The subway train slowed at Vokzalnaya — the train station, our stop. It was half past ten, darker outside in swirling snow than it had been in the subway, and we were half an hour late. Around the subway entrance small gangs of protesters halfheartedly waved Soviet banners, hopping from foot to foot in an attempt to save their extremities from frostbite.
Kiev Central, like all Soviet train stations, is a massive industrial complex consisting of miles and miles of switching yards, maintenance sheds, factories, power plants, and freight handling complexes. Soviets didn’t really travel much, but more than a dozen tracks and platforms had been wrested from the steel strafed landscape and tasked for human cargo. Then a huge cement, barn-like structure had been erected as a passenger terminal. Over the years a myriad of incongruous additions sprouted from the bunker like terminal, giving the whole place a dystopian, post apocalyptic ambiance I wouldn’t describe as inviting. It was labeled, in green letters over the barn door entrance, Tsentralnaya — Central.
We set out for the doors under those green letters, our hoods and collars pulled up against the biting wind. It would have made sense that during a blizzard, a meeting would take place indoors. In the station itself, perhaps? Not so for The Skater.
Anna skidded to a stop halfway to the passenger terminal. “Eta Mama!”
I squinted through the snow at a lone woman on one of the passenger platforms. She was waving her outstretched arms like a lost climber signaling for help. Although she was well insulated, had The Skater been standing out in that deep cold since ten, she must have been freezing.
Anna grabbed my hand and headed for the signaling woman. She stopped short. “What is she doing? We can’t get to her without crossing the tracks.” The Skater hadn’t moved. She was still separated from us by several tracks and platforms.
“Yeah, this is nuts. There’s no train for miles and she’s standing out there like a Yeti, enjoying the cold and snow.” I nudged Anna toward the terminal. “She can meet us inside where it’s not snowing and there’s people.”
Like any train station, access to the trains is via the platforms. Since the tracks run continuously through the station, access to the platforms is provided by walkways from above or via tunnels running perpendicularly under the tracks and platforms. Kiev Central has both a wide heated concourse above the center of the platforms connected to the station building and, at the western extremity of the platforms, an unheated and mostly unused pedestrian tunnel running under the sixteen tracks. Why anyone would use the western pedestrian tunnel in the dead of winter with the nearest train hundreds of meters away, was beyond me. Too bad it hadn’t occurred to Anna. She nudged back and said, “No, if that’s where Mama wants to meet us, that is where we will meet her.” Then she dragged me, skidding and lurching through the snow and ice, down into the deserted western pedestrian tunnel.
Deeper into the tunnel, the stench of urine and vomit hit me like a rogue wave. It was dark and nearly impossible to differentiate the asphalt from patches of black ice. I was constantly on the verge of losing my footing. The Skater appeared in silhouette at the bottom of a stairway. The kind leading down from the platform above. Anna rushed toward her. “Mama, oh Mama…” Then skidding into her mother’s open arms, Anna twisted around and screamed, “Run! Jess, run!”
Sergei flew from an opposing stairway, seized my collar and propelled me, backpack first, into the tunnel wall. The impact sent a sickening crunch through my spine.
Anna’s shrieking, “Let me go!” was weirdly muffled.
My feet dangled half a meter over the asphalt. Sergei, his face closing on mine, jeered, “Faw-king ee-dee-awt bee…”
The Skater’s screaming cut him off. “Nyet, stop! Get Anna!”
Sergei was gone. I crumpled to the asphalt. The Skater sprawled on a patch of black ice. Anna had wrenched herself free and was making a break for it. Sergei bolted after her, letting me run the other way. Anna’s screams echoed through the tunnel as I got to daylight.
Stunned, pissed off and disgusted at myself for running, I made for the Vokzalnaya subway station and downtown Kiev. Anna’s screams tore at me. I’d gone blindly into a situation I had absolutely no training or experience with and Anna paid the price. She trusted me. She might have reconsidered had I refused to go with her. Sure, I didn’t really think The Skater would kill her own daughter, but I was pretty sure that Vladimir would. Deals had been made since the blown payoff. It was a sure bet. Deals that weren’t in Anna’s or my favor.
I couldn’t face being downtown or anywhere I’d been with Anna. I got off the subway and flopped down on a bench by the platform. I felt another disturbing crunch through my spine and, come to think of it, something was awfully warm back there. The pack! I’d forgotten about the backpack. I pulled it off and emptied it beside me on the bench.
The seventeen inch custom laptop, Gavin’s pride and joy of unorthodox engineering, was folded around my bombproof Leicaflex SL2. The 1970’s vintage SLR camera was none the worse for wear, but the big laptop was mangled and throwing off a lot of heat. I pried out the battery pack with my Swiss Army knife. Gavin had wrapped the lithium ion cells with something that was now a scalding ooze. I cut the leads from the superheated metal canisters and waited. The impromptu incendiary device stopped smoking. Preventing an embarrassing backpack conflagration was a huge relief. I removed the hard drive and pocketed it. That’s when I noticed I had attracted the attention of a couple of teenage boys.
“Can I help with the computer?” One of them asked.
“I don’t think so. It’s broken. I sat on the damned thing.” I lied.
“Sat on it pretty hard. You okay?”
“Look, I really have to go.” Getting up, I offered them what was left of the computer.
They headed for the escalators, happily arguing over the electronic treasure-trove. I knew I’d catch hell for that from Gavin, if I lived, but at least I had the hard-drive, and besides, the backpack was now considerably lighter.
ELEVEN
Abandoning Anna and bugging out wasn’t an option. No matter what she had done in front of the Prokuratura — and then that ridiculous meeting with her mother — I couldn’t, “walk away, move on,” or whatever it was Gavin accused me of doing when the, “going got tough.” Undeniably, I’d lost control of the situation and, yet again, someone I cared about was shoved into harm’s way, and on my watch.
I’d let emotions hijack a decision making process that should have been clear cut, but there was more at play with Anna. She reached out for a lifeline, trusted me with her entire being. I sure as hell wasn’t going to walk away or move on
Digging in my pack, I begged my Canadian Fido cell phone to work. “Roaming, choose network,” whew. I punched in Anna’s number and waited. Ringing, then English, “Help! Train station. McDonald’s. Put me in crazy house! Help, Papa coming…” then the connection was cut.
Crazy house means a Russian mental hospital. Locking someone away in one of those is one way of shutting them up without outright killing them, at least not right away — common procedure in Russia. Jail-for-hire, and with the right treatment regime, probably the best option for someone with Anna’s particular disorder. The Skater had to silence her to hang on to her place in the hierarchy. Not only could she shut her up, she could still marry off what was left, drooling or otherwise, to cement those syndicate ties.