The Yermakov Transfer

by Derek Lambert

  Meanwhile the Poacher dropped into the snow on the other side of the track and loped, with his hunter’s stealthy stride, to the end of the train. He hauled himself up and peered through the last window. The militiaman manning the machine-gun was staring out of the opposite window, trying to see what was happening. The Poacher hung there, waiting, snow caking his fur clothing; he had spent most of his life waiting like this.

  The Zealots, all masked with balaclavas, waited behind a nest of bushes until most of the K.G.B. had alighted from the special coach. A hand wiped the condensation from a window and they saw Yermakov’s face staring into the dusk.

  Somewhere a whistle blew.

  Four Zealots ran swiftly and silently to the carriage at the end of the train.

  The Pupil and the Puppet-maker dealt with the coupling and switched the points while the Planter tossed a gas-grenade into the coach.

  The militiaman manning the machine-gun swung the barrel as the Poacher came through the rear door. The Poacher put his two big hands round the man’s throat, fingers on the wind-pipe and squeezed. Just like killing ermine, he thought.

  So far there had been no noise except the thud of the silenced pistols. Snow and dusk made confusing patterns of everything and the passengers lining the corridor stared perplexedly through the windows, not daring to get out until permission was given.

  The Pupil worked expertly with his scarred hands until the coupling parted. He nodded to the Puppet-maker who blew his whistle twice.

  The Planter, gas-mask over his face, stood over the unconscious bodies of Yermakov and his secretary.

  From behind the bushes a whistle sounded three times.

  The Pederast jerked his sub-machine gun. “Get the train moving,” he told the Ukranian and his mate.

  The red lights were doused and Train No. 2 inched forward, gathering speed. Leaving the special carriage behind at the point where the old branch-line made its diversion to Panhandle station, the iron bridge and ruined stations beyond.

  * * *

  Standing in the falling snow beside Shiller, the Penman, Viktor Pavlov stared at the departing train. The faces at the windows were blurs, but the shape of one was familiar, pale with an aureole of blonde hair. He raised his hand and waved, but there was no response. He lowered his hand and, as the train disappeared into the veil of snow, turned on his heel to attend to the business at hand.

  * * *

  The Pupil and the Puppet-maker drove an old Army truck beside the branch-line to the waiting locomotive. E-723 had got steam up, wheezing impatiently as the two men climbed on to the worn footplate. The Pupil handled the brass levers of the old relic with love while the Puppet-maker shovelled coal into the furnace.

  “How long have we got?” the Puppet-maker asked. He was a middle-aged man with tapering fingers and short sight.

  “The next train’s due on the main line in five minutes,” the Pupil told him. He pulled a lever, the pistons began to move pushing the wheels round in reverse. But the wheels didn’t grip. “Shit,” the Pupil said. “The rails – they’re iced up.”

  He switched the lever and the engine moved forward, protesting. They progressed 50 yards, then stopped. The Pupil shoved the controls into reverse again. “Come on my old beauty,” he whispered, and when the wheels continued to slip, shouted: “Move you mother-lover.” The engine moved. It gathered speed, throwing clouds of steam and plumes of sparks into the white-and-purple dusk. By the time they reached the main line the K.G.B. men who had jumped from the train had been herded together by three Zealots masked with balaclavas. The Pupil noticed a girl with them, and an old man.

  The Pupil braked, backing the engine and tender on to the main line. He and the Puppet-maker jumped down and coupled it to the special coach. The prisoners were marched into the tender at gunpoint, Shiller and another gunman taking up positions on the footplate.

  In the distance the Pupil heard the rumble of an approaching train. He climbed back on to the footplate with the Puppet-maker, grabbing the controls. The engine groaned but didn’t move. “More steam,” the Pupil shouted. “I need more steam,”

  They could hear the approaching train clearly now.

  The Puppet-maker shovelled coal into the furnace. The Pupil pleaded, cajoled, soot-rimmed eyes gleaming behind his balaclava. “Move you son of a whore,” he screamed. The engine and tender moved, pulling the special coach behind them.

  They had just rounded the pine trees on the branch-line when the freight train bound for Khabarovsk rumbled past on the main-line with its long snake of wagons.

