Now Rostnikov drew the nearby mountains, very roughly, and tried to suggest the first rays of sunlight coming over them. He was dissatisfied. He tried traditional rays, almost like the paintings of a child, erased them and tried an indistinct, faint arch between two ridges. He moved up an inch and drew an even-less-distinct arch. Then, to show the contrast between light and dark, he shaded in the foreground, trees, mountains. He would have liked to suggest something dark and wild in the early shadows but he was not a good enough artist for that.
It was just after five in the morning, according to Rostnikov’s wristwatch. He knew the train would pass through many time zones before Vladivostok. He did not try to keep track by changing his watch, though he was aware of when the train would reach each stop.
While he worked on the rising sun, someone approached down the aisle. He did not look up. He did not have to. He recognized the slight perfume of the woman who had called herself Svetlana Britchevna. She sat across from him.
“You are also an artist,” she said. “A plumber and an artist. Interesting combination. There is a depth to you, Ivan Pavlov.”
Rostnikov raised his eyes but not his head. She was wearing a loose, light-blue sweater and a darker skirt. She had a cup in her hand. Rostnikov could smell the coffee.
“And to you, Svetlana Britchevna,” he said, putting the finishing touches to his drawing.
“May I ask what you are drawing?”
“The sun,” he said. “For reasons I cannot explain, I have been dreaming of the sun, the fragile sun.”
“The sun is fragile?” she asked, amused.
“All life is fragile,” he said.
“And the sun is alive?”
“Sometimes I think all life is the sun. Perhaps I should consider becoming a pagan, a sun worshiper.”
“And,” she said, taking a sip of coffee, “spending hours in the nude in worship.”
“It would not be a sight that would delight the sun god,” said Rostnikov. “He might be so offended that he would strike me with skin cancer.”
“From the metaphysical to the pragmatic,” she said. “We can add poetry to your list of accomplishments, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”
Rostnikov showed no reaction to her having used his name. Instead, he clicked his pencil, put it in his shirt pocket, closed his notebook, put it next to him, and drank the last of his tea. Then he looked at her.
“I did not expect to surprise you,” she said. “You knew something of who I was last night.”
“Your approach was designed to alert me,” he said, folding his hands. “I wonder only at why you want me to know.”
“I work for the ministry,” she said. “Not high on the ladder, but not at the bottom either. My mission on this train is to watch a certain Pavel Cherkasov. We try to keep track of certain figures who do not like to walk in your sun.”
“Pavel Cherkasov,” Rostnikov repeated.
“My mission is considered by my superiors to be very low priority, routine. Others could have been selected ahead of me but none particularly wanted to ride the Trans-Siberian Express.”
“Why?”
“They find the trip boring and the assignment the same,” she said.
“But you do not,” said Rostnikov.
“I do not,” she said. “I have some information which the ministry provided for me and some I have picked up through my own connections and bribes from my own pocket.”
“You are ambitious,” Rostnikov said.
“Very,” she answered, her smile broadening. “One of the bribes I paid was to place you in Pavel Cherkasov’s compartment.”
“Drovny, the man with the jokes,” said Rostnikov. Rostnikov looked out the window, his eyes ahead, searching for the first light of the sun, but it was still too early, though perhaps he sensed the faintest hint of morning light. “And our discussion last night?” he asked.
“To test you,” she said.
“Did I pass your test?”
“Yes. And so did your assistant, Tkach. I tried to seduce him. I am very good at it and my information was that he was very susceptible. He did not succumb.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” said Rostnikov. “You are out of coffee. Shall I get you more?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I have a proposal for you.”
Rostnikov sat attentively.
“I have told you who you are looking for. I can tell you where his transaction will take place. You will tell me what his mission is, and if we succeed in catching him in the act, I get credit for his apprehension.”
“And what do I get?” asked Rostnikov.
“Whatever it is Cherkasov is planning to get or give or both. We each have information the other needs. I see no point in our doing battle. Time is running short.”
“There is a long way to go,” said Rostnikov.
“Not for Cherkasov. I know about you, Rostnikov. I am willing to trust you. Tell me we have an agreement and I will tell you where and when and with whom he plans to make whatever transaction he has planned.”
“Why not simply seduce Cherkasov?” Rostnikov asked.
“He is not interested in women. His passion is bad jokes, expensive food, and high living. Well?”
Rostnikov fleetingly considered asking the woman for identification but it would be meaningless. Anything could be forged. Even if he did not believe her, he did not see that he had anything to lose. The Yak wanted the money and whatever it was Cherkasov was exchanging it for. The woman, if she was to be believed, wanted Cherkasov and the person he was dealing with. She would need something to prove her case. That could be arranged.
“We are in a temporary alliance,” he said.
“Ekaterinburg,” she said.
Fitting, thought Rostnikov. Ekaterinburg, which had been Sverdlovsk during the Soviet era, was where the Bolsheviks had taken the family of Czar Nicholas II in 1918 and killed them in a small, dank stone basement. Sverdlovsk was the name of the Bolshevik who had planned and carried out the execution of the royal Romanov family. It was also, Rostnikov knew, the birthplace of Boris Yeltsin.
