Trans-Siberian Express (27 page)

Zeldovich bent down and picked up the overturned bottle.

“You look like you’ve been enjoying your work, Comrade,” Zeldovich said. Bending down had made him dizzy again.

Her eyes flashed angrily. “If you are looking for a definitive answer to the central question, forget it. There is none.”

She stood stiffly in the center of the compartment, waiting for a reaction. Zeldovich said nothing.

“There is only a statistical prognosis,” she continued. “He could live anywhere from five minutes to five years. There is no way of knowing.”

“You believe this?”

“Implicitly. I am certain the doctor is telling the truth.”

“Certainty, Comrade Valentinov, is quite concrete. There is not the slightest doubt in your mind?”

“Not the slightest.”

Zeldovich sensed her stubbornness, her determination to be believed. But he was unwilling to accept her answer. It was not his way to live with uncertainty. The prospect of five years in limbo was very distressing.

“You realize what this could mean?” He put the question loudly, so Grivetsky would be sure to hear him.

The woman frowned, her eyes revealing her confusion.

“It is unthinkable.” Anna Petrovna sighed. “Inconceivable.”

“I assure you it is quite a real possibility.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Anna Petrovna lowered her voice as if her words were too distasteful for her own ears to hear. “No one could have so little respect for humanity. That is insanity. Unless you are telling me that Dimitrov is insane. And if he is insane, he should be removed.”

“You’ve become sentimental over the past few days,” Zeldovich said with contempt. He distrusted this philosophical softness.

“I assure you—”

“Don’t assure,” he interrupted. “The information you have provided is totally inadequate. I must have more definitive parameters, something more positive.”

“But there isn’t anything more.”

“There must be.”

“Would you rather I lied?”

He could wish that, yes, he thought. At least then he could calculate a course.

“If this is not stopped in time, it will be on your head.” The remark seemed absurd, plumbed from the depths of his youth. But he could tell by the woman’s expression that she felt its impact. “We can take stronger measures.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are other ways to elicit information.”

“I absolutely forbid it.”

“
You
forbid it.”

“You can’t extract information that doesn’t exist,” she argued desperately.

Her coolness had disintegrated. I am hitting home, Zeldovich thought maliciously.

“At least we would be sure.”

“You would torture him?”

“It is an option.”

“It would be useless.” She paused. “I tell you there is no information beyond what I have told you.” Panic was gripping her now.

“Who can be sure?”

“I am.”

The woman was glaring at him. He rubbed the bristles of his beard. His threats were intimidating enough to cause the woman anguish, but he knew that he was helpless. She was telling the truth.

“People must be told,” she said, after a pause, her voice stronger now. “Surely if we tell people, they will put a stop to it.”

“Tell who?”

“Others.” She looked about the compartment like a trapped animal. “The Americans. The Chinese.”

“Then they will move first.”

“Our own people then. Surely there is someone who will see the madness of it.”

“Who?”

“You are taunting me.” She paused again, reaching for Zeldovich’s arm. “You are KGB. You have people everywhere.”

“And what shall we tell them?”

The train jounced over a particularly rough spot on the track. The snow beat against the glass.

“There is one course of action we have not yet considered,” she said hesitantly. Zeldovich shrugged. What did it matter? he thought, feeling for the first time his own exhaustion.

“We could tell him the truth.”

“The truth?”

“I’ll tell him everything. Tell him what you have told me. Tell him why I am here.” The train bounced again, and she reached out to the upper bunk for support. “It will be a blow to him,” she whispered. “But he is a good man. He will understand. He will tell the American President—”

It is out of control, Zeldovich thought, remembering Grivetsky’s presence. He looked toward the window again, powerless to shut off the words.

“This has gone far enough,” Grivetsky said. Zeldovich turned, saw Anna Petrovna’s face pale under the makeup, the eyes wide with fear above the high cheekbones. She stared at Grivetsky’s imposing figure, the gun visible in his belt. She turned finally to Zeldovich, her eyes pleading for some explanation.

“This is General Grivetsky.” What else was there to say?

“He has been listening?” she asked, more as a reflex than out of any recognition of what that would mean.