  Near Panhandle station one of the K.G.B. men tried to make a break for it. He jumped on to the side of the tender and dived for the ground. Shiller hit him with a bullet from his AK 47 assault rifle in mid-air, his scream drowned by the noise of the labouring engine.

  The engine stopped outside the station and the prisoners, K.G.B. officers, Boris Demurin, Harry Bridges and Libby Chandler were marched into the waiting room where the weapons had been hidden. It was dark now, the snowflakes like moths in the glow from the engine’s furnace. The Pupil drove on to the iron bridge, uncoupled the special coach containing the unconscious Yermakov and left it for the night above the dark wound of the ravine.

  The Puppet-maker joined the Planter and the Poacher in the special coach while the Pupil drove the engine to the outskirts of the village. He climbed down, circled E-723 and patted its hot black body. Then he began to walk back to the station. He had got half way when the boiler blew up, the explosion momentarily lighting the countryside, throwing its echoes into the mountains.

  * * *

  Pavlov boarded the special coach and took in the scene. Yermakov was sitting on the satin-covered chair in his de-luxe sleeper, his head slumped forward. He was conscious but his face was grey and there was a blue tinge to his lips.

  “He’ll be all right,” said the Physician, a young doctor from Vladivostock studying the problems of rejection in transplants. “Unless there’s anything wrong with his heart that I haven’t detected.” He put the stethoscope to Yermakov’s chest. “It sounds all right. Just a little sleepy from the gas, like its owner.”

  Pavlov pointed at the corpses. He told the Poacher: “Throw them down the mine-shaft and clean up the mess.”

  The Poacher slung a body over his shoulder as if it were an animal he had shot.

  “Is the radio working?”

  The Planter said it was. “We could also bug the railway station to hear what they’re talking about.” The Planter was a small neat man who held his head like a bird listening for danger.

  “We don’t have to,” Pavlov said. “We’ve got men there.” He went into the office, striding up and down it. A wind had sprung up and the bridge seemed to sway slightly. “There’s only one thing we haven’t decided – what to do with the prisoners.”

  The Poacher returned and suggested: “Kill them.” He and the Pederast were competitors in killing.

  Pavlov shook his head. “There’s no point. They can’t do anything. No sense in wasting ammunition. In any case, we’ll have the whole Red Army here tomorrow.” He sat down on the swivel chair by the desk. “We don’t want to appear too cold-blooded either. They might think we’ve killed him” – pointing at Yermakov – “and send the troops in.”

  “What about the girl?” The Poacher’s hands moved convulsively.

  “What about her?”

  The Poacher shrugged. “I thought perhaps you wanted me to finish the job I started at Taishet.…”

  “Your brains,” Pavlov said, “are in your hands. The Jews want the sympathy of the world, not the hatred.”

  The wind gained strength brushing the snow from the windows.

  Pavlov went on: “We’ve also got to decide who is going to stay. The Pupil has finished his job, so have some of the others.” Pavlov lit a cigarette and stared at the Zealots. “Whoever stays has only got a slim chance of escaping. You realise that?”

  They nodded, watching him closely.

&n
bsp; “We all agreed that we were prepared to die?”

  Again they nodded.

  “Whatever happens I’m a doomed man. So I stay. The Prospector is also a marked man after the killing in Novosibirsk. That’s two of us. I need two more to stay to the end. I need the Pederast when he returns from the train because he’s the best marksman we have. I need the Planter for the radio. Shiller, of course, will stay. The rest of you haven’t been identified. If you move out now you stand a chance – no more – of getting away before the troops arrive.”

  No one spoke.

  “Very well, I leave it to you.” Pavlov stood up and went back to the sleeping compartment.

  Yermakov raised his head and regarded him through glazed eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in a slurred voice. “Where’s Razin?”

  The Physician said: “It’s no good talking to him for a couple of hours. In fact it would be better to leave it till dawn.”

  Pavlov said: “Very well. The troops will get here during the night. But they won’t know what the hell to do. The first thing we’ll see at dawn is a helicopter.” He turned to the Planter. “Can you get through to Shilka?”

