Trans-Siberian Express (30 page)

“What is this?” the major asked, looking down at the mutilated body.

“A dead woman,” the soldier said. “They were carrying the body in that direction.” The soldier turned and pointed directly at Alex. The major looked where the soldier was pointing, then turned back to Ginzburg, as if Alex had been invisible. Ginzburg was silent. The major then looked questioningly at the old woman who stood trembling beside them.

“She died.” The old woman shrugged.

“That is quite obvious,” the major responded.

“What were you doing?” he demanded of Ginzburg.

The Jew stopped struggling, his eyes roving from his wife’s lifeless face to that of the major. From where he stood, Alex could see the glare of hate in his eyes.

“Quickly, I have no time.” The major glanced at his watch briefly, then looked back at Ginzburg. For a moment they stood glaring at each other, vapor pouring from their mouths, their faces a few inches apart. In the split second before it happened Alex could see it coming, could forecast its happening. The muscles of Ginzburg’s neck moved and in the next moment he spit into the major’s face. The major struck him one quick open-handed blow across the face, a conditioned reflex. Then he reached into his tunic for a handkerchief.

“You swine,” the major said. He poked at the body with the tip of his boot. “Remove this garbage,” he ordered the soldiers.

Alex stepped forward. “I would suggest you stop this stupidity,” he said. All eyes turned toward him.

“Doctor,” Ginzburg cried, struggling again in the grip of the soldiers.

“Doctor?” the major asked.

“You realize that you are being ridiculous.”

The major watched him curiously, his eyes narrowing.

“We were carrying Vera’s body to the baggage car,” Ginzburg said, surprisingly calm now. “She must be buried in Birobidjan.”

“Is there any harm in that?” Alex asked.

“You are Dr. Cousins?” the major asked coldly.

“Will you please release this man?” Alex said.

The major hesitated, then nodded at the soldiers. Ginzburg dropped to his knees over the body of his wife and quickly brought the ends of the blanket together. He retied the bundle with great gentleness, as if the woman were still alive.

“Now will you allow them to proceed?” Alex asked.

The major hesitated again, then looked into the face of the trembling old woman.

“Make it fast,” he commanded.

Ginzburg lifted one end, the woman the other, and they proceeded toward the baggage car. One of the soldiers ran ahead and opened the carriage door.

Alex turned to the major. “I demand to be taken to a representative of the American Government.”

“There is no one in Irkutsk.”

“Then I demand to be flown back to Moscow immediately.”

“I can’t allow that.”

“Then I demand to communicate directly with General Secretary Dimitrov.”

The idea had come to him suddenly. He would tell Dimitrov about the murder of Grivetsky.

The major seemed startled for a moment. “I can’t allow that.”

“I am his physician.”

“I have my orders.”

“From whom?”

The major did not answer that. “My orders are simply to see that you do not disembark,” he said. “I mean you no disrespect.”

“You have no right,” Alex said. “I am a United States citizen. I am General Secretary Dimitrov’s personal physician. Do not interfere with me in any way.”

Alex started to walk toward the ornate railway station, his body stiff with expectation. The major followed, obviously uncomfortable in his role.

“I cannot allow this.”

“You had better.”

“I have orders.”

“You can tell Zeldovich to piss on a stick.”

The major hesitated, then caught up with Alex again.

“You must come back to the train.”

“Kiss my ass.”

The major darted in front of him, barring his way.

“Let me pass.”

“I have my orders.”

“Fuck your orders.”

The major continued to bar his way. The line of soldiers was watching. Alex had issued his challenge. Now he was waiting for the moment when the major would be forced to act.

“Let me pass,” Alex hissed at the major.

The major called his bluff. “Escort this man back to the train,” he shouted to one of his officers.

Alex was instantly surrounded by tall, grim-looking soldiers, machine guns at the ready, ungloved fingers curved around the triggers. He felt oddly exhilarated. His sudden aggressiveness was as new to him as his feeling for Anna Petrovna, and, in its own way, as exciting. Finally, irrevocably, he felt drawn in at last, a player not a spectator. He was in the game now.

