Trans-Siberian Express (26 page)

“I’ll meet you in the restaurant car.” She lifted her head from the pillows and smiled at her reflection in the window. “I have a lot of work to do before I can be seen in public.”

He bent and kissed her forehead.

“You are the most beautiful woman in Siberia.”

She pushed him away. “What do you know of Siberia?” she said.

“Only all the lies my grandfather told me.”

“Lies?”

“It was all a figment of his imagination. As you are a figment of mine.”

With that, he reached for the blankets and yanked them down to the foot of the bunk. He marveled at the whiteness of her skin in the light, the soft, youthful curve of her belly, the thatch of pubic hair, shades darker than the hair on her head. She relaxed under his gaze and stood up.

“You’re magnificent,” he said with unabashed admiration, feeling the glorious sense of possession.

“And you’re crazy.”

She reached for her flowered dressing gown, hanging on a hook, and slid gracefully into it.

“You go,” she said again. “I’ll fix myself as quickly as humanly possible.”

He enveloped her in his arms, kissed her face, and buried his lips in her hair. She caressed the back of his neck.

“We’ll go later.”

“The restaurant will close.”

“You’re right. I’ll get the best table in the house. I’ll bribe the maitre d’.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“You Russians and your rules.” He kissed her hair again. “Fuck the rules,” he said in English.

“What?”

“It’s an English obscenity.”

“Say it again?”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” she repeated, pausing. “It is beautiful. I must remember it.”

He laughed, and started to unbolt the compartment door. “I’m off.”

“Yes, go,” she said, and pushed him firmly out into the passageway.

The restaurant car, glistening with light, was a cozy oasis in the thick blizzard. Alex took a seat at an empty table, directly behind the British diplomat and the Australian.

“Two bottles of your best champagne and double orders of caviar for starters,” he told the waitress.

“A celebration, is it?” Farmer said, his bow tie bobbing on his Adam’s apple.

“Of sorts. Are you enjoying the journey?”

“It’s driving me round the bend,” the Australian said. “Never again.”

“You should have flown,” the diplomat said. They had obviously reached the outer edge of tolerance as roommates. The red-haired man appeared at one end of the car and was watching them carefully.

“Someone said it would be exotic,” the Australian said bitterly. “They’re full of bull. This is one boring experience.”

“It’s isolating for anyone who can’t speak the language,” Farmer said, with exaggerated superiority.

“These Russkys have nothing to say anyway. They’re a morbid lot. We should have kicked their asses in when we had the chance.”

“He doesn’t think much of them,” Farmer explained to Alex.

“Can’t understand why the British keep an Embassy at Ulan Bator. It’s the middle of the end of the world,” the Australian said.

“Precisely the reason,” the diplomat said. He was getting off the next day, to transfer at Ulan-Ude. “It could very well be the place where the world ends.” He looked up quickly to see if anyone else had heard. Then he pointed to his eyes and ears. “We watch and listen. It is like being between the devil and the deep blue sea.” He took a deep breath, then leaned toward Alex. “We are trapped there, of course. They know everything. Not a word. Not a letter. Not a telephone call escapes their surveillance.” He looked at Alex to see if he understood. Alex nodded. Even if he could have brought himself to trust Farmer, this avenue was obviously closed.

“The Mongols who live out here are in the middle,” the diplomat said. “They’ve survived wars, disease, famines. They’re tough, beyond feeling. Even if the whole country becomes one big Gobi desert, they’ll be the first to dig themselves out of the ashes.”

“Descendants of Genghis Khan,” Alex observed.

“They once controlled most of the civilized world,” the British diplomat said.

“Yesterday’s dishwater,” the Australian retorted.

“He has no sense of history,” the diplomat said.

“They’re nothing more than savages.” The Australian threw his spoon into the bowl of borscht. Little red flecks spilled over the tablecloth.

“No more than we are,” the diplomat said, looking with disgust at the mess the Australian had made.

