by Steve Berry
Droopy.
A fist slammed into Lord's stomach.
He doubled over, air strangling in his throat, a wave of nausea gripping him. The force of the blow drove him into the outer wall, his head popping hard against the window, winking the scene before him in and out.
He settled onto the toilet.
Droopy stepped into the lavatory and shut the door. "Now, Mr. Lord, we finish."
He'd managed to retain a grip on his briefcase and momentarily thought of swinging it upward, but in the tight confines the blow would be meaningless. Air started to grab in his lungs. The initial shock was replaced by fear. A cold, shivering terror.
A knife snapped open in Droopy's hand.
There'd only be a moment.
His gaze cut to the disinfectant. He lunged forward, grabbed the can, pointed, and sprayed his assailant's face. The caustic mist soaked into the eyes and the man shrieked. Lord brought his right knee up into the groin. Droopy doubled over, the knife clattering to the tile floor. With both hands Lord crashed the briefcase down and Droopy crumpled forward.
Lord pounded again. Then again.
He leapt over the body and slid the metal door open, bolting into the corridor. Waiting for him was Cro-Magnon, the same sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose from two days ago.
"In a hurry, Mr. Lord?"
He kicked the Russian's left knee with the toe of his loafer, knocking the man down. To his right, a silver samovar steamed with hot water, a glass decanter ready for patrons looking for coffee. He slung the scalding liquid at Cro-Magnon.
The man cried out in pain.
Lord spun in the opposite direction and shot for the exit adjacent to the lavatory. He could hear Droopy getting to his feet, calling out to Cro-Magnon.
He raced out of the sleeper into the next car and hustled down the narrow hall as fast as the confined space would allow. He was hoping a steward would appear. Anyone. He maintained a grasp on his briefcase and found the exit into the next car. Behind, he heard the door at the far end open and caught a glimpse of his two assailants starting after him.
He kept moving, then decided this was pointless. Eventually he was going to run out of train.
He shot a glance back.
The angle of the car gave him a moment of privacy. The hall before him was lined with more sleeping compartments. He figured he was still in the first-class section. He needed to duck into one, if only for a moment, enough time to let the pursuers pass. Maybe then he could backtrack and find Zinov.
He tried the next paneled door.
Locked.
The one after was locked, too.
There'd only be another second.
He grasped a latch handle and looked back. Shadows of approaching figures dimmed the hall in the forward car. As the shoulder of one man came into view, he yanked on the panel.
It opened.
He slipped in and slammed the door shut.
"Who are you?" a female voice asked in Russian.
He spun around.
Perched on the bed, not three feet away, was a woman. She was thin as a figure skater, with shoulder-length blond hair. He took in her oval face, her milky white skin, the blunt tip of her upturned nose. She was a curious mixture of tomboyishness and femininity. And her blue eyes carried not a hint of concern.
"Don't be afraid," he said in Russian. "My name is Miles Lord. I have a big problem."
"That still does not explain why you barged into my compartment."
"Two men are after me."
She stood and stepped close. She was short, rising only to his shoulders, and wore a pair of dark jeans that seemed made only for her. A curvy jacket with padded shoulders covered a blue turtleneck sweater. A faint smell of sweet perfume blossomed from her.
"Are you mafiya?" she asked.
He shook his head. "But the men after me may be. They killed a man two days ago and tried to kill me."
"Step back," she said.
He brushed past toward the compartment's solitary window. She slid open the door, glanced out casually, then shut it.
"There are three men at the far end."
"Three?"
"Yes. One has a black ponytail. The other is craggy with a wide nose, like a Tatar."
Droopy and Cro-Magnon.
"The third is muscular. No neck. Blond hair."
It sounded like Zinov. His mind raced at the possibilities. "Are the three talking?"
She nodded. "They are also knocking on compartment doors, headed this way."
The concern that immediately filled his eyes was apparently evident. She pointed to the bin above the door. "Climb up there and stay quiet."
The recess was large enough for two good-sized pieces of luggage, more than enough room to accommodate him in the fetal position. He sprang onto one of the berths and hauled himself up. She handed him his briefcase. He'd just settled in when a knock came on the compartment door.
She answered the call.
"We are looking for a black man, dressed in a suit, carrying a briefcase." The voice was Zinov's.
"I have seen no such man," she said.
"Do not lie to us," Cro-Magnon said. "We are not to be misled. Have you seen him?" The tone was harsh.
"I have seen no such man. I want no trouble from you."
"Your face is familiar," Droopy said.
"I am Akilina Petrovna of the Moscow Circus."
A moment passed.
"That is it. I have seen you perform."
"How wonderful. Perhaps you should continue your search elsewhere. I need some sleep. I have a performance in the evening."
She slammed the compartment door shut.
He heard the lock engage.
And for the third time in two days, he heaved a deep sigh of relief.
He waited a full minute before climbing down. A cold sweat drenched his chest. His hostess sat on the opposite berth.
"Why do these men want to kill you?" The tone of her voice was soft. Still not a hint of concern.
