Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express ir-14

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  It was Iosef who saw her first. She was not a particularly interesting figure-plain, cloth coat, pale face-but there was a determination in her eyes that made him feel that she might be the one. The sighting and the realization came in a fraction of a moment. The woman had only been truly visible to him when she was four or five feet away.

  The knife came out. Elena’s back was turned. Iosef pushed Elena to the side and lifted the briefcase to ward off the blow he knew was coming. He was ready but not for what took place.

  The woman came in a quick rush and thrust the long blade into the shoulder of Elena Timofeyeva.

  “Maht’, Mother,” the woman wept. “Stay away from him.”

  Inna Dalipovna raised her hand to strike again, but Iosef reached out and grabbed her wrist. The woman tried to wrench free. She was remarkably strong, but she had only the one arm to use. Iosef brought the briefcase down hard on the woman’s left wrist.

  Inna whimpered and tried to hold on to the knife. She looked down at Elena, who had slumped to the platform.

  Iosef wrenched the knife from Inna’s hand and turned her around, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. The crowd was beginning to gather.

  “What is happening?” asked a man.

  “Cops,” said a woman. “Beating up a gypsy beggar.”

  “Good,” came an old woman’s voice. “Good. The gypsies should all be sent to Roumania.”

  “One of the gypsies is hurt,” said a young woman. “Look.”

  “Elena,” Iosef said, holding on to the handcuffed hands of Inna Dalipovna.

  “I am not hurt badly,” she said. “I do not think …”

  She started to get up and found herself on her knees, looking down at the blood dripping onto the platform from her wound. She did not want to be seen like this, on her knees, about to pass out, pathetic. If there was one thing she wanted never to be, it was pathetic.

  She looked up at the woman Iosef was holding, the woman who had attacked her, called her “Mother.” She looked up at the face of the woman and sensed that she was feeling the same thing, the same desire to be viewed as something other than pathetic.

  After five hours of working with the small piece of metal he had pried off the handle of his chamber pot, Misha Lovski got the door to his cage open at precisely two minutes after nine in the morning. He had no way of knowing that. For him it could have been night or day. In spite of the constant sound-the speakers were now blaring his own song, “Guts in the Snow”-and ever-burning light, he was fairly certain that his jailer, his keeper, would not be coming back for some time, perhaps hours. It was difficult to be sure, but he felt that he did have time.

  He pushed the cage door open slowly, listening for an alarm that would give away his escape. He heard nothing, but that proved nothing. The alarm might be two rooms or miles away. The alarm might be a silent flashing light.

  Misha the Naked Cossack would write a song about his experience. It would be true. He would tell his audiences that it had happened to him. He would make them believe. They would shout, faces red in praise at his triumph. The song, which he had already been writing in his head, would be called “Cossack in a Cage.”

  He recited lines softly, ignoring his own voice, his own music being piped in around him. He tiptoed in his bare feet in the direction of the door, carrying the heaviest pot, the one they gave him to use as a toilet. It was empty. His mind was full.

  “Prisoner in the light,” he said, reaching for the wall to his right. “Looking for a night. Searching for the dark. Cursing at electric sun. Weapon in my hand. I should have saved the shit I made to throw right in their face. Fuck the human race.”

  He inched his way along slowly.

  “Face them in sun,” he whispered. “Have a little fun. Put them in the cage. Misfits in a rage. They tried to stop the Cossack, tried to make him weep, tried to make him go insane, tried to hide the truth, now they are in the booth. Strip them of their clothes. Let them hold their nose when you give them neither pot nor food, water nor repose. Play ninety decibels high. Beat out their eardrums. Watch out, Jews and Gypsies, here the Cossack comes.”

