The Yermakov Transfer

by Derek Lambert

  As Train No. 2 began its descent in the direction of Nizneudinskaya, 2 hours and 50 minutes from Taishet, a faint seismic tremor shook the frozen tundra to the far north. It dislodged a few tribesmen’s reindeer-skin huts, exposed a seam of gold soon covered by snow, and destroyed an old wooden church once erected in honour of the Archangel Michael and subsequently used as a storehouse for hides. It caused little consternation because such tremors are commonplace in Siberia and only occurrences such as the Tunguska Marvel which, on June 30, 1908, devastated 500 square miles cause alarm. (The Marvel has been attributed to a meteor, nuclear energy and the explosion of a spaceship from outer space.)

  The tremor might have passed without comment, merely causing the granite, syenite, porphyry, diorite and crystalline slate of the mountains to shiver a little. But, farther south, one of the ripples found a weakness in an expanse of volcanic rock and split it open.

  The chasm swallowed a couple of villages of gingerbread houses before fading, exhausted, just south of the Trans-Siberian Railway. But its force was sufficient to move the track a couple of feet, buckle a few rails and rupture the bolts.

  The Ukranian saw the damage first. The brakes locked and the train skated to a halt just before it reached the damaged rail. The K.G.B. fell from the carriages like insects knocked off by a gardener’s spray. Suspecting an ambush, they drew their guns and scanned the bleak horizon. It was dawn – the time, like dusk, when even Siberia has a gentleness to it. The snow had stopped falling and the hills were soft and white, speared with pines; and, although the air was crisp, it had a milkiness to it as the sun rose.

  Colonel Razin strode up to the engine, long grey overcoat and sealskin boots over his pyjamas. “What’s happened?” he shouted.

  Boris Demurin who wasn’t sure what had happened pointed ahead. Six feet away the buckled track veered to the left.

  “An earth tremor?”

  Demurin nodded, scratching the grey fuzz of his hair.

  Razin said: “You did well. I shall see that your action is relayed to the right quarters.” He walked briskly away without speaking to the Ukranian who shrugged philosophically. After all, it was the old man’s last trip.

  Razin hurried back to the special coach and knocked on the door of Yermakov’s sleeper. The door opened. Yermakov was wearing a blue towelling dressing-gown and he looked terrible, as if he’d been awake all night. His greying hair flopped over his forehead, the shadows under his eyes were mauve. “What’s happened?” he asked.

  Razin told him.

  “What will happen now?” It wasn’t often that he asked the question.

  “We’ll send a man to Taishet to see if there’s anyone capable of mending the track.”

  “Very well.” Yermakov shut the door in Razin’s face. He sat on the bedside chair trembling a little, thinking: It’s an omen.

  The sun rose burnishing the snow-covered hills gold, finding jewels in the valleys. The tremor had caused a fire and, in the distance, the flames looked like red butterflies.

  The passengers walked up and down beside the train.

  Pavlov stood like a statue, hands thrust in the pockets of his overcoat, his hawkish face expressionless. He fed the incident into the computer of his brain and the answer came back with the first qualification: You must revise the timing. But how and for how long? The answer to the second depended on the length of the hold-up. To the first.… I’ll have to get word to the Priest in Irkutsk. A phone or a telegraph office in Taishet? There was only one man who could go without raising suspicion – Semenov, the Policeman.

  Pavlov went looking for the K.G.B. officer with the white face and the scar beside his mouth. No time for elaborate caution: Semenov had to go now. He found him on the other side of the train, alone because the rest of the passengers had chosen the sunny side.

  Semenov looked cautiously around before saying: “I thought you’d come round here. What the hell are we going to do?”

  “You’ll have to go to Taishet and get a message to the Priest. Tell him to find out how long we’re delayed and then put back the plan the equivalent time.”

  Pavlov glanced up and down the length of the train but they were still alone.

