Bridges said: “He must be the first spy to use a Kodak Instamatic.”
When the breathing of the two women indicated that they were asleep Bridges remained awake. For a long time he had lived with his conscience; but he had never expected to be confronted with its embodiment in the shape of a 22-year-old English girl.
In the next compartment Viktor Pavlov also lay awake. The Tartar general and his wife had left the train at Irkutsk and their places had been taken by an American research engineer and an executive of the Tokio Gas Board collaborating with the Russians in developing gas fields around Yakutsk and beneath the sea-bed around the island of Sakhalin. They slept peacefully while the Poacher snored.
When they arrived at Tankhoi, Pavlov checked to see that his wife was all right. The pregnancy was complicated and Anna had been given a compartment to herself with a nurse. Anna was asleep, her face content; the nurse put her fingers to her lips. Pavlov ignored her, kissed his wife’s lips softly and let himself out of the compartment.
Now he waited for sleep, knowing that it would become elusive, the more he thought about it. He thought about Birobiszhan, the Promised Land which Stalin had pretended to create in Siberia. Evrieskaia avtonomnaia oblast –a Jewish Autonomous Region. Created and destroyed in two waves of pogroms in 1937 and 1948. The street signs, he had been told, were still in Hebrew; there was little else Jewish about the place. They were due there on the ninth day of their journey; but Pavlov knew they would never make it.
He flirted with sleep; but he was trying too hard. Once, as he hesitated on the brink, he remembered an old Jew he had met near the synagogue in Moscow during his student days. The old man, wearing a threadbare black cloak, was half-crazed after years of trying to get a visa to visit parents in Israel, long-since dead. He still blessed the Hanukkah candles, he still danced the Simchat Torah; sometimes, even when there was snow on the ground, he believed himself to be in Jerusalem. He had spent much of his last years pleading with European and American Jewish tourists to give him prayer-books for the synagogue and one spring morning he mistook Pavlov for an American. He clutched Pavlov’s arm and asked for a prayer-book. Pavlov spoke kindly, looking around for evidence of surveillance, disengaged his arm and walked on. The old man shouted, “Why have you forgotten us?” Pavlov wanted to turn and shout back, “I haven’t.” Instead he walked on. Now the old man had returned, half way across Siberia, and for a fleeting second of semi-consciousness, Pavlov wondered if he was really helping him; if he was helping any of them. Then he was awake again listening to the steady rhythm of the wheels, and the doubt vanished.
He fell asleep just before dawn as a railwaywoman with a gold baton waved the train away from the platform at Petrovski-Zavod on the eighth day of the journey.
* * *
By that time Colonel Yury Razin was shaving his thick beard, looking at himself with tired eyes. He ordered lemon tea, toast and a hard-boiled egg in his office. He spent the morning checking the reports on the new passengers, among them two North Vietnamese pilots returning to the Soviet Union for refresher courses; a French-Canadian forestry expert on an exchange visit from his country which bore so many similarities to Siberia; the usual Australians on their way home via Hong Kong; an Italian historian inspecting the bridges his country’s masons had built at the turn of the century; a French specialist in tropical diseases in which the Far East of Siberia abounded; some Scandinavians trying to sell metal skis to the Siberians who used wooden cross-country skis; a lot of Soviet naval officers on their way to the closed city of Vladivostock.
Then he returned to the dossier on Viktor Pavlov, rereading it carefully, sipping lemon tea, frowning and chain-smoking his American cigarettes.
At midday he went to see the British spy his two aides had captured. He thought their action might give him the opportunity to dispose of them.
Stanley Wagstaff greeted him stoically, awaiting a blow round the face with a leather glove; a fist in the teeth.
Razin sat opposite him and put Stanley’s notebook on the table. “What?” he asked, offering Stanley his cigarettes, “are all these figures?”
Cautiously, Stanley accepted a cigarette and a light. Drugged?
“Well?” Razin looked at him patiently.
“They’re the numbers of trains,” Stanley Wagstaff said.
“This one?” Razin prodded a figure on the first page.