“What do you know about Ekaterinburg?” she asked.
“It is on the Iset River, about a million and a half people, the capital of the Sverdlovsk Oblast region. Steelmaking, the Pittsburgh of Siberia. Industrial, turbines, ball bearings, other things. I believe there are even gold mines nearby.”
“And copper,” she said. “Titanium. It is what the Americans call a boom town since the end of the Soviet Union. America is the region’s number-one investor with one-hundred-and-fourteen million dollars. Coca-Cola, Pepsi, US West, Ford, IBM, Procter amp; Gamble. Three Lufthansa flights a day to Frankfurt.”
“Impressive,” said Rostnikov.
“It is also the murder capital of the region, possibly of all Russia, possibly the world. The Uralmash Mafia controls the city. The heads of the Ministry of Justice and the director of the Federal Security Service visited Ekaterinburg to investigate corruption, and a commission from the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Russian Federation convened there for almost two weeks to investigate charges that the head of the regional military, Lieutenant General Kraev, was connected to the Mafia.”
“And they discovered?”
“That he was innocent, of course. The commission did not address the contract killings.”
Rostnikov was aware that the region was a center of gang activity.
“More than one thousand twenty-five killings for the Sverdlovsk Oblast region, the most criminal region in all of Russia,” she said. “Almost ninety-six thousand major crimes. Examples: There was a contract killing last year of a thirty-year-old gang member named Lebedev. Shot ten times by an automatic pistol in the courtyard of his home on Frezerovschikov Street, eleven in the morning. Three days later there was a car bombing in a parking garage on Pekhotinstev Street. Five cars blown up. No one killed. Two days later, near the Svetly health center, a Mercedes-230 belonging to Anatoly Dmitriev, the center’s dir
ector, was blown up. He escaped.”
“Interesting,” said Rostnikov.
“More than interesting,” she said. “Crucial. One of the Uralmash killers is on this train. I believe he is following Pavel. I believe he plans to get to him before we do. We must not allow that to happen.”
“Pavel Cherkasov is a very popular man,” said Rostnikov.
“Not a result of his sense of humor,” she said.
“Who is this Uralmash killer?”
“Ah,” she said, sitting back. “I have a name, from the same source that provided me with the information about the location of the transaction. Our killer’s name is Vladimir Golk.”
“And our next big stop is …” Rostnikov began.
“Ekaterinburg,” she said. “This afternoon.”
“Of course,” said Rostnikov. “The sun is beginning to rise.”
She turned to look out the window. “Impressive,” she said.
“I think we can order breakfast now. Shall we wake Sasha and have something to eat?”
“I am suddenly quite hungry she said, rising.
Rostnikov tucked his notebook in his pocket and rose with difficulty. There was no cloud cover. The sun would be bright, the train windows frosted. It was the promise of a good day, but Rostnikov had learned from experience that the sun was indifferent to the petty crimes of man.
Sasha had staggered into the dining car, looking for Rostnikov, who had not been in his cabin or in the lounge. He found him seated at a table with Svetlana Britchevna, having coffee, their breakfast plates pushed to the side.
Rostnikov motioned to him.
The car was not crowded. This was the first call to breakfast, but there were early risers, most of them with the tired morning look of insomnia or disorientation. Most looked at newspapers. A few sat trying to wake up.
The Trans-Siberian Express was an adventure but, after two days, the train like almost any other became a soporific cradle. Sleep always seemed to beckon. Avid conversations ended in closed eyes and books on laps.
Games of cards had already begun in the lounge car and some of the compartments Sasha had passed. He had seen nothing that resembled the suitcase for which they searched.
Sasha sat next to Rostnikov and looked at the woman. She seemed awake, alert, and glowing with energy which Sasha could not meet. He had not slept well, not well at all.
“You have met Miss Britchevna,” Rostnikov said, motioning to the waiter and indicating through simple mime that another cup was needed for coffee.
“Yes,” said Sasha cautiously.
“She tells me you behaved like a gentleman in spite of her charms and advances.”
Sasha said nothing as the waiter approached and poured a cup of coffee. Sasha ordered yoghurt, black bread, and an orange.
“We have entered an unholy alliance with Miss Britchevna,” said Rostnikov. “She has told me where the transfer will take place and the name of the man we are seeking, but there are complications.”
Rostnikov explained the situation. Svetlana Britchevna listened, drank coffee, and added nothing.
“And so,” said Rostnikov. “We have several hours. All we need do is watch our Pavel Cherkasov, be alert for the assassin, and step forward at the moment of interception.”
“That is all,” said Sasha with a sigh, indicating that the task promised to be far from easy.
“You and Svetlana … may I use your first name?” Rostnikov asked.
“You both may,” she said, looking from one man to the other.
“You will jointly watch our Pavel every moment from the time we leave this table. Find him and watch him.”