"I have no idea. I'm a lawyer from America, here working with the Tsarist Commission. Until two days ago, I didn't think anybody even knew I was alive, other than my boss."
He sat on the opposite bed. The adrenaline was receding, replaced by a throbbing in every muscle of his body. Fatigue was setting in. But he still had a major problem. "One of those men, the first who spoke to you, was supposed to be my bodyguard. Apparently there's a lot more to him than I thought."
The features on her compact face wrinkled. "I would not recommend turning to him for help. The three appeared to be working together."
He asked, "Is this an everyday thing in Russia? Strange men slipping into your compartment? Mobsters at your door. You seem to have no fear."
"Should I?"
"I'm not saying you should. God knows, I'm harmless. But in America this could be construed as a dangerous situation."
She shrugged. "You don't appear dangerous. Actually, when I saw you, I thought of my grandmother."
He waited for her to explain.
"She grew up in the time of Khrushchev and Brezhnev. The Americans used to send spies to test the soil for radioactivity, trying to find the missile silos. Everyone was warned about them, told they were dangerous, told to be on the lookout. Once, my grandmother was out in the woods and met a strange man gathering mushrooms. He was dressed as a peasant and carried a wicker basket like people do in the woods. She was completely unafraid and walked straight up to him and said, 'Hello, spy.' He stared at her, shocked, but didn't deny the allegation. Instead, he said, 'I was trained so well. I learned everything about Russia I could. How did you know I was a spy?' 'That's easy,' my grandmother said. 'I've lived here all my life and you're the first black man I've ever seen in these woods.' The same is true for you, Miles Lord. You're the first black man I've ever seen on this train."
He smiled. "Your grandmother sounds like a practical woman."
"She was. Until the communists took her one night. Somehow, a seventy-year-old woman t
hreatened an empire."
He'd read about how Stalin slaughtered twenty million in the name of the Motherland, and how the party secretaries and Soviet presidents who came after him weren't any better. What had Lenin said? Better to arrest a hundred innocent people than run the risk of one enemy of the regime remaining free.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Why should you be?"
"I don't know. It's the appropriate thing to say. What do you want me to say? Too bad your grandmother was butchered by a bunch of fanatics?"
"That's what they were."
"That why you covered for me?"
She shrugged. "I hate the government and the mafiya. One and the same."
"Do you think those men were mafiya?"
"No doubt."
"I need to find a steward and talk to the conductor."
She smiled. "That would be foolish. Everyone is for sale in this land. If those men seek you, they will buy influence on this train."
She was right. The police weren't much better than the mafiya. He thought of Inspector Orleg. He had disliked the burly Russian from the moment they'd met. "What do you suggest?"
"I have no suggestions. You are the lawyer for the Tsarist Commission. You think of what to do."
He noticed her overnight bag on the bed, a MOSCOW CIRCUS emblem embroidered on its side. "You told them you performed in the circus. That true?"
"Of course."
"What's your talent?"
"You tell me. What do you believe I could do?"
"Your petite size would make you an ideal tumbler." He stared at her dark tennis shoes. "Your feet are tight and compact. I'd wager long toes. Your arms are short, but muscular. I'd say an acrobat, maybe the balance beam."
She smiled. "You're quite good. Have you ever seen me perform?"
"I haven't been to the circus in many years."
He wondered about her age. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
"How did you come to speak our language so well?" she asked.
"I've studied it for years." His mind turned to the more immediate problem. "I need to get out of here and leave you be. You've done more than anyone could ask."
"Where would you go?"
"I'll find an empty compartment somewhere. Then try to get off this train tomorrow without anyone seeing me."
"Don't be foolish. Those men will search this train all night. The only safe place is here."
She tossed her travel bag to the floor between them and stretched out on her bunk. Then she reached up and switched off the light above the pillow. "Go to sleep, Miles Lord. You're safe here. They will not come back."
He was too tired to argue. And there was no sense arguing since she was right. So he loosened his tie and slipped off his suit jacket, then lay on his bunk and did what she said.
Lord opened his eyes.
Wheels still clanged on steel rails beneath him. He glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. Five twenty AM. He'd been asleep five hours.
He'd dreamed of his father. The Misunderstood Son sermon he'd heard so many times. Grover Lord loved to mix politics and religion, communists and atheists his main targets, his eldest son the example he liked to parade before the faithful. The concept played well to southern congregations, and the reverend was great at screaming fear, passing the plate, then pocketing his 80 percent before moving on to the next town.
His mother defended the bastard till the end, refusing to believe what she must have known. It had fallen to him, as the oldest, to retrieve his father's body from an Alabama motel. The woman with whom he'd spent the night had been whisked away, hysterical, after awakening to find herself naked with the corpse of the Reverend Grover Lord. Only then had he discovered what he'd long suspected--two half brothers the good reverend had supported out of the collection plate for years. Why the five children back home weren't enough, he assumed only God and Grover Lord knew. Apparently the Adultery and Evils of the Flesh sermon had gone unheeded.