  Libby Chandler heard them talking through the half-open window of her sleeper. She, too, was alone, checking that the micro-film was safe behind the picture of Lenin on the wall. She knew enough Russian to understand what they were saying.

  “You’re sure we should still go through with it?” Semenov asked.

  “We must. It’s our only chance. Yermakov will never be as vulnerable again. We’ll take him, just as planned, east of Chita.”

  Semenov fingered the scar at his mouth. “What reason can I give for going to Taishet?”

  “Find one,” Pavlov snapped. He thought about it. “They’ll be sending a man there to get help. Tell them you know the town.”

  As Semenov walked away, feet crunching in the snow, Pavlov turned and stared up into the wondering face of Libby Chandler framed in the half-open window.

  * * *

  There was too much data in Pavlov’s brain; it had become fallible like one of his electronic machines. She knows, he thought. She knows … knows.

  But how much does she know? Pavlov didn’t know how fluent she was in Russian. But I can’t risk the possibility that she didn’t understand. She would have to be eliminated. But if we kill her she’ll be missed, there will be an outcry, Bridges will be on to it.

  Pavlov paced up and down beside the train on the sunlit side. Occasionally he clapped his gloved hands together to indicate that he was taking exercise, getting warm.

  The sun rose but the snow didn’t melt, lying softly and calmly waiting for the next fall. Pavlov looked into the blue sky and saw an eagle hovering, searching for prey.

  He thought of the remorseless efficiency of the young Israeli insurgents in Beirut and wondered what they would do in this situation. This brought him no shame; they were in the fight together, the spirit of Masada; he was their representative in Russia, the second largest home of the Jews.

  If she tells anyone, he thought, it will be Bridges. And Bridges will tell Razin to make sure that, for the rest of his life, he is a big fish in the small pool of Moscow’s Western community.

  Pavlov looked at the disembarked passengers. The children were playing in the snow; one family had lit a fire to roast a hare. The eagle hovered hungrily overhead.

  Bridges was talking to the Tartar general and his wife and some other Russians. Libby Chandler was staring at the roasting hare; but she didn’t look as if she was seeing anything.

  If she had understood she was taking a long time passing on the information. There was one vague hope: she might sympathise with the cause: girls of that age like a cause. Pavlov shook his head; it was a risk he couldn’t take. She would have to be silenced.

  But don’t let her talk now!

  Pavlov was saved, although he didn’t realise it, by Yermakov’s decision to make an impromptu speech hastily prepared by his secretary who was violently anti-Semitic.

  * * *

  Yermakov looked totally ruthless and omnipotent standing there in the snow. The embodiment of the cult of personality which he swore to exorcise from the Kremlin. The tyranny of Stalin had been driven from the land but it had left its stigma on him; his presence chilled, particularly when he was at his most benevolent.

  Razin beckoned and the passengers hurried forward, separated from Yermakov by a ring of uniformed militia and secret police.

  Yermakov climbed on to the steps of his carriage, turned and faced the crowd. Once again he felt the power. Genghis Khan, Kuchum, Marco Polo. Siberia, one tenth of the world’s land masses, was his.

  The sun was high and the air rang with the sound of the engineers’ hammers against the warped track. In the distance tendrils of smoke rose from the fire which had spent itself in the snow.

  They rigged up a microphone, and Yermakov spoke into it, holding the speech in one hand. It was a short he
roic speech about Siberia and achievement. Half way through it became more virulent, turning on the traitors who sought to undermine the achievement. Then on to the Zionists and Yermakov paused as if wondering about the wisdom of his text. His secretary had made it far too strong. He searched the crowd. There was only Bridges and half a dozen Soviet journalists present. Hesitating no longer, he launched into one of the strongest denunciations of Jewry heard in the Soviet Union since the era of his moustached mentor. He didn’t agree with all of it but he was committed. He would attend to the secretary afterwards.

