Archive 17 (29 page)

“I’ll explain everything,” replied Kirov. “Just let me get up first.”

The man helped Kirov out of his parachute harness. Then the two of them gathered the chute and, not knowing what else to do with it, stuffed the silk in one of the empty rain barrels.

“My name is Deryabin,” said the man as they made their way towards the station house.

“Kirov. Major Kirov. Where are the others?”

“What others?”

“Is there no one else here?”

“Let me put it this way, Comrade Major: You have just doubled the population for the entire district.”

The station house was a one-room building, with bales of hay stacked three high around the outside walls for winter insulation. The shutters had been welded closed by snow whipped up from passing trains.

The air inside the station house was rank and musty. To Kirov, it smelled like the locker room of the NKVD sports facility where he had done some of his basic training.

A bunk stood at one end, its rope mattress sagging almost to the floor. Beside the stove, which dominated the center of the room, two chairs were set out, as if the man had been expecting company. The far wall of the house was completely hidden behind a barricade of canned goods, still in their cardboard cases, with their names—peas, meat, evaporated milk—accompanied by manufacture dates more than a decade old.

The first thing Deryabin did when he entered the house was to empty his pockets onto a table beside the door. Fistfuls of what looked to Kirov like large fish scales were already heaped upon the bare wood. To these the man now added another pile. They jingled as he let them fall.

“What are those things?” asked Kirov.

“Money,” replied Deryabin.

“Doesn’t look like any currency I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because I ran it over with the train. I take all the one-kopek coins I can get my hands on, flatten them out, and the Ostyaks turn them into jewelry.”

“Ostyaks?”

“They live in the woods. Trust me, you don’t want to meet them.
They live to the west of here, over in District 5, where the prison camps are located. Once a month, the Ostyaks show up here with dried salmon or reindeer meat and I trade these coins for it.”

“Couldn’t you just use coins to pay for the stuff?”

“They prefer to trade. For them a kopek is just a kopek. But run it over with a train and you’ve got yourself a work of art. I can tell you are not from Siberia.”

“No. Moscow.”

“I almost went there once,” he said thoughtfully.

They sat down by the stove. From a battered copper kettle, Deryabin poured some tea into an even more battered aluminum cup and handed it to Kirov. “So to what do I owe the honor of your visit, Comrade Major Kirov?”

“Several men have escaped from the Borodok camp.”

“I can’t say I blame them. I’ve heard what goes on in that place.”

“The convicts are headed this way. They have a hostage with them. I must try to intercept these men before they cross the border into China. Can that train outside do anything more than roll back and forth over your wages?”

“That train,” Deryabin replied indignantly, “is the most famous engine on the whole Trans-Siberian Railroad! The Czechs used it to transport their men all the way from Ukraine to Vladivostok. Did you see the armor on her sides? She was a nightmare to the Bolsheviks.”

“But does it run?” demanded Kirov.

“It certainly does, thanks to me. Five years ago, the authorities in Vladivostok had it shunted out here to my station. They dropped it off and told me it was my responsibility. They didn’t say why. Didn’t say how long. They just dumped it and rode back to the coast. They probably thought she would just rust away to nothing, but I made sure that didn’t happen. I’ve been looking after her ever since.”

“What about those?” asked Kirov, nodding towards the gun turrets. “Are they still operational?”

“You could blast a platoon off the map with those,” replied Deryabin, “and the authorities in Vladivostok kindly left me with enough ammunition to do exactly that. As for the rest of the train, I could drive the Orlik to Moscow. And when I got there, Comrade Major”—he leveled a finger at Kirov—“I’d teach you Muscovites a thing or two!”

“And I look forward to that, Comrade Deryabin.” Kirov’s temper was beginning to fray. “But right now I need to borrow your train, and I need you, as well, to drive it.”

“You’ve got some nerve! You can’t just fall out of the sky and then start ordering me around.”

