For those who join at the end of the line
Porfiry Petrovich sat at a table in the dining car with the three other men from his compartment, the Americans dressed casually and the slightly dapper, somewhat portly man with the neatly trimmed beard, wearing a suit and tie, who had identified himself as David Drovny-a dealer in men’s clothes on his way to Vladivostok to approve a shipment of material from Japan.
Meanwhile, Sasha was making his rounds of the eighteen cars in search of the suitcase. Meals were the best time for such a search because people would be in the dining car. Even if they were not, he would make up an excuse, be at his charming boyish best, apologize, ask for help with something, and without giving himself away examine the luggage, perhaps even swaying slightly and reaching out to touch a particularly interesting suitcase, to balance himself, and feel for its contents.
“Never made it this far during the war,” one of the Americans, the tall one named Allberry, said. “Liaison with Russian intelligence near Rostov.”
“OSS?” asked the other American, Susman.
The tall American nodded and said, “I helped get some information from our people to the Russians,” said Allberry. “We’d broken the Nazi codes. It helped a little. Always wanted to come back.”
“And here we are, Bob,” said the smaller, bald American with a sigh. “I never made it past Rome. Landed in Casino. Thought about making this trip from the day the war ended. Then the Cold War. Ellen died last year. Figured, what the hell.”
“What the hell,” Allberry agreed, patting the other Americans shoulder.
Rostnikov listened to the men at his table talk and looked out the window past a forest of birch trees that came almost to the train tracks. Snowdrifts stretched up the trees, and nooks in the fleeting branches were tinged with the soft whiteness. From time to time he could see an isolated dacha or two, sometimes four or five in a group, retreats for the upper-middle class, their roofs decorated with tufts of snow.
On the table before the four men was a plate of hard-boiled eggs, another of fried eggs with small slices of ham, an urn of black coffee, slices of black bread, and small cups of yoghurt.
“The breakfast,” Drovny said in English, buttering a thick slice of bread, “is standard fare. Nothing you would not get in a second-class hotel in Irkutsk. But the lunch and dinner …”
“Good, huh?” asked one of the Americans.
Drovny smiled and said, “Rice with minced mutton.”
“Boiled beef tongue, roast pork with plums, goulash, beef Stroganoff,” Drovny went on. “Not the equal of some of the restaurants I could take you to in Moscow, and nothing like Paris, but palatable.”
“I’m a steak-and-potatoes man,” Allberry said. “Doing it so long, it’s in my blood. But I’m willing to try. I remember back in those months with a Russian intelligence general we had a dish with beef, veal, and chicken in gelatin served with a mustard sauce. Sounds terrible, right? But it was damned good.”
The American laughed. “I’m afraid we weren’t near any of that.”
“Yes,” said Drovny, reaching over to pat the man’s arm in congratulation for his willingness to experiment with the standard cuisine of the country he was visiting. “And you?”
He was looking at Rostnikov.
Rostnikov had already told the men that he was a plumbing contractor; but he was, like Drovny, a Russian. “I am willing to try any food,” he said.
“A large man with a large appetite,” said Drovny with a big grin, as if he had made a joke.
Rostnikov looked around the car. All the tables were full. He did not see the woman he had spoken to the night before, the one who had given him the name Svetlana Britchevna.
“This egg,” said Drovny. “It reminds me of something.”
“What’s that?” asked one of the Americans.
“It reminds me of a funny story,” Drovny said. “Two flies go into an insect restaurant. The first fly orders shit with garlic. The second one orders shit but adds, ‘Hold the garlic. I don’t want my breath to smell bad.’”
The two Americans laughed. Rostnikov smiled as the joker asked, “Which is more useful, Russian newspapers or Russian television? The newspaper,” he answered himself. “You can wrap fish in it.”
Five cars down, Sasha Tkach was slowly making his way through the train. His plan was simple. He would check the empty compartments, the ones in which the occupants were dining, out in the corridors, or visiting with other passengers. He kept a list of the cars and compartments and checked them off. He would return periodically to see if unchecked compartments were empty.
If a compartment were, at the moment, unoccupied, he would slide open the door when he was confident no one in the corridor was watching, then quickly look at the luggage and reach out to feel particular pieces. In five cars, he had found nothing promising.
Some people passing had looked at him as he moved slowly or loitered. He gave them his best smile and a good morning. The smile still worked, though he did not feel it.
Sasha had no great hope of finding that for which he searched, but he persisted. There would be a stop in twenty minutes. He would have to suspend his search and get out onto the platform. This was proving on the first day to be an exhausting assignment.
Sasha continued, recalling his brief conversation with Porfiry Petrovich the night before.
“The man’s name?” Rostnikov had asked. “The one your mother says she might marry?”
“Matvei Labroadovnik,” Sasha had said. “He is working on the restoration of the Cathedral of the Resurrection in Istra.”
“Matvei Labroadovnik,” Rostnikov repeated, searching his memory for the name.
“She says he is famous,” Sasha had gone on.
“And you believe? …”
“That he knows my mother has money. That he is not a famous painter. Either that or he is ninety years old, half blind, and slightly mad.”
“You don’t think a man could be interested in your mother?”
“Do you?”
“She has her good points, Sasha.”
“Such as?”
“She is generous.”
“But she charges a great deal for her generosity. Attention, great respect, and the right to dictate how I live.”
“She loves you and your children,” Rostnikov tried.
“She smothers us with love, on her terms,” said Sasha. “She is a smothering … I do not know.”
“Would you not be happy if she indeed had found someone?”
“I would be relieved, overjoyed. I would throw a party. There would be dancing. But I don’t believe it.”
Rostnikov had his doubts too but he went on, “We will check on this painter when we get back to Moscow.”
“And if they decide to marry before we get back? He may want to marry her quickly before he has to meet me, deal with me.”
“Are you concerned about losing your mother’s money?”
“A little, perhaps,” Sasha admitted.
“You are concerned about losing your mother,” Rostnikov tried.
“As strange as it is, that may be the case,” said Sasha with a deep sigh. “I have grown accustomed to her nagging. Maya would be happy to see her gone. Maya does not care about the money. The children would probably be happy too.”
“We are not talking about Lydia dying,” said Rostnikov. “Only about her getting married.”
Sasha laughed. The few other people in the car had looked at him. “You know why I am laughing?” he asked.
“I think so,” said Rostnikov.
