She was wearing a tan skirt and a matching sweater with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was down and she was smiling.
“I wasn’t looking for your compartment,” Sasha said, finding it difficult to draw upon his charm.
“Come in,” she said and walked back into the compartment and out of Sasha’s sight.
Sasha paused, considered, and moved slowly back to the woman’s compartment, trying to come up with a tale, hoping a creative lie would present itself.
She was sitting near the window, looking up at him, the morning light cast on the left side of her face, a slight shadow on the right. Her lips were full, red, her smile playful.
“Sit, please,” she said, pointing to the seat opposite her.
“I was on my way to-” he began, but she was shaking her head and he stopped.
“I don’t know how much time we have until the people I am sharing this compartment with return,” she said. “So please examine the luggage. Satisfy yourself.”
“I don’t know-” he tried.
“You are wasting time,” she said. Sasha brushed the dangling lock of hair from his forehead and quickly examined the luggage.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
He sat back and nodded to show that he was, at least with his search.
“We passed in the lounge car last night,” she said. “I had just spoken to the plumber and you were about to do so. My name is Svetlana Britchevna.”
She held out her hand. Sasha took it. Firm grip. A feeling he recognized stirred and he willed it to go away. She held the shake and the feeling battled Sasha’s will. She released his hand and sat back.
“I did exchange a few words with a one-legged man in the lounge car,” he said. “I did not catch his name.”
She cocked her head to the side and made an almost imperceptible negative nod.
“And what is your name?” she asked.
“Roman Spesvnik,” he said.
“And what do you do, Roman Spesvnik?” she asked.
She was toying with him. He knew that. He knew she expected lies. Oh God, did she also sense his weakness for aggressive women?
“I work in the government information office in Moscow,” he said. “Utilities division. Gas, electrical power.”
He knew a little about the job. His mother had held such a position until her retirement.
“Roman,” she said, looking out the window, showing a near-perfect profile, “this will be a long trip with beautiful scenery. But one can spend only so many hours a day looking out the window even at the most beautiful of mountains and forests and the most quaint of villages.”
Sasha said nothing.
“It is good to have company on a long trip, don’t you think?” she asked.
There was provocation in her words. Sasha knew them. He recognized them. There was a magic thread with an invisible hook reaching out to him.
“Yes,” he said.
“You are traveling alone?” she asked.
“I … yes.”
“Good, then perhaps we can provide each other with company. Are you married, Roman?”
“Yes.”
“So am I,” she said. “But my husband is far away and, to tell the truth, not very good company recently.”
And then it got even worse.
“I understand that there is a single compartment open in the next car,” she said. “I’ve already inquired about moving into it. The conductor can arrange it.”
She was older than Sasha. That he could tell, but there was a confident sophistication which was overwhelming.
“Shall I do that, do you think?” she asked.
“It is not up to me,” he said.
“Oh, yes, it is,” she replied.
This could not be happening. It must not happen. Not again. She had caught him unprepared. There was nothing gradual in her approach. She was giving him no time to think.
Sasha took a deep breath and said, “Then I recommend that you save your money and remain in this compartment where you have people to talk to.”
“Roman,” she said. “Don’t make a mistake. I’m not suggesting anything that need be shared with anyone else, not even with the plumber you barely met.”
Oh Lord, this was a temptation that vibrated through his body and between his legs.
“I am afraid Į will be very busy during this trip,” he said. “I have a full week of work, reports to prepare. If I fail …”
“… to go through all the compartments and find what you are looking for,” she said, reaching over to touch his hand and lean within a foot of his face.
He could smell her essence. “No, I cannot. And I do not know where you got the idea that I am looking-”
“You examined the luggage,” she reminded him.
“I was humoring you,” he said. “I did not want to be impolite to a woman.”
“And would you have humored me had I been old and ugly?”
“I must go now,” he said, getting up, his nose almost brushing hers.
“Perhaps we can sit together at dinner tonight,” she said. “Perhaps we could discuss putting your work aside for a bit and pursuing our new friendship.”
“I have already agreed to dine with a French couple,” he said, moving to the door.
Her eyes met his and held. He closed his eyes and said, “I must go”
When he was gone, the woman sat back down. Her smile disappeared. She had learned what was necessary and now she was prepared to act. There were risks involved, risks that might end her career, but the chance of success would be worth the risks.
Tonight she would have a long talk with the plumber and the handsome young man who called himself Roman.
The watcher had listened to Pavel Cherkasov tell his jokes at the breakfast table, had heard him give the name David Drovny, had watched him eat.
Cherkasov was a remarkably capable courier. He did not hide. He played the role of glutton and near-buffoon to perfection because his persona was both true gluttony and buffoonery. That Pavel Cherkasov was well-armed there was no doubt. That Pavel Cherkasov would be cautious with his mission was equally certain. The watcher knew that the courier was a professional, an illusionist, a magician who could improvise brilliantly and execute his plans without error.
The watcher had been informed that there were two policemen on the train. There had been no problem spotting them. They matched their descriptions. Rostnikov was a difficult man to hide.
The important thing was that Rostnikov and his assistant not know that they were in a game, that they continue to believe and pursue their difficult task and not think there was another player. The presence of the two detectives gave the watcher an advantage, a backup plan.
If the attempt to make the transfer was observed, even anticipated, the watcher could act swiftly, beat the policeman to the prize. It was what the watcher expected. But there could be mistakes. Chance could intervene. Rostnikov might make the interception, capture the prize.
And then, unaware of the game, the prize could be taken from the policeman. It was really only a matter of who had to be killed. Pavel Cherkasov? The two policemen? The watcher would have preferred simply killing Pavel, but the difference was not great.
The watcher had ample weaponry and could improvise. Sometimes improvisation proved to be the best procedure, especially if it resulted in the conclusion that the necessary death had been an accident.
The watcher had pushed a woman in front of a bus in Rome, lifted a lean, surprised man over a low wall along a tower walkway of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, dropped a heavy steel loading-ramp door on an American in Budapest, and worked variations ranging from overdoses of drugs to quite accidental drownings.
The watcher had not kept count. Numbers did not matter. If murder was a sin and there was a God to punish, than ten or twenty meant no more than the first. The same would be true if the watcher were eventually caught, which was always a possibility, a slight possibility but a possibility nonetheless.