“I was in Rostov during the war,” Rostnikov said. “The same area where Mr. Allberry was an intelligence liaison.”
“That where? …”
“I lost my leg, yes.”
“You’re too young,” said Susman.
“Some of us were as young as nine years old,” Rostnikov said.
Susman shook his head.
“Nine years old,” he said. “Some of the German soldier kids I saw in Italy, dead ones, live ones, weren’t much older than that.”
Rostnikov rose with minimal awkwardness.
“Perhaps he is in one of the cars farther back,” said Rostnikov. “I will look.”
“See you back in the compartment,” Susman said, his attention now fully focused outsider
Rostnikov started, bracing himself on the seats and the walls of the car, heading back. Eventually he would meet with Allberry.
Eventually came very quickly. When he got to the end of the next car, the door of the WC shot open and Allberry stepped out.
“You looking for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “If I am not mistaken, you invited me to find you.”
“You are not mistaken,” Allberry said in perfect Russian. “Which of my invitations did you accept?”
A woman inched past them, a scowl on her face, and entered the WC, slamming the door behind her.
“You mentioned a dish you had when you were working with Russian intelligence near Rostov during the war,” said Rostnikov. “You knew I had been in Rostov. You knew that I would know that a delicacy with three different meats would not have been available, not even to a general. Even the officers were chewing on leather, drinking snow, and nearly starving.”
“And you said nothing when I mentioned this meal,” Allberry said.
“You could have simply been lying about your past, bragging about being in the intelligence service, about being in Russia.”
“So, you filed my error away and …”
“You killed Pavel Cherkasov, and I saw the boy with a large bag. You transferred the money to that bag and gave it to the boy’s family to carry off for you for a few rubles. That family had only two cases. Now they have three. So, I am here.”
“You know there is a gun in my pocket,” Allberry said.
“It would make sense.”
“We go into the WC when the woman comes out,” Allberry said. “We both go in. We lock the door and wait till we get to the station. At the last possible moment, I get out and jam the door, leaving you inside. I will get what it is that the late comedian had come for.”
“And?”
“And I will eliminate the person who bears the gift. It is what I do. So, you will go quietly into the rest room.”
“Or …”
“Or I shoot you now, here,” the old man said. “No one is looking. I start shouting that you have fallen, had a heart attack. I will look confused, dazed, call for help, a confused old man.”
“Risky,” said Rostnikov.
Allberry shrugged. “I have taken greater risks,” he said. “It really is not that difficult. Forty years of this teaches one a great deal about human reaction.”
“Including the conviction that I will simply enter the rest room with you and be shot.”
“You do not believe that I will let you live?”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“Then I shall have to shoot you now,” the old man said, looking beyond Rostnikov and starting to remove his gun from his pocket.
Allberry was an assassin, a confident, experienced one, but an old one with slower reflexes. He was overconfident. Rostnikov threw himself at the old man, his entire weight behind the move, all of his strength coming off his good leg. They fell to the floor, Rostnikov on top, the air going out of the old man. Rostnikov thought he heard something break in the man under him.
The door to the rest room came open and the scowling woman looked down at the fallen men.
“I think he has had a heart attack,” Rostnikov said. “I am a police officer. I am giving him artificial respiration. Quick, go to compartment two-fourteen, two cars that way. There is a doctor in there. Dr. Tkach. Tell him Inspector Rostnikov needs him.”
Allberry gasped beneath the weight of the policeman, trying to catch his breath.
The woman stood with her mouth open. People in the car heard the commotion and were emptying into the corridor.
“Run, hurry,” said Rostnikov to the woman. “Seconds count. Run. You do not want to be responsible for the death of this man, do you?”
The woman came out of her momentary stupor and hurried in the direction Rostnikov had indicated.
Twenty minutes later the Trans-Siberian Express pulled into the station and the doors opened. First those departing or getting off the train to stretch their legs, take in the frigid air, or buy trinkets and snacks got off. The platform was crowded. Many of the bundled people selling furiously had an Asian look. Cacophony reigned.
Through the crowd a boy no more than twelve years old made his way, hands deep in his coat pockets. He had already developed signs of the regional face: flat, rugged, serious. He was looking for someone in the crowd, someone who had stepped off of the train. He saw the person he was looking for or thought he was looking for. He was carrying a blue bulging duffel bag.
The boy pushed his way through the crowd toward the man who was standing still, waiting patiently.
He approached the man and began to remove his right hand from his pocket.
“For you,” he said nervously, looking at the nearby faces and handing the man a folded sheet of paper.
Rostnikov unfolded the sheet and looked at the boy, who was already elbowing his way quickly through the crowd.
Sasha Tkach and Svetlana Britchevna suddenly appeared at Rostnikov’s side.
“Shall I catch him?” Sasha asked.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “It is a brief stop. Sasha, please hurry and remove our bags from the train before it resumes its journey.”
Sasha moved quickly toward the train.
As Svetlana turned toward the train, Rostnikov put out his arm to stop her.
“You have the money,” Rostnikov said. “You have the assassin. It is here we say good-bye.”
Svetlana held up her hands. “You have not made your exchange,” she said. “Our courier has panicked.”
Rostnikov shrugged. “Sasha and I will try to pick up the trail. If not …”
“I had better arrange for the removal of our assassin and the body,” she said. “As you say, there is not much time.”
Sasha was back at their side, a suitcase in each hand.
“Good-bye, Sasha Tkach,” she said. “Perhaps I will look you up in Moscow.”
“It would be better if you did not,” Sasha said.
“For whom?” she asked, picking up her suitcases. Then she turned to Rostnikov and added, “If you find the package, will you open it? To satisfy your curiosity?”
“My orders are to turn it over to my director without examining the contents.”
“And,” she said, “you always do what your director says?”
“Except when I feel that to obey an order might compromise me or one of my associates.”
She nodded in understanding. “Wish me good fortune, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”
“I do,” he said. “May I provide some small advice?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Be wary of your own ambition,” he said. “Temper your vision with an understanding of the value of
