ZELDOVICHrubbed the bristles on his chin. He had not shaved in five days, nor had he changed his clothes. He had never been a fastidious man, but his mother had impressed on him the importance of changing his underwear and wiping his nose, and to this day he could not feel comfortable unless he changed his underwear daily and carried a clean handkerchief. Cooped up in this compartment on the Trans-Siberian, Zeldovich felt that he was wallowing in slime.
He closed his eyes, felt the lids burn, and listened to the sound of the moving train. He took another deep gulp from the vodka bottle. Watching the wall that separated him from Dr. Cousins and the blonde woman he imagined that he could see them, locked in an obscene embrace. All hope rested in Anna Petrovna’s hands, he told himself, convinced that what she would discover would be enough to set things straight. Moments before, Yashenko had stirred, opened the compartment door a sliver and looked into the corridor.
“He is leaving,” Yashenko had said, putting on his jacket and slipping out of the compartment with the practiced silence of a big cat in the jungle.
Zeldovich might have dozed. He could not tell. The distinction between wakefulness and sleep had become blurred. Vaguely, as if from a distance, he had heard a clicking sound, but he had neither the will nor the inclination to become alert. There was a burst of light as the door opened, and he opened his eyes to see the silhouette of a big man entering the compartment. Then it was dark again and he squinted into the blackness, hearing the sound of the man’s breathing.
The light clicked on and he blinked, unused to the brightness.
“You,” he heard the man say. The voice was vaguely familiar. Then he opened his eyes again and saw General Grivetsky, gunmetal glinting in his hand. Zeldovich reached for the vodka bottle, lifting it in a mock toast, and drank slowly.
“Well?” Grivetsky said, holding the barrel of the gun steady a few feet from Zeldovich’s face.
“You should have a drink, General. Good for long journeys.” He lifted the bottle toward Grivetsky, who struck it with his free hand. It hit the carpeted floor and spilled, rolling to a stop against the foot of the lower bunk.
“Dimitrov?” Grivetsky asked, his eyes flashing with hatred.
Zeldovich began to laugh. The tears came to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He felt the barrel of the gun against his forehead, the chill of the metal. He felt no panic. Let him shoot.
“It will make a big mess,” Zeldovich warned, laughing again, but starting to fight for concentration.
Grivetsky moved the gun away. “Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Why what?”
“Why this surveillance?”
“Surveillance?” Through the fog of alcohol, Zeldovich could not follow Grivetsky’s meaning.
“Drunken bastard,” the general hissed. Suddenly Zeldovich understood.
“You think you are being watched?”
The general shifted his weight nervously. “There is no other explanation.”
“You think that?”
Grivetsky held the gun steady, but he seemed uncertain, an uncommon posture for the general, Zeldovich thought.
“KGB troops attached to the train. KGB agents crawling all over the place. You.” Grivetsky pointed with the gun barrel. “Dimitrov’s shadow. Holed up here like a stowaway. Even the most inefficient intelligence analyst could reach only one conclusion.”
“It is not Dimitrov,” Zeldovich said, looking into the barrel of the gun. He finally realized his danger.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“What does it matter what you believe?” He felt his hands shake and the overwhelming need for a drink. He sensed Grivetsky’s anger.
“You must be calm, General,” he said. “We are actually two peas from the same pod.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That our interests are not in conflict.”
“Our interests?”
“We are both pawns in Dimitrov’s game.” He saw Grivetsky’s reaction immediately. The gun barrel was lowered slightly.
“Why do you always talk in riddles?”
“Because we are locked into a riddle.” Zeldovich now knew he had the general’s attention.
“What riddle?”
“The riddle of Dimitrov’s longevity.” Grivetsky blinked. “We both need to know just how long Dimitrov will live.”
“Is he dying?”
“We are all dying.”
“Riddles again.”
“Dimitrov may be dying faster.” Zeldovich paused. “He has leukemia. Apparently the American doctor has saved him temporarily. The question is: For how long?”
The general sat down, letting the gun rest on his lap.
“You see the effects of such an enigma on yourself.”
“What do you mean?” the general shot back. Zeldovich watched his fingers tighten on the gun, but he did not raise it.
“What effect would the death of Dimitrov have on your mission?”
The general looked around the compartment, as if he were seeking some escape hatch. Zeldovich knew he had struck home.
He had never been truly certain about Grivetsky’s role until now, trusting the clues that Dimitrov had dropped. During the thunderstorm, Dimitrov had said weakly, “That is Lenin, cursing the infamy of mortality. Vladimir Ilich, ranting up there. He is crying for the lost moments. He had only five years. The lousy cheats. I hear you, Vladimir Ilich. I will not let them take me until the work is done. They will not cheat me as they cheated you. I’ll finish it, Vladimir Ilich.” Finish what? Zeldovich had wondered. Hints of answers emerged as he watched Grivetsky.