“It is all right,” Zeldovich said, surprised at his own gentleness. “He is aware of the situation.”

“Whatever happens to Dimitrov,” Grivetsky said, addressing himself to Zeldovich, “no one must know of my mission outside the Soviet Union.” He was every inch the military man now, secure in his decisiveness. “It is quite obvious that such knowledge can never leave this room.”

Zeldovich watched the general’s fingers as they touched the gun in his belt.

“I don’t understand,” Anna Petrovna said. “Does he know?”

“Know?” Zeldovich stalled the answer, not taking his eyes from Grivetsky.

“About what is intended. What Dimitrov is planning.”

It was, of course, too late to retrieve his credibility with Grivetsky. Anna Petrovna turned to the general.

“He is planning to launch a nuclear attack on the Chinese,” she said, her voice quavering. “Zeldovich said he has gone mad. You must help us.”

He watched Grivetsky’s finger move closer to the trigger of the gun. All else seemed trivial.

“I must reach Dimitrov,” he heard Grivetsky say, seeing the gun barrel glint as the general drew it out of his belt. Anna Petrovna stopped talking. She turned pale and stepped backward, suddenly afraid. Zeldovich felt the paralysis of hesitation. Then he saw the question of his own survival written in the deep lines of Grivetsky’s drawn brows. His eyes searched the compartment, falling on the knife that he had used to slice sausages. At the same time he saw Anna Petrovna jump backward, and her shoulder hit a sharp corner of the bunk, making her cry out in surprise. As Grivetsky glanced her way, Zeldovich scooped up the knife and plunged forward. The knife moved in an arc, upward, catching the general in the neck. Zeldovich felt the blade falter, blocked briefly by the sinew; then it moved forward, cutting deeply. The general dropped his gun to the carpet, clutching the spot where the knife had entered. A jet of arterial blood spurted from the wound across the length of the compartment.

Anna Petrovna felt she was watching a film in slow motion as the general’s body sank, the knees buckling, the eyes rolling backward in their sockets, a gasping sound gurgling in his throat. Then the general was on his knees, the blood running in rivulets between his fingers, over the back of his hand, down his sleeve, onto the carpet of the compartment.

Zeldovich watched, fascinated by the sight of someone else expiring. He was conscious of nothing except Grivetsky’s fight for breath as his life slowly ebbed. Then suddenly his body crumpled, and he lay dead along the length of the compartment.

It was only then that Zeldovich looked at Anna Petrovna, frozen against the compartment door. He felt in command of himself again, as if Grivetsky’s death had somehow given his own life a sense of renewed purpose.

“It had to be,” he said, looking down at the body. “He was the instrument.”

“Instrument?”

“It was he whom Dimitrov had sent to take over the Red Banner Armies in Chita. It was he who was to carry out Dimitrov’s plan for nuclear attack.”

He heard her sigh.

“It was horrible,” she said.

“Compound it by millions and you will get a sense of what they were up to.” His head had cleared, his sense of cunning returned. She was believing him and he was discovering how close he had come to the truth.

“Say nothing,” he said. “We have bought only time. Others will come.”

“How much time?”

His answer came to him in a flash of insight.

“That depends on what you learn from Dr. Cousins.”

She looked at him for a moment, her lips tightening, as she turned and reached for the bolt of the compartment door.

“Say nothing,” he repeated. “I will take care of this.”

He was already contemplating ways to get rid of Anna Petrovna. He held her at the half-opened door.

“And you cannot get off at Irkutsk,” he said.

She watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. Then she turned and let herself quickly out of the door.

TANIA
lay on her bunk, imagining the moment when she would find herself in General Grivetsky’s arms. She had proved herself worthy of the general’s attention, she thought defiantly. By violating the rules she had risked her career, her medals for outstanding achievement, her future security, everything she held dear, for love of the general.

Before she lay down on the bunk, she had scrubbed herself until she was thoroughly cleansed and sweet-smelling. She laid a freshly starched uniform across the covers of her bunk, then lay down to wait for the right moment.

