ST. PETERSBURG, 11:30 PM
Lord and his bodyguard arrived at the train station. The concrete platforms were clogged with people trudging past in heavy coats, some adorned with curly astrakhan wool collars, most clutching bulky suitcases or shopping bags. No one seemed to pay him any attention. And other than the man in the archives, whom he'd thought might be watching, he'd sensed no danger all day.
He and Zinov had enjoyed a leisurely dinner at the Grand Hotel Europe, then spent the rest of the evening in one of the lounges listening to a string quartet. He'd wanted to stroll Nevsky Prospekt, but Zinov had been hesitant about parading the streets at night. So they'd stayed inside and taken a taxi directly to the station, allowing just enough time to climb aboard.
The evening was cold and Uprising Square bustled with traffic. He imagined the bloody exchanges between tsarist police and demonstrators that had started the revolution in 1917, the battle for control of the square raging for two days. The train station itself was another Stalinist creation, the grandiose green-and-white facade more fitting for a palace than a rail terminal. Next door, construction continued on a new high-speed rail terminal for a line being built to Moscow. The multibillion-dollar project was designed by an Illinois architectural firm, working through a British engineering concern, and the head architect had been present at the Volkhov briefing yesterday, understandably jittery about his future.
Lord had booked a first-class sleeping compartment with two berths. He'd ridden the Red Arrow express several times and recalled the days when sheets and mattresses were filthy, the compartments less than clean. But things had noticeably changed, the ride now regarded as one of the more luxurious in Europe.
The train left on time at 11:55 PM, which would put them in Moscow at 7:55 tomorrow morning. Four hundred and five miles in eight hours.
"I'm not all that sleepy," he told Zinov. "I think I'll go to the saloon car for a drink. You can wait here, if you like."
Zinov nodded and said he would catch a quick nap. Lord left the compartment and moved forward through two more sleeping cars, down a narrow, one-person-wide corridor. A trace of coal smoke from a samovar at the far end of each car burned his eyes.
The saloon car was equipped with comfortable leather seats and oak adornments. He took a window table and, in the gloomy light, watched the countryside whiz past.
He ordered a Pepsi, his stomach not in the mood for vodka, and opened his briefcase, reviewing the notes made earlier on the documents he'd found. He was convinced that he'd stumbled onto something, and he wondered what effect any of it would have on Stefan Baklanov's claim.
There was a lot at stake-to Russia, as well as to the corporations Pridgen amp; Woodworth represented. He didn't want to do anything to jeopardize either's future, or his own with the firm.
But there was no denying his lingering doubts.
He rubbed his eyes. Damn, he was tired. Late hours were nothing unusual, but the strain from the past few weeks was beginning to wear on him.
He settled back in the plush leather seat and sipped his drink. There certainly had been no class in law school on any of this. And twelve years of clawing his way up the firm had not prepared him, either. Lawyers like him were supposed to work in offices, courthouses, and libraries, the only intrigue being how to bill enough to make the effort worthwhile, and how to garner recognition from senior partners like Taylor Hayes-people who would ultimately make the decision on his future.
People he wanted to impress.
Like his father.
He could still see Grover Lord lying in the open casket, the mouth that had hollered the word of God closed in death, the lips and face ashen. They'd dressed him in one of his best suits and tied the tie with a dimple the reverend had always liked. The gold cufflinks were there, along with his watch. Lord remembered thinking how those three pieces of jewelry could have paid for a good slice of his education. Nearly a thousand of the faithful had turned out for the service. There'd been fainting and crying and singing. His mother had wanted him to speak. But what would he say? He couldn't proclaim the man a charlatan, a hypocrite, a lousy father. So he'd refused to say anything, and his mother never forgave him. Even now, their relationship remained chilly. She was Mrs. Grover Lord, and proud of the fact.
He rubbed his eyes again as sleep started to take hold.
His gaze drifted down the long car to the faces of others up for a late refreshment. One man caught his attention. Young, blond, stocky. He sat alone sipping a clear drink, and the man's presence sent a chill down Lord's spine. Was he a threat? But the inquiry was answered when a young woman with a small child appeared. Both sat with the man and all three of them started chatting.
