80 Days or Die

by Peter Lerangis

  Brandon shrugged. “OK, I’ll drop you off in Moscow and then fly to Perm and meet you, if I can get clearance. It’s tough sometimes at these small airports.”

  Max took the phone, navigated to a browser, and searched for the Trans-Siberian Railway schedule. “There aren’t that many trains, and they seem to go to the same places. Can we make it to Moscow by 13:20?”

  “Pffft,” Brandon said with a cocky smile. “Yup. And with time enough for a steak lunch.”

  23

  MAX pulled back on his straw hat. The red wig underneath it was slipping forward. It felt like steel wool, and Max was sweating way too much for this cold weather. “Was this necessary?” he asked.

  “Nigel doesn’t know that we know he’s here,” Bitsy said. “If we want those vials, the element of surprise is crucial. If he sees us, he may run.”

  Max nodded. “So we look for him, sit in the same car, wait for the door to close and the train to move, and then trap him. Like a spy movie.”

  “Exactly,” Bitsy said.

  With her fake glasses, painted-on freckles, and floppy hat with dangling tassels, she looked like a demented Pippi Longstocking. They had entered the train in the middle and were working their way to the back. Alex had gone in the opposite direction. By now, he was sure everyone in the train was staring at them and cracking up. Probably even sneaking photos of them to upload to social media. “The whole world is laughing at us,” he whispered to Bitsy. “Can’t we sit down?”

  “We’re almost at the end of the train,” Bitsy replied.

  Both sides of the train car were lined with open wooden booths. Each booth contained two high-backed bench seats extending from the window to the aisle. The seats were padded with worn red leather and they faced each other across a table. Just about everything else on the train was made of dark wood, worn smooth by years of handling, including the overhead compartments.

  Max and Bitsy hadn’t found any sign of Nigel. Max stopped at a booth where a couple in matching black leather jackets were in the midst of a long kiss. “Excuse me, sorry,” he whispered, “have you seen an old man with a droopy left eye?”

  They both grunted no, and Max went on to the next booth. Their answer was no too. Everyone’s answer was no. At the very end of the last car, a metal stove was burning, sending its flames upward through a black metal pipe. Next to it was a basin full of split wood and chunks of coal. “Looks like something from a museum,” Max said.

  “And not exactly environmentally efficient,” Bitsy said.

  “I wonder if it will burn really bad wigs?” Max remarked. “My head feels flammable.”

  “Maybe Alex had better luck finding Nigel.” Bitsy slid into a seat and glanced out the window, where a line of people was waiting to board. “I’m going to watch that queue. Maybe we got here too early. The old guy might have stopped at a restaurant.”

  “We should have gone out for that steak lunch Brandon promised us,” Max said, sitting across from her, “instead of grabbing to go. That weird Pop-Tart is giving me gas.”

  “It was a blueberry blintz,” Bitsy said, as she opened a plastic water bottle. “Not a Pop-Tart.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll be blintzing all over the seat,” Max said.

  Max could hear the clomping of heavy footsteps in the aisle. Alex peered into their booth, wearing a black-brimmed hat, checked shirt, bulky fur-lined jacket, and thick brown boots. Her chin was shaded with charcoal to look like beard stubble. “No sign of Nigel. You?”

  Bitsy shook her head. She slid Alex’s phone across the table toward her. “Nada. But the signal is still coming from this area. It could be at a nearby shop. Once the train starts up, we can try again.”

  As Alex took a seat next to Bitsy, an elderly woman in a patterned head scarf and sheepskin coat stopped in the aisle. With a smile, she said in a thick Russian accent, “Such beautiful young people. May I sit?”

  Max slid closer to the window to leave room. “You didn’t happen to find a phone, did you?”

  “So sorry, no.” The old woman slowly settled in, laying a thick pocketbook on the floor. “Eenglish?”

  “I am,” Bitsy said. “These two are Americans.”

  “Actually, I’m Canadian,” Alex said. “And I’m Alex.”

  Max pushed back his sagging wig. “Jethro.”

  “Dr. Tretyakov,” the old woman said as she reached into her bag. “Retired. I am going to Yekaterinburg. You call me Raisa. Do you play huzur?”

  She slapped a set of cards on the table.

  “No,” Bitsy replied.

  “Wonderful!” Raisa said. “I learn from Mongolian doctor. You learn too!”

