5
THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY
Moscow was the city of his birth, but he was glad, in a way, to step onto the train and leave it behind for now. The taint of war lingered. It still smelled of corpse flesh, and the sourness of dried blood. No one had expected the Germans to get as far as the capital, but they had, and though they’d been turned back, they would make another run for the Motherland. Hitler and Stalin had that in common: neither of them would admit defeat until they’d expended all their men. What was slaughter in the face of victory?
Nikita was selfish and a coward, because though he loathed what he did in the name of patriotism, it was better than serving in the Red Army. Ignoble, but easier to swallow.
At least…it had been. Before Dmitri…
“Do you know what I love most about Siberia?” Philippe asked, and Nikita closed his eyes a moment, willed himself not to snap at the old man.
When he opened them again, the scenery beyond the window had not changed: an endless stretch of snow and pine forest, tree trunks flashing past with dizzying speed, the sky white with the promise of yet more snow. The gentle swaying of the train and the steady clack of the wheels on the tracks could have lulled him to sleep – where he would undoubtedly suffer nightmares of Dmitri – if only the old man would shut up.
They had the luxurious car to themselves – the Major General’s coin had bought what no one’s seemed able to these days: comfortable seats, clean windows, and food should they want it. The boys had all sensed that Nikita wanted to be alone, and they had spread out through the car; somewhere up ahead, he could hear Ivan’s soft laughter as he cheated Pyotr at cards.
But Monsieur Philippe was either tactless or insufferable, choosing to plop himself down right across from Nikita. And he kept trying to make conversation.
Nikita slanted him a look but wouldn’t ask what? He wasn’t going to make this easy on the old fool.
“I love the people best,” Philippe went on, cheerfully. “They are peasants, yes, but they’ve never been serfs. The men and women of Siberia serve no one but themselves. They are a free people.”
Nikita stared at him.
“As free as is possible in our part of the world,” he allowed. “Which is freer than most.” He smiled at his misty reflection in the window, the glare of sun on snow washing out his face, making him look younger and less lined.
Nikita said, “That’s not the sort of thing a man should be saying to someone in a black coat.”
Philippe chuckled. “No, I suppose it’s not. But rest assured, Captain, I have no plans to draw your ire.” His eyes scrunched up into slits when he smiled, an expression that transformed an otherwise boring face into something grandfatherly and charming. “I can promise you that I am every inch the patriot.”
“A French Russian patriot,” Nikita deadpanned, gratified to see a tiny twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth. He was remarkably calm for someone sitting across from a Chekist…but not unflappable. “What are you doing in the Soviet Union, Monsieur?” he asked in French.
Philippe smiled. “Your French is good,” he responded in kind, then switched back to Russian. “I have lived here since before it was called the Soviet Union. I suspect there are things you can’t guess about me, just as there are things I can’t guess about you. For instance: I would love to know how a member of the secret police came to be so well-spoken.” He smiled again, the kindly gesture full of threat. “Perhaps your story is as full of twists and turns as my own. Perhaps not. Either way, I think both of us have many secrets.”
Nikita decided he hated him, and that he might prove dangerous in the long run. He schooled his features, though, shrugging and turning to face the window again. The glare of the snow was so bright he was forced to squint, eyes watering.
The trees began to thin, the trunks flashing fewer and fewer, and then a break appeared, an unobstructed view of white tundra, cut through by a jagged, gleaming ribbon of a stream, bright as fire beneath the cloud-veiled sun. Animals stood at the water’s edge, a dark cluster of them, no more than smudges as the train shuttled past. Nikita was not an outdoorsman, and he couldn’t have said if they were deer or bear, only that they walked on four legs, and stood testament to a wilderness he’d only imagined up ‘til now.
“Wolves,” Philippe said, softly, tone almost reverent. “Have you ever seen a wolf before, Captain Baskin?”
The animals – wolves, if the old man was to be believed – were soon swallowed up by snow, and then more trees as the forest enfolded them once more. “No. Only the skins.”
“This should be educational for you, then.”
“How so?”
“Look into the eyes of a wolf, and all you think you know about the world pales in comparison.”
~*~
Ivan took a bite of his pirozhki and said, “I want to know about the weapon,” showering flecks of pastry across himself, the seat, and the carpet at their feet.
“Don’t spit food on us, you animal,” Nikita said with affection, brushing crumbs from his jacket and withholding a smile. Of all his boys, Ivan was the one who could tease a grin and a chuckle out of anyone. Brutish and charming at the same time, he was deadly efficient, and completely devoted to making everyone laugh.
Philippe seemed sufficiently charmed – probably because Nikita had been silent the past half hour, and Ivan’s appearance moments before was a break in the monotony.
“Ah, the weapon,” the old man said, folding his hands in his lap and turning to face Ivan. “It’s complicated, I’m afraid. Only a few of us know how to hone it.”
Ivan looked to Nikita for help, who only shrugged. He looked back. “It’s a tank?”