“Actually, that is exactly what I can do. Falling from the sky is an experience I have no intention of repeating, but I had to get to Nikolsk as quickly as possible—”

“If you were in such a damned rush to get to Nikolsk,” Deryabin interrupted, “why didn’t you just parachute in
there
?”

Kirov felt his stomach flip. “Are you telling me this isn’t Nikolsk?”

Deryabin led Kirov over to a map identical to the one he had seen in Moscow nailed up on the wall. Deryabin pointed to a circle, some distance to the west of Nikolsk. “Here is where we are.”

“You mean this station isn’t even on the map?”

“Yes, it is.” He tapped at the black dot.

“But you drew that in yourself!”

“I had to,” replied Deryabin. “It wasn’t there before.”

“Then where the hell is this place?” shouted Kirov.

“Welcome to Deryabinsk, Comrade Major!”

Kirov shook his head in disbelief. “You named it after yourself?”

“Why not?” Deryabin shrugged. “I had to call it something. It didn’t have a name before.”

Struggling to contain himself, Kirov returned to business. “How far is Borodok from here?”

“I don’t know exactly. It’s not on the map, either, but Nikolsk
is ten kilometers to the east, so you are that much closer than you thought when you dropped in here. The railhead leading into the Valley of Krasnagolyana is about twenty kilometers to the west. From there it can’t be far to Borodok.”

“Good!” Kirov rose to his feet. “There’s no time to waste. Let’s go!”

“Not so fast,” said Deryabin.

“There isn’t much time. We must leave now.”

Deryabin folded his arms. “Not before we have discussed my terms.”

With that, Kirov’s patience disintegrated. He grabbed Deryabin by the collar of his boiler suit and dragged him out of the house. Dumping the man in a heap in the snow, Kirov fetched out his passbook, opened it, and waved the Shadow Pass in Deryabin’s face. “These are my terms!” He rummaged in his pockets, fished out a handful of change and sprinkled it over the man. “This is your compensation! Now, you can stay here if you want, but I am taking that train.”

“You don’t know how to drive a train!” laughed Deryabin.

“You go forwards. You go backwards. How hard can it be?”

“Very hard!” replied Deryabin, realizing that Kirov was serious. “Very hard indeed! Requiring months of training! The Orlik is not just any train. It has eccentricities!”

Ignoring Deryabin’s pleas, Kirov set off towards the Orlik, whose engine chuffed patiently, as if anxious to be in motion. Reaching the locomotive, he climbed up the short metal ladder to the driver’s space. There, in the cold and oily-smelling compartment, he was faced with a bewildering array of levers, buttons, and dials showing steam pressure, oil temperature, and brake capacity. Hanging from the ceiling was a greasy chain with a wooden handle whose paint had been almost completely worn away. Grasping the handle, Kirov
pulled down hard and a deafening hoot shook the air. Now Kirov studied the controls, wondering which to touch first. He grasped one well-worn lever and turned it.

The Orlik shuddered. Steam poured out from its sides, enveloping the compartment in a sweaty fog.

Hurriedly, Kirov turned the lever back to the way it had been before. Then he took hold of another lever, but before he had a chance to pull it, Deryabin had climbed aboard.

“All right! I’ll drive the train! Just get out of the way, Muscovite!”

Two minutes later, the Orlik was on the move.

Deryabin stood at the controls, adjusting levers, his hands such a blur of precision that Kirov was reminded of an orchestra conductor. From time to time Deryabin would rest the heel of his palm upon the metal wall of the compartment, rap a knuckle on the small round window of a gauge, or brush his fingertips across the levers, as if to feel a pulse coursing beneath the steel.

Kirov stood behind him, backed up against the sooty metal wall of the compartment. Coal used to power the engine was contained in a tender attached to the back of the locomotive, and its black dust glittered in the hot, damp air. On the gridded metal floor, melting snow had formed puddles which trembled with the force of the engine, making patterns in the water like Damascus on a Cossack sword.

Deryabin stooped down and opened the door to the train’s furnace, revealing a red blaze which looked to Kirov like the inside of a miniature volcano. Then Deryabin pushed past him and opened the gate to the tender. Nuggets of coal the size of apples rolled out onto the floor of the engine compartment.

