Trans-Siberian Express (41 page)

“You couldn’t possibly have expected him to hold out forever without taking some action,” Dr. Cousins continued. “A man as thirsty for life as he is. And with his nose for intrigue.”

Outside an Army staff car approached, its lights throwing eerie shadows along the road, and Zeldovich saw for the first time the extent of the convoy and the unusually large concentration of troops. The staff car stopped at the entrance of the soft class. A driver and two armed guards hopped out and the driver opened the back door of the car. A heavy figure emerged, an overcoat slung over his shoulders. Bulgakov. Zeldovich watched as he gripped the handhold and lifted himself aboard.

“Who is that?” Dr. Cousins asked.

“Bulgakov,” Zeldovich whispered. He wanted the doctor to feel his sarcasm, his contempt. The doctor blinked, not comprehending the irony.

The Marshall, his face flushed, lumbered into the passageway. The cold had made his face ruddy, the jowls beet red. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he saw Zeldovich and proceeded toward him. Under his veneer of charm, good humor and pomposity, he was a cunning man. It was no secret that the Marshall had expensive taste in food, uniforms and women. Was it the wives of the Politburo members who had assured his rise to eminence? Zeldovich wondered.

Suddenly, Dr. Cousins stepped forward, blocking the Marshall’s path.

“I am Dr. Cousins,” he said, putting out his hand. “The General Secretary’s personal physician.” Bulgakov looked at him curiously, then smiled broadly.

“Yes,” he said pleasantly, gripping the doctor’s hand. “I have just come from your patient.” He looked at his watch. “About eight hours ago, I would say. This is a miserable hour, isn’t it, Zeldovich?”

Anna Petrovna hung back, watching nervously.

“And how was he feeling?” Dr. Cousins interrupted.

The Marshall turned slowly to face him. “He is failing swiftly.”

“And has he sent for me?” Dr. Cousins asked.

Bulgakov ignored the question. Zeldovich smiled. They are so obtuse, he thought. Bulgakov’s watery eyes moved, shifted from Zeldovich’s face to the doctor’s, then to Anna Petrovna’s. She was pale, her lips pursed.

“He is far gone,” Bulgakov said quietly. Suddenly he rubbed his ungloved hands together and pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his coat, offering it first, in a courtly gesture, to Anna Petrovna. She refused. Zeldovich shook his head and the Marshall sipped the contents, smacking his lips.

Dr. Cousins turned to Zeldovich. “So there is your answer at last.”

Bulgakov frowned, obviously surprised that the American doctor was in Zeldovich’s confidence.

“I would suggest you leave us now, Doctor,” Zeldovich ordered, motioning to the guard.

“What does he mean?” Bulgakov asked as Alex was led away.

“He is bitter about his medical failure,” Zeldovich replied, ushering the Marshall and Mrs. Valentinov into his compartment.

An officer who had come in with Bulgakov addressed the passengers who now filled the passageway.

“You will please return to your compartments. There is no problem here. You will soon be under way again.”

The passengers obediently went back to their compartments. The train began to move again, the metal couplings straining as the wheels began to click over the rivets.

The Marshall took the one chair and sipped again from the flask, his eyes examining Anna Petrovna’s figure.

He thrust out the flask. “To a lovely lady.”

It is the moment, Zeldovich thought. “She has been invaluable,” he said.

Bulgakov’s eyes lingered on Mrs. Valentinov.

“About Grivetsky, we had little choice, Comrade. He was the instrument of your betrayal. To say nothing of his participation in the plan for a first strike against the Chinese. It was Dimitrov’s last mad gesture.”

Zeldovich felt his hands grow clammy, his breath short. Bulgakov remained impassive.

“I suspected. But I was not certain. Finally he confirmed it himself.” Zeldovich’s words seemed to cascade from his lips. “I knew something was up back at the dacha. Dimitrov did not confide in me. It was strictly my own suspicion. I think he was going mad. Grivetsky must have sensed we were watching him.” Was there a flicker of confirmation in Bulgakov’s eyes? “In the end there was no choice but to kill him.”

Zeldovich turned to Mrs. Valentinov. It is your turn, you bitch, he thought.

Bulgakov’s eyes rested on Anna Petrovna, who lowered hers.

“It is true,” she said. “I saw it. The general would have killed us first. There was no choice. He is correct.”

“I called you directly,” Zeldovich went on. “You had to be told. We three are the only ones who know about this.”

