Derek Lambert - The Yermakov Transfer

In the lighted window of the special coach he saw Yermakov’s face. The glass had misted-up so that the outlines were blurred; it reminded Semenov of a face masked with a stocking.

Framed in a window of coach 1251, Semenov saw the face of Viktor Pavlov. He shivered inside his warm overcoat and took a white handkerchief from his pocket. Pavlov’s face faded.

Before the train stopped K.G.B. officers dropped off like commuters late for work. They lined up the waiting passengers and began to check their papers. Local militia who had already done the job protested but they were pushed aside; it reminded Semenov of the airport scene at the time of the abortive skyjack when Moscow and Leningrad security officers fought each other.

Semenov was fourth in line. He handed his papers to a brusque K.G.B. man. The K.G.B. officer glanced at them, smiled slightly and said softly: “Welcome aboard, Comrade.”

Semenov the Policeman, a member of the K.G.B. with the best cover of all the Zealots, nodded and climbed into a carriage. The cover also enabled him to carry a gun.

* * *

Standing beside Pavlov in the corridor, was Stanley Wagstaff, the trainspotter from Manchester. His mind was a filing cabinet of railway statistics and trains were his substitute for the hungers that affected other men; if his wife ever wanted to divorce him she would have to cite a locomotive.

For twenty years Stanley Wagstaff had saved for this trip. He knew the Trans-Siberian’s history, every station, every class of locomotive.

He pointed into the gathering darkness and said to Pavlov: “See those over there?”

Pavlov looked, dimly seeing the silhouettes of old black steam engines with coal cars; they looked like a herd of elephants shouldered close to each other.

“There’s fifty of them,” Stanley Wagstaff informed him. “Sad, isn’t it? A graveyard.”

“Very,” said Pavlov. He saw Semenov signal with the handkerchief and leaned back against the wall.

“Did you know,” Stanley asked, “that Russia has the widest gauge in the world?”

Pavlov shook his head; Stanley thought he detected a man eager to have his ignorance repaired.

“Yes,” Stanley continued, his voice assuming authority and importance, “it’s five feet unlike the standard gauge of 4 ft. 8½ inches used in Europe and America. Whistler – you know, the painter’s father – recommended it. A lot of people reckoned they had a bigger gauge to stop trains being used by invading armies.” He paused, waiting for reaction; but there was none. “In fact it worked the other way. It’s much easier for an enemy to re-lay one line on a broad gauge than it is for the Russians to widen an enemy gauge. They found that out when they attacked the Poles in the Civil War.”

The train began to move out of the station. Stanley spotted a stationary engine, whipped out his notebook and recorded its number, JI 4526. “An old L class freight locomotive,” he said. “I wonder what it’s doing here.”

The stranger didn’t seem to care. He was staring out of the window at the dark countryside moving by. A strong, dark man filled with some inner intensity. But not for trains. Stanley Wagstaff persevered a little longer.

“Next stop Svecha,” he informed the stranger. “We arrive at 22.14 and leave at 22.30.” His earnest face broke into a grin and he said in his North Country voice: “And I bet it’ll be on time with his nibs back there.”

“Who?”

“His nibs. The bloke from the Kremlin.”

“Ah,” the stranger said. “Yes, we’ll be on time all right.” He spoke good English with a slight accent.

“Perhaps,” Stanley Wagstaff suggested, “you’d care to join me in the restaurant car? I could tell you quite a lot of history about the Trans-Siberian.”

The stranger shook his head. “Some other time.” He squeezed past Stanley. “This could be quite an historic trip,” he said, tapping Stanley’s notebook. “Keep that handy.” He opened the door of his compartment and went in.

Stanley sighed. The alternatives were the American journalist who didn’t look a likely candidate for swapping railway stories, the English girl – women were usually frigid on the subject of trains, regarding them almost as rivals – and the Intourist woman with whom he had already crossed swords.

Stanley had been telling the three of them how much the Trans-Siberian owed to the Americans and British. He had started with the American railroad engineer Whistler, then progressed to Perry McDonough Collins, from New York, the first foreigner to propose a steam railway across Siberia. “He arrived with red pepper in his socks to keep out the cold and changed horses 210 times crossing Siberia. He offered to raise 20,000,000 dollars by subscription but the Russians turned it down.”

The Intourist girl said: “Soon the lights will be going off. We must prepare for bed.”

Stanley then recalled Prince Khilkov, Minister of Communications, during the construction of the line. “Did you know he was called The American because he learned all his stuff in Philadelphia?”

The Intourist girl stood up. “Perhaps the Americans have a lot to thank the Soviet people for.”

Harry Bridges said from his top bunk: “They have – they bought Alaska from Russia for one cent an acre.”

The Intourist girl said: “Tomorrow we reach Sverdlovsk where a Soviet ground-to-air missile shot down the American U-2 spy plane piloted by Gary Powers.”

“We get there at 14.00 hours,” Stanley Wagstaff chipped in. “Named after Jacob Sverdlov who arranged the execution of Nicholas II and his family on July 17, 1918. In those days it was called Ekaterinburg.…”

“Mr. Wagstaff,” said the girl, “it is my job to explain the route.…”

“Then you’re lucky I’m in your compartment,” Stanley said. “I can help you quite a bit.” He consulted a pamphlet. “We leave Sverdlovsk at 14.18. It’s 1,818 kilometres from Moscow,” he added.

“It’s time to get undressed,” the girl said.

It was the moment Libby Chandler had been anticipating with some trepidation. Liberated as she was, she wasn’t happy about undressing in front of three strangers; but, oddly, it was the thought of the Russian girl that worried her more than the men.

Bridges said: “Okay, Stanley and I will wait in the corridor while you girls get changed.”

Libby Chandler took out her pyjamas. The Russian girl was already stripped down to her brassiere and panties. Her body was on the thick side, but voluptuous. Libby thought she might put on a nightdress and remove her underwear beneath it. She didn’t. She unhooked the brassiere revealing big firm breasts; then the panties came off showing a thatch of black pubic hair.

She glanced down at Libby and smiled. “Hurry up,” she said, “or the men will be back while you’re undressed.” She seemed completely unconcerned about her nakedness. She stood there for a few moments and Libby smelled her cologne – all Russian cologne smelled the same.

“Perhaps,” Libby Chandler said, “there would be more room if you got into bed first.”

The girl shrugged. “As you wish.” She pulled on a pink cotton nightdress, climbed into her bunk and lay watching Libby as she manoeuvred herself into her pyjamas feeling as if she were undressing in the convent where she had been educated, where one’s anatomy was not supposed to be visible to anyone – even God.

* * *

When Viktor Pavlov entered his compartment after meeting Stanley Wagstaff in the corridor he found that the breezy stranger, Yosif Gavralin, who had arrived last had occupied his berth. He looked up as Pavlov came in and said: “Hope you don’t mind. It was difficult climbing up there.” He slapped his thigh under the bedclothes. “A hunting accident.” Pavlov who knew there was nothing he could do said he didn’t mind, but during the night he dreamed a knife was coming through the mattress, sliding between spine and shoulder blade.