  He was next to the door now. He could easily reach out and grab the knob with his left hand. Instead he simply stood. In his right he held the pot tightly. He stepped back behind the door, waiting. He could wait forever. The Naked Cossack could wait forever. And then the lights would go out and the music stop and his jailer would enter and the Cossack would strike and strike and strike. Let him die. He wanted the jailer. It was the warden he wanted more. He would find a better weapon, a more deadly weapon, and then he would kill the warden, for he knew without doubt who the warden was.

  “Find the warden in his den,” he recited. “Drag his writhing carcass to the pen. Russias come and Russias go. Friends to no one. Cossack foes. What will happen no one knows, but the Cossack will survive. The Cossack like others who passed before will be there to settle the ancient score.”

  He heard something. Outside the door. Soft under the music. He lifted the pot high. Lights went out. Music died. And the door slowly opened.

  The name of the wounded gunman was Raoul Bronborg, a Swedish citizen. Karpo had the printout from Interpol on the desk before him along with Bronborg’s fingerprints, which had led to the message from Interpol.

  Bronborg was thirty-six years old, a mercenary who had worked as a private bodyguard in Brazil, Norway, France, and Bahrain. He spoke many languages and had many names, including Antonio Barleon, Sven Istermann, and Stephan Pomier. His current name was unknown and he had given Karpo none before he went into surgery and when he emerged after it.

  Bronborg answered no questions. He met Karpo’s eyes and spoke, but answered no questions. He had been given, at his own insistence, only a local anesthetic. It was clear that he wanted no drug or medication to interfere with his thoughts. Pain was preferable. Karpo understood.

  “I will answer no questions,” he said in nearly perfect Russian.

  “Then,” said Karpo, “I shall ask you none. I will tell you that we know who you are.”

  “Interpol?”

  “Yes,” said Karpo. “Interpol. You are not wanted anywhere.”

  “I know,” said the man in the hospital bed.

  He was the embodiment of a mercenary or bodyguard, powerful arms and chest, a determined, hard dark face of no particular ethnic distinction. He had a white scar high on his forehead, and up close Karpo could see that the man had lost just a small piece of the tip of his left earlobe.

  “I know who you work for,” Karpo said.

  The man in the bed looked at the policeman with his deep-brown and unemotional eyes and said, “I believe you.”

  “You tried to kill a police officer,” Karpo said.

  “I did not know you were a police officer,” the man said. “I thought you were an assassin or kidnapper.”

  “So you and your friend were there to protect a pair of minor musicians.”

  “That is a question?”

  “Let us call it a statement.”

  “My companion, whose name I do not know, and I saw you and assumed the worst. You are not exactly a reassuring figure. And people do lie about being policemen.”

  “And about being protectors of musicians.”

  “You have my file. I work for whomever pays me. It is what I do. I cannot tell you more. In my work, my reputation for confidentiality is essential. I am sure you understand.”

  “I understand,” said Karpo.

  “So, if you plan to torture or drug me, please proceed. It will not be the first time. I will not speak.”

  “You will be neither drugged nor tortured,” said Karpo. “I know who your current employer is. It is in your file.”

  “Then I would like to rest,” said the man, closing his eyes. “We can resume our conversation later.”

  “You will be charged.”

  “You will do what you must,” the man said.

  With that the man was asleep. Karpo was certa
in the Swede was not pretending. It was not just the aftermath of surgery. The man had learned the art of sleeping when one could and, Karpo was certain, the art of awakening fully prepared when one had to do so.

  And now Emil Karpo sat behind his desk, Akardy Zelach sitting across from him, trying to hide his feeling, something between fear and concern. He was sure Karpo could read him clearly, knew what he was thinking, while he had no idea what was on Karpo’s mind. He never knew what Karpo was thinking even when the man was his usual self, which he had definitely not been for several days.

  “How is he?” Zelach asked. “The man I shot?”

  “He will recover.”

  “That is good.”

  “Perhaps,” said Karpo as he closed the folder and rose. Zelach rose with him. Karpo moved out of the cubicle with Zelach behind him. Zelach wanted to ask where they were going, but he said nothing.