  The Planter nodded. “It’s the best equipment I’ve ever handled.”

  “Then send a message in one hour’s time to the local K.G.B. Just as we rehearsed it. Tell them we’re holding Yermakov as a hostage against the immediate release to Israel of eleven Jews.” He remembered Gopnik’s treachery. “No, ten Jews. Tell them we’ll supply the names later. Tell them that if any attempt is made to attack – if one tear gas bomb is lobbed – then we’ll kill Yermakov and they’ll be answerable.”

  The Planter consulted his wristwatch. “I’ll send the message at 22.30 hours.”

  The Poacher walked down the corridor past the open door carrying another corpse over his shoulder, staggering a little under its weight.

  Pavlov said: “Tomorrow we’ll get you” – looking at Yermakov slumped in the chair– “to sign a few documents.” He turned to the Puppet-maker. “Have you checked all the Aeroflot timetables?”

  The Puppet-maker said: “Everything is synchronised – provided our timetable goes according to plan.”

  “It will,” Pavlov said tersely. “It’s taken my whole life to plan.” He went into the corridor, tapping on the door of the cell. “What’s in there?”

  “We don’t know,” the Planter said. “We can’t unlock it.”

  “Are you out of your minds?” Pavlov drew his pistol.

  The Planter mumbled: “There wasn’t time. You came just as …”

  Pavlov shot away the lock and Stanley Wagstaff fell into the corridor.

  * * *

  There were 30 degrees of frost outside and blades of cold came through the gaps in the boarded-up windows. The Painter stood in the ticket office, the barrel of his submachine gun poking through the pay box. Shiller and the Prospector sat on a bench opposite the prisoners – five secret policemen, Boris Demurin, Harry Bridges and Libby Chandler. In one corner of the station, roped under the door to an iron shoe-scraper outside, sat the Prospector’s wolf.

  “What are we going to do?” Libby asked, shivering violently.

  “Get a fire going,” Bridges told her.

  He stood up and the Prospector’s gun jerked. Bridges told him what he was going to do; the Prospector nodded without altering the aim of his sub-machine gun.

  Under the sacks where the arms had been hidden Bridges found some old posters that cracked when he handled them. An advertisement for a company with offices in Yinka Street, Moscow, manufacturing Glycerin Soap, Glycerin Powder and Petrol Soap – “the great helper in the unfortunate case of hairs falling off.” The salesman, Bridges reflected, must have realised the futility of selling soap to the pioneers of Panhandle and dumped his inducements. On the wall were tattered posters issued by Gustav List Ltd. of Moscow, who made steam pumps and fire engines, and an advertisement from Keller and Co., 92 Obdodny Canal, St. Petersburg, who distilled rectified spirits and table wines. Underneath some lusty miner had drawn a sketch of a woman with her legs open. The graffiti underneath indicated what he proposed to do with her when he reached the fleshpots of Irkutsk.

  Bridges stuffed the posters into the rusty stove in the middle of the room. Under the sacks he found some rotting planks, broke them with a soft crack and shoved them over the paper. He pointed to the bench on which Shiller and the Prospector were sitting. “Now that.” When they moved he jumped on the middle of it and broke it in two. He put the pieces into the boiler and lit it. Smoke billowed into the room and a rat ran out of the boiler.

  Libby watched it without visible emotion. “Now what?” she asked.

  “What do you suggest?” Bridges sat beside her on the sacks. “Wait for the next train?”

  “We’ve got to escape.”

  “Sure,” Bridges said. “Sure.” He took his overcoat off and put it round her shoulders. “Can you give me one good reason why? We don’t want to get help. This is what you wanted to happen, isn’t it? Those are your heroes out there. The only possible reason for wanting to escape,” he said, beginning to shiver, “is to freeze to death.”

  Libby said: “I don’t want your coat. I can take care of myself.”

  “Keep it.”

  She kept it, surprised by the authority in his voice. The wind had risen playing wild music through the eaves. A ridge of snow crept under the door and the musty air smelled of kerosene from the oil lamps.

