Trans-Siberian Express (45 page)

“Karakasov,” the tall man said, holding out his hand. Alex took it, feeling its strength. “Welcome to Nakhodka.” He winked. “A beastly place.” The man spoke English with a British accent, and he had obviously tried to cultivate a kind of British charm.

Perhaps it is a smoke screen, Alex thought, searching the man’s face for answers. Had Miss Peterson delivered her message? Or had they found Zeldovich’s body? Or had Dimitrov reached him at last. Or—?

“This way,” Karakosov said, taking Anna Petrovna’s elbow. She looked at him briefly and brushed some of the moisture from her face. They walked down the rain-drenched platform into the station house. The two Mongols carried their luggage.

Inside, Karakosov snapped the umbrella closed and rubbed his hands together.

“Damned chilly,” he said.

“Yes,” Alex replied. His teeth had begun to chatter. Anna Petrovna clung to his hand.

“The important thing is to get you quickly on your way,” Karakosov said, still smiling.

“On my way?” Trust no one, Dimitrov had said.

“The
Khabarovsk
is waiting. Beastly old tub. But there is no airport here. You’ll be in Yokohama tomorrow morning. Even your Embassy agrees—”

His words spun on, so casual and disarming, but Alex could think only of Mrs. Peterson’s bland schoolmarm face which masked her determination and courage. In his mind, he embraced her. But the euphoria passed in a moment. What about Anna Petrovna?

“After the train, a sea journey might be interesting.” He turned to Anna Petrovna whose face seemed paler in the dull light. “Don’t you think?

The smile on Karakosov’s face revealed the cruelty that lay beneath the Oxford patina.

“Mrs. Valentinov goes with me, of course.”

“Alex, please,” Anna Petrovna said weakly, trying to disengage her hand. The tall man’s eyes narrowed as he watched her.

“She goes or I don’t.”

“You mustn’t, Alex—”

“They don’t intimidate me,” Alex said, his anger rising.

“Really, Dr. Cousins.” Karakosov turned to Anna Petrovna. “I’m sure she would prefer to return to Irkutsk, to her children.” He paused, to emphasize his sarcasm. “And her husband.”

“I will not go without her,” Alex persisted, feeling his knees weaken.

“Listen to him,” Anna Petrovna said.

“I will not go without you,” he said again.

“You must explain to him,” Karakosov said quietly to Anna Petrovna in Russian.

“I want to speak directly with the American Ambassador,” Alex said, marveling at his ability to maintain his calm. Karakosov’s eyes darted from Anna Petrovna’s face to his own. That was reassuring. He was obviously “handle-with-care” cargo. It confirmed his bargaining position.

“She goes with me,” Alex said.

The tall man hesitated, then forced a smile.

“You will excuse me,” he said, moving to another part of the station, where two men stood in the shadows. They watched as he spoke to them with animation.

“God bless Miss Peterson,” Alex said, putting an arm around Anna Petrovna’s shoulders.

“You mustn’t, my darling,” Anna Petrovna said, her face drawn now. He started to speak, but his attention was suddenly deflected by another man who ran into the station and hurried over to where Karakosov was standing with the two men. They listened and Karakosov glanced at them briefly, then returned.

“Dimitrov is dead.” He sighed as he stood before them. He seemed genuinely saddened.

So it had all been futile, Alex thought, knowing that even Dimitrov would have been amused. Time had deceived the old fox. His old antagonist, the disease, had once again prevailed. Now there is poetic justice, Alex mused, watching Karakosov. The game had no victors. Except himself, he thought stoutly. He had found Anna Petrovna and she had helped him find something in himself.

“She goes with me,” Alex demanded.

Karakosov nodded and signaled to the two Mongols to pick up their luggage. They walked through the gloomy station. The perennial hangers-on slumbered on the wooden benches. A line of babushkas huddled at one side of the station warming their wrinkled hands on a potbellied stove. Turning backward for a moment, Alex watched the glistening train slowly move out of the station.

