compartment.”
“Drovny, the man with the jokes,” said Rostnikov. Rostnikov looked out the window, his eyes ahead, searching for the first light of the sun, but it was still too early, though perhaps he sensed the faintest hint of morning light. “And our discussion last night?” he asked.
“To test you,” she said.
“Did I pass your test?”
“Yes. And so did your assistant, Tkach. I tried to seduce him. I am very good at it and my information was that he was very susceptible. He did not succumb.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” said Rostnikov. “You are out of coffee. Shall I get you more?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I have a proposal for you.”
Rostnikov sat attentively.
“I have told you who you are looking for. I can tell you where his transaction will take place. You will tell me what his mission is, and if we succeed in catching him in the act, I get credit for his apprehension.”
“And what do I get?” asked Rostnikov.
“Whatever it is Cherkasov is planning to get or give or both. We each have information the other needs. I see no point in our doing battle. Time is running short.”
“There is a long way to go,” said Rostnikov.
“Not for Cherkasov. I know about you, Rostnikov. I am willing to trust you. Tell me we have an agreement and I will tell you where and when and with whom he plans to make whatever transaction he has planned.”
“Why not simply seduce Cherkasov?” Rostnikov asked.
“He is not interested in women. His passion is bad jokes, expensive food, and high living. Well?”
Rostnikov fleetingly considered asking the woman for identification but it would be meaningless. Anything could be forged. Even if he did not believe her, he did not see that he had anything to lose. The Yak wanted the money and whatever it was Cherkasov was exchanging it for. The woman, if she was to be believed, wanted Cherkasov and the person he was dealing with. She would need something to prove her case. That could be arranged.
“We are in a temporary alliance,” he said.
“Ekaterinburg,” she said.
Fitting, thought Rostnikov. Ekaterinburg, which had been Sverdlovsk during the Soviet era, was where the Bolsheviks had taken the family of Czar Nicholas II in 1918 and killed them in a small, dank stone basement. Sverdlovsk was the name of the Bolshevik who had planned and carried out the execution of the royal Romanov family. It was also, Rostnikov knew, the birthplace of Boris Yeltsin.
“What do you know about Ekaterinburg?” she asked.
“It is on the Iset River, about a million and a half people, the capital of the Sverdlovsk Oblast region. Steelmaking, the Pittsburgh of Siberia. Industrial, turbines, ball bearings, other things. I believe there are even gold mines nearby.”
“And copper,” she said. “Titanium. It is what the Americans call a boom town since the end of the Soviet Union. America is the region’s number-one investor with one-hundred-and-fourteen million dollars. Coca-Cola, Pepsi, US West, Ford, IBM, Procter amp; Gamble. Three Lufthansa flights a day to Frankfurt.”
“Impressive,” said Rostnikov.
“It is also the murder capital of the region, possibly of all Russia, possibly the world. The Uralmash Mafia controls the city. The heads of the Ministry of Justice and the director of the Federal Security Service visited Ekaterinburg to investigate corruption, and a commission from the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Russian Federation convened there for almost two weeks to investigate charges that the head of the regional military, Lieutenant General Kraev, was connected to the Mafia.”
“And they discovered?”
“That he was innocent, of course. The commission did not address the contract killings.”
Rostnikov was aware that the region was a center of gang activity.
“More than one thousand twenty-five killings for the Sverdlovsk Oblast region, the most criminal region in all of Russia,” she said. “Almost ninety-six thousand major crimes. Examples: There was a contract killing last year of a thirty-year-old gang member named Lebedev. Shot ten times by an automatic pistol in the courtyard of his home on Frezerovschikov Street, eleven in the morning. Three days later there was a car bombing in a parking garage on Pekhotinstev Street. Five cars blown up. No one killed. Two days later, near the Svetly health center, a Mercedes-230 belonging to Anatoly Dmitriev, the center’s director, was blown up. He escaped.”
“Interesting,” said Rostnikov.
“More than interesting,” she said. “Crucial. One of the Uralmash killers is on this train. I believe he is following Pavel. I believe he plans to get to him before we do. We must not allow that to happen.”
“Pavel Cherkasov is a very popular man,” said Rostnikov.
“Not a result of his sense of humor,” she said.
“Who is this Uralmash killer?”
“Ah,” she said, sitting back. “I have a name, from the same source that provided me with the information about the location of the transaction. Our killer’s name is Vladimir Golk.”
“And our next big stop is …” Rostnikov began.
“Ekaterinburg,” she said. “This afternoon.”
“Of course,” said Rostnikov. “The sun is beginning to rise.”
She turned to look out the window. “Impressive,” she said.
“I think we can order breakfast now. Shall we wake Sasha and have something to eat?”
“I am suddenly quite hungry she said, rising.
Rostnikov tucked his notebook in his pocket and rose with difficulty. There was no cloud cover. The sun would be bright, the train windows frosted. It was the promise of a good day, but Rostnikov had learned from experience that the sun was indifferent to the petty crimes of man.
Sasha had staggered into the dining car, looking for Rostnikov, who had not been in his cabin or in the lounge. He found him seated at a table with Svetlana Britchevna, having coffee, their breakfast plates pushed to the side.
Rostnikov motioned to him.
The car was not crowded. This was the first call to breakfast, but there were early risers, most of them with the tired morning look of insomnia or disorientation. Most looked at newspapers. A few sat trying to wake up.
The Trans-Siberian Express was an adventure but, after two days, the train like almost any other became a soporific cradle. Sleep always seemed to beckon. Avid conversations ended in closed eyes and books on laps.
Games of cards had already begun in the lounge car and some of the compartments Sasha had passed. He had seen nothing that resembled the suitcase for which they searched.
Sasha sat next to Rostnikov and looked at the woman. She seemed awake, alert, and glowing with energy which Sasha could not meet. He had not slept well, not well at all.
“You have met Miss Britchevna,” Rostnikov said, motioning to the waiter and indicating through simple mime that another cup was needed for coffee.
“Yes,” said Sasha cautiously.
“She tells me you behaved like a gentleman in spite of her charms and advances.”
Sasha said nothing as the waiter approached and poured a cup of coffee. Sasha ordered yoghurt, black bread, and an orange.
“We have entered an unholy alliance with Miss Britchevna,” said Rostnikov. “She has told me where the transfer will take place and the name of the man we are seeking, but there are complications.”
Rostnikov explained the situation. Svetlana Britchevna listened, drank coffee, and added nothing.
“And so,” said Rostnikov. “We have several hours. All we need do is watch our Pavel Cherkasov, be alert for the assassin, and step forward at the moment of interception.”
“That is all,” said Sasha with a sigh, indicating that the task promised to be far from easy.
“You and Svetlana … may I use your first name?” Rostnikov asked.
“You both may,” she said, looking from one man to the other.
“You will jointly watch our Pavel every moment from the time we leave this table. Find him and watch him.”
