half the country trying to turn into Mongolia--and the rich old men who thought extract of tiger dick would help them get it up again are too busy trying to hang onto what they've got. Or get out.'

'All this is true.' Misha nodded, his eyes slightly owlish; he had had quite a few by now. 'But you know there are still those who have what it takes to get what they want. There always will be, in China or Russia or anywhere else.' He grinned crookedly. 'And a good thing for us, da?'

Logan took a drink and made a grimace of agreement. Misha was right; their most lucrative line of business depended on certain people being able to get what they wanted. Between the restrictions on aviation--Russia might be one of the few countries actually benefiting from atmospheric warming, but enough was enough--and those on travel within what was supposed to be a protected wilderness area, it was theoretically all but impossible to charter a private flight into the Sikhote-Alin country. There were, however, certain obviously necessary exceptions.

Logan said, 'Come now, Misha. You know perfectly well all our clients are fully accredited scientific persons on essential scientific missions. It says so in their papers.'

' Konyechno. I had forgotten. Ah, Russia, Russia.' Misha drained his own glass and poured himself another one. 'All those years we were poor, so we became corrupt. Now we are the richest country in the world, but the corruption remains. What is that English idiom? вForce of hobbit.в'

'Habit.'

'Oh, yes. Why do I always--'

He stopped, looking up at the man who was walking toward their table. ' Govno. Look who comes.'

Yevgeny Lavrushin, tall and skinny and beaky of nose, worked his way through the crowd, the tails of his long leather coat flapping about his denim-clad legs. He stopped beside their table and stuck out a hand toward Logan. 'Say hey,' he said. 'Logan, my man. What's happening?'

He spoke English with a curious mixed accent, more Brooklyn than Russian. He had driven a cab in New York for a dozen years before the United States, in its rising mood of xenophobia, decided to terminate nearly all green cards. Now he lived here in Khabarovsk and ran a small fleet of trucks, doing just enough legitimate hauling to cover for his real enterprises. He was reputed to have mafia connections, but probably nothing very heavy.

Logan ignored the hand. 'Yevgeny,' he said in no particular tone. 'Something on your mind?'

'What the hell,' Yevgeny said. 'You gonna ask me to sit down?'

'No,' Logan said. 'What did you want?'

Yevgeny glanced theatrically around and then leaned forward and put his hands on the table. 'Got a business proposition for you,' he said in a lowered voice. 'Serious money--'

'No,' Logan said again, and then, more sharply as Yevgeny started to speak, 'No, God damn it. Nyet. Whatever it is, we're not interested.'

'Besides,' Misha said in Russian, 'since when do your usual customers travel by air? Did they get tired of being crammed like herring into the backs of your trucks?'

Yevgeny's coat collar jerked upward on his neck. 'Christ, don't talk that shit…' He glanced around again. 'Look, it's not Chinks, okay? Well, yeah, in a way it is, but--'

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