Nadia whipped out her New York City library card. “You see this? It says New York Chronicle. That is the biggest newspaper in America. I went to Moscow to interview Aline Kabaeva. You know Aline Kabaeva? She’s the Olympic gold medalist who’s now a member of parliament and a very close friend of Prime Minister Putin. After writing a story on women in politics in Russia, I’m enjoying your beautiful countryside with my nephew. But you… You don’t want me to enjoy it, do you? You want me to write another story instead?”
The policewoman’s lips quivered as though she didn’t know if she should be angry or afraid. The soldier put his hand on his sidearm uncertainly. He looked from his partner to Nadia and back to her again.
After a momentary pause, she returned the passports. “But you must register,” she grumbled. Her partner followed her to the next car, the badge sewn on his right shoulder barely hanging on by a few threads.
When Nadia turned back, she found Adam staring at her with wonder. She led the way back to their compartment. Worn and weathered passengers loitered in front of their cabins. Smoking was prohibited, but a white cloud hung in the air and the corridor reeked of nicotine. Nadia savored the thrill of outwitting the cop. She was a thief’s daughter. She could wrangle her way out of any situation, couldn’t she? Equally thrilling was the thought that she’d impressed Adam and earned a modicum of respect.
“Was that… Was that all true?” Adam said, close on her heels.
“Was what true?”
“What you said back there. To that musor. Was that all true?”
“Of course it was true. Are you calling your aunt a liar?”
“You’re my cousin, not my aunt.”
“I prefer aunt. It gives me a sense of power with no real responsibility.”
“You’re not my aunt.”
“I disagree.”
“Are you really a reporter? Do you really know Aline Kabaeva?”
“No. But I read an article about her in a New York paper once.”
“Huh?”
When they got to their cabin, Nadia locked the door behind them.
“From now on,” she said, “we don’t leave the room unless we need to use the bathroom. And we watch each other’s back at all times. Agreed?”
Adam hesitated and then nodded. “Agreed.”
CHAPTER 56
KIRILO SLIPPED A five hundred–ruble note to the bartender in the restaurant car.
“Car Three, Cabin Two,” the bartender said, snatching the bill from the counter and burying it in his pocket. “She and the boy.”
“The boy? What boy?” Misha said.
“Ugly boy. Not Russian. Face like a reindeer’s ass after Christmas Eve. Looks like he’s from the North. Not Yakut or Evenk. More like Chukchi. Smells like he’s from the Zone, though.”
“The Zone?” Victor said. “Why do you say that?”
“I worked in Kyiv for twelve years. You get a feeling.” The bartender shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”
Misha’s neck buckled. Warned, Kirilo stepped away. Misha vomited. The bartender recoiled. Misha hurled again. Blood mixed with chunks of partially digested chips and nuts. The bartender groaned. A putrid smell filled the air. Kirilo gagged.
Misha straightened. Blood dripped from his nose onto the counter. He raised his sleeve to his ashen face. A red droplet seeped into the white cotton and spread.
His lips parted and his eyes widened. He glanced at Victor with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. “Did you really poison me, old man?”
Victor laughed. “Of course not. You really must have caught a bug or a parasite.”
Kirilo now knew Victor was lying. Misha looked worse every hour. But there was no sense in telling Misha. They couldn’t afford any delays to see a doctor, and even if they could, there was no hope for the moscal.
“You should really see a doctor,” Specter said.
Misha babbled incoherently for a few seconds before glancing at Specter. “What? Doctor? And let you guys make out with the formula? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Specter? No, no doctor.”
“Misha,” Specter said, “you’re not well.”
“The formula,” Misha said. A maniacal glint shone in his eyes. “All I need is the formula. Let’s go.”
They bounded down the corridor toward the third car. Kirilo let Misha, Specter, and the four bodyguards go ahead of him to put distance between the radioactive moscal and himself.
Kirilo checked his watch. It was 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday. It had taken them two and a half days to catch up to Nadia. When they had finally arrived in Moscow at 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, some pipsqueak in Passport Control had flagged Misha as an undesirable based on his criminal record as a youth in Moscow. It didn’t help that Misha was sweating profusely, like someone who had something to hide. Kirilo explained that the deputy minister of the interior of Russia was an investor in his Black Sea energy project and would vouch for the American. The deputy was away at a conference in Prague, however, and couldn’t be reached until midnight.
On Tuesday morning, they flew to Yemelyanovo Airport and tried to catch the Trans-Siberian thirty-seven kilometers away at Krasnoyarsk, but the taxi arrived seven minutes late. They drove an additional four hundred kilometers and finally boarded it at Tayshet, halfway to Vladivostok.
When they arrived at Cabin 2, Misha tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He cursed and kicked at it. Loitering passengers disappeared.
Something clanged inside the cabin. It was metal on metal, like a lead pipe accidentally banging into the steel frame of a bed.
“Who are you? What are you doing?” A very large female attendant barreled down the corridor. No wonder the restaurant car had no food to offer, Kirilo thought.
Kirilo had the pyatichatka out of his wallet before she arrived. He offered her the fifty-hryvnia bill.
“Please open this door,” he said.
She licked her lips at the money and frowned as though she wished she could accept it but couldn’t.
“It’s okay, dear,” he said. “The American woman is my granddaughter. The boy is a troubled child. She is adopting him. I am here to help them.”
“That’s no business of mine,” she said. “But I can’t open the door for you because it’s locked from the inside.”
“How do you get in if it’s an emergency?”
“They have to open it themselves.”
“What if they can’t?”
“Well, that’s never happened. But if we had to, we could break it down. Though, in this case, it would be a waste of time.”
Kirilo sighed with exasperation. “Why do you say that?”
“Because the woman and the boy aren’t in there. They got off the train at Tayshet.”
“What?” Misha said.
“As soon as we arrived at Tayshet, they got off the train and disappeared.”
The lock was unbolted from the inside. The door slid open. An ancient couple jabbered in Chinese. The man held a metal cane.
“Where could they possibly be going that they would get off at Tayshet?” Victor said.
“The Baikal-Amur Mainline begins in Tayshet,” the attendant said. “It goes north and then runs parallel to the Trans-Siberian. It is a slower train.”
“Then why on God’s earth would anyone use it besides a local?” Kirilo said.
“It used to be a transit stop for gulag prisoners. Now it is the gateway to Yakutsk and the North,” she said.
Kirilo howled. “Yakutsk? The North? There’s nothing in the North but gulags and mines. No roads, no civilization, nothing.” Kirilo’s voice faded as he listened to his own words.