  “If we stay here we’ll see the action,” Bridges said. “Besides, what about the guy waiting for his package in Japan? You don’t want to jeopardise that, do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Let’s sit tight. They’ll realise what’s happened when the Trans-Siberian gets to Shilka. Christ knows what will happen then.”

  “Another scoop,” Libby said, “which you won’t send to your newspaper.”

  * * *

  The Pederast returned at 02.35 on the ninth day. He by-passed the station to reach the bridge from the far side, noting the black bulge of the explosives bound to the girders. It had stopped snowing and the wind was driving the clouds over a slice of moon. He walked along the bridge with dainty steps as if he were walking a tightrope. He could see the outlines of the old pit-head and he fancied he could hear the clanking of convicts’ chains.

  He answered the Planter’s challenge and climbed into the carriage.

  “Well?” Pavlov was sitting in the swivel chair. Shiller who had joined him from the station sat on the other side of the desk. He looked sullen, the Pederast thought, missing the authority he had wielded before Pavlov’s arrival.

  “Everything went as planned. The train stopped at Shilka. No one knew anything had happened. I fixed the driver and his mate.… Clubbed them with the gun,” he explained. “Then I ran for it. The car was parked there. I drove back, and here I am.” He smiled and only the Poacher scowled. My rival, the Pederast thought. He likes to kill, too; but with his hands, like the crude oaf he is.

  The Poacher said: “Did you kill them?”

  “Did I kill who?”

  “The driver and his mate.”

  “I don’t think so. Does it matter? What’s another death?” He noticed Stanley Wagstaff sitting groggily in the corner. “Who the hell’s that?”

  “Mr. Stanley Wagstaff,” Shiller told him. “Our courier.”

  Stanley was holding a Press conference at the Savoy Hotel, London. “I was their courier,” he told the reporters, watching them scribble in their notebooks.

  “What do you mean – courier?”

  Pavlov said: “We need someone to carry the message. Mr. Wagstaff has consented to take it for us.” He looked at his watch. “The troops will be here at first light –possibly before. Mr. Wagstaff had better get some sleep – the gas came through under the door of the cell.”

  Shiller handed Stanley his notebook. “Here, we found this in the control room. If you are a spy make good use of it.”

  “Thank you,” Sta
nley said. He told the reporters: “I took the details of Russian troops on their way to fight the Chinks.…” The Foreign Office representative at his side dug him in the ribs. “I’m sorry he told the journalists, “that was off the record.”

  “The first lot will come back by train,” Shiller said. “It’s the obvious way.…”

  Pavlov interrupted him. “It doesn’t matter how they come. They daren’t do anything.”

  Shiller said: “They didn’t mind killing Beria. They didn’t mind exiling Malenkov. They didn’t mind sacking Krushchev.”

  “Yermakov,” Pavlov said, “is different. How would the Nazis have reacted if Hitler had been held hostage – just for the release of ten Jews?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Shiller admitted reluctantly. “I hope you’re right.”

  Pavlov said: “If you want to quit you can. There’s nothing stopping you. Within ten days you could be back working for Pravda as if nothing had happened. In fact,” Pavlov said, “you could be wiring an article about the kidnap. Except,” he added, “that nothing will ever appear in the Soviet Press about it.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Although a lot could appear in the world Press.”

  Shiller looked suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Mr. Harry Bridges,” Pavlov said.

  “Bridges? He wouldn’t report a drunk in Red Square. I’m a journalist. I know Mr. Bridges.”

  “You did know Mr. Bridges,” Pavlov said. “Things have changed. Mr. Bridges is in love.”

  They were interrupted by a snore from Stanley Wagstaff. They picked him up and laid him gently on the floor of the cell.

  CHAPTER 4

  First light. The sun rose behind the white mountains filling their folds with pink shadow; there were tendrils of mist curled round the peaks but these would soon be gone. All the sounds of the taiga were sealed by the snow.

  From the east came a faint insect noise. The men in the carriage shielded their eyes but they could see nothing.

  You could see the depth of the ravine now. A sheer drop of 2,000 feet down to the bed of a dried-up river whose waters had been diverted by the builders of the Trans-Siberian.