“No, no.” Philippe laughed. “Dear boy, it’s much more subtle than that.” He stroked his beard and leaned back in his seat, considering. “Think – ah, yes – think of a tank as a blunt instrument. A club. By comparison, my weapon is a scalpel. Surgical, precise. It can go where a tank cannot, and do the things a gun never could. It requires a special sort of man to wield.”
Ivan crammed more pastry in his mouth, until his cheeks bulged, dark brows clamping down over his eyes as he chewed. “We’re not special?” He made a dismissive sound that sprayed more crumbs. “Nikita can wield anything you give him,” he said, making a sweeping gesture toward him. “Try and see.”
Nikita was touched, in a way.
“I mean no disrespect to your captain,” Philippe rushed to assure. “It’s just that…well, I suppose you’ll have to see.”
“See what?”
“Ivan, leave it,” Nikita said.
Ivan huffed in annoyance. “I’m just asking. We get sent all the way to Siberia for someone special, I want to know what it’s all about. Don’t you?” he asked, turning to Nikita.
Nikita did want to know. Badly. This whole business stank of a fool’s errand.
Philippe shrugged, but his smile was smug. “I’ve promised Russia a way to beat the Germans, and that’s what she’ll have.”
~*~
When Nikita got up on the pretext of stretching his legs – and he did need to; the train ride to Tayga would take a full day and half a night – Philippe thankfully stayed behind. It was dusky beyond the windows, those tight hours between daylight and dark when the snow seemed phosphorous in the waning pale sunlight. Ivan was teaching Pyotr how to hide cards up his sleeves. Feliks had balled up his hat to use as a pillow, draped his coat over himself, and gone to sleep stretched across two seats.
He found Kolya in back, near the door of the car, sharpening a knife with long, steady passes of his whetstone. His other knives were laid out on the seat beside him; the one in his hands was his favorite, Nikita knew, double-edged and perfectly balanced, it could slice as well as it could stab, long enough to slide right through a man’s ribs and pierce his heart.
His dark eyes lifted a moment, expressionless, touching Nikita as he approached and then falling back to the knife. They missed nothing, those eyes.
“You should eat something,” he said as Nikita sat down across from him. “You don’t want to pass out in front of the old man.”
Nikita frowned. “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”
“It happened a month ago. And if Dima hadn’t caught you, you would have bashed your head on the cobblestones.” He made a face when Nikita recoiled at mention of Dmitri. “I’m sorry,” he said, quieter. “I don’t mean to keep bringing him up.”
“No one does.” Nikita looked toward the window, swallowing with difficulty. He was starting to really hate Siberia; every time he tried to search out something beyond the train to occupy his thoughts, he was met by nothing but white. A blank canvas on which to project his hurt and doubt.
“You should eat, though,” Kolya pressed. Implacable as a mother. Dima had always been the one to press a heel of bread into his palm, look at him sternly and demand that he eat. It made sense that one of the others would assume the role in Dmitri’s absence, and it made more sense that that person would be Kolya. “I hid some of the pirozhki from Ivan.” He flipped open his satchel and revealed a few pastries wrapped in greasy newspaper. “A little stale, but good still.”
When Nikita reached to take one, dizziness pulled him sideways. Yes, he needed to eat, even though he wasn’t hungry.
The pirozhki was stale, the pastry crumbling on his tongue, the meat cold and congealed in the center. He almost gagged on the first swallow.
Smooth as the glide of his blades, Kolya moved in, distracting him from the chore. “What does he really want? The old man?” His eyes lifted, brows raised, hand still making passes with the whetstone.
Nikita swallowed, and said, “To help himself. I have no idea what sort of story he spun to Stalin, but I’m sure he was convincing. He’s theatrical,” he said with a grimace. “You should have seen him in the major general’s office.” He tried to mimic the man’s expansive hand gestures, slinging crumbs.
“Eat,” Kolya said. Then: “He doesn’t fool you, though.”
Nikita snorted around a mouthful. “Nor you. But flattery always works on despots.”
He murmured an agreeing sound and tucked the stone away, held his knife up to the window and peered down the length of the blade with one eye closed. Sunlight winked across the steel. “Your mother used to tell stories,” he said, tone deceptively casual.
“Lots of stories.”
“There aren’t too many Philippes left in Russia, my friend.”
“No,” Nikita agreed. “I don’t guess there are.”
~*~
It was hardest being around Pyotr, and Nikita felt guilty about that. Dmitri would have wanted his oldest friend to look after his little brother in his absence, but Nikita looked at the boy – and he was just a boy, too young for this, still wide-eyed and tender-hearted – and he saw Dima’s face, and kind words turned sour on his tongue, left his mouth as orders and dismissals. It should have been Dima here now, and not Pyotr. Dima who would have looked at Philippe and known, who would have stayed up late, bitching and drinking and plotting and reminding Nikita to eat something.
