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.”
“And none too soon,” Alex responded, playing along. It was no good voicing his suspicions, he thought, not now. Zeldovich was obviously ebullient, almost playful.
“The good doctor will be on his way to America. And the lovely Mrs. Valentinov back to Irkutsk and the children. For some it is a happy ending, eh, Kuznetsov?” Alex tried to ignore him, sensing what was coming. “As for romance, of course, it’s a genuine tragedy.”
Zeldovich was enjoying himself. Anna Petrovna remained silent.
“But think of the lives of all those Chinks we have saved. Not to mention our own hardy Siberians.” He looked out of the window. “Not that they have much brains living out here in this hellhole.”
There was no need for pretense now. Zeldovich’s maliciousness was quite apparent and Alex wondered how Anna Petrovna felt now about her ally. Between her and Alex there was a great distance. But in spite of everything, she had opened his heart to a new way of seeing, of feeling. He loved her. Nothing could change that, no matter what happened next.
Alex snapped shut the clasp of his suitcase and swung the bag of medical journals to the floor of the compartment. Along the tracks, ramshackle houses were coming into view. A heavyset signalwoman stood stiffly at a crossroads waving a flag. They were moving into a city now, Khabarovsk. It was nearly midnight.
In a few hours he was to have changed trains and boarded the Ussuri Line to Nakhodka, where the ship waited to cross the Sea of Japan to Yokohama. At least that had been the original plan. He no longer expected such a simple end to the journey.
Sitting down on the bunk, he watched Anna Petrovna. The train began to slow, picking its way through the railyard. Beyond the yards, he could see rows of high-rise apartments stretching into the distance.
“Quite a town.” He sighed.
“Our largest city,” she said. “It would have been the first to go.” She pointed south. “China is just a few miles away.”
“Yes, China,” He turned from the window. “I must say I have been greatly impressed by your compassion for the Chinese.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “You still don’t understand. Poor Alex!”
“Poor all of us.”
The train ground to a halt in the Khabarovsk station. Across the eastbound tracks, he saw crowds of passengers huddled in their coats, peering down the line for the westbound train to appear.
“I suppose you’ll be happy to get home,” he said gently. His anger was gone now and all he could think of was her impending departure. I have lost her, he thought. It is all over. He wondered if she really believed that she was heading home.
Zeldovich jumped up and slid open the door. They followed. The passageway was empty except for little Vladimir who stood watching them from a distance. Through the windows Alex could see the non-Russian passengers, their luggage hauled by burly women, walking into the large new station.
Tania made her way into their compartment and carried out their luggage. Alex stood for a second on the top metal step watching the confusion—passengers crowding onto the hard-class carriages, Russian naval officers lining up outside the soft class, waiting for the signal to move in.
Alex stepped down to the platform and gave his hand to Anna Petrovna. She took it and he felt an electricity from the cool touch of her flesh. Squeezing her hand, he imagined he felt her return the pressure, but when he sought her eyes she turned away.
Zeldovich hovered about them as Tania carried the luggage to the platform. His good spirits had faded and he seemed nervous, checking his watch, looking around the station.
“They make it damned inconvenient for foreigners,” a voice said. Turning, Alex saw the scowling face of the Australian. “They and their bloody naval base. Just because of that we’ve got to kill a few hours, waiting to pass inspection. It’s a bloody business.”
“What did he say?” Zeldovich demanded.
“He said you’re all a bunch of paranoids,” Alex said, deliberately exaggerating.
“Tell him to move on,” Zeldovich ordered. It seemed an overreaction.
Through the open door of the station Alex could see Miss Peterson and her new American friends taken in tow by a uniformed Intourist guide whose volubility seemed to have subdued even the irrepressible Miss Peterson.
The Australian, apparently unaware of Zeldovich’s irritation, continued to complain.
“They don’t even have a goddamned bar in this place,” he said, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath.
Zeldovich bent over and whispered in Alex’s ear.
“You better get rid of him before I have him arrested,” he said.
Alex looked him full in the face for a moment. Zeldovich was not dissembling. His meanness was right on the surface.
Alex gripped the Australian’s upper arm, hoping that would underline his urgency.
