IFthere 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?”
It was laughable, naive. Who would believe Zeldovich? He had left too many carcasses around. They would think it was some new intrigue of Dimitrov’s. Members of the Politburo spat at the mention of his name. Although he was only Dimitrov’s instrument, Zeldovich was the one they hated.
“You are a remarkable man, Zeldovich,” Dimitrov had told him.
“Remarkable?”
“You have a universal appeal among all the Politburo members. You are universally hated and distrusted.” Dimitrov roared with laughter.
“I have just taken orders, Comrade Dimitrov, from you.”
“It’s not so easy to hate me. I’m too powerful. They must have someone to hate in my place. You are perfect for the role.”
How Zeldovich hated Dimitrov now, and cursed his mortality. Mrs. Valentinov was looking at him and he was having difficulty concentrating on the conversation.
“Is it possible that the Army will not obey when given the order to strike?” she asked.
“Soldiers not obey? Bulgakov perhaps, but certainly not Grivetsky.”
“And now that Grivetsky is dead?”
“Dimitrov doesn’t know he is dead.”
“But he will soon.”
“He will only be able to surmise. They will have to fish him out of a Siberian river, an extremely remote possibility.” He paused, searching her face. “He has gone swimming with Yashenko.”
“Yashenko?”
“Our red-haired KGB friend.”
He watched her shiver.
“What will Dimitrov do when he discovers that Grivetsky is missing?”
“He will find someone else. There will always be others.”
“Is it possible that he can make such a decision alone?”
“A decision like that would be impossible to make in a committee. They would talk it to death. Dimitrov’s method is to act, then debate. If he is dying, why should he care what the Politburo thinks afterward?”
She was a mass of questions, Zeldovich thought wearily, wondering if his explanations were satisfactory.
“If Dr. Cousins told the American President, would he believe him?”
“Perhaps.”
“But certainly he would ask Dimitrov about it.”
“And Dimitrov would deny it.”
“Then what would be accomplished?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
“Then it is all futile.” Anna Petrovna puffed deeply on her cigarette. It began to look as if there were no way out.
The light in the east was growing and the snow continued to whip against the windows as the train bounced forward relentlessly. Zeldovich watched the snow as it swirled in an uneven cascade against the windows.
“We will be reaching Irkutsk soon,” Anna Petrovna said, a catch in her voice.
“Did you tell your people you would be arriving on this train?”
“I sent them a postcard from Moscow.”
“Will they be at the station?”
“Yes. My husband and my two children. I have been away from home more than a month.”
He could see that she was holding herself stiffly, under tight control. There are always unseen complications, he observed with resignation. He remembered his early days at the KGB. The people who rose within its system were those least encumbered by family, friends, emotional ties. It had been the primary lesson of his own career. Human involvements were a disaster in objective intelligence work.
“And what will they do when you do not arrive?”
“They will worry.”
“Then we must get word to them.”
He reached out to touch her forearm, but she recoiled. He could not care less whether her family worried or not. The problem was that they would undoubtedly make inquiries, create difficulties.
“Write them a note. Tell them you have been delayed in Moscow and that you will get word to them as soon as you know when you are coming.”
Her disappointment was quite visible.
“Just let me speak to them for a moment,” she pleaded.
“It is out of the question.”
“What harm could it do?”
“I am not really sure, but we should preclude the possibilities. Sometimes information is transmitted inadvertently.”
“But I might never see them again—” She hesitated. Did she sense her danger? He thought he had reassured her. But she was the only living witness to the murder of Grivetsky. And she knew it.
She looked at him, her eyes coming to life with hatred. “You are a cold man, Zeldovich.”
He reached into an inner pocket, found a ball-point pen, then looked for a piece of paper. Anna Petrovna removed a small notebook from her purse. He motioned her to sit down, holding the pen toward her. Taking it, she sat down and began to write as he stood watching the snow beat against the windows. Through the snowflakes, he could see the beginnings of civilization again. Trucks and sleds moved along the roads. Electric lights beamed through the blizzard.