“Let me tell you something a man like you will never understand,” shouted Deryabin. “When you work on a machine and you live with that machine, you become a part of it and it becomes a part of you. And one day you realize that the machine is more than just
the number of its parts. There is life in it! Like there is life in you!” To emphasize his words, Deryabin jabbed a finger against Kirov’s chest, leaving an inky smudge against the cloth of his tunic.

Kirov swatted his hand away. “Have you not realized yet that I am a Major of the NKVD?”

“And have you not yet realized that you are in the wilderness, where a man’s rank is judged by his ability to stay alive and not by the stars on his sleeve?”

Kirov was too stunned to reply.

Deryabin snatched up a shovel and handed it to Kirov. “Make yourself useful, Comrade Major of the NKVD!”

Obediently, Kirov began shoveling coal into the furnace. Before long, he was drenched in sweat. When he leaned out of the compartment, the moisture froze into scabs of ice across his forehead.

The Orlik was gaining speed now, hammering along the tracks.

With a flick of his foot, Deryabin kicked the door of the furnace closed. He turned to Kirov. “She’s had enough!” He snatched the shovel from Kirov’s hand and tossed it into the corner.

“Is everyone out here as crazy as you?” yelled Kirov.

“Of course,” replied Deryabin serenely. “That’s how you know you’re from Siberia!”

Until now, Kirov had been completely preoccupied with getting to Pekkala before his kidnappers led him across the border into China. Now that he was finally close, the dangers that lay ahead were rapidly coming into focus. He hoped that the mere presence on the tracks of an armored train would be enough to persuade the kidnappers to abandon their hostage, but there was no way of telling what such desperate men might do. As for the convicts, he did not care if they escaped. His only purpose now was to bring Pekkala back alive. With fear prickling his skin, Kirov took out his gun and made sure it was loaded.

T
HE MOMENT
P
EKKALA OPENED
his eyes he sensed that something was wrong.

Kolchak lay asleep nearby, his beard a mass of icicles.

Pekkala nudged him with his boot.

Kolchak’s eyes flipped open. Breathing in sharply, he sat up and looked around. “What is it?”

“They’re gone,” whispered Pekkala.

Kolchak followed his gaze to where the Ostyaks had been sleeping. They had vanished, along with their sleds.

Both men clambered to their feet.

“They left some time ago.” Pekkala pointed to where snow had partially filled the indentations of their bodies.

“How is it possible we did not hear them?”

“They never make a sound except on purpose.”

“But why?” In a gesture of angry confusion, Kolchak raised his hands and let them fall again. “I promised them
gold
! Their work was practically done. What on earth could have possessed them to vanish in the middle of the night?”

Pekkala was not sure. Perhaps they had finally realized the trouble they would bring upon themselves by helping the prisoners escape. That may have been the reason, but Pekkala couldn’t help remembering the look on the Ostyak’s face when he realized he’d been talking to the man with bloody hands. Klenovkin’s words came back to him. “They fear almost nothing, those Ostyaks, but believe me they were petrified of you.”

By now, the other Comitati were awake, shrugging off the cloaks of snow which had blanketed them in the night.

“What if they have gone ahead to take all the gold for themselves?” asked Lavrenov, wringing his bony hands.

Tarnowski shook his head. “They don’t know where it is. I made sure of that.”

“And what if they have gone to turn us in and collect some kind of reward?” Lavrenov seemed on the verge of panic.

“Then they’d be signing their own death warrants!” Tarnowski replied. “Without them, we would still be in the camp! They’re gone. That’s all we need to know. What we have to do now is carry on without them. When we have found the gold, we will build our own sleds to transport it across the border. From here on, all we have to do is keep to the tracks. Where the line divides ahead, the south fork will bring us safely into China.” Tarnowski slapped him on the back. “All you have to think about is how you’ll spend the Ostyaks’ share of the gold!”