“He wants you to move on. He is KGB and has threatened to have you arrested.”
“Tell him to shove a bloody dildo up his bloody ass,” the Australian said, looking fiercely at Zeldovich, who scowled back.
“Please,” Alex said. “I can assure you he means business.”
The directness, perhaps the tone, of Alex’s warning seemed to sober the man. He swallowed hard, and the bombast which had sustained him through the journey seemed to forsake him.
“Thanks,” he said, then disappeared quickly into the station house.
“We are still in isolation,” Alex said in English to Anna Petrovna. She hesitated, glanced at Zeldovich, and said nothing. But Zeldovich, sensitive to the strange language, reacted as if they had been conspiring in whispers.
“Speak Russian, speak Russian! I warn you, Kuznetsov—”
Alex would have tried to explain, but his attention was attracted by the arrival of two columns of Russian troops. They marched toward the baggage carriage, the crowd parting before them, and ceremoniously arranged themselves as a few of their number peeled off from the formation and climbed aboard. The crowd at the station seemed to freeze and a silence fell as they saw the object of the exercise. The soldiers reappeared carrying a wooden casket between them, draped with the Soviet flag. At the edge of the baggage car, they handed it down to waiting hands, as two photographers, one military and one civilian, popped flashes at the event. A number of Russians removed their hats and a few older women crossed themselves.
On the platform, soldiers lifted the casket to their shoulders and stood stiffly between the two columns. From somewhere beyond Alex’s line of vision a drumbeat moved down the platform, away from Alex and Anna Petrovna. The photographers followed, lights flashing as they recorded the event.
At the far end of the platform, the procession paused in front of a tall bulky man who drew himself up in a stiff, formal salute. Photographers’ flashes popped repeatedly. The drumbeat began to fade as the procession moved out of earshot and Bulgakov disappeared into the darkness at the edge of the station.
“Who is it?” Alex asked, as the crowd began to move again and activity at the station returned to normal.
Zeldovich ignored him, a faint smile playing around his lips.
“Who is in the coffin?” Alex persisted.
“A great military hero,” Zeldovich said, his eye roaming over the crowd.
A young soldier moved toward them. Zeldovich waved him forward and the young soldier came running.
“Comrade Zeldovich?”
Zeldovich nodded. “You have the car?”
“Yes, sir. I have been instructed to take you to the airport.”
He lifted the luggage, while Alex retained his bookbag and Anna Petrovna her small suitcase. They followed the young soldier through the thinning crowds. Behind them, the train began to move. Alex could see the young attendant watching them. He waved good-bye and felt an odd pang of sadness. The attendant waved back.
The train moved slowly past them. The restaurant car was dark, but the lights still blazed in the hard class. Alex caught a passing glimpse of the crowd still huddled around the compartment where the marathon chess game was still in progress.
“We must hurry,” Zeldovich said, tapping his shoulder. “The plane is waiting.”
A car waited at the side of the station, its motor running. The young soldier stowed the bags in the trunk, shutting it with a loud metallic slap. He opened the car door and stood at attention, waiting for them to get in.
Anna Petrovna started to move, but Zeldovich held her back.
“The doctor first,” he said. Alex hesitated, shrugged and with a glance at Anna Petrovna’s puzzled face, crouched and moved into the car.
“We will be back in a moment,” he heard Zeldovich say and before he could respond, the door was slammed shut behind him, and the soldier had jumped into the front seat, his gloved hands resting on the wheel. Alex watched as Zeldovich and Anna Petrovna moved back into the shadows, Zeldovich’s hand gripping her upper arm.
Alex leaned back in the soft warmth of the large car. Too much had happened. He had reached the outer limits of fatigue, and felt shaky and uncertain. He felt the eyes of the young soldier watching him in the rearview mirror. He was caught in a maze beyond his understanding. The strange procession, the clicking cameras, the beating drum, bubbled in his brain.
“Who was in the coffin?” he asked himself aloud.
“Sir?”
“The funeral,” he said. “In the station.”
“General Grivetsky,” the young soldier said. “The old man himself came down.”
“Grivetsky?”
