Trans-Siberian Express (42 page)

“And none too soon,” Alex responded, playing along. It was no good voicing his suspicions, he thought, not now. Zeldovich was obviously ebullient, almost playful.

“The good doctor will be on his way to America. And the lovely Mrs. Valentinov back to Irkutsk and the children. For some it is a happy ending, eh, Kuznetsov?” Alex tried to ignore him, sensing what was coming. “As for romance, of course, it’s a genuine tragedy.”

Zeldovich was enjoying himself. Anna Petrovna remained silent.

“But think of the lives of all those Chinks we have saved. Not to mention our own hardy Siberians.” He looked out of the window. “Not that they have much brains living out here in this hellhole.”

There was no need for pretense now. Zeldovich’s maliciousness was quite apparent and Alex wondered how Anna Petrovna felt now about her ally. Between her and Alex there was a great distance. But in spite of everything, she had opened his heart to a new way of seeing, of feeling. He loved her. Nothing could change that, no matter what happened next.

Alex snapped shut the clasp of his suitcase and swung the bag of medical journals to the floor of the compartment. Along the tracks, ramshackle houses were coming into view. A heavyset signalwoman stood stiffly at a crossroads waving a flag. They were moving into a city now, Khabarovsk. It was nearly midnight.

In a few hours he was to have changed trains and boarded the Ussuri Line to Nakhodka, where the ship waited to cross the Sea of Japan to Yokohama. At least that had been the original plan. He no longer expected such a simple end to the journey.

Sitting down on the bunk, he watched Anna Petrovna. The train began to slow, picking its way through the railyard. Beyond the yards, he could see rows of high-rise apartments stretching into the distance.

“Quite a town.” He sighed.

“Our largest city,” she said. “It would have been the first to go.” She pointed south. “China is just a few miles away.”

“Yes, China,” He turned from the window. “I must say I have been greatly impressed by your compassion for the Chinese.”

She looked at him and shook her head. “You still don’t understand. Poor Alex!”

“Poor all of us.”

The train ground to a halt in the Khabarovsk station. Across the eastbound tracks, he saw crowds of passengers huddled in their coats, peering down the line for the westbound train to appear.

“I suppose you’ll be happy to get home,” he said gently. His anger was gone now and all he could think of was her impending departure. I have lost her, he thought. It is all over. He wondered if she really believed that she was heading home.

Zeldovich jumped up and slid open the door. They followed. The passageway was empty except for little Vladimir who stood watching them from a distance. Through the windows Alex could see the non-Russian passengers, their luggage hauled by burly women, walking into the large new station.

Tania made her way into their compartment and carried out their luggage. Alex stood for a second on the top metal step watching the confusion—passengers crowding onto the hard-class carriages, Russian naval officers lining up outside the soft class, waiting for the signal to move in.

Alex stepped down to the platform and gave his hand to Anna Petrovna. She took it and he felt an electricity from the cool touch of her flesh. Squeezing her hand, he imagined he felt her return the pressure, but when he sought her eyes she turned away.

Zeldovich hovered about them as Tania carried the luggage to the platform. His good spirits had faded and he seemed nervous, checking his watch, looking around the station.

“They make it damned inconvenient for foreigners,” a voice said. Turning, Alex saw the scowling face of the Australian. “They and their bloody naval base. Just because of that we’ve got to kill a few hours, waiting to pass inspection. It’s a bloody business.”

“What did he say?” Zeldovich demanded.

“He said you’re all a bunch of paranoids,” Alex said, deliberately exaggerating.

“Tell him to move on,” Zeldovich ordered. It seemed an overreaction.

Through the open door of the station Alex could see Miss Peterson and her new American friends taken in tow by a uniformed Intourist guide whose volubility seemed to have subdued even the irrepressible Miss Peterson.

The Australian, apparently unaware of Zeldovich’s irritation, continued to complain.

“They don’t even have a goddamned bar in this place,” he said, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath.

Zeldovich bent over and whispered in Alex’s ear.

“You better get rid of him before I have him arrested,” he said.

Alex looked him full in the face for a moment. Zeldovich was not dissembling. His meanness was right on the surface.