  Karpo did not tell him that they were going to confront a kidnapper.

  Misha Lovski, the Naked Cossack, did not think he had killed his jailer. He had gone into the next room, found a light switch, and turned it on. When he went back to examine the jailer, he thought he detected breathing. Blood flowed thick and dark from the matted hair of the man.

  Misha dragged the unconscious man to the cell, stripped off his clothes, and put them on. They fit well. He knew they would. He left the cage and locked the door. The jailer had carried a small revolver, not terribly impressive, but the man was not in a business that normally required him to carry a weapon. For that matter, neither was Misha, who had never fired a weapon in his life. The gun in his hand felt remarkably light as he moved back to the door to the room and opened it. If he encountered anyone, he would pull the trigger and hope it would fire.

  He was well aware that his confinement, the light and darkness, the blaring music, his humiliating nakedness, which he believed he had turned to cossack strength, had altered him. That he might be a bit mad was a distinct possibility. But that would pass or, if not, he would make use of it. It had already helped him compose new songs. His mind was racing with words and driving, hammering music demanding to be set free. He wanted a guitar, not a gun, but he would use the instrument in his hand first.

  The room into which he stepped, about the size of the room in which he had been imprisoned, was simply furnished, with concrete floor and walls. It looked like a space into or out of which someone was just moving, with a large, modern, modular metal computer desk against one wall with a large-screen computer on top of it. A chair stood in front of the computer. There was another table, same material, with three chairs, metal arms and legs, seat and back of tan material. A chair which matched those at the table stood in one corner, not far from the door to his former prison. It was meant to be a comfortable version of the others, with a small footrest. Next to that chair was a side table with an open book on top of it.

  Misha moved to the book and picked it up. It had something to do with communications technology. He put it back and moved to another door quite different from the one to his prison. This door had a button, a round white button, next to it. He pressed the button, gun in hand, ready to kill.

  The door opened almost instantly. There was no one before him. He stepped forward and the door closed behind him.

  Karpo in front, Zelach behind, moved in front of the person waiting behind the window. They stopped and Karpo said only, “We will see him now.”

  It was not a request. It was an order. Zelach had no idea how his order would be taken. He took a deep breath as quietly as he could and looked around at the armed men around them. This was not a terribly good idea, but he did not know what to say or how he might put into words what he was feeling. He tried to remember his mother’s advice, but it was too late for that. He was with Emil Karpo. He would do his duty even if Karpo had begun to … He did not want to finish his thought.

  There was a long beat and Zelach would not have been surprised if Karpo had pulled out his gun and fired.

  Instead, the person Karpo was addressing looked into his eyes and saw much of what Zelach had become well aware. The person nodded.

  Misha Lovski stood, eyes forward, weapon ready. His hands were moist and he felt his heart beating quickly. He recited a mantra aloud though he did not call it that.

  “The Cossack will have revenge. The Cossack will emerge stronger than ever. The Cossack will have revenge. The Cossack will emerge stronger. The Cossack will have revenge. The Cossack will emerge stronger.”

  The door opened. Misha Lovski stepped out, weapon raised, and aimed at the man behind the desk across the room. Two men stood before the desk. Misha did not recognize them. One was rather soft-looking, with large glasses, a bookkeeper. The other was dressed in black with the pallor of a zombie.

  The man behind the desk was Misha’s father. He looked up at his son calmly, hand flat on his desk.

  “Whoever moves dies,” Misha said.

  His father smiled and then the smile faded.

  “You did not?…” he said.

  “My brother is in the cage where you put me. I think he is alive. I do not care. You can care for another minute. Then I will kill you.

  Misha moved forward.

  “You cannot go back to your skinhead anti-Semitic friends,” Nikoli said. “They know you are a Jew. Sit down. We will talk. First, I want to get medical attention for your brother. Then, I consider that you think about this offer. I will send you to South America. We have holdings, a television station in Buenos Aires. That is what I have planned for you. I can see no choice, Misha.”

