The chances of success seemed very slim to Sasha Tkach, but the responsibility was not his and the chief inspector did not appear to be concerned. But then Porfiry Petrovich was not a man who showed excitement.
Rostnikov pointed to his left, the direction he wanted Sasha to take, and he turned to the right, toward the car from which they had come.
“Porfiry Petrovich,” Sasha said. “My mother is planning to get married.”
Rostnikov hesitated. “Perhaps the sun will burn out sooner than we think,” he said. “Tell me more in the morning.”
The sun? What did the sun have to do with it? Sasha wondered. On more than one occasion in the past, Sasha had given serious consideration to the possibility that the chief inspector had moments of great eccentricity.
Almost all the work done on the railroad was by hand. Axes, saws, shovels, miners’ hacks, wheelbarrows. Despite the primitive tools and weather, 600 kilometers of railway were built every day. Not only were thousands of miles of track laid, but one-hundred-million cubic feet of earth was moved. In just one 230-kilometer span, the Circum-Baikal Railway, fifty protection barriers against landslide had to be constructed, thirty-nine tunnels blasted and reinforced, 14 kilometers of support walls built with concrete. Just the cost of the tunnels with support walls was more than ten million rubles.
In October 26, 1897, temporary traffic began from Vladivostok to Khabarovsk. In 1898, the western-Siberian section from Chelybansk to Novosibrsk was put into operation. The middle-Siberian section from Ob’River to Irkutsk was completed in 1899. In 1905 regular traffic began. Only one track had been laid. There had not been enough money to lay a track running in each direction.
Pavel Cherkasov was more than slightly bothered by the coincidental appearance of the barrel of a man who shared the compartment with him and the two old Americans. Pavel recognized Chief Inspector Rostnikov of the office of Special Investigation. There was no doubt. He recognized the face, and his impression was confirmed by the man’s distinct limp.
He had never met Rostnikov, and he was quite sure Rostnikov had never seen him or a photograph of him. Pavel had a computer. It was not with him. Far too large and he did not like carrying laptops. Pavel was a professional. He kept track of supposed friends and potential enemies. There were web sites with photographs of the Washtub. People had e-mailed him photographs via scanner of the policeman and many others whom it would behoove him to recognize. Pavel, in turn, had occasionally put out some information on people and places to avoid or be wary of. And Pavel had an excellent memory.
The possibility of the detectives being on the train by chance was slim to nonexistent, though it was certainly a possibility. However, the chance of the policeman being in the same compartment defied the odds. It was most likely that Rostnikov had some information on the transaction. It might be very little but it might be enough to present some danger.
No matter. He would find out how much help Rostnikov had with him. He would guard the blue duffel bag containing the money, put it, if necessary, in a safer place than the compartment carrier. He had a number of thoughts about that. It would all be done tomorrow, after breakfast.
He lifted the duffel bag to his lap, zipped it open, and removed a pair of blue pajamas and a white robe. He did this casually, laying the items on the seat next to him, wanting them to see but pay no attention. Even if Rostnikov was watching him, it was most unlikely that he would consider the boldness of Pavel’s carrying more than half a million British pounds under his nightclothes and underwear.
“Gentlemen,” he said in English to the other three people in his compartment as he zipped the duffel closed and deposited it casually on the rack over his head. “I asked a young friend of mine who his father was. He answered, ‘Comrade Putin.’ I asked who his mother was. He answered, ‘Russia.’ I asked him what he would like to be when he grows up. He answered, ‘An orphan.’”
The two old Americans laughed and Pavel immediately said, “Two Jewish women meet on Kalinin Street. One is holding the hands of her two little boys. ‘Well,’ says the one woman, ‘how old are your children?’ And the other woman answers, ‘The doctor is six. The lawyer is four.’”
Again his compartment mates laughed.
Pavel had many more. He put any thoughts of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov in a little mental box to be opened when he did not have a willing audience.
In 1904 the Japanese attacked and defeated the Russian fleet in the Sea of Japan at Port Arthur, near Vladivostok. Troops had to be sent to the front to protect the coast of Siberia. The Trans-Siberian Railroad could handle only thirteen trains a day. The czar ordered the elimination of civilian services on the line. Transferring troops was also hampered because a portion of the Circum-Baikal section of the line had to be used. Part of that line, the connection of the west and east coasts of Baikal Lake, was not completed. Trains were ferried on a 3,470-ton icebreaker called Baikal, which could carry up to 25 loaded cars at a time. When winter came and the lake froze Siberian-solid, tracks were laid across it and 220 cars a day rattled across. There are no reports of the ice giving way.
After the war with Japan, the czar ordered an increase in the capacity of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. To increase the speed of the trains, the earth bed was widened, light rails were replaced by heavier ones, rails were laid on metal plates instead of wood, wooden bridges were torn down and replaced by others of concrete and metal. A second track was begun in 1909 and completed in 1913. New branches were also built.
By 1912, 3.2 million passengers traveled on the Trans-Siberian Express, but during World War I the Russian railway system, suffering from shortages, began to break down. It was further devastated by the Russian civil war. Cars and locomotives were destroyed, bridges were burned, and passenger stations bombed.
When the czar was overthrown and the White Army defeated, rebuilding began. During the winter of 1924–1925, the badly damaged Amur Bridge was rebuilt. In March of 1925, traffic on the railroad was opened again. It has not once been interrupted in more than seventy-five years.
Porfiry Petrovich bypassed his compartment, where the three men were drinking and laughing. He considered joining them to work on his English, but he knew there would be time for that and that his English was certainly passable.
He found the dining car. It was almost empty. People were settling into their compartments. The dining-car seats were comfortable. Through the windows he could see the last lights of the outskirts of Moscow growing more apart and more dim and small.
He took the Ed McBain novel out of his pocket and began to read. He would have liked to remove his leg but that would have to wait till he returned to his compartment, where he would immediately tell the others how he had lost it. The two old men with whom he shared his compartment had mentioned that they were veterans of World War II. They might want to discuss their own experiences, but then again they might not. Rostnikov’s explanation of his own participation in the war was always short and precise. It invited no conversation but discouraged no comment.
“I was a child,” he said. “A very young boy soldier. I made a mistake and my leg was run over by a German tank. The ground was muddy. The leg would not die. Not long ago it was necessary to remove it.”
Story done. He did not want to go into details. Most who had served in an army did not press him.
He planted both his good and his artificial leg on the floor and opened his book. The train jostled, but he was not prone to motion sickness.
There were a few others in the car, a couple in their late thirties or early forties talking softly in Russian, pointing out the window. A woman of about fifty, slight, thick glasses, alone, sat with her elbow bent on the train seat and her head resting upon her hand. She looked sadly and deeply into the night.