Martin Smith - Three Stations

"You know kids. Do you have any witnesses?"

"Sergeant Orlov is canvassing the area."

"From the freak show here? People here see cockroaches as big as dogs."

"She was found in a workers' trailer twenty-five meters from where we are right now. Extension cords run from the back of this station house to the trailer. It's your trailer."

Malenkov slid Arkady's cell phone back across the desk. "It's an abandoned trailer. Let me ask you, was this girl raped? Beaten? Did you see any 'unusual circumstances'?"

"Her underpants were taken and she was left on display. That sounds 'unusual' to me."

"Really? How unusual is it for a prostitute to remove her panties? As I remember, that's what they're paid to do. You say she was 'on display'? Some clients only want to watch. Girls arrive from the countryside every day to let them fuck, watch or whatever. We have a flood of them. They shoot up and overdose because they're not the brightest individuals in the world. So we don't waste time on ODs."

"You bury them as quickly as you can."

"Life is unfair. Why should death be any different?"

An audible shimmy ran through the building as two hundred tons of diesel locomotive approached on a near track. The certificate from Crete shifted, Rome trembled, Tunis leaned and Amsterdam followed suit. While Malenkov was occupied with adjusting them Arkady scooped his cell phone into an envelope, taking care not to smear the colonel's fingerprints.

Zhenya didn't understand why Maya refused to go to the militia; this was one of those rare occasions when the police might do some good. There should be a manhunt and pictures of the baby shown on the news. How else to cover three major railway stations and their Metro connections? Instead, she insisted on begging for information from platform conductors, cleaning ladies and cafe staff while she refused to divulge her own name or where she came from. The more questions she asked the more suspicion she aroused.

When evening came they found themselves still in Yaroslavl Station, wading through row after row of sleeping figures. Carefully. Families could misinterpret the intent of a stranger hovering over their babies. The upstairs waiting room had a piano behind a velvet rope; Zhenya had never heard anyone play it. A peek into the luxury lounge found only Americans and potted plants.

When Maya began to stagger Zhenya led her outside for fresh air. At this hour Three Stations had the stillness of a circus when the show was over and tents were struck. Zhenya bought an apple at a twenty-four-hour kiosk and sliced it for Maya with a folding knife. Maya ate listlessly, mainly at his urging.

The kiosk was a vodka stop for prostitutes. Zhenya regarded them out of the corner of his eye and all he saw was an impression of lipstick smears, bruised flesh and net stockings. When pimps began to gravitate in Maya's direction, Zhenya led her toward the relative safety of a taxi rank.

Traffic in the square was five lanes each direction and the night resounded with the boom of foreign cars that seemed to rise out of the ground at full speed.

Maya pointed across the square to a giant Oriental gate, dark arches and a floodlit clock tower.

"Is that a station too?"

"Kazansky Station. I think we should call my friend."

"The policeman?"

"A prosecutor's investigator."

"No difference."

"He's been around a long time. He might have some ideas."

"Just tell me how to get across."

So much for Arkady, Zhenya thought.

He steered Maya to a pedestrian underpass that was a hundred meters of flickering lights and shuttered stalls. During the day the passage was an arcade of small shops that traded in phone cards, flowers, women's hose. The single stall without shutters was protected by two uniformed security guards dozing in their chairs.

Zhenya said, "We can come back when there are more people."

"I'm looking for my baby now. I didn't ask for help, you volunteered."

"Only a suggestion."

"What's the matter? Do you have enemies down here?"

Worse, Zhenya thought. Friends.

The waiting hall at Kazansky Station put Zhenya in mind of the nocturnal habitat at the zoo, a place where things stirred indistinctly and species were difficult to identify. Were these silhouettes hunchbacks or hikers with their packs? Was that ominous hulk a suitcase or a bear? Zhenya held his breath while Maya stumbled over the mega-luggage of vendors and the bare legs of slumbering tourists.

This was worse than insane, Zhenya decided, it was futile. He slipped behind a photo booth and tried to call Arkady at home. He waited ten rings before giving up because Arkady sometimes ignored the phone and message machine. Next, Zhenya tried Arkady's cell phone, which only rang twice before Maya snatched the phone away.

"I said no police."

"You'll never find the baby this way."

"Your first chance, you snuck away and called them."

"Just talk to him."

"No police, we agreed."

"He's not police."

"Police enough."

"Okay, it's your move."

"I'm going back to the other station. Anyway, it's not your problem." She unzipped Zhenya's sweatshirt and returned it to him. "Why do I trust strangers? I'm so stupid."

"How are you going to get by?"

"I'll get by. I know how to do that."

"You don't know Three Stations."

"I just took the tour."

"And you don't know your way around Moscow. It's twenty-four hours since you saw your baby. You don't need a search party, you need a time machine."

"That's not your problem, is it?"

She headed for the street, and when Zhenya tried to walk with her, she shook him off. His sense of honor demanded that he keep her in sight even if it meant tagging a humiliating distance behind her.

Maya took the pedestrian underpass. Harsh lights were welcome after the murk of the stations and she was reassured by the sight of a group of boys coming from the far end. She was surprised to see them out so late, but the fact that they were singing made her feel safe and she shot Zhenya a look that warned him off.

A tourist approached with the teenage boys. He was drunk and out of shape and he ran in slow motion, arms flailing like a marathoner down to his last gasp. Designer eyeglasses bounced on his nose. Tassels bounced on his shoes. The boys trotted alongside in dirty sneakers and salvaged clothes. Older boys tucked a cigarette behind an ear. One was actually a girl with fuzzy dreadlocks that swung from her cap. As they sang, the acoustics of the tunnel made sound seem as visible as rings of smoke.

"Beck in the Yuuessessaarr…"

The drunk had a task enough in staying upright. Blood matted his hair and dripped strawberry-colored stains on his polo shirt. When he saw the security guards he shouted over and over that he was registered at the Canadian embassy, as if that made a difference.

"Oww luggee yuuaarr…"

The guards were paid to protect one stall, nothing else, and the Canadian swept by in the grip of a boy old enough to cultivate a wispy mustache and the air of authority. A white scarf was around his neck and he carried the butt end of a billiard cue as a club. Maya kept walking as the procession approached; animals-dogs or boys-were more likely to chase anything that ran.

The Canadian tripped and fell. At once the boys swarmed over him, removing his watch and stripping him of his visa, passport, credit cards and money. Maya seemed to get no more than a glance. She made it almost to the bottom of the stairs before the boy with the scarf slipped in front of her.

"Terrific hair."

Now she wished she had never dyed it.

He said, "I'm Yegor. What's your name?"

She didn't answer.

Yegor wasn't insulted. He was sixteen at least, a combination of baby fat and muscle, the proper build for a bully, and when she tried to step around him, he held the pool cue in her way.