Watching her writing, her head bowed low over the table, he felt his own sense of decisiveness falter. Perhaps the simplest solution would be to eliminate Mrs. Valentinov and Dr. Cousins and fly back to Dimitrov. But then he would be tied to Dimitrov’s life-span, exactly the situation from which he was trying to extricate himself. Or should he contact Bulgakov? Tell him everything. Cement the alliance. Was there future security in that? Or seek asylum? Simply get on the boat in Nakhodka with Dr. Cousins and let him explain the situation to the American President.
He felt the wheels of the train slow. Outside, the perennial army of babushkas leaned over their shovels.
“It is the first station in Irkutsk, the outskirts,” Anna Petrovna said looking up, her eyes glistening with tears.
“I will be back,” he said, letting himself out of the compartment.
From the passageway he could see the soldiers dispersing outside along the length of the train, running beside it as it slowed. Satisfied, he went into his own compartment and pulled on his coat and fur hat, drawing on his gloves. Whatever happened, they would have to search the train after Irkutsk for Dr. Cousins. After Irkutsk, there would be fewer passengers.
Before he left the compartment, he looked around again, noticing that the bloodstains were brownish now, but barely distinguishable. He put an extra packet of bullets into the side pocket of his coat. As he let himself out, the train began to move again, heading for the heart of Irkutsk. He reentered Mrs. Valentinov’s compartment.
Anna Petrovna stood now, waiting. She held the folded note in her hand.
“I want to see them, to point them out.”
He took the proffered note and opened it.
“Must you?” she asked quickly.
“Of course.”
“Darling,” the note began, “I’m sorry I could not arrive but unforeseen delays have kept me in Moscow. As soon as I know when I can return, I will let you know. Please forgive me. I miss you all very much and send my love. You must take good care of each other. Mother.”
Something in the note disturbed him. Perhaps it was the way she signed it. Would they detect something amiss?
“Why do you sign it ‘Mother’?” he asked.
“It is addressed primarily to my children.”
“And your husband?”
“He will understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That it is addressed to the children.”
He pondered its meaning for a moment, sensing the relationship, accepting the explanation, but still troubled.
“This last sentence seems to indicate a finality, a farewell.”
“I am being realistic.”
“Could you alter it?” he asked. forcing himself to speak gently.
“To what?”
“Perhaps ‘You must all take good care of each other until I see you again.’ ”
She shrugged. “What does it matter?”
Taking the note from him, she leaned over the table and quickly scribbled the additional phrase. “There. Are you satisfied now?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if I ever will see them again.”
“That is the whole point of this exercise.”
“I suppose,” she sighed, slumping heavily into the chair and watching the early morning activity of Irkutsk through the window.
“What a lovely morning!” she whispered.
“Lovely?”
“To a Siberian, snow can be as lovely as sunlight. One could not imagine Irkutsk without snow. I always felt sorry for people who lived in the south, who had no snow.”
“I have never been in Siberia before.”
“That is obvious.” She turned to the window again.
He leaned against the bunk, watching her profile against the glow of lights.
“Summer, too, is lovely here,” Anna Petrovna said, talking more to herself than to Zeldovich. “The flowers in a Siberian summer are brighter than anywhere in the world. Sometimes in the winter you see it in your mind’s eye and long for it.” She paused, then shook her head and turned to Zeldovich. “Is it possible that there are people who would want to deliberately destroy this?”
“Without a tear.”
She watched him. He could feel her eyes boring through him.
“And you, Zeldovich, does it really matter to you?”
He hesitated a moment, feeling the iciness of his own indifference. He did not care about the snow or the flowers, or anything other than his own survival.
“I am not sure,” he lied, knowing that it was as close to the truth as any words he had ever uttered.
The train slowed again, moving through the railyards. Zeldovich opened the compartment door and Anna Petrovna followed him. They watched the soldiers jump to the platform and form a line along the length of the moving train.
“Soldiers,” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek.
“A precaution. For his own good.”
In the passageway a procession began of passengers for Irkutsk. Anna Petrovna peered onto the lighted platform, searching the faces of the crowd. Suddenly she gripped his arm.
“There,” she pointed, ducking behind Zeldovich. “They musn’t see me. There. The two little boys with red woolen hats.” She began to sob.