He told himself to get a grip.
But then he noticed at the far end of the car a middle-age man nursing a beer, the face gaunt, lips thin, the same anxious watery eyes he'd seen that afternoon.
The man from the archives, still dressed in the same baggy beige suit.
Lord came alert.
Too much of a coincidence.
He needed to get back to Zinov, but didn't want to make his concern obvious. So he tipped back the rest of his Pepsi, then slowly snapped his briefcase shut. He stood and tossed a few rubles on the table. He hoped his actions signaled calm, but on the way out, in the glass door, he saw the man's reflection stand and head toward him.
He yanked open the sliding door and darted from the saloon, slamming the door shut. As he turned into the next car, he saw the man hustling his way.
Shit.
He made his way forward and entered the car with his compartment. A quick glance back through the glass and he saw the man enter the car behind, still coming his way.
He slid open his compartment door.
Zinov was gone.
He slammed the door shut. Perhaps his bodyguard was in the lavatory. He rushed down the narrow aisle and rounded a slight angle in the corridor that led to the far exit. The lavatory door was closed, its OCCUPIED notice not engaged.
He slid open the door.
Empty.
Where the hell was Zinov?
He stepped inside the lavatory. But before he did, he cracked open the exit door to give the appearance that someone had passed through to the next car. He slid the lavatory door shut, but did not engage the lock so the OCCUPIED wouldn't show from the outside.
He stood motionless, pressed tight against the stainless-steel door, breathing hard. His heart pounded. Footsteps approached and he braced himself, ready to use his briefcase as a weapon. From the door's other side, the exit for the sleeper car slid open with a dull scrape.
A second later it closed.
He waited a full minute.
Hearing nothing, he inched open the lavatory door. No one was in the hall. He slammed the door shut and engaged the lock. It was the second time in two days he'd successfully run for his life. He laid his briefcase on the toilet and took a moment to rinse sweat from his face in the washbasin. A can of disinfectant rested on the sink. He used the spray to cleanse the bar of soap, then washed his hands and face, careful not to swallow the water, a laminated sign warning in Cyrillic that nothing was potable. He used his handkerchief to dry his face. No paper towels had been provided.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
His brown eyes were weary, the angular features of his face drawn, and his hair needed a cut. What was going on? And where was Zinov? Some bodyguard. He splashed more water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, careful again not to swallow. A strange irony, he thought. Goddamn superpower with the ability to blow up the world a thousand times over, but can't manage clean water on a train.
He tried to regain his composure. Through an oval window the night raced past. Another train whizzed by in the opposite direction, the rush of cars lasting what seemed minutes.
He took a deep breath, grabbed his briefcase, and slid open the door.
The way was blocked by a tall, stocky man with a pockmarked face, his shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord stared into the eyes and instantly noticed the wide space between the right pupil and brow.
Droopy.
A fist slammed into Lord's stomach.
He doubled over, air strangling in his throat, a wave of nausea gripping him. The force of the blow drove him into the outer wall, his head popping hard against the window, winking the scene before him in and out.
He settled onto the toilet.
Droopy stepped into the lavatory and shut the door. "Now, Mr. Lord, we finish."
He'd managed to retain a grip on his briefcase and momentarily thought of swinging it upward, but in the tight confines the blow would be meaningless. Air started to grab in his lungs. The initial shock was replaced by fear. A cold, shivering terror.
A knife snapped open in Droopy's hand.
There'd only be a moment.
His gaze cut to the disinfectant. He lunged forward, grabbed the can, pointed, and sprayed his assailant's face. The caustic mist soaked into the eyes and the man shrieked. Lord brought his right knee up into the groin. Droopy doubled over, the knife clattering to the tile floor. With both hands Lord crashed the briefcase down and Droopy crumpled forward.
Lord pounded again. Then again.