Anna Petrovna kept her eyes down. “There is no chance he can send someone else?” she asked.

The Marshall smiled. “He is too far gone.”

“You are the only one who knows about Grivetsky, Comrade,” Zeldovich said, again driving the point home. But Bulgakov’s mind seemed to be wandering.

“You look like hell, Zeldovich,” he said, chuckling.

“It has been a tense journey.”

Bulgakov nodded. Was the Marshall being faintly contemptuous? Zeldovich’s hands began to shake and he thrust them in his pockets.

“Too bad about Grivetsky,” Bulgakov said wistfully. “He was a fine fellow, a competent officer, and above all a friend.” He replaced the flask in a pocket of his coat.

“It had to be done,” Zeldovich said cautiously, watching Bulgakov’s face for some reaction.

“I’m afraid so, Comrade,” Bulgakov said.

He is thinking of himself now, Zeldovich thought, sighing with relief. He knows I have saved his career.

“That’s exactly the way I saw it,” Zeldovich said, hesitating, his body relaxing, the tension subsiding.

“Are you sure about Comrade Dimitrov?” Mrs. Valentinov asked suddenly.

“He is finished,” Bulgakov said.

“Does he know you are here?” Zeldovich asked.

“I’m afraid not.” The Marshall patted Zeldovich’s arm. “We are monitoring all messages now. He seemed rather anxious to get that American doctor back to the dacha. But it is even too late for that.”

“And the others?” Zeldovich said meekly. The Politburo! Would Bulgakov understand?

“They will be fully informed”—Bulgakov cleared his throat—“before the meeting.”

“And you will explain my role?”

Had he detected a faint smile around Bulgakov’s eyes, a bit mocking?

“Of course.” Bulgakov looked directly at Mrs. Valentinov.

“I had no choice,” Zeldovich mumbled, then regretted it. He must not overkill his position.

“You have done well, Comrade,” Bulgakov said.

He reached out and touched Mrs. Valentinov’s arm, stroking her bare skin gently. Zeldovich saw her cringe, then control her anger.

The Marshall turned toward Zeldovich. “Both of you. I’m in your debt.”

“As Comrade Zeldovich has suggested, there was little choice,” Mrs. Valentinov said, moving away a few steps.

Seeing Bulgakov’s interest in Anna Petrovna, Zeldovich tensed again. Somehow he must dismiss her, he thought. There were loose ends to tie. He must be alone with Bulgakov.

“There is more to be said,” he whispered. Bulgakov turned, his eyes narrowing. “Between us.”

Anna Petrovna immediately turned to go, her fingers reaching for the door handle. She seemed anxious to leave. The color had drained from her face and her fingers shook. Bulgakov nodded, and she slid the door aside and let herself into the passageway.

“Most attractive,” Bulgakov said, his eyes lingering on the closed door.

He drew out his flask again and, head back, poured another shot down his throat, his eyes tearing. Zeldovich watched him, the huge relaxed bulk, unruffled, sure of his own worth. He was, Zeldovich felt, a man in repose, an odd condition for someone who had very nearly been toppled from his exalted position.

“Grivetsky would not have hesitated for a moment,” Bulgakov said. “Always the consummate technician. The operation would have worked like a clock.”

“Dimitrov knew that.”

The Marshall shook his head and, smiling, turned the full strength of his concentration on Zeldovich.

“We are both students of survival, Comrade.” He sighed. “It is quite grim out there.” He paused. “We should be getting to Khabarovsk shortly.” He patted his stomach. “And I am getting hungry.”

It was all so casual, so disarming, not at all as Zeldovich had imagined. Was Bulgakov really grateful? Would he save him?

“The poor fellow was quite bad off,” Bulgakov said, his thoughts drifting. They might have been in the living room of Bulgakov’s apartment, philosophizing before a crackling fire. “He senses what is happening to him. The death of life is one thing. The death of power quite another.” He slapped his thigh. “I liked the fellow and he damn near pulled it off.”

Could Bulgakov be trusted? Zeldovich wondered. Had he miscalculated on the key to his own survival? I am at his mercy, he thought, a detestable condition to be in. If I had not killed Grivetsky, you would be hanging by your thumbs, he thought.

“The lines around Moscow are red hot.” Bulgakov chuckled. “The KGB is quite busy as well. It is very amusing, eh, Zeldovich?”

“It is a serious business,” he responded. “And there are many loose ends.”