  Bitsy and Alex shared a wary look. As Raisa distributed the cards, she patiently explained the rules, but Max couldn’t concentrate. He kept an eye out the window, at the families, young couples, and backpacking college kids in line. People were dressed in heavy clothing, and it was hard to make out faces. At least five people could have been Nigel, but it was impossible to know.

  Now Raisa was shoving seven fanned-out cards into Max’s hand. “We play. I help you.”

  A loud whistle broke the silence, and the train began to move. Max watched as Raisa put down a card, and Bitsy and Alex tentatively followed.

  Max went to play an ace, but Raisa slapped his hand. “No no no, this one.”

  The midday sun glinted on the columned office buildings and the onion domes of churches as the train picked up speed. Soon the city gave way to suburban outskirts, and the outskirts became great fields dotted with houses. Max was starting to feel tense. By now Nigel would be on the train. But every time he tried to get up, Raisa urged him to play his cards.

  Move by move, Max started to get the hang of the game. Soon he was hiding his hand from Raisa, so she wouldn’t help. By the fifth game, he was actually winning.

  “Huzur!” he shouted, slapping down all his cards.

  “Smart boy!” Raisa said. “Bravo!”

  “Can we take a lunch break now?” Bitsy asked. “Is there a café car?”

  “Sit!” Raisa said. “Someone will come with food. This is how Trans-Siberian Railway works! Where are you going?”

  “Perm,” he replied. Max had memorized the route—Moscow to Perm by train, where they hoped Brandon would meet them, if he could get clearance. There he could fly them north to the Komi Republic.

  “I have family in Perm!” Raisa said. “You too?”

  Alex shook her head. “We’re doing a wilderness exploration, up along the Kozhim River.”

  Raisa’s face lit up. “Is beautiful in Komi! I call my nephew. He is the best wilderness guide. Living very close to Perm.”

  She put down her playing cards, fished a couple of business cards out of her purse, and gave one to Max:

  * * *

  SERGEI DIMITROVICH FORMOZOV

  Tour Guide / Parkour Specialist / Outdoorsman

  * * *

  “Uh, thanks,” Bitsy said, casting a dubious glance at Max.

  As he shoved the card into his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate and nearly leaped out of his seat.

  “So nervous, you Americans!” Raisa said with a laugh. “Like Sergei.”

  Quickly Max pulled out his phone and looked at the screen.

  “Is it from Bitsy’s phone?” Alex said.

  Max shook his head. “No. I don’t recognize the number.”

  He leaned forward. Alex, Bitsy, and Raisa all stared at the screen.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are. I’m feeling awfully lonely in Seat Number 2497.

  XOXOX,

  NH

  The three kids jumped from their seats. Raisa gasped in surprise.

  “Sorry!” Max said. He nearly fell into the aisle, quickly leaping up and breaking into a run.

  As he neared the door between cars, it slid open. A twenty-something guy strode into the car, dressed in a neat red uniform and carrying a tray of food. “Nuts! Sandwiches! Juice—”

  “Watch out!” Max shouted.
/>
  With a helpless yelp, the guy veered. Max veered in the same direction, barreling into the tray. A plateful of almonds shot upward, whizzing by Max’s ears. Three plastic-wrapped pastries bounced off his face. He slipped to his knees in a rainstorm of small sandwiches, odd-looking snacks, and bottles of juice.

  Alex scooped him up by the arm. “Sorry!” she screamed. “We’ll be right back!”

  “Where’s Seat 2497?” Bitsy asked.

  The guy stared at her in shock. “S-S-Second car?”

  Alex, Max, and Bitsy took off, racing from car to car, narrowly avoiding two more food people, a conductor, and a little old man emerging from the restroom.

  Max was the first to enter the second car. It was nearly empty, and no one looked anything like—

  There.

  Max could see a rumpled figure reclined across one of the bench seats. His hat covered his head, and he appeared to be fast asleep. Max had almost missed seeing him, but there was no mistaking the tweed coat and scuffed shoes.

  Alex and Bitsy pulled up next to Max. Bitsy was shaking. “Wait a minute. Didn’t he just write to us?” she whispered. “Then why is he . . . ?”

  “Careful,” Alex said. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”

  “Nigel!” Max called out, tugging on the old man’s pants.