He suddenly pushed with both hands against the midsection of one of the soldiers, feeling the icy barrel of the machine gun.

The soldier struck Alex a glancing blow to the side of his face, making him reel backward into the snow. As he struggled to rise, the major bent over him.

“You must not resist,” he pleaded.

“Go fuck a duck,” Alex said in English.

He got to his feet and started again for the railway station, his feet sliding in the snow. Another soldier stepped in his path, barring the way, and Alex barreled into him.

“Don’t . . .” he heard the major shout. He barely felt the blow, only the sensation of disappearing into an endless void.

IF
there was one thing Zeldovich had learned from Dimitrov it was decisiveness. Looking down at the lifeless body of Grivetsky, he had the comfort of knowing that he had made a commitment. He had set a policy and there was no turning back. He had not consciously planned to destroy Grivetsky. But as the perpetrator of the deed, he had suddenly given himself two interesting new options. He could now pose as the savior of millions, the man who had forestalled a holocaust. That could be his ticket to political asylum in the West. On the other hand, he could also pose as an ally of Bulgakov, claiming that he had executed Grivetsky as a traitor to the high command of the Red Army. Anna Petrovna would make a reliable witness.

There was, of course, a third option, one for which he had to be prepared. If Dimitrov was going to live, he had to keep Dimitrov from ever learning what he had done. For this option, all witnesses had to be eliminated. He was thankful now that his head had cleared, that his mind was racing, that the weight of indecision had been eliminated from his brain. He lay back, felt his body relax.

Someone knocked on the door. Yashenko! He could tell by the timbre and rhythm of the knock, casual yet urgent. He sprang from the bunk and let him in. At the sight of Grivetsky, the usually impassive face of the red-haired man registered astonishment. Zeldovich shrugged.

“It was necessary,” he said. His casual tone seemed to placate Yashenko.

“We must get rid of him,” Zeldovich said. “All traces. You must empty his compartment.”

Yashenko nodded.

“Bring his coat in here and his baggage to the carriage entrance.”

Zeldovich looked at his watch, and fished in his pocket for the timetable.

“There is a three-minute stop in Angarsk,” he said. “We will tell the attendant that the general is debarking in Angarsk.”

While Yashenko was gathering the general’s belongings, Zeldovich washed, changed his clothes, and felt, for the first time since he had boarded the train, a delicious sense of well-being.

When Yashenko returned, they propped up the body of Grivetsky and dressed him in his coat and fur hat, being particularly careful to keep the coat from dipping into the pool of blood on the carpet.

“We must clean this up,” Zeldovich observed. They laid Grivetsky’s body on the bunk and both he and Yashenko, on hands and knees, proceeded to scrub at the stains on the carpet.

Then Zeldovich opened the compartment door a sliver, put his cheek against it and observed the passageway. As far as he could see, it was empty. Opening it further, he saw the old attendant, her back turned toward them, lazily shining the samovar.

“Quickly,” he whispered and they moved into the passageway, the body of Grivetsky supported between them. The body was a dead weight, and their muscles strained to keep it erect between them. They did not have far to go.

Yashenko quickly slid open the door and they hurried into the freezing space between the carriages, leaning the body against the steel walls. Opening the outer door, Zeldovich peered into the snowy darkness, feeling a stab of chill as he drew his breath. Grabbing a handhold, he swung outward to get a full view of the area ahead, lit by the beam of the engine.

The train was moving along a river bank. Zeldovich could hear the heavy gush of water, the crackling sound of ice floes. He smiled into the darkness, seeing the river below him, feeling a sense of deliverance. Ducking into the train again, he grabbed the sleeve of Grivetsky’s coat and yanked as hard as he could; with Yashenko’s help the body began to move and fell away from the train. Looking back, Zeldovich watched the body fall, a dark hulk hurtling toward the river and oblivion.

“Now the baggage,” Zeldovich said, stepping into the train as Yashenko picked up the baggage and positioned himself at the entrance. Zeldovich carefully calculated the distance. He was deliberate now, businesslike, feeling nothing. He reached for the wall to brace himself, then moving backward, lifted his leg, aimed it toward the small of Yashenko’s back and struck. Yashenko’s body flew outward without a sound. This time Zeldovich did not look backward, but quickly reached for the remaining baggage, flung it off the train and slammed the carriage door. He took a deep breath, feeling the tension in his fingers ease as he opened the inner door to the corridor and slipped quietly back to his compartment.