“We can play the role of lovers,” the woman said. “Since I know I cannot corrupt you, you will have to be a good actor. Are you a good actor, Sasha Tkach?”
In spite of what he knew about the woman, Sasha was stirred. Her eyes met his. She made it clear with a smile that she recognized the ripple of desire she was causing. Svetlana Britchevna was pleased. She had perhaps six or seven more years, perhaps more if she were fortunate and took care of herself, to have this effect on men, an effect that could be turned and tuned to her ambition. And her ambition was considerable. She intended to become the highest-ranking female member of the ministry. If she did not move too quickly and used the skills of men like Rostnikov, she might even rise to the very top. She did not say this aloud to anyone. There was no point to it and no one close enough to her with whom she wished to share her ambition. Besides, she would have been considered seriously deluded for believing that she could penetrate the all-male power structure.
“I have played many roles,” Sasha said as his black bread and yoghurt were brought to the table.
“Settled,” said Rostnikov. “I have some news for you, Sasha. Svetlana has allowed me to use her little cell phone to call Moscow. Anna Timofeyeva has checked on Matvei Labroadovnik.”
“How is he involved?” Svetlana asked.
“In our enterprise? Not at all. In Sasha’s life, monumentally. The man is, indeed, an artist of some secondary repute. He is, indeed, working in Istra on the Cathedral of the Resurrection.”
Sasha wanted to feel relieved. The prospect of his mother actually removing her shadow from his family promised a new start for Sasha and Maya, but he could tell from Porfiry Petrovich’s voice that there was more coming. And it came.
“Matvei Labroadovnik has won awards,” Rostnikov said. “He has had some government and private commissions, but, according to Anna Timofeyeva, he is now considered somewhat of a relic, a hopelessly old-fashioned artist whose time has long come and gone, been revived, faltered. This is Anna Timofeyeva’s conclusion. She has also concluded with certainty through confidential sources that Matvei Labroadovnik is down to his last few thousand rubles and has already spent the advance he received for his work on the cathedral.”
Sasha nodded. He felt an odd mixture of vindication and disappointment.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will address this when we return to Moscow.”
“My guess; Sasha,” Rostnikov said, reaching down to scratch just above his left knee, “is that Matvei may already have told Lydia that he is without money. If he is reasonably clever, he would realize that she might have resources for finding out his financial status.
“Then there would be nothing I could do,” said Sasha.
“You could consider that he is sincere,” said Rostnikov. “You could wait and see what develops. You could pay him a friendly visit. You could make plans for attending your mother’s wedding, should it prove inevitable.”
“If he is seeking my mother’s money,” said Sasha, “he will learn that there is a steep price to pay for it.”
“You could break his fingers,” the woman said with interest. “He is an artist.”
“No,” said Sasha, “the price he would pay would be in having to live with my mother. She is no fool. She will not part with a single ruble easily unless it is for me or my family, and when she does, there is always an unspoken demand for respect and compliance. The artist will pay dearly and probably wind up with very little for his efforts.”
“I agree,” said Rostnikov. “A question.”
Svetlana and Sasha looked at him.
“If all the oil in the world comes from fossil fuels, there must have been billions of dinosaurs. And those dinosaurs must have died suddenly and been buried instantly. If they died naturally or from predators, there would have been nothing remaining except bones, nothing to turn to oil. Out that window.”
Rostnikov looked out at a vast plain of small trees.
“Out that window thousands of dinosaurs must have roamed, fought for food, grown enormous. Either the oil we have does not come from fossils, the oil out there below this very ground, or some cataclysm engulfed the earth. What happened?”
Neither Svetlana nor Sasha answered. She was thinking about Pavel Cherkasov. He was thinking about his mother.
“The sun,” said Rostnikov. “The source of life.
Something happened to the sun. It ceased to burn or something came between it and the earth. Something sudden.”
Svetlana wondered for an instant if Rostnikov might be just a bit mad. Sasha had heard such musings on a variety of subjects many times before. He knew Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was a man with unfathomable imagination.
“It could happen again,” said Rostnikov. “In the next few seconds. That which we think is important, whatever it might be, would be meaningless. Life would have to begin again. Perhaps the cockroaches would not even survive this time.”
“Perhaps,” said Sasha, glancing at the woman, whose eyes were fixed upon him.
“It is sometimes good to remember that the things we believe are important have little ultimate meaning,” said Rostnikov.
“One might be depressed,” said Svetlana.
“One might,” Rostnikov agreed. “But one might also be relieved. Like the Hindus we are free, if we choose, of earthly connection. There is the immediate moment, the likely short-term present, and the distant possible future. And in the immediate moment, it would be a good idea to find Pavel Cherkasov.”
Sasha had finished his breakfast. Svetlana Britchevna rose. So did he. They left Rostnikov sitting at the table.
At the end of the car she turned to Sasha and said, “Does he often talk like that?”
“Often,” he said.
She took his hand. He considered pulling away but did not.
“We are lovers, remember,” she said, turning her face to his.
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