Alex gripped the Australian’s upper arm, hoping that would underline his urgency.

“He wants you to move on. He is KGB and has threatened to have you arrested.”

“Tell him to shove a bloody dildo up his bloody ass,” the Australian said, looking fiercely at Zeldovich, who scowled back.

“Please,” Alex said. “I can assure you he means business.”

The directness, perhaps the tone, of Alex’s warning seemed to sober the man. He swallowed hard, and the bombast which had sustained him through the journey seemed to forsake him.

“Thanks,” he said, then disappeared quickly into the station house.

“We are still in isolation,” Alex said in English to Anna Petrovna. She hesitated, glanced at Zeldovich, and said nothing. But Zeldovich, sensitive to the strange language, reacted as if they had been conspiring in whispers.

“Speak Russian, speak Russian! I warn you, Kuznetsov—”

Alex would have tried to explain, but his attention was attracted by the arrival of two columns of Russian troops. They marched toward the baggage carriage, the crowd parting before them, and ceremoniously arranged themselves as a few of their number peeled off from the formation and climbed aboard. The crowd at the station seemed to freeze and a silence fell as they saw the object of the exercise. The soldiers reappeared carrying a wooden casket between them, draped with the Soviet flag. At the edge of the baggage car, they handed it down to waiting hands, as two photographers, one military and one civilian, popped flashes at the event. A number of Russians removed their hats and a few older women crossed themselves.

On the platform, soldiers lifted the casket to their shoulders and stood stiffly between the two columns. From somewhere beyond Alex’s line of vision a drumbeat moved down the platform, away from Alex and Anna Petrovna. The photographers followed, lights flashing as they recorded the event.

At the far end of the platform, the procession paused in front of a tall bulky man who drew himself up in a stiff, formal salute. Photographers’ flashes popped repeatedly. The drumbeat began to fade as the procession moved out of earshot and Bulgakov disappeared into the darkness at the edge of the station.

“Who is it?” Alex asked, as the crowd began to move again and activity at the station returned to normal.

Zeldovich ignored him, a faint smile playing around his lips.

“Who is in the coffin?” Alex persisted.

“A great military hero,” Zeldovich said, his eye roaming over the crowd.

A young soldier moved toward them. Zeldovich waved him forward and the young soldier came running.

“Comrade Zeldovich?”

Zeldovich nodded. “You have the car?”

“Yes, sir. I have been instructed to take you to the airport.”

He lifted the luggage, while Alex retained his bookbag and Anna Petrovna her small suitcase. They followed the young soldier through the thinning crowds. Behind them, the train began to move. Alex could see the young attendant watching them. He waved good-bye and felt an odd pang of sadness. The attendant waved back.

The train moved slowly past them. The restaurant car was dark, but the lights still blazed in the hard class. Alex caught a passing glimpse of the crowd still huddled around the compartment where the marathon chess game was still in progress.

“We must hurry,” Zeldovich said, tapping his shoulder. “The plane is waiting.”

A car waited at the side of the station, its motor running. The young soldier stowed the bags in the trunk, shutting it with a loud metallic slap. He opened the car door and stood at attention, waiting for them to get in.

Anna Petrovna started to move, but Zeldovich held her back.

“The doctor first,” he said. Alex hesitated, shrugged and with a glance at Anna Petrovna’s puzzled face, crouched and moved into the car.

“We will be back in a moment,” he heard Zeldovich say and before he could respond, the door was slammed shut behind him, and the soldier had jumped into the front seat, his gloved hands resting on the wheel. Alex watched as Zeldovich and Anna Petrovna moved back into the shadows, Zeldovich’s hand gripping her upper arm.

Alex leaned back in the soft warmth of the large car. Too much had happened. He had reached the outer limits of fatigue, and felt shaky and uncertain. He felt the eyes of the young soldier watching him in the rearview mirror. He was caught in a maze beyond his understanding. The strange procession, the clicking cameras, the beating drum, bubbled in his brain.

“Who was in the coffin?” he asked himself aloud.

“Sir?”

“The funeral,” he said. “In the station.”

“General Grivetsky,” the young soldier said. “The old man himself came down.”

“Grivetsky?”