  “You are wrong,” Misha shouted. “There is no Misha Lovski. There is only the Naked Cossack.”

  The gun was leveled at the man behind the desk now, and Misha had closed the distance to no more than ten feet. It was at this point that Emil Karpo stepped between father and son.

  “I will shoot you too,” said Misha. “Get out of the way. “

  From behind the ghost before him, Nikoli Lovski said, “In a very odd way, I am proud of you, Misha. I did not think escape was possible. There is hope for you. You still have a brain.”

  “With no thanks to you, Popchick,” Misha said with venom. “Now, out of the way, you.”

  “You have never fired a gun before,” said Karpo.

  There was something hollow in the man’s voice, something hollow, unafraid, something almost dead.

  “I have,” said Misha.

  “I am a policeman,” Karpo said. “You may put the gun away and we will accompany you out of here. If not, you will have to shoot me and you will have failed in your resolve. My partner will kill you before you have a chance to shoot your father, who will fall to the floor behind his desk as soon as you shoot me.”

  Zelach felt a quiver run down his back. He was not at all certain he could accomplish this mission, could shoot his second man the same day, but he did not fail to notice that Karpo had called him “partner” and not “associate.”

  “We shall see,” Misha shouted. “Live to fight another day,” said Zelach. “When death is near don’t run away, but hide until the strength is yours, the true cossack always endures.”

  Misha turned to look at the odd rumpled man in glasses who was reciting Misha’s own words, words from one of his distinctly lesser-known songs from a compact disk that had sold but a few thousand copies.

  “You know my work?” Misha said.

  Zelach nodded and said, “I would not like to shoot you. I do not know much about South America, but I believe you could begin a new career anywhere. You have something new to say now.”

  Misha looked at the rumpled man whose brow was definitely moist. And then he looked at the ghost before him.

  Zelach willed neither Nikoli Lovski nor Emil Karpo to speak. He did not know where his own words had come from but he feared that either of the other two might, for very different reasons, say something that would cause Misha to pull the trigger.

  “He deserves to die,” Misha said.

  “We all de
serve to die,” said Karpo.

  Zelach cringed.

  “I need revenge,” said Misha angrily. “I need revenge. Do you not understand? That is the cossack way. I cannot let this pass. I cannot live with this.”

  Zelach was at a loss. This conversation was beyond him. He needed Porfiry Petrovich or even the old Emil Karpo, not the one standing there asking to be shot, but neither was present.

  “There are many ways to get revenge,” Zelach said. “Do not be what others demand. Listen to your own command. Follow the path you wish to choose. Leave the bloodsuckers behind to live and lose.”

  “Apache Cannibals?” Misha asked.

  “No,” said Zelach. “The Finnish band Living Dead.”

  “I do not know them,” said Misha. “They are good?”

  “I like them,” said Zelach.

  Karpo stepped forward, his chest inches from the barrel of the gun in Misha’s hand.

  “Leave the bloodsuckers behind to live and lose,” Misha repeated to himself.

  Karpo reached out and took the weapon from the young man’s hand.

  Misha Lovski, the Naked Cossack, crumpled to his knees.

  Zelach moved forward quickly and grabbed the young man before he passed out. Karpo had stepped to one side.

  The last image Misha had before he closed his eyes was of his father behind the desk, looking at his son with eyes distinctly moist.

  The last sound he heard before fainting was of his father on the phone, saying to someone, “Get to the cell. My son is in there. Get him to a hospital.”

  Chapter Seven

  The world is long, there is no consolation

  For those who join at the end of the line

  The skeletons were at the feast

  "We get snow. Don’t get me wrong. We get snow in Cincinnati, but look at that. Look out that window.”

  The old American, Susman, was seated at a table near the rear of the dining car, an empty seat beside him.

  Rostnikov had paused next to the little bald man who now said, “Have a seat?”