Stanley studied it. “That’s the telephone number of Manchester Central Station.”
Razin grinned, the heaviness lifting from his face. “That should be easy enough to trace.” He flipped the pages. “And this?”
Stanley read the figures 0-8-0. “A locomotive,” he told Razin.
“But surely not on the Trans-Siberian, Mr. Wagstaff?”
Stanley looked at him suspiciously. “Hardly,” he agreed, failing to discern any particular threat on the big, doggy face in front of him. “They were built in Germany and the Kolomna works started to make them in 1879. Eleven and a half ton axle weights,” he recited.
“Beautiful old engines,” Razin said.
A trick! “What,” Stanley demanded, “do you know about old engines?”
“You’d be surprised what I know about, Mr. Wagstaff. The 0-8-0 had, I believe, one of those beautiful flask-shaped smokestacks.”
“What’s that then?” Stanley took the book and pointed at a number.
“Really, Mr. Wagstaff, I think I should be asking the questions. However.…” He studied the numbers 2,000, D.E., T.E.2. “I presume it’s a reference to a 2,000 h.p. diesel electric Type TE-2 used on the Moscow belt line.”
Stanley leaned back in his chair, awed. “You really are one of us.”
“Even in my profession we are entitled to a hobby.”
“Who would have thought it,” Stanley said. “Wait till I tell them back in Manchester.”
“If you ever get back to Manchester,” Razin said mildly.
Tough and gentle; hot and cold. The old familiar treatment!
Razin retrieved the notebook and said: “After all, if you were spying, you would hardly fill the whole notebook with military data. I have. no doubt that you are a railway enthusiast and I know that at least some of these numbers refer to locomotives. It doesn’t mean to say all of them do.” He stood up and stared through the reinforced glass in the window. “At a later stage I may have to ask you to sign a statement.”
“Never!” Not even with the electrodes sparking away.
“We shall see. Meanwhile you must remain here. I’ll keep this.” Razin picked up the notebook. “I’ll see that you have everything you want. A flask of vodka, perhaps? My own stock.”
“No thank you,” Stanley said. “I’d like a cup of tea, though, with milk and sugar.”
“Very well,” Razin said. “I’ll come back to you later in the day.”
He closed the door behind him. Stanley Wagstaff remained sitting at the table waiting for the poison gas to creep under the door.
* * *
When Razin got back to his office there was a message awaiting him from Harry Bridges. Could they meet in the dining car?
Why not? Razin thought. He could do with a Cognac with the tension pressing behind his eyes.
The usual waitress served them at the reserved table; Razin thought she looked edgier than usual. Perhaps the Ukranian wasn’t much of a lover. Too smart and too small, he speculated.
“Well, Mr. Bridges, what can I do for you?”
“Release Stanley Wagstaff,” Bridges said sipping his brandy.
“So you know about that? I must hand it to you, Mr. Bridges – you’re good at your job. News presents itself to you.”
“I saw your men taking him away.”
Good, Razin thought. Excellent. “And you want me to release him just like that.”
“Stanley Wagstaff isn’t a spy and you know it.”
“An unlikely spy, I agree. But surely all good spies are unlikely.”
“Not as unlikely as all that.”
>
“I suppose,” Razin said reflectively, “it would make a good story for you. If I allowed you to release it.”
“Nothing fantastic. Not for an American newspaper.”
The American engineer and the Japanese tried to sit at the table but Razin waved them away. They sat further down the dining car conversing in cubic feet.
Razin looked at Bridges carefully before asking: “What would your idea of a good story be?”
“The shooting at Sverdlovsk,” Bridges replied.
“Apart from that.”
“I haven’t found anything better,” Bridges said.
Noticing the hesitation, Razin said: “If you know anything, Mr. Bridges, I would advise you to be frank. For your own sake.” He glanced at his watch: 19.56 and they were just drawing into Zubarievo. “Perhaps you would come and see me in an hour’s time. It seemed to me that there was something you wanted to tell me in Irkutsk the other night.”