The train was slowing down now, moving into the tiny Angarsk station, a mere speck in the endless journey. He pulled out his timetable again. They would reach Chita tomorrow. It was unlikely that Grivetsky would be missed by Dimitrov until then.

He had no set plan, in his mind, but at least he was moving again, his brain turning over, his despair purged. Reaching into a leather bag under his bunk, he drew out a pistol, checked the clip for bullets, and put it in his belt. Then he stepped into the passageway. The old attendant was busy shining the handrail along the corridor. She looked up dully, nodded, and continued her work. Zeldovich went to Anna Petrovna’s and Dr. Cousins’ compartment and knocked. The door opened almost immediately.

“You,” Anna Petrovna said. She was alone in the compartment.

“The doctor?”

She shivered, drawing her dressing gown tighter. Her broad face was anxious and tear-stained.

“Gone where?” he asked firmly.

She had obviously been waiting for some time. The ashtray beside her was filled with the short butts of cigarettes. Without looking at Zeldovich, she waved her hand in the direction of the passageway.

“You let him go?”

“What should I have done? Stuck a knife in his neck?”

“Did you tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

“About Grivetsky.”

“No,” she shot back quietly.

He wondered if it were the truth. It was obvious that the woman was in an emotional state.

“I’ll be back,” he mumbled, as he let himself out of the compartment.

He walked quickly through the train, headed for the troop car at the rear. Above all, he must prevent the American doctor from leaving the train. He gave the major Alex’s name and description. “Dr. Cousins must not be harmed,” Zeldovich told him. Then he returned to the soft-class carriage.

Anna Petrovna answered his knock after a long delay. Inside, he inspected the doctor’s belongings.

“His coat is still here,” he observed.

Anna Petrovna looked up at him, her feelings for Alex clearly written in her face. Emotional involvement, Zeldovich had found, was the shortcoming of all female KGB operatives, of women in general.

“He is probably sulking,” Zeldovich said, hoping for a reaction.

“No one likes to feel betrayed,” she said. He watched her eyes fall on his belt, where his fingers touched the butt of his revolver.

“You must not harm him,” she whispered.

“We will do what must be done,” he said, deliberately posturing. Was there anything to be gained by threatening her? he wondered. Then she stood up, reaching out to pat the linen dust cover of the bunk, her features betraying her uncertainty.

“There would be absolutely no point to it,” she said slowly, watching him, her eyes occasionally dropping to the gun at his beltline.

In the end there is only fear, he thought.

“What is the point? He has told us everything he knows.”

“Are you certain?”

“Totally.”

“Then what is to come is irrevocable,” he said, feigning a sigh. He knew he had pressed the right button from the beginning. Fanatical idealists, Zeldovich told himself, with contempt. Easily manipulated.

“We have at least bought some additional time,” he said to Anna Petrovna. “But we have got to use it wisely.” He was being deliberately soft, lulling.

“Dr. Cousins could be the instrument,” she said quickly, emboldened by his manner. “He could get word to the American President. In three more days the doctor will be in the Sea of Japan. Then in Yokohama. There he could communicate with the United States without obstruction.” She was becoming excited now. “They are the only ones who could stop it.”

“How?” American intervention had never been, in his mind, a viable alternative. Dimitrov had destroyed for him the idea of American will.

“They have power,” Dimitrov had said, “but no goals. They are soft, flabby. They showed us in Vietnam. We could push them out of half, perhaps three-quarters of the world, before they would have the will to resist us and then it would be too late.”

In any case, this was the least appealing of Zeldovich’s options. There was, after all, still Bulgakov. It all came back to the question of Dimitrov’s longevity.

“It is ironic that going to the Americans may be the only possibility of stopping this madness,” Anna Petrovna said, pausing to pull a cigarette from a pack on the table. “Isn’t there anyone in this country in a position of leadership to whom we could take this information?”