“He was one of our most brilliant military leaders—” the soldier began cheerfully. Then he suddenly jumped out of the car again, and opened the rear door. Anna Petrovna got in next to Alex. He felt the warmth of her body, her closeness somehow reassuring, but when he looked at her face, it seemed drained and bloodless. And she was shivering. Something had happened.
Zeldovich sat heavily on the seat beside her. The door was slammed shut and the young soldier leaped into the front seat and gunned the motor.
The streets were empty and the car raced past the factories, houses, and high-rise apartments of Khabarovsk. The homes and apartments were dark, but the factories were lit by giant floodlights and they seemed to be in full operation. Great clouds of smoke leaped from their huge chimneys.
Then the young soldier maneuvered the car through a series of turns and shot out into what appeared to be an open road. Houses grew sparser as the car moved swiftly into the darkness. Soon they were moving along a highway. “To Airport,” a sign read in Russian.
“It was supposed to be Grivetsky,” Alex said suddenly in English.
He felt Anna Petrovna stir beside him, imagining that her leg had moved closer to his. Zeldovich said nothing. He sat stiffly watching with concentration through the front window.
“They are passing it off as Grivetsky,” Alex said again in English.
Zeldovich stirred. “You will speak Russian,” he snapped.
“It is probably the body of the woman who died. Or a bunch of stones,” Alex persisted in English.
Anna Petrovna’s hand, which had been lying in her lap, suddenly covered his. His heart began to beat wildly.
“What is happening?” he asked in English.
“Tell him to please speak Russian,” Zeldovich ordered.
“What is it, Anna Petrovna?” Alex said, again in English.
The highway was running parallel to a river. Zeldovich squinted into the darkness ahead.
“Here,” he said suddenly, tapping the soldier on the shoulder. He had removed his revolver from his belt and was holding it in his other hand. “Stop here.”
The soldier looked back curiously for a moment, then slowed the car, running it slowly to the shoulder of the road. Below they could hear the rush of the river and the creak of the breaking ice floes.
“What is it?” the young soldier asked. “The airport is up ahead.” He gestured at the lights in the distance. “There—” he began, but before he could continue Zeldovich swung the butt of the revolver in an arc and brought it down on the back of the young man’s head. The crushing force of the blow thrust the boy forward against the wheel, and the horn blew sharply. Then the soldier slipped sideways and fell, lifeless, onto the front seat.
“You knew,” Alex said, turning to Anna Petrovna.
Zeldovich edge his way out of the car.
“Out,” he said sharply. Anna Petrovna let go of Alex’s hand and slid sideways on the seat. Alex reached over and grabbed the boy’s wrist, searching for the pulse. He could not find it.
“You’ve killed him,” he said.
Alex had no firsthand knowledge of violence, so he was oddly unafraid of Zeldovich’s revolver. It was Anna Petrovna who concerned him most and he watched her shivering in the darkness, unable to keep her teeth from chattering as Zeldovich stood impatiently at the side of the road urging him out of the car.
“True to form, eh, Zeldovich?” Alex said. “Just a petty little murderer, after all.”
Zeldovich glanced at the river rushing below them.
“We are going swimming in Siberia,” Alex said in Russian, surprised at his own fearlessness. Then he said in English, “Did you believe it could end any other way?”
“It is not necessary,” Anna Petrovna said suddenly. She took a step forward, confronting Zeldovich, who stepped backward quickly to avoid too close a proximity. “It is pointless now. Dimitrov is finished. You told us that yourself.” She was pleading, speaking with great effort.
“There is no choice.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What harm could he do now? It is all over.”
“It is not my choice.”
“Not yours?”
“The little bastard is trading my life for his,” Alex said. It suddenly made sense.
“I don’t understand,” she said again.
“I know too much. They are afraid I will spill the beans back home. Once I tell what I know, the Americans will not trust the Russians anymore.”
“Is that true?”
“I am a servant of the State,” Zeldovich said.
“Please, Comrade,” Anna Petrovna said haltingly. “There is no need.”
“He is cold-blooded. He is interested only in his own skin. He was never interested in anything else.”
Zeldovich stood facing them, the barrel of the revolver dark and threatening.
“Come here,” he ordered, addressing Alex.