“He was one of our most brilliant military leaders—” the soldier began cheerfully. Then he suddenly jumped out of the car again, and opened the rear door. Anna Petrovna got in next to Alex. He felt the warmth of her body, her closeness somehow reassuring, but when he looked at her face, it seemed drained and bloodless. And she was shivering. Something had happened.

Zeldovich sat heavily on the seat beside her. The door was slammed shut and the young soldier leaped into the front seat and gunned the motor.

The streets were empty and the car raced past the factories, houses, and high-rise apartments of Khabarovsk. The homes and apartments were dark, but the factories were lit by giant floodlights and they seemed to be in full operation. Great clouds of smoke leaped from their huge chimneys.

Then the young soldier maneuvered the car through a series of turns and shot out into what appeared to be an open road. Houses grew sparser as the car moved swiftly into the darkness. Soon they were moving along a highway. “To Airport,” a sign read in Russian.

“It was supposed to be Grivetsky,” Alex said suddenly in English.

He felt Anna Petrovna stir beside him, imagining that her leg had moved closer to his. Zeldovich said nothing. He sat stiffly watching with concentration through the front window.

“They are passing it off as Grivetsky,” Alex said again in English.

Zeldovich stirred. “You will speak Russian,” he snapped.

“It is probably the body of the woman who died. Or a bunch of stones,” Alex persisted in English.

Anna Petrovna’s hand, which had been lying in her lap, suddenly covered his. His heart began to beat wildly.

“What is happening?” he asked in English.

“Tell him to please speak Russian,” Zeldovich ordered.

“What is it, Anna Petrovna?” Alex said, again in English.

The highway was running parallel to a river. Zeldovich squinted into the darkness ahead.

“Here,” he said suddenly, tapping the soldier on the shoulder. He had removed his revolver from his belt and was holding it in his other hand. “Stop here.”

The soldier looked back curiously for a moment, then slowed the car, running it slowly to the shoulder of the road. Below they could hear the rush of the river and the creak of the breaking ice floes.

“What is it?” the young soldier asked. “The airport is up ahead.” He gestured at the lights in the distance. “There—” he began, but before he could continue Zeldovich swung the butt of the revolver in an arc and brought it down on the back of the young man’s head. The crushing force of the blow thrust the boy forward against the wheel, and the horn blew sharply. Then the soldier slipped sideways and fell, lifeless, onto the front seat.

“You knew,” Alex said, turning to Anna Petrovna.

Zeldovich edge his way out of the car.

“Out,” he said sharply. Anna Petrovna let go of Alex’s hand and slid sideways on the seat. Alex reached over and grabbed the boy’s wrist, searching for the pulse. He could not find it.

“You’ve killed him,” he said.

Alex had no firsthand knowledge of violence, so he was oddly unafraid of Zeldovich’s revolver. It was Anna Petrovna who concerned him most and he watched her shivering in the darkness, unable to keep her teeth from chattering as Zeldovich stood impatiently at the side of the road urging him out of the car.

“True to form, eh, Zeldovich?” Alex said. “Just a petty little murderer, after all.”

Zeldovich glanced at the river rushing below them.

“We are going swimming in Siberia,” Alex said in Russian, surprised at his own fearlessness. Then he said in English, “Did you believe it could end any other way?”

“It is not necessary,” Anna Petrovna said suddenly. She took a step forward, confronting Zeldovich, who stepped backward quickly to avoid too close a proximity. “It is pointless now. Dimitrov is finished. You told us that yourself.” She was pleading, speaking with great effort.

“There is no choice.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What harm could he do now? It is all over.”

“It is not my choice.”

“Not yours?”

“The little bastard is trading my life for his,” Alex said. It suddenly made sense.

“I don’t understand,” she said again.

“I know too much. They are afraid I will spill the beans back home. Once I tell what I know, the Americans will not trust the Russians anymore.”

“Is that true?”

“I am a servant of the State,” Zeldovich said.

“Please, Comrade,” Anna Petrovna said haltingly. “There is no need.”

“He is cold-blooded. He is interested only in his own skin. He was never interested in anything else.”

Zeldovich stood facing them, the barrel of the revolver dark and threatening.

“Come here,” he ordered, addressing Alex.