Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

The two Americans laughed. Rostnikov smiled as the joker asked, “Which is more useful, Russian newspapers or Russian television? The newspaper,” he answered himself. “You can wrap fish in it.”

Five cars down, Sasha Tkach was slowly making his way through the train. His plan was simple. He would check the empty compartments, the ones in which the occupants were dining, out in the corridors, or visiting with other passengers. He kept a list of the cars and compartments and checked them off. He would return periodically to see if unchecked compartments were empty.

If a compartment were, at the moment, unoccupied, he would slide open the door when he was confident no one in the corridor was watching, then quickly look at the luggage and reach out to feel particular pieces. In five cars, he had found nothing promising.

Some people passing had looked at him as he moved slowly or loitered. He gave them his best smile and a good morning. The smile still worked, though he did not feel it.

Sasha had no great hope of finding that for which he searched, but he persisted. There would be a stop in twenty minutes. He would have to suspend his search and get out onto the platform. This was proving on the first day to be an exhausting assignment.

Sasha continued, recalling his brief conversation with Porfiry Petrovich the night before.

“The man’s name?” Rostnikov had asked. “The one your mother says she might marry?”

“Matvei Labroadovnik,” Sasha had said. “He is working on the restoration of the Cathedral of the Resurrection in Istra.”

“Matvei Labroadovnik,” Rostnikov repeated, searching his memory for the name.

“She says he is famous,” Sasha had gone on.

“And you believe? …”

“That he knows my mother has money. That he is not a famous painter. Either that or he is ninety years old, half blind, and slightly mad.”

“You don’t think a man could be interested in your mother?”

“Do you?”

“She has her good points, Sasha.”

“Such as?”

“She is generous.”

“But she charges a great deal for her generosity. Attention, great respect, and the right to dictate how I live.”

“She loves you and your children,” Rostnikov tried.

“She smothers us with love, on her terms,” said Sasha. “She is a smothering … I do not know.”

“Would you not be happy if she indeed had found someone?”

“I would be relieved, overjoyed. I would throw a party. There would be dancing. But I don’t believe it.”

Rostnikov had his doubts too but he went on, “We will check on this painter when we get back to Moscow.”

“And if they decide to marry before we get back? He may want to marry her quickly before he has to meet me, deal with me.”

“Are you concerned about losing your mother’s money?”

“A little, perhaps,” Sasha admitted.

“You are concerned about losing your mother,” Rostnikov tried.

“As strange as it is, that may be the case,” said Sasha with a deep sigh. “I have grown accustomed to her nagging. Maya would be happy to see her gone. Maya does not care about the money. The children would probably be happy too.”

“We are not talking about Lydia dying,” said Rostnikov. “Only about her getting married.”

Sasha laughed. The few other people in the car had looked at him. “You know why I am laughing?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Rostnikov.

“I sound like I am jealous,” Sasha said, putting his hand to his chest. “That is what the woman has done to me. I will be thirty-six years old on my next birthday and I still feel like a child when I am with her.”

Rostnikov said nothing. This was an important moment of realization for Sasha Tkach.

“I think,” he said, no longer laughing, “I think I understand something. It sounds crazy. The problems I have had with women during my marriage.”

Rostnikov was well aware of Sasha’s weakness. It had almost cost him his marriage and at least twice had jeopardized his career.

“It is my mother I want to hurt,” he said. “It is my mother I want to show that I am interested in other women.”

“It is a theory,” Rostnikov admitted.

“It seems right,” said Sasha with excitement. “You should have been a psychiatrist.”

“If simply listening qualifies one, then perhaps you are right, but I would give you a caution, Sasha. What seems clear and true and right when it is night and one is tired and on a train rocking into darkness may not seem quite so right in the sunlight.”

And Rostnikov had been right. Now, going through the train in search of a suitcase he probably would not recognize, Sasha thought his whole theory about his mother had been little more than nonsense.

Sasha moved forward, sometimes sensing when someone was in a compartment or catching a glimpse of movement or form on a seat. He had such a sense as he passed the next compartment and was about to open the door of the empty one just past it when a woman’s voice called.

“You missed me.”

Sasha turned back. Standing in the doorway of the compartment he had just passed was the quite-beautiful woman who had been talking to Porfiry Petrovich in the lounge car the night before.

She was wearing a tan skirt and a matching sweater with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was down and she was smiling.

“I wasn’t looking for your compartment,” Sasha said, finding it difficult to draw upon his charm.

“Come in,” she said and walked back into the compartment and out of Sasha’s sight.

Sasha paused, considered, and moved slowly back to the woman’s compartment, trying to come up with a tale, hoping a creative lie would present itself.

She was sitting near the window, looking up at him, the morning light cast on the left side of her face, a slight shadow on the right. Her lips were full, red, her smile playful.

“Sit, please,” she said, pointing to the seat opposite her.

“I was on my way to-” he began, but she was shaking her head and he stopped.

“I don’t know how much time we have until the people I am sharing this compartment with return,” she said. “So please examine the luggage. Satisfy yourself.”

“I don’t know-” he tried.

“You are wasting time,” she said. Sasha brushed the dangling lock of hair from his forehead and quickly examined the luggage.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

He sat back and nodded to show that he was, at least with his search.

“We passed in the lounge car last night,” she said. “I had just spoken to the plumber and you were about to do so. My name is Svetlana Britchevna.”

She held out her hand. Sasha took it. Firm grip. A feeling he recognized stirred and he willed it to go away. She held the shake and the feeling battled Sasha’s will. She released his hand and sat back.

“I did exchange a few words with a one-legged man in the lounge car,” he said. “I did not catch his name.”

She cocked her head to the side and made an almost imperceptible negative nod.

“And what is your name?” she asked.

“Roman Spesvnik,” he said.

“And what do you do, Roman Spesvnik?” she asked.

She was toying with him. He knew that. He knew she expected lies. Oh God, did she also sense his weakness for aggressive women?

“I work in the government information office in Moscow,” he said. “Utilities division. Gas, electrical power.”

He knew a little about the job. His mother had held such a position until her retirement.

“Roman,” she said, looking out the window, showing a near-perfect profile, “this will be a long trip with beautiful scenery. But one can spend only so many hours a day looking out the window even at the most beautiful of mountains and forests and the most quaint of villages.”