“I am not very far. Shoot me from there.” Alex spread out his arms. Zeldovich moved quickly. In a smooth fluid motion he reached out and grabbed Anna Petrovna from behind, holding her as a kind of shield. He put the barrel of the revolver to her forehead. Suddenly all movement stopped and for a moment the two men faced each other. Anna Petrovna seemed on the edge of collapse.
“Don’t harm her,” Alex urged.
“Get down on your knees,” Zeldovich ordered.
Alex dropped to his knees. Zeldovich took another step forward, but as he did so Anna Petrovna’s body began to sink. Zeldovich was forced to bend over, since he could no longer hold himself erect and grip the woman at the same time.
Then he gave up the struggle and, pushing Anna Petrovna away from him, he lunged forward, swinging the gun in a wide arc. But his balance was not secure and the intended blow landed on Alex’s shoulder. He grasped Zeldovich around the legs, feeling the bulky body totter and begin to fall. Zeldovich dropped his gun and gripped Alex’s throat with both hands. Alex thrashed and struggled, but could not pry the iron fingers loose. He felt the blankness descending, his strength ebbing.
On the brink of helplessness, he heard a shot ring out, then three more. Zeldovich’s body arched above him in a spasm. Slowly the fingers loosened and Alex was gasping for air, watching Anna Petrovna, the smoking gun still in her hand, the sharp smell of gunpowder in the air. Zeldovich’s body fell like a stone beside him.
The blood had drained from Anna Petrovna’s face and, although she still held the gun, she seemed on the verge of fainting. Alex staggered to his feet and took her in his arms. She let the gun drop. Her body was quivering, her cheeks wet.
“It’s all right, my darling,” Alex whispered.
Her quivering abated slowly as she clung to him. “It was to be an accident,” she whispered.
“Another fraud. Like Grivetsky.”
“Can you forgive me, Alex?”
“For what?”
“For entertaining the possibility of helping him.”
“Another appeal to your patriotism?”
“He insisted it was my duty.”
“Perhaps it was,” Alex said.
When he was satisfied that she could stand alone without his help, he released her and knelt over the body of Zeldovich, feeling his pulse. The bullets had blown away part of his head. “He is quite dead.”
Looking up at her, he said, “Now what? I’d say he was going to drive the car into the river. The idea, I suppose, was to make it appear as if the driver had slid off the road. It was necessary to leave me relatively unmarked. That’s why he wouldn’t shoot me. He reckoned on everything but you.” He held out his arm. She came toward him and took his hands. “Later he would have finished you as well.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“I wish I had his sense of intrigue,” Alex murmured. “I would know what to do now.”
In the distance, he could see the lights of the airport. The car was well off the shoulder of the road, beyond the lights of the other cars which sped by at infrequent intervals.
“If only the American authorities knew you were in danger,” Anna Petrovna said.
“In the middle of Siberia. How the hell do I get word out?”
She shrugged, turned toward the rushing river. He looked down at it again, straining to see through the darkness. The alternatives seemed grim. If he reported himself to the Soviet authorities, they would know what to do. He would become a non-person. Making people disappear was their specialty. A missing American, especially one with his mission, could, of course, be an embarrassment. But considering what he knew, the risk of embarrassment would seem to them the lesser of two evils. Alex felt suddenly put upon, used by both sides. I will not roll over, he told himself. We will outfox the dirty bastards. He could feel his adrenaline surge.
The first thing to be dealt with was the two dead bodies. He reached into the car and dragged the body of the young soldier from the front seat by the lapels of his coat. The body was heavy, deadweight, and Alex could barely manage him. He realized how absurd he must look. What was he doing here? Dimitrov would be laughing at him now.
“The essential business is to survive with our goals intact,” Dimitrov had told him. He had been barely listening. Talk, talk, talk. The man refused to be quiet.
“Survive what?”
“Enemies inside. Enemies outside.”
“With you, everything is like a confrontation,” Alex had said impatiently, wanting to discourage conversation.
“That is life.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You should read your Darwin.” Dimitrov had smiled, then changed the subject to the state of the weather.
