Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

Getting one train across the continent’s rail system was remarkable enough, but two? Not to mention the small armory of weapons and other equipment that passed through customs without incident. Getting them out of America was one thing, but getting them into Russia was quite another. And all in exchange for a single letter?

After thinking things through, Papineau came to a disturbing conclusion: what if his associate had cut a side deal with the Black Robes? These men did not seem to be interested in material things. At least, not the kinds of things people traditionally coveted.

What had he promised them to get them involved?

And why hadn’t he told Papineau of their involvement?

On his way to the reception, he had spotted another cloaked figure as he entered the station from Komsomolskaya Square. These men — for he had yet to see a woman in the telltale black outfit — had to be very well connected if they were able to exert their influence while wearing such recognizable vestments.

The Frenchman turned to his right, then glanced back as if he were simply surveying the crowd of low-ranking rail and local dignitaries. In the dark red and yellow light of the terminal, the Black Robe looked like a cockroach on a wedding cake. These men seemed to revel in an attitude that screamed, Here I am, what are you going to do about it?

They had the kind of pervasive access and freedom of movement that no single Russian group possessed — not even the black market. Black marketeers were not monolithic. They were like the old Bolsheviks and Mensheviks of the Revolution, warring factions within the rebellious movement. And they would want a very, very large percentage of any take.

With growing concern that these confederates were in fact his adversaries, Papineau took stock of their actions. So far, it seemed that the Black Robes were pretty intent on keeping track of his team and every member thereof. The attempt to plant a listening device was unexpectedly clumsy. Papineau did not expect their next attempts, if there were any, to be as haphazard or ineffectual. Papineau still hoped that the attack on Sarah had been little more than misguided, overzealous, or panicked thinking on the part of the bug planter. But it raised more uncomfortable questions.

Was that their first-and-only attempt to piggyback on the mission?

Were the Black Robes looking to eliminate his team if they were successful?

Am I sending my team into an inevitable and inescapable trap?

Papineau’s meditation was ended by a gentle poke in the side from a neighboring elbow. The Frenchman jumped slightly and looked over to his new interpreter, a six-foot-four-inch Russian with a dark, bushy beard named Mikhail Ivanov. The translator nodded gently at the podium.

Papineau turned to see the Under Deputy Minister of Transportation smiling, applauding, and looking at him. Everyone on the dais, and everyone in the small throng of onlookers, was watching and clapping.

‘He has asked for you to say a few words,’ Ivanov whispered.

‘Apparently,’ Papineau responded, raising himself from the thoughts that had transported him far from this event. Thankfully he had assumed this was coming and had a general idea of the kind of boilerplate remarks the moment required. He rose, bowed slightly, motioned for Ivanov to accompany him, and stepped up to the microphone.

‘My friends,’ Papineau said as if he had been waiting to say it all his life, ‘this is a moment to remember, when people across continents and oceans meet with the understanding that to improve any one life is to improve all lives.’ He waited for Ivanov to translate, then he delivered his piece de resistance, in Russian: ‘To quote the great Chinese philosopher Confucius, “Every journey begins with a single step.” So let us take our first.’

Papineau smiled, waved, and stepped back to thunderous applause. He accepted the warm congratulations, handshakes, back and shoulder pats, even a hug or two as he made his way to what only he knew was the decoy train. It was three comfortable carriages with a classic green and red ChME3 locomotive.

Rail workers had decked out the engine’s railed walkways with banners and drapes to honor the occasion. The plan was to have Papineau and the dignitaries wave from the train as it left the station. Once away from the crowd, the dignitaries would return to their offices while Papineau and Ivanov would make their way into the carriages.

Although not luxurious by any means — a clear indication of this survey’s true place in the mind of the Russian government, despite the fanfare — the train included comfortable sleeping quarters, dining facilities, and a fully equipped video station so the survey team could keep a careful eye on the tracks — among other things.

‘I am very grateful you chose me to accompany you on this trip, Monsieur Papineau,’ Ivanov said as they made their way toward the train. ‘I have always wanted to make this journey to Uelen at the Bering Strait. The mountains and wilderness are said to be magnificent.’

‘Indeed,’ Papineau murmured, his mind not on the video team he had hastily hired, but on his other team. He got into an automatic rhythm of shaking the hands of the boisterous crowd with both of his: gripping their palms and shaking them up and down without stopping his passage. Therefore, he was slightly taken aback when he reached out toward a striking older man and an assured young woman.

Unlike the rest of the crowd, they offered no hands to shake.

The woman held up her police identification, and the man kept his hands folded in front of him. They wore full dress uniforms, befitting the occasion — the man in dark green with a peaked hat, and the woman in blue with a knee-length skirt, low high heels, and garrison cap.

Ivanov too was slightly surprised by their seemingly sudden appearance, but he responded by leaning down to study the proffered ID.

‘Sergeant Anna Rusinko,’ the translator said.

The older policeman looked up at him with a calming smile. ‘No need to translate, my friend,’ he said in Russian. Then he looked at Papineau. ‘I will be pleased to do it,’ he said in French. ‘My name is Viktor Borovsky, Colonel Viktor Borovsky. And this is Sergeant Anna Rusinko. We are with Special Branch, Main Office of the Interior for Transport and Special Transportation.’

‘Part of the Federal Migration Services Office,’ Papineau said.

Borovsky’s smile remained placid. ‘You have done your homework.’

‘No,’ Papineau replied. ‘I am educated.’ He resented the implication that he had boned up just to be here, like a politician on the stump.

‘My apologies,’ Borovsky said, apparently in earnest.

‘What can I do for you, Colonel? As you can see, I don’t have much time.’

‘You do not,’ he agreed with a touch of vagueness. ‘I’m sorry for this distraction, but we only learned of your impending departure a short while ago.’

They had, in fact, broken several traffic laws getting here after extensively questioning several very frightened veteran railway employees. Memories of the KGB had become part of the collective DNA here.

‘If it’s about permissions, they were cleared quite some time ago,’ Papineau said, beginning to shuffle toward the train. ‘You may check with the Minister of Transport as well as the Minister of Natural Resources and Environmental Protection.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Borovsky repeated soothingly. ‘It is not that at all. Here, allow us to walk you to the train. We can talk on the way.’

Papineau looked dubiously at the pair. In his mind, a colonel and sergeant suggested something other than ‘routine’, but he went along with it.