What she was contemplating, of course, was another violation. Cohabiting with the passengers was a grievous infringement of the rules and she wanted, above all, to keep the secret from Katrina Ivanov. She had enough on Katrina Ivanov on the matter of the Jewish couple to have her removed from the Railway Workers, but it was best to trust no one. The old woman had accepted a second bribe from the Jew, this time promising to help him carry out the body at Irkutsk and put it in the baggage car, which was like an icebox.

The sooner the better, Tania thought. If the body began to stink and was discovered by an inspector, it would only create more problems for her.

When she thought of the key she had given the general, she admitted to some uneasiness, but she was sure the general would confront the KGB men and soon put matters straight. A general had more power than a KGB man anyway, she thought, remembering the pleasure she had taken in feeling the material of his uniform, caressing the insignia.

The train began to slow and she hopped out of bed. Quickly she took off her robe and put on her clean starched uniform, buttoning it with nervous fingers. Then she stepped into a half slip, giggling as she took her cotton panties and, instead of putting them on, neatly folded them in the pocket of her uniform. She felt wicked, a trifle silly, as she stood poised against the compartment door. Then the train jerked to a halt and she moved swiftly down the hall to the general’s compartment.

She tapped lightly and waited for his response. It was past midnight and in the sudden silence of the train she could hear faint stirrings, coughs, whispers, hints of life behind each door. She tapped louder. Perhaps he is sleeping, she thought. She tapped again, feeling her giddiness recede. Then the train began to move and she heard Katrina Ivanov’s cackling voice.

“He is gone,” she said. She had been outside to fetch pails of charcoal, and her nose was red and running snot. Melting snow dripped down the sides of her coat.

“That is ridiculous,” Tania said, panic rising. “The manifest has him ticketed to Chita.”

“Just the same, he got off three hours ago.” She thought a moment. “In Angarsk.”

“You stupid old woman,” Tania said with contempt. “I promised I would shine his shoes.”

“Well, then you can go back to sleep. He is gone.”

Tania grabbed the old woman and shook her angrily. Lumps of charcoal rattled in the pail.

“I tell you he is gone.”

“You old crone. You liar.”

“See for yourself.”

Tania hesitated. She had given Grivetsky her key, and now had none of her own. Not to be delayed, Katrina Ivanov put the two pails of charcoal on the floor and produced her own master key. Tania unlocked the door.

“See,” the old crone said. “I cleaned it myself. The red-haired man packed his things.”

“The red-haired man?”

“The one in that compartment.”

Tania felt her anger rise as she looked about. the compartment. The bunks had been neatly arranged and all signs of the general were gone.

“I brought the baggage to the top of the stairwell. I think he got off with the red-haired man.”

“At Angarsk.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s only a tiny hamlet. In the middle of nowhere.”

The old woman shrugged.

“And you saw them get off?”

The old woman looked at the ceiling, hesitating.

“Did you see them get off?”

“No. I was too busy. They were ready to get off. What does it matter? They come and they go.”

Tania kicked the door shut in the old woman’s face and stood in the center of the compartment. He would not have left without a good-bye, she thought bitterly, swept by frustration and disappointment. Her hand smoothed the pillow he had slept on. How could he? She walked into the washroom. Surely there was something, some sign, some remembrance. On the floor under the stainless-steel sink she found a toothbrush, which she picked up tenderly, as if it were alive. She placed it in the pocket where she had thrust her panties and went back to her own compartment.

The train had started again, moving relentlessly through the heavy snow. He was gone, lost forever. Just another passenger on the way to somewhere. She sank heavily into the chair, feeling a terrible chill crawl up her bare legs, moving upward like an icy skewer. She waited deliberately, knowing that it would soon reach the heart of her, chasing the last vestiges of her warmth.

ALEX
sipped the champagne and dabbed caviar on the toast.

The snow was melting fast in the shiny bucket. The British diplomat and his Australian roommate finally disappeared, still bickering, through the restaurant-carriage door. It was a relief not to have to listen to them. The restaurant was emptying, but the red-haired man still lingered over his tea. Alex was beginning to grow concerned over Anna Petrovna’s absence.