He glanced across the darkened compartment. Akilina Petrovna rested quietly under a white quilt. He could barely discern her rhythmic breathing over the monotonous rattle of the tracks. He'd gotten himself into something bad, and no matter how much history was about to be made, he needed to get the hell out of Russia. Thank goodness he'd brought his passport with him. Tomorrow he'd leave for Atlanta on the first flight he could book. But right now, the sway of the compartment and the click of wheels, along with the darkness that surrounded him, allowed sleep to once again take hold.
FIFTEEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15
"Miles Lord."
He opened his eyes to find Akilina Petrovna staring down at him.
"We are approaching Moscow."
"What time is it?"
"A little past seven."
He shoved away the blanket and sat up. Akilina sat back on the edge of her berth a couple of feet away. His mouth felt like it'd been rinsed with Elmer's glue. He needed a shower and a shave, but there was no time. He also needed to contact Taylor Hayes, but there was a problem. A big problem. And his hostess seemed to know.
"Those men will be waiting at the station."
He licked the film off his teeth. "Don't I know."
"There is a way off."
"How?"
"We will cross the Garden Ring in a few minutes and the train will slow. There is a speed limit beyond. When I was small we would hop on and off the Petersburg express. It was an easy way to and from downtown."
He didn't particularly relish the idea of jumping from a moving train, but he couldn't risk a reunion with Droopy and Cro-Magnon.
The train started to slow.
"See," she said.
"You know where we are?"
She glanced out the window. "About twenty kilometers from the station. I would suggest you leave quickly."
He reached for his briefcase and snapped open the locks. There wasn't much there--just the few copies of what he'd found in the Moscow and St. Petersburg archives and some other unimportant papers. He folded all of them and stuffed them into his jacket. He felt for his passport and wallet. Both were still in his pockets. "This briefcase would just be in the way."
She took the leather case from him. "I will hold on to it for you. If you want it back, come to the circus."
He smiled. "Thanks. I might just do that." But on another trip at another time, he thought.
He stood and slipped on his jacket.
She moved toward the door. "I will check the hall to see if all is clear."
He lightly grasped her arm. "Thanks. For everything."
"You are welcome, Miles Lord. You brought interest to an otherwise boring ride."
They were close and he savored the same flowery scent from last night. Akilina Petrovna was attractive, though her face bore hint of life's harsh effects. Soviet propaganda once proclaimed communist women the most liberated in the world. No factory could run without them. Service industries would literally collapse if not for their contribution. But time was never kind to them. He'd long admired the beauty of young Russian women, but pitied the inevitable effects society would wreak. And he wondered what this lovely woman would look like in twenty years.
He stepped back, out of the doorway, as she slid open the panel and left.
A minute later it reopened.
"Come," she said.
The corridor in both directions was empty. They were about three-quarters of the way back in the long car. To the left, beyond another steaming samovar, was an exit door. Through its glass the stark reality of urban Moscow whizzed past. Unlike American or European trains, the portal was not alarmed or locked.
Akilina wrenched the handle down and pulled the steel door inward. The clatter of wheel to rail increased.
"Good luck, Miles Lord," she said as he passed.
He took one last look into her blue eyes, then leapt out to the hard earth. He pounded the cold ground and rolled away.
The last car passed and the morning lapsed
into an eerie quiet as the train roared southward.
He'd landed in a weedy lot between blocks of dingy apartment buildings. He was glad he'd jumped when he had. Any farther and there may not have been anything but concrete to greet him. Sounds of morning traffic filled the air from beyond the buildings, a pungent scent of carbon exhaust filling his nostrils.
He stood and brushed off his clothes. Another suit destroyed. But what the hell. He was leaving Russia today, anyway.
He needed a telephone, so he made his way to a boulevard lined with shops and businesses opening for the day. Buses deposited passengers, then steamed away with a belch of black exhaust. He spied two militsya across the street in their blue-and-gray uniforms. Unlike Droopy and Cro-Magnon, these wore regulation gray caps with red brims. He decided to avoid them.
He spotted a grocery a few yards down the sidewalk and ducked inside. The man tending the shelves was thin and old. "You have a telephone I might use?" he asked in Russian.
The man tossed him a grave look and did not reply. Lord reached into his pocket and brought out ten rubles. The man accepted the money and pointed to the counter. He stepped over, dialed the Volkhov, and told the hotel operator to connect him with Taylor Hayes's room. The phone rang a dozen times. When the hotel operator came back on, he told her to try the restaurant. Two minutes later Hayes was on the line.
"Miles, where the hell are you?"
"Taylor, we have a big problem."
He told Hayes what had happened. A few times he let his gaze drift to the man tending his shelves, wondering if he could understand English, but the traffic noise spilling in from outside helped mask the conversation.
"They're after me, Taylor. Not Bely or anybody else. Me."
"All right. Calm down."
"Calm down? That bodyguard you gave me is in with them."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he joined up with the other two looking for me."
"I understand--"
"No, you don't, Taylor. Until you've been chased by Russian mobsters, you can't understand."
"Miles, listen to me. Panic is not going to get you out of this. Go to the nearest police."
"Shit, no. I don't trust anybody in this rat hole. The whole goddamn country is on the take. You got to help me, Taylor. You're the only one I trust."