“Get back into the compartment,” he ordered firmly.
“Please,” she said, clutching his arm.
“They will see you,” he said, wrenching free and pushing her back toward the inner wall of the passageway.
“Oh, my God!” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“If they see you, I will shoot them,” he hissed. In the end, it was only threats that worked, he told himself, disgusted as his earlier feelings of sentimentality. “Do you understand me?” he whispered. She nodded, and stood back against the corridor wall.
Zeldovich rushed through the corridor and stepped into the snow, walking quickly in the direction of the major.
“Keep a close watch,” he said.
“No one can get through,” the major answered. walking by his side through the checkpoint. Zeldovich looked around and spotted the red hats. He walked up to the two small boys, and the man who had to be their father. He was holding each boy by the hand and looking toward the train.
“Mr. Valentinov?”
The man looked up anxiously. Zeldovich could feel the children’s eyes on him.
“I have a note.” He watched as Valentinov read it.
“What is it, Father?” one of the boys said, seeing the disappointment on his father’s face.
“Your mother is not on the train.”
“Not on the train?” Zeldovich watched tears well in the boys’ eyes. The older one turned to his little brother and said, “Stop crying.”
“But the party.”
“They had planned a welcoming party,” the father said.
Zeldovich shrugged. He did not want to become involved in their disappointment. He fingered the barrel of his gun, the metal icy against his fingers, and looked toward the train again. From that distance, Mrs. Valentinov was not visible.
“Comrade Zeldovich,” a voice spoke from behind him. Startled, he spun around, his fingers tightening on the gun.
“The major pointed you out,” the man said. He was dressed in the uniform of a telegraph agent. “I have a wire for you. It just came in.”
Zeldovich looked at the man suspiciously. “Let me see it.”
He knew he had the ability to intimidate and used it now, taking the wire roughly from the man’s hands. With it came another envelope with a familiar name on it. “Grivetsky.”
“I know him,” he said, pointing to the name on the envelope that he had accidentally grabbed. “I will deliver it and save you the trouble.”
The train agent rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure—” he said.
But Zeldovich, hardly listening, was opening the envelope addressed to himself.
“The doctor must call at once. D.”
What did it mean? he wondered. Was Dimitrov ill again? He is so clever, Zeldovich thought contemptuously, trying to be so casual, using the public wire system as if his message were a mere telegram of congratulations. The old fox was so clever. He replaced the message in the envelope and looked again at the troubled telegraph agent. He pulled out a wad of kopecks and stuffed them into the man’s breast pocket.
“I am not Zeldovich.”
“You’re not?”
“Do I look like Zeldovich?”
“But the major said—” Then it dawned on the telegraph agent.
“Tell them that you missed the train.”
“But the time is on the wire.”
“Then change it.” Zeldovich pulled his KGB identification out of his pocket and waved it in front of the man’s face.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The man bowed obsequiously and hurried away.
When he had gone, Zeldovich read the wire to Grivetsky: “No confirmation on matter discussed.” It was unsigned.
Zeldovich felt the beginnings of a new annoyance. The sudden elation he had felt on reading Dimitrov’s wire dissipated with the knowledge of what was in Grivetsky’s. He repeated Dimitrov’s message to himself. Why only call? he wondered. If Dimitrov was ill, why would he not be asking for the doctor’s return?
As he walked back to the train, the major came toward him, an anxious expression on his face.
“We found him.”
“Who?” For a moment Zeldovich felt himself disoriented. He had been thinking of Dimitrov’s wire.
“The doctor.” The major fell in step beside him as Zeldovich walked quickly toward the train.
“He is injured,” the major said quickly.
Zeldovich stopped. “I warned you.”
“He wouldn’t obey,” the major said. “It was the only way he could be restrained.”
“Where is he?”
“We brought him back to his compartment. He is unconscious.”
“Ass!” Zeldovich snapped, running toward the train now. He noticed that a new engine had been hooked up, a huge yellow diesel. The information passed in and out of his consciousness as he gripped the handrail and lifted himself up the stairs. The train began to move as he opened the door to the passageway.