“Yes,” said the old man, without doubt or hesitation.
Mokrenko cast a glance at the dining car attendant.
“I’ll help, yes.”
“Very good. Consider yourself under the command of…”
“Colonel Plestov,” the old man supplied.
“Thank you, sir. You will be under the command of Colonel Plestov.”
With that, the Cossack put the mask over his face, pulled the kubanka down on his head, drew his Amerikanski pistol, placing it in his pocket, which barely served to cover it, and started back the way he’d come.
Freeing his own car and the bulk of his men had proven almost laughably easy. The two robbers there had barely spared him a glance and a grunt before turning back to robbing the passengers. Rostislav’s pistol spoke four times, twice for each robber, and then the section had their hands down, their knives out and were carving throats.
Timashuk, the medic, was the odd one there. He sat atop one of the thieves, his dagger lunging again and again into the dead man’s chest. “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” the medic repeated, mindlessly.
“Stop it!” commanded Mokrenko, changing the magazine of his pistol. “We have too much to do to leave messes behind. I need three men; Koslov, you cannot be one of them. So… Novarikasha… Lavin… Shukhov, get your pistols… forget the rifles and swords.
“Koslov? Goat, you take the rest and, when I start clearing forward you start clearing back. If you can’t hear it, and you probably can’t, start in ten minutes. A prisoner, if you can get one. I’d prefer two but no more than two. Kill the rest.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Timashuk, Visaitov, Sarnof, with me. Same order of battle for arms except take your swords.”
“Use whatever you can scrounge from the dead,” Mokrenko advised, “to disguise yourselves to get close to them.”
“Listen up,” Mokrenko told his half of the recon section, in the dining car, just on the friendly side of the door to first class. “I’m going to pull the same trick I did in our car; just walk in like I belong there and open fire without warning. I want you three to climb to the roof of the first class car, then crawl across it—got it, crawl; no footsteps on the roof—and one of you, Novarikasha, I think, to get down between it and the sleeper car. The other two continue to the locomotive. The colonel’s wife didn’t notice any there, but I think there must be one or two.
“Novarikasha, your signal to burst in will be either”—here, the sergeant consulted his watch—“seven minutes from my mark, or when you hear shooting or screaming. When you come in, for God’s sake remember that I am going to be dressed just like the robbers. But I’ll be the one with the Amerikanski pistol. And don’t hit either of the officers or the girl.”
“Now who’s got a watch? What? Oh, shit.”
Help came from and unexpected source. The old colonel offered, “Here, give them mine, Sergeant.”
“No, sir; keep yours. Here… Lavin… take mine. Sir, if you would tell me when seven minutes have passed?”
“Fifteen seconds, Sergeant,” said the old colonel. “Ten… nine…”
Mokrenko was already out the door. He crossed the curved open platform, above the coupler, then opened the door to the vestibule leading to first class. He instantly saw Natalya on the floor, some ruffian trying to get her clothes off as she fought back fiercely. The other two laughed over it, even while keeping their pistols generally pointed at the two officers still seated.
Turgenev is ready to charge, even bare handed. Well… no need. Sorry, girl, but yours is distracted so you’re lowest priority.
“You’ll have to wait your turn, Sasha,” said one of the robbers, “after we’ve had ours with the girl.”
Mokrenko shrugged his indifference. He was about to pull his pistol and open fire when he heard a fusillade of shots from the direction of the locomotive. In an instant, he had his pistol out, and began blasting. One of the robbers went down immediately, falling face forward. The other, in confusion, turned to the louder and more recent blast, but before he could get a shot at Mokrenko, Lavin burst in, followed by Shukhov. He put several shots into second robber. The third, just as he was about to get Natalya’s skirt up far enough, realized what was happening, backed off and raised his hands.
“You can have the girl first, no problem.”
Mokrenko looked at the weeping girl, looked at the would-be rapist, and then looked at the heating stove. He strode forward, then slapped the criminal upside the head with his pistol.
“No, not good enough,” he said to the bleeding thug. Then he bent and grabbed the man’s hair, dragging him by it to the stove. In a moment, the air was filled with the stench of melting and charring flesh, as well as a sizzling sound and a very loud scream. The scream went on for a long time, as the heat worked its way past the skin, past the skull, and began to cook the brain underneath.
Interlude
Tatiana: An ugly reminder
I was helping Maria and Anastasia make use of a pair of Papa’s long johns for their play without resorting to cutting them up and making them unusable again. As I contemplated the best way to keep Maria from tripping while wearing them, I heard a scream.
I rushed out of the parlor and bolted upstairs as I prayed that no one else heard and then prayed that I be the first to get back up to our room. But both Mama and Papa had been upstairs and they reached Olga first.
Mama was holding on to her, rocking her back and forth, barely holding up under her weight as she leaned into her. The look on Papa’s face was full of concern, but it showed no rage. That mask of his hadn’t cracked or fallen apart. That’s how I knew that I wasn’t too late.
As soon as Olga saw me, she let go of Mama and fell into my arms.
Mama sank down into the bed, hand pressed to her forehead. Coffee had become unobtainable and its lack caused her horrible headaches atop the tally of ailments she suffered day in and day out.
“I’m sorry,” Olga whispered as she pressed her wet cheek into my mine. “I had a waking dream. A terrible one.”
“A dream?” Mama said as she continued to rub at her temples.
Papa moved to take Olga into his arms, but she flinched away. I turned, placing my body between them and pulled her head closer into mine. “It’s all right. It was just a dream. You fell asleep, that’s all.”
I hated lying. I hated the deception. God forgive me, but it was necessary.
My own nightmares included Papa finding out that Olga had been raped. It would not only break him but I wasn’t sure what he would do. He’d swallowed his pride again and again. He’d taken the “demotion” to Colonel Romanov and “Citizen” Romanov. He’d merely nodded when the soldiers had voted to get rid of epaulets in order to establish a more egalitarian, soviet system. He had considered it a great dishonor, but despite his anger, he’d done the only thing he could—wear his civilian coat over his uniform shirts so that the epaulets would remain hidden. It was a bit of defiance, but one that did not endanger us. I wasn’t sure if his rage over Olga, if he’d known, could have been contained. So far, everything he’d done had been for Russia and to keep us safe.
Keeping us safe was the only thing he had left.
I’ll never forget the relief that washed over me when he merely nodded, accepting the explanation of a dream. He kissed Olga and helped Mama stand.
Shock followed relief as I stood there. As soon as the door closed behind them, Olga’s sobbing became a low, keening wail. Her pain washed over me and through me until I thought it would drown me. I shushed her, held her tight, told her it was going to be all right.