  Sickened with it, Libby Chandler set out for the green and white depths of the pinewood forest close by.

  Bridges saw her go but couldn’t follow because he was taking a note of the speech.

  Pavlov saw her go and spoke urgently to the Poacher. “Go and kill her,” he said. “Make it look like an accident.”

  The Red Indian face of the Poacher registered pleasure. He preferred killing humans to animals, especially pretty girls with long blonde hair.

  “If anyone asks,” Pavlov said, “I’ll tell them you’ve seen a wolf.”

  “A bitch,” the Poacher said.

  He caught up with her on the edge of the taiga. It was like entering a cathedral. The Poacher said in Russian: “You’ll get lost in there by yourself.” He pointed towards the train. “Mr. Bridges asked me to look after you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Libby said, glancing at the lean man with the big hands dressed in furs.

  The Poacher pointed at some tracks. “Sable,” he told Libby. And then at some others – “Mink.”

  “No bears?”

  “Perhaps,” the Poacher said. “Come, let’s go a little further. We may see some wolves. But they won’t attack us. They’re cowards, wolves.”

  The silence was thick around them. There were no birds, no movement except for the occasional fall of snow from a branch. Sunlight and blue sky vanished beneath the ceiling, dark and woody beneath the branches.

  The silence was so complete that Libby could hear the blood pulsing in her ears. “I think we should go back now,” she said. She stopped beside a massive pine. Her face was aching with the cold.

  “Just a little further.” He took her arm and she noticed that he had taken his gloves off. The muscles on the balls of his thumbs were like small biceps. He noticed her gaze anp said: “I have to kill ermine with these.” He flexed his fingers. “I squeeze until they’re dead. It’s very sad.”

  “We must go back.”

  “No, we must stop here.”

  The snow and sunlight were a small glow of light in the distance. The cold entered her clothing and she knew that this man with the big hands was going to kill her.

  “No!” She screamed but the scream lost itself in the silence. It was like crying out in deep green water. “No!” His grip tightened on her arm and one of the hands that squeezed ermine came up to her throat.

  The harsh warning whistle of the engine, powered by air compression, tore through the forest.

  His grip slackened. She tore herself free and ran, stumbling, slipping. He was behind her, but the mouth of light was growing larger.

  Dimly, she could see the shape of the train. He was right behind her. Dear God, she prayed, Dear God.…

  Behind her she heard a thump and a Russian oath. She turned her head as she ran. He was lying on the ground, struggling into a sitting position, a wire noose round his foot.

  She stumbled on, laughing hysterically. The trapper trapped. She had reached the edge of the forest by the time he got free. She saw him loping behind as she burst from the trees into the arms of Harry Bridges.

  * * *

  If she’s told Bridges, Pavlov thought, then it’s all over. If she hasn’t there’s still a chance. They had lost eight hours and Semenov had phoned the Priest.

  The fact that nothing had happened since the Poacher’s attempt to kill Libby Chandler puzzled him. She would hardly conceal an attempted murder – unless, he mused, she had something to hide; unless getting to Nakhodka and Japan on schedule were more important than sentencing the Poacher to death.

  They were approaching Zima, eight hours late. It was 21.30 Moscow time. Pavlov lay on his bunk, hands behind his head. The Poacher lay beneath him, brooding on his failure.

  If the girl was so concerned about reaching Nakhodka on time, Pavlov thought, then it was just possible she wouldn’t want her timing spoiled by communicating what she had overheard.

  But why hadn’t she told Bridges? If Bridges knew anything he would have told Razin. Bridges was that sort of man; he would never realise until it was too late that no one loves a traitor. Burgess, Philby, Maclean – they had all found out too late.

  At this moment Libby Chandler was probably lying six inches away from him in the next compartment. With her blonde looks, her glacial beauty, she reminded Pavlov of Anna. But, unlike Anna, she was British and unpredictable and therefore he would have to kill her.