Alex listened to their chatter, losing the thread as his mind turned inward. In its way, his life in Washington had been a simplification of himself. His time with Janice and Sonia was merely a rote exercise. His only real life was lived deeply in the mind, and his work consumed him even more because of the emptiness of his other life. And now he had found Anna Petrovna, the perfect balance between the life of the mind and the heart. Just a few days ago he would hardly have understood what the heart meant. It would have been far from any familiar frame of reference. The fantasy of romantic love that blared out in popular songs, movies and books, all that sentimentality that he had detached himself from was suddenly a burning relevancy. And that it should happen in Siberia, on the Trans-Siberian Express, compounded the mysterious joy of it. In the very conception of Anna Petrovna, Alex thought, he had acted out the idea his grandfather had planted in his head so many years ago. He had come home.

The Alex Cousins who had stood in Yaroslav station only a few days before had been a different man, detached and indifferent. What had Dimitrov mattered to him, except as an extension of his work? Now Anna Petrovna had split open his mind as well as his heart and he was beginning to piece together what it all meant.

“If Dimitrov was on the verge of unleashing a holocaust, would you destroy him? Would you save him?”

For Alex, the question had created a new set of possibilities.

Suddenly the waitress plunked two plates down on the table, bringing him back to his surroundings. It was the caviar, surrounded by little piles of neatly trimmed toast. Then she returned with the two bottles of champagne, placing them on the table in a stainless-steel bucket. Instead of ice, the bucket was packed with snow.

“How practical,” Alex said.

“As you can see, we have plenty.” For the first time, the waitress smiled, showing a flash of gold tooth.

Alex slid his knife into the caviar and spread some on a square of toast. I should have let him die, he thought. Knowing what I know, how could I have possibly let him live?

ZELDOVICH
rubbed the bristles on his chin. He had not shaved in five days, nor had he changed his clothes. He had never been a fastidious man, but his mother had impressed on him the importance of changing his underwear and wiping his nose, and to this day he could not feel comfortable unless he changed his underwear daily and carried a clean handkerchief. Cooped up in this compartment on the Trans-Siberian, Zeldovich felt that he was wallowing in slime.

He closed his eyes, felt the lids burn, and listened to the sound of the moving train. He took another deep gulp from the vodka bottle. Watching the wall that separated him from Dr. Cousins and the blonde woman he imagined that he could see them, locked in an obscene embrace. All hope rested in Anna Petrovna’s hands, he told himself, convinced that what she would discover would be enough to set things straight. Moments before, Yashenko had stirred, opened the compartment door a sliver and looked into the corridor.

“He is leaving,” Yashenko had said, putting on his jacket and slipping out of the compartment with the practiced silence of a big cat in the jungle.

Zeldovich might have dozed. He could not tell. The distinction between wakefulness and sleep had become blurred. Vaguely, as if from a distance, he had heard a clicking sound, but he had neither the will nor the inclination to become alert. There was a burst of light as the door opened, and he opened his eyes to see the silhouette of a big man entering the compartment. Then it was dark again and he squinted into the blackness, hearing the sound of the man’s breathing.

The light clicked on and he blinked, unused to the brightness.

“You,” he heard the man say. The voice was vaguely familiar. Then he opened his eyes again and saw General Grivetsky, gunmetal glinting in his hand. Zeldovich reached for the vodka bottle, lifting it in a mock toast, and drank slowly.

“Well?” Grivetsky said, holding the barrel of the gun steady a few feet from Zeldovich’s face.

“You should have a drink, General. Good for long journeys.” He lifted the bottle toward Grivetsky, who struck it with his free hand. It hit the carpeted floor and spilled, rolling to a stop against the foot of the lower bunk.

“Dimitrov?” Grivetsky asked, his eyes flashing with hatred.

Zeldovich began to laugh. The tears came to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He felt the barrel of the gun against his forehead, the chill of the metal. He felt no panic. Let him shoot.

“It will make a big mess,” Zeldovich warned, laughing again, but starting to fight for concentration.

Grivetsky moved the gun away. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

“Why what?”

“Why this surveillance?”

“Surveillance?” Through the fog of alcohol, Zeldovich could not follow Grivetsky’s meaning.

“Drunken bastard,” the general hissed. Suddenly Zeldovich understood.

“You think you are being watched?”

The general shifted his weight nervously. “There is no other explanation.”

