Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

Rostnikov had opened the package and examined its contents. Of this Igor Yaklovev was reasonably certain. Even without certainty, however, he had to assume that the chief inspector had done so. Survival depended on assuming worst-case scenarios. Rostnikov’s requests for leave for Sasha Tkach and an assignment change for Emil Karpo suggested that Rostnikov had something with which to bargain, something unspoken. That did not, ultimately, matter. The director and his chief inspector had an unspoken agreement. Their relationship was nearly perfect. Since it was based on long-term mutual benefit and not transient loyalty, they both seemed comfortable in the pragmatic relationship. The Yak had kept his part of the agreement and would continue to do so. Igor Yaklovev would contrive, blackmail, instigate, and further his own ambitions, but he would never betray one of his people. The Yak’s loyalty was well established. It was his principal currency among those who worked for him. Igor Yaklovev’s word was good, though his methods were without scruples.

He rose, moved to the door, locked it, and returned to the chair behind his desk. Then he opened the package before him. There was a leather string around a thick, brown-paper wrapping. He untied the string, carefully opened the paper, and found a neatly folded stack of papers pressed into a metal box about an inch deep.

The first sheet of paper was brown, cracks intruding at the places where it had been folded. Beneath the first sheet were newer sheets.

Yaklovev gently unfolded the first sheet. It was a short letter, written in a fine hand in firm strokes of black ink. In the righthand corner of the sheet was the date: January 6, 1894.

The note was in German. The Yak had more than a reasonable command of written German. He read:

Dear Baron Von Vogler,

You have certainly noted that enclosed in this sealed pouch delivered into your hands by Colonel Maxim Verobyanov of the Royal Guard is a gem of considerable worth. I believe you will recognize it and know its monetary value and its value as a national treasure. I have been informed that it is the largest and most nearly perfect in the world. I have had it replaced in the collection of my jewelry with a fine copy. My beloved Nicholas, I am certain, will never notice.

From time to time I hope to send you more such treasures. Out of your loyalty to my father I trust you to keep them safe in the event that my children and I may someday need them.

There are signs of unrest, to which my husband does not give value. There are concessions to the forces which threaten us, the forces of a conspiring military and the horrid prospect of discontented masses. Need I say more? Of all this I have been advised by many.

I am uncertain about the effect this new railroad will have on the czar’s power and position. The cost is great, the treasury of our nation threatened, and problems continue to plague its construction. Yet my husband is confident that the railroad will open new Vistas and stand as a memorial to our entire family and a rallying force for all the Russian people under the royal family of Romanov.

May it be so. But if it is not, I trust in you, dear friend, to be prepared to receive those of us who may need a safe haven in the world.

As you called me in childhood and as I remain to you-

Alix

There was no ruby in the package. This did not surprise Yaklovev, though it did provide him with a dilemma. If he took credit for recovering this historic document in the hand of the Czarina Alexandra, there might well be those who wondered if he had also recovered the gem.

It was obvious that the gem and the letter had never reached the German baron, and after more than a century it was pointless to speculate on what had happened to the ruby. He could certainly argue that point, but there were potential enemies, rivals who might raise the question. Tempting as it was to take credit for this discovery, it was far more prudent to put it away safely, perhaps to use another day.

The letter had been a bonus and not necessarily a welcome one. The real treasure he had sought now lay before him in the form of neatly folded sheets of names, dates, transactions, agreements, and documents.

Igor Yaklovev slowly examined the list on top of the pile, a list of some of the most prominent men in government and public life, not only in Russia but in various states of the former Soviet Union.

Before him was clear evidence of payoffs to these men from the Ural Mafia in return for protection and favors. There were even documents making clear that some of the most influential of these men were aware of killings that had taken place.

These documents were the real treasure.

Director Yaklovev returned the papers to the package, rewrapped it, and stood. He placed the package in his briefcase, lifted his phone, and pushed the button to connect him with Pankov, who answered instantly. The Yak ordered a car and hung up.

In his apartment, he would make copies of everything in his briefcase on the machine he kept in the alcove of his bedroom. The Yak lived modestly. His goal was not luxury but power. His physical needs were simple. His ambition was great but well calculated for his own protection. He did not aspire to the highest offices of Russia. He aspired to gently dictate policy to those who held such offices.

Documents like the one in his briefcase, tapes he had been collecting along with favors granted, would soon put him in position for a major move. He would savor his power like a secret collector of great art who kept his treasures for his own eyes and information and the simple, pure satisfaction of having them.

Once home and having made the copies, he would follow his long-established pattern of protecting his acquisitions by making copies in triplicate and securing them where they could not be found.

He retrieved his coat from the small closet behind his desk and reflected on what had been a very good day. Earlier, the unspoken agreement with Nikoli Lovski had gone smoothly. The Yak had arranged for the release of the man Akardy Zelach had shot and had assured Lovski that there would be no further inquiry into the situation regarding his son. In fact, there would be no report on the incident. It was a family matter. Lovski had made it clear that he fully understood and appreciated what the director of the Office of Special Investigation was doing.

As a test of their new understanding, the Yak had said to Lovski that he would very much appreciate it if Lovski’s media “gave proper credit to the heroes who had, at the risk of their own lives, made Moscow safe from the subway killer.”

Lovski had said that he would see to it that Iosef Rostnikov and Elena Timofeyeva were treated as heroes and their positions with the Office of Special Investigation made quite clear.

“And, of course, we will see to it that you too are given full credit.”

“I would prefer it if my name and contribution were not mentioned,” the Yak had said.

“Then they will not be,” Lovski had readily agreed. “There may be one problem, which I leave fully to your discretion. Your man, Karpo. He is a bit …”

“He will be no problem,” the Yak had said reassuringly.

And that had ended the conversation. It had been a good day. The car was waiting for him when he stepped beyond the gates of Petrovka. The snow was deep now. The sky dark. The air cold, a brisk, satisfying cold. Yes, it had been a good day.

It had not been a particularly good day for Elena Timofeyeva. If one discounted the pain and the twenty stitches in her shoulder, however, it could have been much worse.

There was one small lamp on the table next to the bed and it was turned on the lowest of its three-way bulb.

“I can stay but a minute,” Porfiry Petrovich said, standing over her at the bed in her aunt’s tiny bedroom. “You are all right?”

“Some pain, tired, but all right,” she said with what she hoped was a smile.

She looked very pale, and Rostnikov suspected that she had a fever. He reached down and touched her forehead. She was decidedly warm but not hot.

“I’m taking pills,” she said. “Anna is doing her best to play nurse. She is not very good at it, but she tries.”

“I will let you sleep,” he’ said. “I will come back tomorrow.”

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am,” he said, touching her hand.

She gripped the hand and said, “Has Iosef told you?”