Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

Sasha said nothing.

“It is good to have company on a long trip, don’t you think?” she asked.

There was provocation in her words. Sasha knew them. He recognized them. There was a magic thread with an invisible hook reaching out to him.

“Yes,” he said.

“You are traveling alone?” she asked.

“I … yes.”

“Good, then perhaps we can provide each other with company. Are you married, Roman?”

“Yes.”

“So am I,” she said. “But my husband is far away and, to tell the truth, not very good company recently.”

And then it got even worse.

“I understand that there is a single compartment open in the next car,” she said. “I’ve already inquired about moving into it. The conductor can arrange it.”

She was older than Sasha. That he could tell, but there was a confident sophistication which was overwhelming.

“Shall I do that, do you think?” she asked.

“It is not up to me,” he said.

“Oh, yes, it is,” she replied.

This could not be happening. It must not happen. Not again. She had caught him unprepared. There was nothing gradual in her approach. She was giving him no time to think.

Sasha took a deep breath and said, “Then I recommend that you save your money and remain in this compartment where you have people to talk to.”

“Roman,” she said. “Don’t make a mistake. I’m not suggesting anything that need be shared with anyone else, not even with the plumber you barely met.”

Oh Lord, this was a temptation that vibrated through his body and between his legs.

“I am afraid Į will be very busy during this trip,” he said. “I have a full week of work, reports to prepare. If I fail …”

“… to go through all the compartments and find what you are looking for,” she said, reaching over to touch his hand and lean within a foot of his face.

He could smell her essence. “No, I cannot. And I do not know where you got the idea that I am looking-”

“You examined the luggage,” she reminded him.

“I was humoring you,” he said. “I did not want to be impolite to a woman.”

“And would you have humored me had I been old and ugly?”

“I must go now,” he said, getting up, his nose almost brushing hers.

“Perhaps we can sit together at dinner tonight,” she said. “Perhaps we could discuss putting your work aside for a bit and pursuing our new friendship.”

“I have already agreed to dine with a French couple,” he said, moving to the door.

Her eyes met his and held. He closed his eyes and said, “I must go”

When he was gone, the woman sat back down. Her smile disappeared. She had learned what was necessary and now she was prepared to act. There were risks involved, risks that might end her career, but the chance of success would be worth the risks.

Tonight she would have a long talk with the plumber and the handsome young man who called himself Roman.

The watcher had listened to Pavel Cherkasov tell his jokes at the breakfast table, had heard him give the name David Drovny, had watched him eat.

Cherkasov was a remarkably capable courier. He did not hide. He played the role of glutton and near-buffoon to perfection because his persona was both true gluttony and buffoonery. That Pavel Cherkasov was well-armed there was no doubt. That Pavel Cherkasov would be cautious with his mission was equally certain. The watcher knew that the courier was a professional, an illusionist, a magician who could improvise brilliantly and execute his plans without error.

The watcher had been informed that there were two policemen on the train. There had been no problem spotting them. They matched their descriptions. Rostnikov was a difficult man to hide.

The important thing was that Rostnikov and his assistant not know that they were in a game, that they continue to believe and pursue their difficult task and not think there was another player. The presence of the two detectives gave the watcher an advantage, a backup plan.

If the attempt to make the transfer was observed, even anticipated, the watcher could act swiftly, beat the policeman to the prize. It was what the watcher expected. But there could be mistakes. Chance could intervene. Rostnikov might make the interception, capture the prize.

And then, unaware of the game, the prize could be taken from the policeman. It was really only a matter of who had to be killed. Pavel Cherkasov? The two policemen? The watcher would have preferred simply killing Pavel, but the difference was not great.

The watcher had ample weaponry and could improvise. Sometimes improvisation proved to be the best procedure, especially if it resulted in the conclusion that the necessary death had been an accident.

The watcher had pushed a woman in front of a bus in Rome, lifted a lean, surprised man over a low wall along a tower walkway of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, dropped a heavy steel loading-ramp door on an American in Budapest, and worked variations ranging from overdoses of drugs to quite accidental drownings.

The watcher had not kept count. Numbers did not matter. If murder was a sin and there was a God to punish, than ten or twenty meant no more than the first. The same would be true if the watcher were eventually caught, which was always a possibility, a slight possibility but a possibility nonetheless.

It had been a long career, a highly successful career, and there was no reason to stop. Assassination was the watcher’s life. There were no hobbies or interests beyond a professional interest in the tools of destruction and the game, which included planning, tracking, and execution.

Money meant little. In the beginning it had seemed important, but it no longer was, though the fees for such services were high.

The train rattled on. A stop in twelve minutes. Shar’ya. It was time to move, find the courier, stay with him, not be spotted.

The watcher did not have a sense of humor, but there was something that approached amusement in the fact that four people were now looking forward to the inevitable transaction.

There was a good chance that Rostnikov did not yet know who the courier was. The fact that his assistant was still going from compartment to compartment in search of the suitcase supported that conclusion, but it was sometimes dangerous to make assumptions even though they seemed obvious. It was far better to act solely on the facts and be prepared for the human factor, the variants that could neither be controlled nor anticipated.

“K her s nim , I don’t give a damn,” Misha Lovski tried to shout, but it came out as a faint dry croak.

He no longer had any sense of how much time had passed. Was it a day? A week? A month? The lights had remained on except when they came in to take his bowls, empty of food and water, and his bowl filled with excrement.

The music was ceaseless. His own voice. His own band. The words lost their meaning. He could not see the speaker. They were watching him. He knew it, felt it. And so he sat on his mattress folded over to cover his legs. He was feeling a definite chill. He was coming down with something. Maybe they had been putting something in his food. What the hell did they want? He wanted to dat’pisdy, kick ass, bash a head in with his guitar.

“I will not die,” he croaked. “I will not cry. I am a cossack, a free man, an adventurer, a kazak. I live at war. I am the cossack Illya of Murom of the bylina, the heroic poem, the best.”