  “Rorrgmf,” came the reply.

  A folded note fell from the man’s pants pocket onto the floor. But as Max stooped to pick it up, the old man bolted upright.

  Bitsy’s jaw dropped.

  The cap had fallen from the man’s head. He had a sharp nose, a full head of reddish hair, and a pair of bloodshot blue eyes staring through lopsided eyeglasses. When he spoke, it was in a nasal voice with a Russian accent. “Sorry. I fall asleep.”

  “You . . . you’re not . . .” Alex stammered.

  “Nigel,” Max blurted.

  The man’s face tightened. “Nyet,” he said, shimmying away from the window toward the aisle. “Take seat. Take!”

  He stood, pushing Max away, and scurried down the center of the train.

  “Should we follow him?” Bitsy asked.

  But Max’s eyes were focused on the folded-up note. He lifted it from the floor and opened it:

  GREETINGS, CHILDREN.

  WISH I COULD JOIN YOU.

  I HOPE YOU ENJOYED MEETING MY DOPPELGÄNGER. BIT OF A NERVOUS FELLOW. I GAVE HIM THE SHIRT OFF MY BACK. ALSO PANTS, COAT, HAT, AND A TICKET. BETTER THAN WHAT HE WAS WEARING WHILE ASLEEP ON THE STATION FLOOR. HE DOES LIKE TO SLEEP. AH WELL, I NEEDED A NEW SET OF THREADS MYSELF. OH. GENEROUS SOUL THAT I AM, I ALSO GAVE HIM A BURNER PHONE. WITH INSTRUCTIONS ABOUT WHEN TO SEND A MESSAGE THAT I PRE-WROTE. IF YOU’RE HERE, THEN YOU FOUND IT!

  DID I FOOL YOU? :)

  ENJOY THE NEXT . . . OH, TWENTY HOURS.

  TAG.

  YOU’RE IT.

  “He still has my phone,” Bitsy said. “Use the locator app! Where is he?”

  Alex looked up from her phone. “No signal. He shut it off.”

  24

  “I guess if he told you he was going to Peoria, you’d follow him there too—and lose even more time?” Evelyn snapped.

  “No-o-o!” Max moaned.

  His eyes sprang open. It wasn’t Evelyn—it was a dream. Maybe his fifth or sixth of the night. It had been this way since the sun set over a city called Nizhny Novgorod. Max would drift off, and a vision of Evelyn would pop into his head. She was staring at him, sitting by her windowsill in the middle of the night, wide awake, looking impatiently at her watch.

  Over and over and over.

  He checked his watch. 9:30 a.m. A little more than twenty hours since they’d left Moscow. He remembered falling asleep outside a city called Kazan, with gleaming white church spires. He must have gotten a few good hours, because the electronic sign showed that they were approaching their destination, Perm.

  He tried to shake off his dreams as he squinted against the rising sun. It cast a wide amber belt down a river. He had looked that up too. It was called the Kama. As the train curved, a shaft of light hit Alex’s eyes.

  “Are we there yet?” she moaned.

  “Almost,” Max said.

  From across the aisle, Bitsy was stretching her arms upward. “The question is, where’s Nigel?”

  “I think I dreamed about him,” Max said. “Mostly I dreamed about Evelyn, but also about Nigel disguised as Dr. Tretyakov.”

  The old woman let out a couple of waking-up snorts. “If you call me Dr. Tretyakov, it makes me think I am wanted in hospital,” she said, poking her head up. “Please. Raisa to you.”

  Alex was staring at her phone. “Oh, great. Brandon says he can’t get flight clearance out of Perm until next week. So I guess we wait there, or make another plan.”

  “No!” Max blurted. “What happens if Nigel gets all the ingredients?”

  Alex put a hand on his. “We have to stay positive. Shake off the bad dreams.”

  As the train curved inward to the city, the spire of a church rose above the treetops. It glowed amber and red in the morning sun, and for a moment the trip felt like a wrong turn into Disneyland.

  “The cities are really pretty,” Bitsy said. “We blast through all this amazing empty countryside, and it feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere, then boom—a city with a million people.”

  “We’re not here to sightsee,” Max grumbled. “The only scenery I care about is the Kozhim River. And if Brandon can’t get us there, we’ll need someone else.”