He let the silence hang heavy as Grivetsky’s mind groped for some understanding of his predicament. Finally the general stirred.
“Then what is the point of this exercise?”
“The need for knowledge.”
“What knowledge?”
Was this supposedly brilliant general obtuse? Zeldovich wondered.
Slowly Grivetsky’s puzzled expression cleared, as he began to understand.
“The American doctor?” he asked.
“He is the one. Only he knows what we must know.”
“Of course,” Grivetsky said, taking a deep breath. “I hadn’t realized.” He pointed in the direction of the compartment occupied by the doctor and the blonde woman, and raised an eyebrow. Zeldovich shrugged.
“The method is rather primitive, but considering the options, it seems to have the least number of risks.”
The general smiled, then put his gun in the belt of his pants.
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“I might have to resort to stronger methods.”
The general thought it all over.
“And this is strictly your own operation?”
“Totally.”
“No one knows?”
“Not even my friends at the KGB who have supplied the troops.”
Grivetsky was watching him closely, searching his face. Zeldovich knew what was on his mind, the central mystery, the heart of the enigma. Let him wonder, Zeldovich thought. For the first time since the general had arrived, Zeldovich felt the strength of his position. Bulgakov could not know about Grivetsky’s mission. He filed that bit of information in the inner recesses of his mind. It might someday save him.
The tapping on the door roused them both. They looked toward it, the general standing up quickly. Zeldovich put a finger over his lips and pointed to the washroom. Grivetsky stepped inside, leaving the door open a crack. The tapping persisted, urgently. Zeldovich stood up, felt a surge of nausea, and grabbed the upper bunk for support. “Who?” he whispered.
“Comrade Valentinov.”
He opened the compartment door and Anna Petrovna moved inside quickly. Impeccably dressed, she looked about her, grimacing at the sloppiness.
“This is a pigsty,” she said, sniffing the stale air.
Zeldovich bent down and picked up the overturned bottle.
“You look like you’ve been enjoying your work, Comrade,” Zeldovich said. Bending down had made him dizzy again.
Her eyes flashed angrily. “If you are looking for a definitive answer to the central question, forget it. There is none.”
She stood stiffly in the center of the compartment, waiting for a reaction. Zeldovich said nothing.
“There is only a statistical prognosis,” she continued. “He could live anywhere from five minutes to five years. There is no way of knowing.”
“You believe this?”
“Implicitly. I am certain the doctor is telling the truth.”
“Certainty, Comrade Valentinov, is quite concrete. There is not the slightest doubt in your mind?”
“Not the slightest.”
Zeldovich sensed her stubbornness, her determination to be believed. But he was unwilling to accept her answer. It was not his way to live with uncertainty. The prospect of five years in limbo was very distressing.
“You realize what this could mean?” He put the question loudly, so Grivetsky would be sure to hear him.
The woman frowned, her eyes revealing her confusion.
“It is unthinkable.” Anna Petrovna sighed. “Inconceivable.”
“I assure you it is quite a real possibility.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Anna Petrovna lowered her voice as if her words were too distasteful for her own ears to hear. “No one could have so little respect for humanity. That is insanity. Unless you are telling me that Dimitrov is insane. And if he is insane, he should be removed.”
“You’ve become sentimental over the past few days,” Zeldovich said with contempt. He distrusted this philosophical softness.
“I assure you—”
“Don’t assure,” he interrupted. “The information you have provided is totally inadequate. I must have more definitive parameters, something more positive.”
“But there isn’t anything more.”
“There must be.”
“Would you rather I lied?”
He could wish that, yes, he thought. At least then he could calculate a course.
“If this is not stopped in time, it will be on your head.” The remark seemed absurd, plumbed from the depths of his youth. But he could tell by the woman’s expression that she felt its impact. “We can take stronger measures.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are other ways to elicit information.”
“I absolutely forbid it.”
“Youforbid it.”
“You can’t extract information that doesn’t exist,” she argued desperately.
Her coolness had disintegrated. I am hitting home, Zeldovich thought maliciously.
“At least we would be sure.”
“You would torture him?”
“It is an option.”
“It would be useless.” She paused. “I tell you there is no information beyond what I have told you.” Panic was gripping her now.
“Who can be sure?”
“I am.”
The woman was glaring at him. He rubbed the bristles of his beard. His threats were intimidating enough to cause the woman anguish, but he knew that he was helpless. She was telling the truth.
“People must be told,” she said, after a pause, her voice stronger now. “Surely if we tell people, they will put a stop to it.”
“Tell who?”
“Others.” She looked about the compartment like a trapped animal. “The Americans. The Chinese.”
“Then they will move first.”
“Our own people then. Surely there is someone who will see the madness of it.”