  He waited until the train pulled out of Zima before going to the bathroom. It was dark outside, with black and white shapes flitting past the windows. Most of the passengers were in the restaurant car discussing the earth tremor, united by the experience.

  He closed the door and removed some screws from the lock. He used the lavatory, washed his hands, combed his hair and returned to the compartment.

  The Poacher said: “What have you been doing?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Pavlov said. The Poacher had his uses, but they were in his hands, not his brains.

  He left the compartment door open and lay listening. The bathroom was one compartment away and he could hear-people using it. Smoke from the samovar drifted along the corridor.

  He heard three people use the lavatory. Beneath him the Poacher slept. Then he heard Libby Chandler and Bridges come into the compartment next door. He heard them talking then the voices stopped for a while. Pavlov wondered if they were kissing or making hasty love before Wagstaff and the Intourist girl returned. The door of their compartment opened. Pavlov opened the door wider and saw Libby Chandler going to the bathroom.

  He rolled off his bunk. The Poacher opened his eyes. Pavlov put his finger to his lips and went into the corridor. Then he slid the broken lock and let himself into the bathroom.

  She was standing at the mirror brushing her hair. He clamped one hand round her mouth, twisting one arm behind her back. He glanced out of the window hoping the snow was deep so that the body would be buried.

  She kicked back with her heel and bit his fingers. He released the pressure on her mouth just long enough for her to say: “I wondered when you were coming to see me.”

  He reapplied the gag and said: “If I take my hand away don’t scream. If you do I’ll kill you.”

  They looked at each other in the mirror; she nodded. He took his hand away.

  “Now my arm,” she said. “You’re hurting.”

  He let that go, too. He turned her round so that they were facing each other. “Why did you think I would come to see you?”

  “Because I heard what you were saying at Taishet.”

  “And?”

  “If you think I’d tell anyone you’re crazy.”

  He held her chin in one hand, staring into her eyes. “You wouldn’t tell anyone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not even Bridges?”

  “Not even Bridges.”

  He took his hand away from her chin. “I must be crazy,” he said. “I think I believe you.” He touched the broken lock. “We can’t talk here. Go back to your compartment and don’t leave it until we reach Irkutsk. I can,” he lied, “hear everything you say.” He opened the door. “I’ll see you in Irkutsk.”

  As he lay in his berth he wondered why he had believed Libby Chandler. Just before falling asleep he realised why: because he would have believed Anna.

  CHAPTER 8

  June, 1973. The weather in Moscow was steamy with the temperature in the 80s. The vans selling kvas were out in
the streets and ice-cream was being sold by the ton. The men were in shirt-sleeves; the women wearing dresses with daisy and sunflower patterns made from a consignment that had just arrived in the capital; unlike the West, it was smart to wear the same material if it was new because it demonstrated your shopping and elbowing skill.

  On this doomed Saturday, with the tender leaves on the birches wilting and the traffic streaming out to the forest, Viktor Pavlov and his wife decided to go to one of the river beaches.

  They packed a hamper and Viktor drove the black Volga out of the complex’s parking lot, filled with Mercedes and Fords, and drove thirty miles to a bend of the Moscow River. Behind the sandy beach were pine and birch glades where families camped in orange tents. The big white river-steamers glided past; the sun beat down on acres of tanning bodies. The summer was short, the winter long and this tan would have to last; so they fried every bit of flesh, lying, sitting, standing against trees with their hands behind their necks wearing nose-shields made from Pravda.

  Now was the time for Viktor and Anna to recapture their love – with the smell of pine, the sleepy water, the heat.

  They stuck bottles of beer in the shallows, swam and then lay in the sun listening to the rhythmic sound of table tennis balls, the strumming of a guitarist under the pines.

  The sun had already brought a faint tan to Anna’s alabaster body. Viktor, swarthy and matted, felt her warmth and moved closer to her. They held hands, lying on their backs, staring into the sky.