It was full dark now, the lamps guttering and insufficient, Pyotr’s face a shiny-eyed echo of his dead brother’s in the shadows. He leaned in close, shoulder pressing into Nikita’s as he craned his neck for a glimpse of the sleeping Philippe two seats ahead. “What do you think?” he whispered, breath warm and sour against Nikita’s cheek. “Is he who he says he is?”
Young, yes, but not an idiot. That was good.
“An old man who’s swayed Stalin? Yes, I think he is that,” Nikita whispered back. “Beyond that, I don’t know.” He suspected, but he wasn’t going to burden Pyotr with his fanciful suspicions.
“But,” Pyotr said, frustrated. “What kind of weapon? And why does he need a man to make it?”
Nikita shrugged. “Men make all weapons. Maybe,” he said, feeling a grin tug unbidden at his lips, “it’s a great bear trap made only in Siberia, huh? One big enough to snap shut on a German panzer.”
In the dim light, Pyotr wrinkled his nose.
Nikita chuckled. “It isn’t for us to question, bratishka. We go where we’re told, do what we’re told. Yeah?”
Pyotr flopped back in his seat with a sigh. “Yeah.”
Inwardly, the boy’s disquiet delighted Nikita. Whatever Philippe was up to, it wasn’t good. Nikita like knowing the boy had his older brother’s instincts.
The train lurched, suddenly. Tossed them forward. There was a terrible squeal, a clacking, clanging, a thump as someone fell out of his seat.
“Fucking hell!” Feliks shouted, finally awake.
Ivan and Kolya made startled sounds as the train came to a screeching, teeth-rattling halt, that slow-grinding deceleration that was as fast as an engineer could lock down a rig this long.
Nikita felt Pyotr grab onto his arm. “What’s going on?”
“Shh, I don’t know,” Nikita said, bracing his feet against the floor, fighting the momentum with his teeth gritted.
Stopping seemed to take an age, and then, finally, they were still. A puffing hiss of steam, and the train ground to a final, trembling halt.
Stillness reigned a moment…and then they were on their feet.
“What the fuck?” Feliks demanded, half his hair stuck up at a crazy angle from sleeping. “Are we there?”
“No,” Nikita said, already tugging on his gloves. “We’ve hit something.”
“We what?” Ivan demanded.
“Your captain is correct, I believe,” Philippe chimed in, steadying himself against a seatback as he stepped into the aisle. He was still in his long fur coat and gloves; he’d never taken them off. “The train has collided with something.”
“Collided with what?” Feliks demanded.
“Let’s see,” Nikita said.
Ivan led the way to the door and down the iron step to the ground.
The cold was impossible. It burned the skin of Nikita’s face, made his eyes tear. Under a half-veiled moon, the snow stretched smooth and decadent in all directions. The forest loomed black, the spiked shadows of trees reaching for them across glittering snow.
Ivan bulled through the waist-high drifts, breath steaming, clearing a path that they all followed in, single-file. Nikita felt Pyotr right up against his back; it wouldn’t have surprised him if the boy took hold of his sleeve like a child. They made slow but steady progress up the length of the train, toward the hissing engine.
The first splash of blood looked like tar spilled across the snow, black and glinting faintly in the moonlight. It was still warm, steam curling up in slender tendrils.
Nikita saw a hat, fur with flaps over the ears.
And then a hand.
“Fuck,” Feliks said without inflection. “It was people.”
Pyotr made a sound that might have been a gag.
Nikita heard the sound of vomiting ahead of them. Several attendants stood in a cluster amid the gore, their faces slack with shock. It was the conductor who was sick, dry-heaving over the snow, hat clenched in his hands. “Oh God,” he gasped between heaves. “I didn’t see…I tried to stop…oh God.”
An older man – look of grim resolution, tidy gray beard – turned toward their group as they approached. “Stay back, please–” he started, and then froze when he saw their long black coats.
Nikita shouldered his way around Ivan, taking point.
“Sir,” the attendant started again, tone quavering. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll have the train moving again shortly, if you’ll go back to your seats.”
“What happened?” Nikita asked.
The man made a face. “Trappers, sir. We couldn’t see them in the dark until we were on top of them. We think one had got stuck on the tracks, and his friends were trying to help him loose.”
The conductor swayed and went to his knees in the snow, dazed-looking.
“Get him up,” Nikita said, stomach souring. “Get the train moving.”
“Yes, sir,” the attendant said, ducking his head.
“I think I can help,” Philippe spoke up, shuffling forward until he was alongside Nikita. He smiled at the bearded man, kind, fatherly. He patted the satchel he wore over one shoulder. “I have something here that may help to calm him.”
“Yes,” the attendant said, surprised. “Yes, please.”
Philippe glanced up at Nikita, asking permission with a look. In the dim light of the moon, his eyes seemed to glow.
Nikita shook the thought away. “Make it fast.”
“Of course, Captain.”
In the trees beyond, a wolf howled, one long, mournful note.
“They’ll come for the bodies once we’ve moved on,” Kolya said.
Yes, they would.