Now Alex knew what Dimitrov had meant. He dragged the body of the young soldier down the slope to the river’s edge and pushed it into the swift current. It slipped beneath the ice floes and disappeared in the foamy darkness. Dead was dead, he told himself, the manner of burial irrelevant. Somehow the thought gave him courage.
Groping his way up the slippery slope by handholds on exposed roots, he reached the road again. Anna Petrovna had watched him ascend, reaching out to help him up. The strain had tired him and he sat for a moment on the ground, fighting for oxygen in the thin freezing air.
“It is the Amur,” Anna Petrovna said listlessly, watching the river.
“What?”
“The Amur,” she repeated. “The widest river in Siberia. The bridge across was the last link in the railroad. It was finished in 1916.”
She sounded like Miss Peterson. The historical information was incongruous under the circumstances, and Alex hoped that Anna Petrovna was not losing control. When his heart had stopped pumping madly, he stood up, walked to the body of Zeldovich and began to drag it to the slope.
At the edge, he rolled it over like a log, watching it gain momentum, stopping short on the river’s edge. He followed the trail downward cautiously, stopping when he reached the body. Zeldovich’s eyes were still open, looking blankly into the darkness.
He pushed the body into the river, heard it slip into the water, a tiny note in the rushing symphony of the river’s movement. Then, without a glance back, he started his ascent again. A jet plane screeched overhead, the flashing red lights on its wings an eerie apparition in the lonely black expanse. Of course, he told himself, remembering Miss Peterson’s remarks on that very first day when his alertness had not yet been dulled by her avalanche of information. Miss Peterson will be at the airport.
“At Khabarovsk, I’ll go directly to the airport and pop back to Moscow and on to London,” she had told him.
Grabbing Anna Petrovna’s hand as he reached the road, Alex pulled her toward the car. They got in and he turned the ignition and gunned the motor.
“At least these damned shifts are universal,” he said, moving his foot heavily onto the accelerator. The large military car shot forward. As he drove, he felt his mind clearing.
“How long does it take to get from here to Moscow by air?” he asked.
“Ten hours.”
“And to Nakhodka by train?”
“Sixteen.”
“Good.”
Pulling up at the edge of light that ringed the airport building, he cut off the motor and they both got out of the car.
“Hurry,” he cried, grabbing Anna Petrovna’s hand as they rushed in the direction of the airport entrance. A line of passengers was moving through the luggage-processing operation. He could see the big jet on the apron, its silver wings gleaming in the floodlights. A group of passengers had begun to scramble up the entranceway.
He searched the crowd, hoping that Miss Peterson had not yet boarded. They walked down the line of people. Then her voice, sweet but audible, drifted above the voices of the Russians. She had apparently found a polite English-speaking couple and was initiating them into the history of Khabarovsk, with which they were surely already satiated.
“Oh, Dr. Cousins,” Miss Peterson said, turning from her victims, who looked at him thankfully. “We said good-bye. I had no idea your plans had changed.”
“Please, Miss Peterson, I must see you.”
She seemed confused at first, looking at him strangely, as her eyes drifted from his face to his mud-speckled clothes.
“Please,” he said again, as he moved away from the line of people.
She turned to the English-speaking couple. “Would you please mind my place?”
They nodded, stealing glances of obvious relief at each other. Alex knew they were being watched as he moved toward a kiosk. He bought several magazines, gave them to Miss Peterson and smiled for the benefit of the observers, whoever they might be.
“You must help me.” He felt the incongruity between his words and his grin. Miss Peterson opened her mouth to respond. “Please be casual,” Alex said quickly, watching her absorb his meaning, a nervous smile form on her lips.
“You are the only person who can help.”
“May I ask, what trouble—”
“You are entitled to an explanation, I know.” He looked at his watch. “The time.” He pointed for the benefit of anyone watching.
“What is it you wish?” she said, catching the sense of conspiracy.
“Do you know the American Embassy in Moscow?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You must go there immediately upon landing.”
She frowned briefly, then remembered to smile. “But I’ll miss my London plane.”
“Please. Surely the Embassy will help you.”
“Not likely,” Miss Peterson said with the authority of experience.
“My life is in your hands.”
“My God! Your life?” She seemed to warm to the idea. Her eyes became animated.