The knuckles of Bridges’ hands were white. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve nothing to lose.”
Razin finished his Cognac. “You might have a lot to lose if you aren’t completely frank.”
They were drawing out of the station when the boyishfaced aide came into the dining car, pushing past the waitresses.
“I think you’d better come back, Comrade Razin. There have been … developments.”
Razin who was feeling a little better looked up with annoyance. “Can’t they wait?”
The aide shook his head. “It’s very important.”
Razin said to Bridges: “Maybe you’ve exercised your talent for being around at the right time once again.” He stood up.
Bridges said: “What about Wagstaff?”
“Patience, Mr. Bridges. You have no deadline to catch.”
He strode off behind his junior officer.
The message had been received by telephone at Zubarievo. The body of Gavralin had been found on the bank of the Ob. His throat had apparently been torn out by a wolf. In one of his pockets police had found a slip of paper bearing Viktor Pavlov’s name.
Razin swore. “Why didn’t the idiots contact me on the radio?”
Razin was about to go and get Pavlov when one of the officers said: “There’s something else, Comrade Razin. You have a visitor.”
“He can wait.”
“A very important visitor, Comrade Razin.”
When Razin saw who the visitor was he postponed his visit to Pavlov for five minutes.
* * *
Ten minutes to go. Viktor Pavlov said to the Poacher: “Is everything ready?”
The Poacher nodded. “Everything’s ready.” He lay on the bottom bunk. Pavlov sat at the table facing the door. The American and the Japanese were in the dining car.
Pavlov sat very still. He glanced at his watch. “Nine minutes,” he said.
Outside dusk was approaching and snow was falling lightly but steadily.
Pavlov was lighting a cigarette when the door opened and Razin burst in, gun in hand.
“Stand up,” he said, “and turn around, hands behind your neck.”
The Poacher hit him in the crotch and Razin folded, retching.
Behind Razin the boyish-faced K.G.B. officer went for his automatic. But Pavlov reached him first across Razin’s crouching body. He got him by the throat, slamming his head against the door.
As he did so the Poacher chopped at the back of Razin’s neck. Razin hit the floor, face down, dropping his pistol.
With one hand Pavlov shut the door, holding the K.G.B. man’s throat with the other. But, despite his schoolboy face, he had a thick skull. He shook his head and drove his knee into Pavlov’s groin. But, in the confined space, there wasn’t much force behind it. Pavlov hit him low in the belly. The K.G.B. man shoved the palm of his hand under Pavlov’s chin, pushing upwards, trying to break his neck. Pavlov stumbled backwards, hooking his foot round the man’s legs. The K.G.B. man slid down the wall. Pavlov broke away from the outstretched hand and hit him across the throat with the blade of his hand. The man gave an ugly rasping cough and sat down, head lolling.
Pavlov took the pistol from the Poacher. “Is he dead?” he asked, pointing at Razin.
The Poacher shook his head.
Pavlov looked at his watch again. Eight minutes. “I’ll look after these two. You go to the dining car and make sure the American and the Japanese don’t come back.”
“How can I do that?”
“Talk. Keep talking. We’re almost there.”
The Poacher let himself out of the door and Pavlov locked it. From the Poacher’s bag he took some cord with which the Poacher tied up animals; Pavlov tied up Razin and his assistant and put them in two of the berths, one above the other.
He sat down at the table, gun in hand. Sweat trickled down his face and his groin ached. He hoped the emergency had left the bugging system unattended.
His watch ticked loudly. Five minutes. A surplus of imponderables now.
* * *
The Poacher passed Harry Bridges in the corridor and went into the dining car. The American and the Japanese were sitting there, deep in cubic feet.
The Poacher sat at their table and said: “Can I get you gentlemen a drink?”
The American, tall and crew-cut like a White House aide, looked at him with surprise. The Poacher had hardly spoken until now. “No thanks,” he said in Russian, “we were just going back to the compartment.”
“I insist,” the Poacher said. “Russo-American friendship.” His smile was fierce.
“And Japanese friendship?” The Japanese, grey-haired and delicate, smiled.