A group of cars waited in the rain. The Mongols loaded the baggage in the trunk of one of them while Alex and Anna Petrovna slid into the back seat. Karakosov got in the front. The two Mongols took the car behind them.

Their fingers were locked and he could feel Anna Petrovna’s tenseness. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. Karakosov, with an air of diplomatic delicacy, turned away.

“It will be fine,” Alex said.

The cars began to move through the wet deserted streets.

“A miserable, gloomy town,” Karakosov remarked.

“It’s the rain,” Alex responded.

“Yes, the rain.”

They drove in silence. It was not a long ride. In the mist ahead he could see the docks and the half-formed outlines of ships.

“It’s an old tub.” Karakosov smiled. He had regained his former lightness. “You’ll dock at Yokohama. Your people will meet you there.”

As they neared the docks, Alex again felt constrained. He would not think about the future, their future, until he had untangled them from their present circumstances. Despite what he knew, Dimitrov’s death filled him with sadness. He realized now how much he had felt for the old man. Somehow, and he could not rationalize it, the horror of what Dimitrov surely intended had still not touched him. He was grateful that he had come through. I am not a killer, he told himself. And I am not God.

“You are a good fellow, Kuznetsov,” Dimitrov had said. It was the morning of his departure. Dimitrov had turned to him with tears of sentiment in his eyes. “I thank you for the time,” he had said. Did he finally grow to hate me for my failure? Alex wondered.

The cars came to a stop along the dock. The great hull of the
Khabarovsk
towered above them. A crowd moved slowly up the gangplank. Alex recognized the Australian among them, still scowling. A group of young European students in jeans and knapsacks crowded up the gangplank behind them, oblivious to the rain which had become even heavier. They waited in the car as the last passenger straggled up the gangplank.

“My grandfather hated this part of the journey,” Alex said suddenly. “He hated to see the land slip away.” He paused, watching the rain drip down the car window. “It didn’t matter. He never really left anyway.” He sensed that he was really talking to himself. He turned toward Anna Petrovna, but she was looking stiffly ahead. Later they would talk, he assured himself, and he would make it right.

“Let’s go,” Karakosov said.

They filed out of the car, huddling under the umbrella, and started up the gangplank. A group of tough-looking Russian sailors in shiny slickers watched them. The Mongols followed with their luggage. When Alex reached the deck, he paused, then spat over the railing.

They were led to a stairwell on the deck, and descended the flight of wooden stairs. The ship smelled of oil and urine. Alex felt the ship’s roll as they followed the Mongols. One of them came to a halt before a cabin door, while the other moved ahead.

“Mrs. Valentinov’s cabin is just down the corridor,” Karakosov said.

Alex shook his head, still amused at their odd sense of morality. One of the Mongols deposited her baggage in the assigned compartment. Alex continued to hold Anna Petrovna’s hand. His cabin was larger than the train’s compartments, but more primitive. There were no carpets on the floor and the bunks looked narrow and uninviting.

Karakosov gripped Alex’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“I hope you will have a pleasant journey,” he said. He nodded toward Anna Petrovna, bowed and let himself out of the compartment. When he had gone, Alex drew Anna Petrovna to him, enveloping her in his arms.

“My darling,” he said, feeling a sob shudder through him. He had to fight to hold back his own tears. He held her quietly, feeling her breath against his cheek, the soft touch of her fingers on the back of his neck. “I’ll make it right,” he said. “Things change. We’ll send for the children.” He felt her stiffen. When she moved away, she was clear-eyed.

“We’ll talk later,” she said. “But first I would like to freshen up.”

“Then we’ll search this tub for a bar. We’ll find some champagne.”

“Wonderful, darling,” she said. The idea seemed to cheer her. He moved close, kissed her lips.

“My heart is full,” he said.

She left the cabin quickly. The sudden sound of the ship’s vibrations steadied him. Soon this abominable mysterious land would disappear, and he would look ahead to a new life. The past was dead. The present was slowly expiring. For the first time in his life he felt joy in the future, his own future. Time, he agreed with Dimitrov. Time was everything.