“You will go?”
She bent closer to him. “In this place we Americans had better stick together,” she whispered.
“Talk only to the Ambassador. Insist on it.”
She straightened, indignation rising in her diminutive body. “I can be quite insistent, young man.”
It was dangerous, he knew. He wanted to warn her, but felt the limitations of their communication. Were they listening? Were they watching? Could she be trusted?
“Tell him that Dr. Cousins—Dr. Alexander Cousins—will be arriving—” He hesitated. Was it possible that he might simply board the plane? Hardly! Until the American authorities were notified, and his whereabouts exactly pinpointed, he was a non-person, easily removed from the face of the earth.
“Tell him I am on the Khabarovsk-Nakhodka train.” He remembered that it was scheduled to leave in a few hours. “Yes, tell them I am on that train.” The little woman looked at him.
“And will you be taking theKhabarovsk? ”
“TheKhabarovsk? ”
“The boat that crosses the Sea of Japan. You will be quite seasick.”
“I have no plans beyond Nakhodka.” Alex said, wondering if he would even get that far.
“All right,” Miss Peterson said, “I will tell him you are on the train to Nakhodka.”
“Tell him, too, that he must inform the Soviet authorities as well. They must know that I am on that train. And—” Alex looked about him to be sure he was out of earshot of everybody—“and he must inform the President of my whereabouts—immediately.”
“The President?”
“Yes, of the United States.”
The little woman smiled broadly. “Now that is something.” She paused. “You must be quite important.”
“Not as important as you are, Miss Peterson.” He kissed her on the cheek and handed her the pile of magazines. She went back to her place in line and blew him a brief kiss.
“Will she do it?” Anna Petrovna asked as they moved slowly, with a cautious air of casualness, through the airport to the entrance.
“Lord help us if she doesn’t!” Alex said in English.
They drove in silence over the nearly deserted road. Occasionally another car, its headlights glowing, would pass them in the opposite direction speeding toward the airport. They passed the spot where they had dragged the bodies off the road.
“If only they can stay under for the next few hours,” Alex whispered.
“It is a wide river,” Anna Petrovna said. She had moved close to him, tucking her arm under his, leaning her cheek against his shoulder.
Speeding along the strange highway, Alex felt for the first time the elation of danger and with it a kind of macho heroism. He felt strong and protective. It was exhilarating, he admitted, wondering how long it would last. In the distance, the faint light of impending dawn silhouetted the tall buildings as the car moved closer to the city.
Finding the station again was not an easy task. He made a number of wrong turns before he recognized a landmark that he had seen earlier, a floodlit statue of a bearded man.
“Khabarov,” Anna Petrovna said idly. “The famous explorer who founded this city.” Then she sat up and pointed. “There.” They could see the station at the end of a well-lit street, a huge portrait of Lenin hanging on the station’s façade.
He pulled the car over to the side of the road, opened the trunk and removed their baggage.
“I’ll have to hide the car somehow,” he said. “Make the ticket arrangements. I’ll meet you on the platform.”
She nodded, picked up her suitcases, leaving his on the sidewalk, and moved toward the station. Alone on the deserted street, he felt a stab of loneliness. Getting back into the car, he drove it to the first cross street, turning off in the direction of the tracks, his eyes scanning the dark rows of low-slung buildings. He drove the car through a dilapidated alley. It was remarkable, he thought, how quickly one adapted to conspiracies when one’s life was at stake. He spotted a pair of wooden double doors standing open, loose on their hinges, and drove the car through them. The structure was, apparently, a musty abandoned warehouse filled with the rubbish of a hundred years. Getting out of the car, he felt the chill, sniffed the heavy smell of disintegration. He ran back through the alley to the main street.
He saw Anna Petrovna sitting on a shiny plastic seat in a dark corner of the huge station. She seemed fatigued, her eyes heavy and glazed. Sitting beside her, he put an arm around her shoulders.
“He deserved to die,” she said, her voice tense.
“Nobody deserves to die.”
“I am a murderer,” she said, her eyes wide.
See, he wanted to tell her, taking a life is no small thing. But it was too late now. He felt her anguish and, above all, his love for her.