trailing behind them, wedged past Sasha and Svetlana. They were the, family Sasha and Porfiry Petrovich had gotten onto the train behind.
“It is too soon,” the woman said.
“It is better to be first in line to get off,” the man said. “How many times are we going to talk about this? We are getting to the door. We can sit on the bags.”
“For two hours?” the woman asked.
The little boy dragged a bag, listening to his parents. He looked up at Sasha and Svetlana apologetically, embarrassed by his parents.
“You fight with your wife like that?” Svetlana said as they moved forward. She held his hand.
“Not like that,” Sasha said.
“But you fight,” she said.
“All couples fight,” he said. “Porfiry Petrovich says it goes in cycles. Honeymoon, fights, truce, shorter honeymoon, fights, truce, crisis, tentative peace agreement, followed by comfort and only minor conflict.”
“Always?” she asked, playing with his hand.
“No, not always,” said Sasha.
“My vision is different,” she said. “Brief honeymoon and it is over. Next honeymoon. Stop before the first fight.”
“The relationship never gets, what is the word?…”
“Deeper?” she supplied. “No, depth requires commitment and effort. My need for male contact, sexual and romantic, is very much alive, but I reserve my depth for myself, my work, my ambition.
They were glancing into compartments now just in case Pavel Cherkasov might be inside of one, though they both knew that his own compartment was in the next car.
“You feel the need to confess all this to me?” he asked.
“It is not a confession,” she said, turning to him. “It is a proposal which may or may not come to fruition. Consider it.”
“I think not,” he said.
“I think you will,” she said. “But when and where will depend on what takes place in the next two hours or so.”
What took place next put Svetlana’s proposition far from either of their minds. They reached the compartment of Pavel Cherkasov. The door was closed, the curtains drawn.
Svetlana did not hesitate. Sasha had known her for only a few hours but he was sure she would have a bold and plausible excuse if someone was inside. She slid open the door.
The bloody body of Pavel Cherkasov lay on the floor, the long awl protruding from his chest. That he was dead was without doubt. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open. His face was white and his shirt and jacket a deep, dark, and bloody red.
Sasha closed the door. Svetlana began a quick search. It took moments.
“No money,” she said.
Neither expected to find it.
“I’ll stay here,” she said. “You get Rostnikov.”
Sasha said nothing. He went through the door and heard her lock it behind him. What she would say to the old Americans if they returned would, he was sure, be most inventive and bold.
Rostnikov was seated in the lounge, talking, in fact, to the two old Americans.
“Yes,” the tall one, Allberry, was saying. “We were First Army. You lost your leg on this side of the front. I lost the hearing in my left ear on the other, and Jack lost his mind for two years.”
“Three years,” the other old man, Susman, said. “Don’t even remember what it was I saw that put me into cuckoo land, but I spent almost three years in a basket. Hell of a war.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov in English, looking up to see Sasha motioning to him. “Hell of a war. Please excuse me. I have to tend to my leg. You understand.”
“Perfectly,” said Jack.
Rostnikov rose and the two men continued to talk.
“He is dead,” Sasha whispered when Rostnikov was at his side. “Cherkasov.”
Sasha led the way through the cars. People passed. They stepped around the luggage of the man, woman, and child Svetlana and Sasha had encountered minutes earlier. The family was at the end of a car in the small alcove near the door. They were not speaking. The man was eating a piece of cheese. The woman sat sullenly. The little boy dozed.
When they reached the car, Sasha knocked and said, “It is us.”
The door slid open. They moved in and Svetlana slid it closed and locked it.
“The Americans are in the lounge car,” Sasha said.
She nodded and said, “He has been dead no more than ten minutes.”
It was awkward for Rostnikov to kneel. He did not try. He accepted her word. Rostnikov eased himself down into a seat. Svetlana and Sasha stood, waiting, swaying with the movement of the train.
Rostnikov was taken by the fact that the sunlight cast a broad bright beam across the dead man. Rostnikov imagined the sun intensifying, an amazing heat that touched only what fell within the beam, consuming the body without smoke or fire, absorbing it, taking it, making it a part of timelessness. But the body did not disappear.
“Why did he kill him before he made the exchange in Ekaterinburg?” he asked himself aloud.
“Panic. Perhaps he just wanted the money,” answered Sasha.
“Our assassin is a professional,” Svetlana said. “He would not panic.”
“Then he has a plan,” said Rostnikov.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Rostnikov looked up at them. Svetlana understood immediately. It took Sasha a beat longer and he said, “He is going to take Cherkasov’s place. He is going to make the transaction. The person he is to make the exchange with does not know Cherkasov.”
“But he knows something that will identify him,” Svetlana said.
“The bag,” said Rostnikov. “Whoever is carrying the bag with the money when we reach the station is our assassin.”
“What is he doing?” asked Sasha. “He is not going to turn over the money.”
“He wants the person with the valuable prize to identify himself,” said Svetlana. “Then he will take whatever it is he has and keep the money.”
“Kill him on the train or the platform?” asked Sasha.
“Possibly,” she said. “Maybe he will wait, follow him. Once he knows who the bearer is by sight… but he will probably kill him or her immediately.”
“Why?” asked Sasha.
“Because of him,” said Rostnikov, looking at the dead man. “The train will be in a panic when the body is discovered. He will want to get everything done quickly. At least that is what I would do.”
“And I,” agreed Svetlana.
“So, what do we do?” asked Rostnikov.
“Watch to see who gets off with the suitcase,” said Sasha. “Stop him.”
“Armed killer on a train platform,” said Rostnikov. “I think it would be better to catch him before we get to the station.”
“How?” asked Svetlana. “We are not even sure what the suitcase looks like.”
Rostnikov looked down at the body again. It showed no sign of becoming one with the universe. He got back up slowly.
“So how do we find him?” asked Sasha.
“We get the suitcase, inform him that we have it, and wait here for him to come and claim it,” Rostnikov answered.
“And where is it?” Svetlana asked.
“A little boy is sitting on it at the end of the last car we came through,” said Rostnikov.
Sasha and Svetlana looked at each other.
“The duffel bag the little boy is sitting on belonged to Cherkasov. It was on that shelf,” said Rostnikov. “Cherkasov took a pair of pajamas and a robe out of it. My guess is that under the pajamas and robe was and still