“You think that?”

Grivetsky held the gun steady, but he seemed uncertain, an uncommon posture for the general, Zeldovich thought.

“KGB troops attached to the train. KGB agents crawling all over the place. You.” Grivetsky pointed with the gun barrel. “Dimitrov’s shadow. Holed up here like a stowaway. Even the most inefficient intelligence analyst could reach only one conclusion.”

“It is not Dimitrov,” Zeldovich said, looking into the barrel of the gun. He finally realized his danger.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“What does it matter what you believe?” He felt his hands shake and the overwhelming need for a drink. He sensed Grivetsky’s anger.

“You must be calm, General,” he said. “We are actually two peas from the same pod.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That our interests are not in conflict.”

“Our interests?”

“We are both pawns in Dimitrov’s game.” He saw Grivetsky’s reaction immediately. The gun barrel was lowered slightly.

“Why do you always talk in riddles?”

“Because we are locked into a riddle.” Zeldovich now knew he had the general’s attention.

“What riddle?”

“The riddle of Dimitrov’s longevity.” Grivetsky blinked. “We both need to know just how long Dimitrov will live.”

“Is he dying?”

“We are all dying.”

“Riddles again.”

“Dimitrov may be dying faster.” Zeldovich paused. “He has leukemia. Apparently the American doctor has saved him temporarily. The question is: For how long?”

The general sat down, letting the gun rest on his lap.

“You see the effects of such an enigma on yourself.”

“What do you mean?” the general shot back. Zeldovich watched his fingers tighten on the gun, but he did not raise it.

“What effect would the death of Dimitrov have on your mission?”

The general looked around the compartment, as if he were seeking some escape hatch. Zeldovich knew he had struck home.

He had never been truly certain about Grivetsky’s role until now, trusting the clues that Dimitrov had dropped. During the thunderstorm, Dimitrov had said weakly, “That is Lenin, cursing the infamy of mortality. Vladimir Ilich, ranting up there. He is crying for the lost moments. He had only five years. The lousy cheats. I hear you, Vladimir Ilich. I will not let them take me until the work is done. They will not cheat me as they cheated you. I’ll finish it, Vladimir Ilich.” Finish what? Zeldovich had wondered. Hints of answers emerged as he watched Grivetsky.

He let the silence hang heavy as Grivetsky’s mind groped for some understanding of his predicament. Finally the general stirred.

“Then what is the point of this exercise?”

“The need for knowledge.”

“What knowledge?”

Was this supposedly brilliant general obtuse? Zeldovich wondered.

Slowly Grivetsky’s puzzled expression cleared, as he began to understand.

“The American doctor?” he asked.

“He is the one. Only he knows what we must know.”

“Of course,” Grivetsky said, taking a deep breath. “I hadn’t realized.” He pointed in the direction of the compartment occupied by the doctor and the blonde woman, and raised an eyebrow. Zeldovich shrugged.

“The method is rather primitive, but considering the options, it seems to have the least number of risks.”

The general smiled, then put his gun in the belt of his pants.

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“I might have to resort to stronger methods.”

The general thought it all over.

“And this is strictly your own operation?”

“Totally.”

“No one knows?”

“Not even my friends at the KGB who have supplied the troops.”

Grivetsky was watching him closely, searching his face. Zeldovich knew what was on his mind, the central mystery, the heart of the enigma. Let him wonder, Zeldovich thought. For the first time since the general had arrived, Zeldovich felt the strength of his position. Bulgakov could not know about Grivetsky’s mission. He filed that bit of information in the inner recesses of his mind. It might someday save him.

The tapping on the door roused them both. They looked toward it, the general standing up quickly. Zeldovich put a finger over his lips and pointed to the washroom. Grivetsky stepped inside, leaving the door open a crack. The tapping persisted, urgently. Zeldovich stood up, felt a surge of nausea, and grabbed the upper bunk for support. “Who?” he whispered.

“Comrade Valentinov.”

He opened the compartment door and Anna Petrovna moved inside quickly. Impeccably dressed, she looked about her, grimacing at the sloppiness.

“This is a pigsty,” she said, sniffing the stale air.