“Who?”
“You are taunting me.” She paused again, reaching for Zeldovich’s arm. “You are KGB. You have people everywhere.”
“And what shall we tell them?”
The train jounced over a particularly rough spot on the track. The snow beat against the glass.
“There is one course of action we have not yet considered,” she said hesitantly. Zeldovich shrugged. What did it matter? he thought, feeling for the first time his own exhaustion.
“We could tell him the truth.”
“The truth?”
“I’ll tell him everything. Tell him what you have told me. Tell him why I am here.” The train bounced again, and she reached out to the upper bunk for support. “It will be a blow to him,” she whispered. “But he is a good man. He will understand. He will tell the American President—”
It is out of control, Zeldovich thought, remembering Grivetsky’s presence. He looked toward the window again, powerless to shut off the words.
“This has gone far enough,” Grivetsky said. Zeldovich turned, saw Anna Petrovna’s face pale under the makeup, the eyes wide with fear above the high cheekbones. She stared at Grivetsky’s imposing figure, the gun visible in his belt. She turned finally to Zeldovich, her eyes pleading for some explanation.
“This is General Grivetsky.” What else was there to say?
“He has been listening?” she asked, more as a reflex than out of any recognition of what that would mean.
“It is all right,” Zeldovich said, surprised at his own gentleness. “He is aware of the situation.”
“Whatever happens to Dimitrov,” Grivetsky said, addressing himself to Zeldovich, “no one must know of my mission outside the Soviet Union.” He was every inch the military man now, secure in his decisiveness. “It is quite obvious that such knowledge can never leave this room.”
Zeldovich watched the general’s fingers as they touched the gun in his belt.
“I don’t understand,” Anna Petrovna said. “Does he know?”
“Know?” Zeldovich stalled the answer, not taking his eyes from Grivetsky.
“About what is intended. What Dimitrov is planning.”
It was, of course, too late to retrieve his credibility with Grivetsky. Anna Petrovna turned to the general.
“He is planning to launch a nuclear attack on the Chinese,” she said, her voice quavering. “Zeldovich said he has gone mad. You must help us.”
He watched Grivetsky’s finger move closer to the trigger of the gun. All else seemed trivial.
“I must reach Dimitrov,” he heard Grivetsky say, seeing the gun barrel glint as the general drew it out of his belt. Anna Petrovna stopped talking. She turned pale and stepped backward, suddenly afraid. Zeldovich felt the paralysis of hesitation. Then he saw the question of his own survival written in the deep lines of Grivetsky’s drawn brows. His eyes searched the compartment, falling on the knife that he had used to slice sausages. At the same time he saw Anna Petrovna jump backward, and her shoulder hit a sharp corner of the bunk, making her cry out in surprise. As Grivetsky glanced her way, Zeldovich scooped up the knife and plunged forward. The knife moved in an arc, upward, catching the general in the neck. Zeldovich felt the blade falter, blocked briefly by the sinew; then it moved forward, cutting deeply. The general dropped his gun to the carpet, clutching the spot where the knife had entered. A jet of arterial blood spurted from the wound across the length of the compartment.
Anna Petrovna felt she was watching a film in slow motion as the general’s body sank, the knees buckling, the eyes rolling backward in their sockets, a gasping sound gurgling in his throat. Then the general was on his knees, the blood running in rivulets between his fingers, over the back of his hand, down his sleeve, onto the carpet of the compartment.
Zeldovich watched, fascinated by the sight of someone else expiring. He was conscious of nothing except Grivetsky’s fight for breath as his life slowly ebbed. Then suddenly his body crumpled, and he lay dead along the length of the compartment.
It was only then that Zeldovich looked at Anna Petrovna, frozen against the compartment door. He felt in command of himself again, as if Grivetsky’s death had somehow given his own life a sense of renewed purpose.
“It had to be,” he said, looking down at the body. “He was the instrument.”
“Instrument?”
“It was he whom Dimitrov had sent to take over the Red Banner Armies in Chita. It was he who was to carry out Dimitrov’s plan for nuclear attack.”
He heard her sigh.
“It was horrible,” she said.
“Compound it by millions and you will get a sense of what they were up to.” His head had cleared, his sense of cunning returned. She was believing him and he was discovering how close he had come to the truth.
“Say nothing,” he said. “We have bought only time. Others will come.”
“How much time?”
His answer came to him in a flash of insight.
“That depends on what you learn from Dr. Cousins.”
She looked at him for a moment, her lips tightening, as she turned and reached for the bolt of the compartment door.
“Say nothing,” he repeated. “I will take care of this.”
He was already contemplating ways to get rid of Anna Petrovna. He held her at the half-opened door.
“And you cannot get off at Irkutsk,” he said.
She watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. Then she turned and let herself quickly out of the door.