“Of course,” the Poacher said, beckoning the waitress.
The American shrugged. “Very well. A very quick one. My friend and I have some work to do.…”
The waitress brought a carafe of brandy and the Poacher poured generous measures. Then he began to talk about Siberia, its history and legends.
Had they heard the famous story that illustrated the size of Siberia? Without waiting for an answer the Poacher told them about the six virgins from Kamchatka invited to St. Petersburg by the Empress Elizabeth Petrovna. Their escorts were two officers of the Imperial Guard. Just before they reached Irkutsk each of the girls gave birth. More trustworthy escorts were found and the six girls continued on their way to the capital. But by the time they got there each had given birth to half-brothers and sisters to their first-born.
The Poacher guffawed. He glanced at the American’s wrist-watch. Three minutes.
The American said: “Yes, I heard that story.” He swallowed his brandy, adding: “Now we must …”
The Poacher switched to the Japanese. “This will interest you,” he said wildly. Most people think World War II started in Europe, eh?”
The American said: “Where did it start – Siberia?”
The Poacher nodded vigorously. “It really started on July 29, 1938, when the Japanese attacked Vladivostock.”
The Japanese’s smile faded. “How very interesting,” he observed.
The Poacher looked apologetic.
Two minutes.
“Just one more story which you must hear. It illustrates how romantic the Siberian people are. You should always remember that when you’re doing business with them.”
“I really don’t think …” the American began.
“Two swans,” the Poacher said desperately. “The starlings of Siberia. A hunter shot one of them. Its mate mourned all night and then, at dawn, flew as high as it could and dropped like a stone to its death. Russians often cry when they hear that story.”
“You don’t look as if you’re crying,” the American observed, standing up.
One minute.
The Poacher made an expansive gesture and knocked the rest of the brandy over the Japanese’s neat dark suit.
* * *
Razin choked and vomited. He spoke with an effort, his face twisted with pain. “You won’t get away with this,” he said.
Pavlov said: “Tell m
e one thing. How did you find out?”
“A friend of yours boarded the train at Ulan-Ude. He came to visit me.”
Pavlov leaned forward, pointing the pistol. “Who?”
“Professor David Gopnik,” Razin said.
At that moment the train stopped.
CHAPTER 3
There were red lights on the track and two men, their outlines blurred by falling snow, swinging lanterns.
Boris Demurin applied the brakes, swearing. “What now?” he asked. “Isn’t one earthquake enough for my last journey?”
The train stopped, throbbing gently. “You stay here,” Demurin said to the Ukranian. “I’ll go and find out what’s happened.”
“Just as you like,” the Ukranian said. You wouldn’t get interruptions like this on the Moscow-Leningrad line, he thought.
Demurin climbed down and walked towards the swinging lights. As he did so a man with the graceful movements of a ballet dancer and, in the gap of his Balaclava helmet, the eyes of a man who enjoyed killing, climbed into the locomotive from the opposite side carrying a sub-machine gun. He said to the Ukranian and the third member of the crew: “Anyone who moves gets it.” He looked as if he hoped they would move. “When I give the order get this train going.”
In his compartment Viktor Pavlov stuffed a handkerchief in Razin’s mouth. He looked at the K.G.B. assistant. No need for handkerchiefs – he was dead.
He put on his heavy overcoat and fur hat, let himself out of the compartment, locked it and dropped from the train on to the snow.
Harry Bridges saw him go and said to Libby Chandler: “This is it.” He snatched his coat and hat from the peg.
Libby said: “I’m going with you.”
“You stay here,” Bridges snapped.
She put on her fur hat and coat, tucking her long blonde hair beneath the collar. “I said I’m going with you.”
“What about your precious micro-film?”
She unscrewed the doll’s head and slipped the package into her pocket.
The Peasant and the Painter killed the two uniformed militiamen at the entrance to the special carriage, shooting them in the chest and head with pistols fitted with silencers supplied by Semanov the Policeman.
They waited for a moment until the attack from outside began.
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