He and Alina joined the crowd, stepping over the collapsed wire of the woodland's boundary fence so that they could circle around and get a better view. Two Finnish policemen in fur caps and cold weather gear were doing their best not to argue with five of the railway's people, all of whom were looking around anxiously when not taking a turn at protesting. Glancing around, Nikolai could now see that they weren't in the middle of nowhere after all but on the outskirts of a small township of wooden buildings, a few brick sheds, and a grey metal radio tower; the Poliisi van had been moved in to block the train on the township's solitary level crossing.
Keeping his voice low, Nikolai said, uncertainly, "They're not searching."
But Alina was looking past hope, to harder possibilities. "No," she said. "But they're waiting for someone who will."
It was hard to know what to do. Some passengers were drifting back to their compartments as the cold worked its way into them, and others were taking their places. Two or three men were tramping off into the woods to relieve themselves out of sight of the train, but everyone could see them go.
The sounds of cars, being driven hard.
They came around the bend, three of them with their lights full on, and at the sight of the van they had to stop suddenly with a squeal of snow tyres and a cloud of road grit. They didn't look like police cars, just ordinary saloons. There were four men in each. They started to get out.
Nikolai could hardly believe what he was seeing. They were Russians, not military or border patrol but just the ordinary militia, on the wrong side of the frontier in cars with Soviet registrations. Some were still in police uniform, and had thrown on anonymous-looking topcoats as if in an attempt at disguise; they looked around nervously as they stepped out by the rail tracks, aware that they were off home territory and in what was potentially a diplomatic minefield.
Their leader was an older man in plain clothes, overdressed even for this kind of weather; a raincoat over a heavy topcoat, which in turn was over a jacket and at least two baggy sweaters. Everything was unbuttoned, his scarf hung loose, and still he appeared to be steaming. His old fashioned spectacles had one milky, sandblasted lens as if he'd lost an eye or, at least, the use of it. He approached the Finns and started to talk. The Finns didn't look happy. Cross-border cooperation, it seemed, was being pushed to the limits and beyond, here.
Nikolai said, "None of them knows us."
"Yes, they do," Alina said. "Pavel's with them."
She was looking at the last of the three cars. Nikolai followed her gaze and saw a young Russian policeman of the lowest rank, the last to climb out; he was scanning the windows of the train and in his eyes was a certain desperation, as if his presence here was the result of a drive beyond that of uniform and duty.
If he should happen to lower his gaze to the trackside crowd, he'd see them in moments. The Finns and their cross-border counterparts were almost arguing now and those from the cars were gathering around, but the young policeman was ignoring them — eyes still scanning the train, his lips moving slightly as if keeping a tally or reciting a prayer.
And with a quick glance around to judge the moment, Alina took a few steps backward and then turned and headed for the trees.
Realising almost too late that she'd begun to move, Nikolai followed her. A few heads turned, but the crowd mostly screened them from the police and nobody called out.
He caught up with her. The immediate cover was sparse, mostly leafless silver birch; Nikolai was expecting a shout at any moment, and he ran hunched as if he anticipated it coming as an actual physical blow between the shoulders. When he stumbled and slowed, he felt Alina's steadying hand on his arm. She was surprisingly strong, and she hustled him forward a little faster than he felt able to run.
They climbed. The tracks seemed a long way behind them now. One moment when Nikolai lost his footing, he almost brought Alina down with him. When finally they came to a stop they were both breathing hard, the cold air feeling like broken glass in Nikolai's lungs, but he forced himself to keep it under control so that he could look back down the trail and listen. The early-morning air was still, a silence broken only by the occasional rustling of tree branches shedding their snow.
But then, after a few moments, they were rewarded by the sound that they most wanted to hear.
The train was leaving. Without them.
Nikolai said, "Why do I get the feeling there's something you haven't been telling me?"
"There's a lot I haven't been telling you," Alina said. "Mostly for your own protection."
"So, who's Pavel?"
She looked at him, her breath feathering in the cold air. Her face was a hard, perfect mask; the face of a stranger, her grey eyes like chips of slate in the light of dawn.
"He's the one I've been living with," she said.
For Nikolai, it was as if the ground had dropped away beneath him. But then before either of them could say anything more, they were stopped by the sound of a distant whistle as it cut through the air.
Just the cry of a bird, Nikolai wanted to say, but he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Alina took the lead and said, "They guessed. They left someone."
Another whistle answered, from some way further down the ridge. This one was more distant, less expert.
It was definitely no bird.
Alina faced him again.
"Listen, Nikolai," she said. "I'd have abandoned you anyway, once we got to England. You could never be happy with me, and I'd hurt you in the end. I've used you, and I'm sorry. But I can't let them take me back. I'll die before that happens."
"We can still make it," he insisted.
"Perhaps you can," she said. "Be happy, Nikolai."
And she have him a hard shove, much harder than he would have expected, sending him on his way and nearly pushing him off his balance on the slippery path.
By the time that he'd recovered enough to protest again, she'd gone.
PART TWO
TWO
By nightfall, Pete had made it as far as a window seat in a motorway services cafeteria overlooking three lanes of northbound traffic. He could feel that he needed a shave, and his dark suit now looked and felt as if a family of dogs had been using it for a bed. Wayne had told him the previous night that he'd had the appearance of someone who'd just emerged from prison, but Pete now reckoned that he looked more like somebody who was heading for one. The worst of the day was behind him; before him on the formica tabletop were a cup, the remains of a sandwich, and the key that Mike had given to him.
He'd an address to go with it, for some place that he knew nothing about. Mike was in the property business — buying, leasing, renting, renovating — and for Pete it was simply a case of getting whatever happened to be going through the books at the time. Pete didn't know exactly what his brother's business entailed, but it enabled him to run three cars and to spend two months of the year in an apartment in the Canary Islands. Needless to say, that was one key that Pete was unlikely to be offered. Their mother had always said that Mike was the worker, Pete the dreamer; but Mike's true knack was in finding the free ride on the back of someone else's labour, while Pete's dreams had more or less burned themselves out in an adolescence of fast secondhand cars and Marvel Comics. The cars had given him a few saleable skills, the comic books he'd sold off to a market trader a long time ago. The old girl had been proud of Mike, but she'd worried for Pete; he'd been irritated by it then, but he realised now that it was something else and he missed the feeling already. Even though they'd been miles apart, just knowing about it had somehow been enough. He wondered if there would ever be anyone who'd worry for him again.