The rumbling of the ship’s engines grew louder. Pressing his face to the porthole, he tried to see through the mist. The windows were too filthy. Disappointed, he decided to go topside, to see for himself the last of Siberia. He did a clumsy tap dance on the wooden deck of the companionway, and a young man in jeans smiled at him as he passed. He felt good, wonderful, in fact. One of the Mongols slouched against a bulkhead. So we will continue to have company to Yokohama. To hell with them!

“Hello, moon face,” he called. The man looked at him blankly. Alex stopped in front of Anna Petrovna’s cabin and knocked lightly. He waited for a moment, looked at the Mongol, and knocked again.

“Knock, knock,” he said to the Mongol. “Remember the old knock-knock jokes?”

He put his ear to the door. “Anna,” he called, enjoying the sound of it, the Americanization. “Let’s go on deck and see the action.” He grabbed the door handle and turned it, pushing open the door.

“We’re going—”The words stuck in his throat. He felt the blood balance in his body change, as if it had all congealed in the pit of his stomach. The cabin was empty, the suitcases gone. He felt the sudden emptiness like a blow to his head, stunning him. But he understood quickly. He turned, but the Mongol blocked his way.

“Please, Dr. Cousins,” the Mongol said in pidgin Russian.

“You bastards. You dirty bastards.” He could taste rage on his lips as he swung out and gave the Mongol a hammer blow to the chest. The man doubled over in pain.

Alex took the stairs four at a time, charged by anger and loss. Behind him, he could hear the heavy step of a pursuer.

On deck, he felt the whip of salt spray mixed with the heavy rain.

A few passengers had lined the railing, braving the weather for a last look at land. He ran to the railing, squinting into the mist at the barely distinguishable figures that lined the dock. Was it her blonde head he saw, or only his own imagination giving him one last look at her?

“Anna,” he cried into the rain, a lost wail ending in nothingness. His hand gripped the handrail, and he braced himself to jump overboard. But strong hands held him back and, as the ship slowly pulled out, the descending mist engulfed the land in an impenetrable cloud.

“Anna Petrovna,” he cried again and again. The hands gripped him, locked him into his position of the railing. They held him as the strength went slowly out of his body and his hold on the handrail loosened. After a while, even the rage was gone. Then the Mongol gently nudged him along the deck, down the stairs into the cabin.

He could not tell how long he lay in the lower bunk, his mind blank. He knew that he had lost any sense of time or place. Then it was dark in the cabin and he was conscious of the roll and pitch of the boat. He swung his legs to the floor, and the lights immediately went on in the cabin. The Mongol was there, his flat face expressionless.

“What planet is this?” he asked.

The Mongol grunted and left the cabin.

Across the room was his bookbag. He dragged it over to the single chair in the room. There was a reading lamp against the bulkhead above the chair and he flicked the switch. It threw a beam of thin yellow light on his lap. Opening the bag, he extracted a medical journal. His work. He recognized the familiar medical terms, his mind searching for a point of reference as he struggled to lift himself from the pit of emptiness. As he flipped through the pages, an envelope slipped out onto his lap. He sat staring at it a long time, gathering his courage. When it came, he carefully tore open the end and tapped the folded paper out of the envelope:

My Darling Alex: They will never let me go now. Nor would I ever leave if I could. We are not very good among strangers. I am grateful for the moments we did have together, but there is more than geography between us. We are different and there is nothing that either of us can do to help that. I do not know what the future will bring, except that I do know we must not keep locked up what we know. Someone must tell them. Surely there is reason left somewhere. I hope you will not forget me and I can assure you I will never forget you. If that is sentiment, then I am not ashamed of it anymore. Good-bye. Anna Petrovna Valentinov.

He read it swiftly, greedily, pausing only over her signature. The words seemed brittle. Tell who? he wondered.

“They are all crazy,” he whispered, placing the letter in the folds of the journal.

Then he began to read the article on the open page, forcing himself to understand.

The complete works of Warren Adler are now available in both trade paperback and hardcover. All titles are also available in all formats of e-books at all online retailers.

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