When Rostnikov found his compartment, he was greeted by a reasonably polite conductor, who said, “Your ticket.”
Rostnikov handed the ticket to the man, who took it and gave him another.
“You have been switched to the next compartment, thirty-one.”
Rosţnikov did not bother to ask the reason since the compartment was nearby and he knew there could be a dozen good reasons for the move or a dozen bad ones. The conductor probably did not even know.
So, whether by design or chance, Rostnikov found himself wedging into a compartment where three men sat speaking English. There was a small white table next to the window of the compartment. A bottle of vodka sat on it with glasses. The men had the tentative air of people who were getting acquainted.
“Excuse me,” Rostnikov said in English, lifting his suitcase toward the high luggage rack. The three men, two who appeared to be in their seventies and one who might be fifty, nodded at him. The slightly rotund youngest man said, “Welcome. Need some help with that?”
Rostnikov recognized the old men as the two who had boarded the train in front of himself and Sasha.
“I am able to manage,” Rostnikov answered. “Thank you.”
“A glass of vodka to toast our journey and new friends?” said one of the men.
Rostnikov finished stowing the suitcase and accepted the offered glass.
“Zah vahsheh zdahrov yeh ee blahgahpahlooch’yeh, health and happiness,” said the man who had handed Rostnikov his glass.
Rostnikov repeated the toast and touched his glass to those held out by the three men. And then he drank.
After receiving the report of the committee, Alexander III wrote a directive to his son, Czarevitch Nikolya Alexandrovitch, stating: “I order the start of construction of a continuous railroad across all of Siberia. I want to connect Siberian regions rich in natural resources with the rest of the Russian railroad system. This is my will. I want you to use the funds of the Russian treasury to complete this historic enterprise.”
On May 19, 1891, at ten in the morning, the first religious ceremony to bless the new project was held at the foundation of what was to become the Vladivostok station. Czarevitch Nikolya Alexandrovitch, the future czar, was present and laid the first stone and a silver plate designed in St. Petersburg and personally approved by the emperor, Alexander III, himself. Construction had officially begun on the railroad that would twenty-five years later transport the future czar and his family to their death.
Rostnikov learned the names of the men who introduced themselves. One, a tall, lean. American who looked a bit like a very old Gary Cooper, shook Rostnikov’s hand and said his name was Robert Allberry.
“And this is Jim Susman,” Allberry said, nodding at a short man with a freckled bald head with a thatch of gray-white hair.
“And this,” Allberry said, nodding at the youngest man, “is David Drovny. I say that right?”
“David Drovny,” the youngest man said, offering his hand.
Drovny had the chest and build of an opera singer. He was heavy, on the verge of fat. The roundness of his face was given some line by his close-trimmed dark beard and mustache.
Most of the Trans-Siberian Railroad was built in nearly impossible weather over minimally populated or nonpopulated forest land. The roadbed had to go across strong Siberian rivers, around or over dozens of lakes, through swamps and permafrost. The most difficult section was around Baikal and Lake Baikal. Rocks had to be blasted to build tunnels and supporting structures and bridges.
The Railroad Construction Committee estimated the cost of road building at 350 million gold rubles. To keep costs down, the committee established conditions for the Ussuriysk and western Siberia sections. The proposed width of the roadbed was narrowed. Ballast layer was made thinner. Lighter rails were used. Major construction was to be used only on the biggest bridges. Smaller bridges were built of wood. The Circum-Baikal loop to the south of Lake Baikal alone needed two hundred bridges and thirty-three tunnels.
Rostnikov stepped into the corridor. Traffic had thinned. A conductor was walking through, calling out that the train would be taking off. Other Russian trains might be late, but not the Trans-Siberian Express.
Rostnikov went in search of Sasha Tkach. He passed the large white metal samovar in the corridor which provided hot water at all times for drinks and instant foods for those who did not want to spend the time or money going to the dining car.
He found that Sasha was in the same car, an end compartment. He had been placed with three French businessmen.
It appeared that Pankov had done his work. Rostnikov spoke English and was with two Americans and an English-speaking Russian. Sasha’s French was nearly perfect. Rostnikov did not pause as he passed the door. He did not pause till he was on the narrow platform between two cars. Sasha joined him.
“Our adventure begins,” said Rostnikov.
The most difficult problem in building the Trans-Siberian Express was not the distance, cost, or dangers. It was labor. The problem was dealt with by hiring workers in different sections and transporting them to Siberia, each group working separately, all destined to join. In western Siberia there were as many as fifteen thousand workers from western Russia, European Russia. The Zaaylalskaya section employed forty-five hundred workers from all areas. And in middle Siberia, the most dangerous of the three legs of the railroad, most of the workers were convicts and soldiers. Throughout the construction sites were peasants, youths seeking adventure, men who thought they could make a steady living which they could send or bring home to their families.
No one knows how many workers died from floods, plague, sustained temperatures of fifty degrees below zero in the winter and over one hundred degrees in the summer, cholera, landslides, anthrax, bandits who came in packs and stripped smaller work teams of their money and clothes before killing them, and tigers made winter-hungry.
Some estimate as many as ten thousand people died building the railroad. Others say this figure is far too low.
The train lurched a few feet forward. Rostnikov and Sasha Tkach steadied themselves on the metal doors. The train lurched three more times and began to move, very slowly, so slowly that they were aware of their movement at first only by the passing images on the platform, the people waving good-bye, tourist-agency representatives sighing with relief, uniformed police, the arches of the station itself.
Then, with a thrust, the train began to pick up speed.
“No one will sleep for hours,” Rostnikov said. “Excitement. Almost everyone will rise early to look through their windows. The first movement out will be at lunchtime. Most will want to go to the dining car. It may be the only time they go. That is when we begin our search.”
Sasha nodded.
“You looked at your timetable?”
“I did,” said Sasha. “There are so many stops. More than one hundred and thirty, stops every few hours. We can’t check at every one. We would get no sleep.”
“Most of the stops are only for a few minutes so people can stretch their legs, buy some trinkets, chocolates. We will take turns watching to see if someone gets off with a suspect suitcase or someone of interest gets on. It is most likely that the transaction will take place at one of the larger stops. We have three days till we get to Novosibirsk,” said Rostnikov as the train rattled forward, the lights of Moscow glowing a faint yellow through the falling snow outside the window.
It was not much of a plan, but Rostnikov did not intend to simply wait.
“We begin our search now,” he said. “We walk through the train, noting any luggage or people who might be suspicious. Most important, look for a person who does not leave his or her compartment or does so only with a suitcase.”