“Yes, loose ends,” the Marshall said. He looked at his watch. “I am absolutely famished.”

It was quite confusing. Zeldovich felt his knees grow weak, and he thought suddenly of the gun in his pocket.

“There are all sorts of considerations, Comrade,” he said, wondering if the Marshall could see his panic. Was it possible Bulgakov had not thought of the consequences?

“She knows everything,” Zeldovich continued.

“That’s quite obvious.”

“And, perhaps, the American doctor as well”

Bulgakov did not seem interested. “We are now drifting into your field, Comrade.”

Was that it? The stamp of approval?

“Yes, that is your area, Zeldovich,” Bulgakov said, looking at his watch again. “It is dinner time in Moscow.”

He is doing this deliberately, Zeldovich thought.

Bulgakov removed the flask from his tunic again and upended it, smacking his lips as the last drop poured into his mouth.

“You can count on me,” Zeldovich said, the sweat beginning to pour down his back. “And I am depending on you.”

“Of course.”

It was barely an acknowledgement, infuriating Zeldovich.

Bulgakov looked at his watch.

“You understand the consequences of this, Comrade,” Zeldovich said, his voice rising as he felt the immensity of his fear.

“My dear Zeldovich, do you really believe that I would travel all the way to this godforsaken place for my health?”

It was the first hint Bulgakov had given of any serious motives. Zeldovich felt momentarily relieved.

“They will have to be dealt with.”

“Of course,” Bulgakov said.

Zeldovich waited for some further words, but none came.

“I have a plan, Comrade,” he said.

Bulgakov slapped his thighs and stood up. “I’m sure you will be quite thorough,” he said. “You have a fine reputation for these matters.”

“We must arrange a funeral for General Grivetsky with full military honors,” Zeldovich said maliciously.

“Absolutely,” Bulgakov responded. “He will be quite difficult to replace, a marvelous technician.”

Is he listening? Zeldovich wondered.

“His body is lying at the bottom of some river in the middle of Siberia.”

“That does create difficulties.” Bulgakov seemed only mildly interested.

“A detail,” Zeldovich said. An idea had just come to him. He felt an odd surge of pride. “I have a body.”

“You are remarkable, Zeldovich.”

He could not tell if Bulgakov meant it sarcastically. Bulgakov was, indeed, an enigma. I will simply have to get used to it all over again, he thought. Dimitrov, too, had hardly bothered to hear details. “Do what you have to do, Zeldovich.”

It will be the same, Zeldovich thought. Only the faces change.

“I will need your cooperation, of course. It will have to be a sealed coffin, heavily guarded to the moment it is buried.

“Done,” Bulgakov said.

“There is this body in the baggage car, a woman—”

“That is good, excellent,” Bulgakov said. He patted Zeldovich on the back. “You are a most remarkable fellow.”

He will see how valuable I am, Zeldovich thought.

“You will simply announce that he died of a heart attack on the Trans-Siberian Railroad.”

“A pity. Poor Grivetsky.” Bulgakov clicked his tongue.

Zeldovich watched the Marshall’s face. “That will leave only two loose ends.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the compartment next door.

“You have a plan for them as well?”

He is reacting, Zeldovich thought happily. It was like the old days with Dimitrov.

“We will have to arrange an accident. Something credible, of course. The doctor is, after all, on direct orders from the American President.”

“It is your specialty,” Bulgakov said, his eyes dancing merrily.

Is he ridiculing me? Zeldovich wondered. But Bulgakov’s face suddenly changed expression, the façade of boredom disappearing. The smile became a snarl.

“That is the essential business,” Bulgakov said, jabbing a stubby finger into Zeldovich’s chest. “Not a single word must ever get out about Dimitrov’s China plans. There must be no leak to the Americans. Not now. I hold you responsible.”

“And the Politburo?”

“Leave them to me.”

Then the bland façade reappeared, and Bulgakov’s eyes were twinkling again. So he is plotting his own course, Zeldovich thought, the intriguing bastard. He is thinking now only of his own skin.

WHAT
an exercise in futility it had been from the beginning, Alex thought, going through the motions of packing, watching Anna Petrovna take her clothing from the hooks and stow it neatly in her bags. Did she really believe that they would let her return to Irkutsk?

Zeldovich continued to watch them, sitting in the chair, casual, putting on a good-humored front.

“In a few hours it will be all over,” he had told them after the Marshall left. “The adventure will be over.”