  Raisa was staring out the window as the train approached the station. “That would be my handsome nephew Sergei. I know he will help! I texted him. He said he will meet me. You meet him. To meet Sergei is to love him. Trust me, I am doctor.”

  Max wasn’t sure that made sense. In fact, he knew it didn’t. But Alex and Bitsy were both giving him a look, and he shrugged. Why not? he mouthed.

  Someone was better than no one.

  As the train pulled into the station, the booths emptied. Max, Alex, Bitsy, and Raisa lined up for the exit. Max knew that the Trans-Siberian Railway continued clear across to China, and Perm was not even halfway. Still, a lot of passengers were getting off. Even more were lined up outside to board.

  People exiting the train were greeted by grinning friends and families. Just beyond the small crowd, a beat-up four-door pickup roared into the parking lot. It skidded to a stop, its tires screaming, its license plate dangling from one screw. The driver’s door was smashed in, so the driver slid across, emerging legs-first from the passenger side.

  He didn’t jump out of the car so much as unfold himself. He had to be at least 6' 4".

  A shock of wavy reddish-brown hair spilled out from the sides of a red bandanna around his head. It looked like he’d forgotten to shave for a week or two, and even though it was a little chilly he wore a tank top and ripped shorts. As he ran to the train, his arm and leg muscles seemed etched like rock.

  “That’s Sergei?” Bitsy said.

  “Oh my . . .” Alex mumbled.

  “Looks like he spends a lot of time at the gym,” Max remarked.

  “Tetushka!” Sergei shouted.

  “No, I’m Alex.” Alex stepped toward him, extending her hand. “Delighted to meet—”

  But the guy veered past her, where Raisa was emerging from the train, her arms wide. Sergei lifted her off the train, swinging her in a wide circle.

  “I am a dork,” Alex said. “I am such a dork.”

  “Maybe we should interview him first,” Max said.

  “I think he’s perfect,” Bitsy shot back.

  “Children, come!” Raisa said, barging through the crowd toward them with the smiling man. “Please meet my nephew Yevgeny!”

  Bitsy’s face fell. “Yev-who-ey?”

  “Wait. He’s not Sergei?” Alex asked.

  Raisa laughed. “Ah no, he is the son of—”

  “TETUSHKA!” The new voice was like a foghorn, blotting out everyone else.

  Max spun around. Squeezing hi
mself out of the rear door of the pickup was a squat man with bulging cheeks and shoulders like a rock outcropping. A cascade of graying hair flopped over the right side of his face, and he quickly pushed it back up and over his otherwise shiny head. He lumbered briskly toward Raisa, rocking side to side, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses of old, taped-together glasses. A paint-speckled T-shirt was stretched over the ample bulges of his stomach, and his smile revealed a sparse set of teeth like piano keys.

  “Sergei!” Raisa exclaimed as the man ran to her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around. “So strong. Such a kind heart to offer help for my new friends! Alex, Max, Bitsy, meet Sergei!”

  “Hoo boy . . .” Alex said. “I mean, greetings!”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Bitsy said, sounding anything but.

  Max stared at the patterns of white droplets on the man’s shirt. “You paint houses?”

  “Ha!” Sergei honked a laugh like a broken trombone and whipped a phone from his pocket. “No house. Paintings! I show you latest! Is called Defeated: Requiem 2. Based on painting called Defeated: Requiem by Vereshchagin. You know it? Is beautiful—priest praying over field of frozen dead men. I show you.”

  “No, Papa,” Yevgeny said, “show them painting of firing squad.”

  “I’ll pass,” Bitsy said. “On both.”

  “We’re in a hurry,” Max said. “We need to get to the Kozhim River. Fast.”

  Sergei scowled, putting away his phone. “Ah. Of course. What part of river?”

  “We’re not sure,” Alex said.

  Sergei narrowed his eyes. “What you want to find there?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Max replied.

  “We were hoping you’d help us,” Bitsy said. “We have some clues.”

  “But we can pay you,” Max added. “Money is no object.”

  “What? You don’t know what you want?” He jammed his shoulders upward in a dismayed shrug, looking at Raisa. “Where you find these kids?”

  Yevgeny was cracking up.

  As the train’s whistle sounded, Raisa planted a kiss on Sergei’s cheek and spoke in a flurry of Russian.

  “So far, this isn’t going well,” Bitsy drawled.