He leapt over the body and slid the metal door open, bolting into the corridor. Waiting for him was Cro-Magnon, the same sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose from two days ago.
"In a hurry, Mr. Lord?"
He kicked the Russian's left knee with the toe of his loafer, knocking the man down. To his right, a silver samovar steamed with hot water, a glass decanter ready for patrons looking for coffee. He slung the scalding liquid at Cro-Magnon.
The man cried out in pain.
Lord spun in the opposite direction and shot for the exit adjacent to the lavatory. He could hear Droopy getting to his feet, calling out to Cro-Magnon.
He raced out of the sleeper into the next car and hustled down the narrow hall as fast as the confined space would allow. He was hoping a steward would appear. Anyone. He maintained a grasp on his briefcase and found the exit into the next car. Behind, he heard the door at the far end open and caught a glimpse of his two assailants starting after him.
He kept moving, then decided this was pointless. Eventually he was going to run out of train.
He shot a glance back.
The angle of the car gave him a moment of privacy. The hall before him was lined with more sleeping compartments. He figured he was still in the first-class section. He needed to duck into one, if only for a moment, enough time to let the pursuers pass. Maybe then he could backtrack and find Zinov.
He tried the next paneled door.
Locked.
The one after was locked, too.
There'd only be another second.
He grasped a latch handle and looked back. Shadows of approaching figures dimmed the hall in the forward car. As the shoulder of one man came into view, he yanked on the panel.
It opened.
He slipped in and slammed the door shut.
"Who are you?" a female voice asked in Russian.
He spun around.
Perched on the bed, not three feet away, was a woman. She was thin as a figure skater, with shoulder-length blond hair. He took in her oval face, her milky white skin, the blunt tip of her upturned nose. She was a curious mixture of tomboyishness and femininity. And her blue eyes carried not a hint of concern.
"Don't be afraid," he said in Russian. "My name is Miles Lord. I have a big problem."
"That still does not explain why you barged into my compartment."
"Two men are after me."
She stood and stepped close. She was short, rising only to his shoulders, and wore a pair of dark jeans that seemed made only for her. A curvy jacket with padded shoulders covered a blue turtleneck sweater. A faint smell of sweet perfume blossomed from her.
"Are you mafiya?" she asked.
He shook his head. "But the men after me may be. They killed a man two days ago and tried to kill me."
"Step back," she said.
He brushed past toward the compartment's solitary window. She slid open the door, glanced out casually, then shut it.
"There are three men at the far end."
"Three?"
"Yes. One has a black ponytail. The other is craggy with a wide nose, like a Tatar."
Droopy and Cro-Magnon.
"The third is muscular. No neck. Blond hair."
It sounded like Zinov. His mind raced at the possibilities. "Are the three talking?"
She nodded. "They are also knocking on compartment doors, headed this way."
The concern that immediately filled his eyes was apparently evident. She pointed to the bin above the door. "Climb up there and stay quiet."
The recess was large enough for two good-sized pieces of luggage, more than enough room to accommodate him in the fetal position. He sprang onto one of the berths and hauled himself up. She handed him his briefcase. He'd just settled in when a knock came on the compartment door.
She answered the call.
"We are looking for a black man, dressed in a suit, carrying a briefcase." The voice was Zinov's.
"I have seen no such man," she said.
"Do not lie to us," Cro-Magnon said. "We are not to be misled. Have you seen him?" The tone was harsh.
"I have seen no such man. I want no trouble from you."
"Your face is familiar," Droopy said.
"I am Akilina Petrovna of the Moscow Circus."
A moment passed.
"That is it. I have seen you perform."
"How wonderful. Perhaps you should continue your search elsewhere. I need some sleep. I have a performance in the evening."
She slammed the compartment door shut.
He heard the lock engage.
And for the third time in two days, he heaved a deep sigh of relief.
He waited a full minute before climbing down. A cold sweat drenched his chest. His hostess sat on the opposite berth.
"Why do these men want to kill you?" The tone of her voice was soft. Still not a hint of concern.
"I have no idea. I'm a lawyer from America, here working with the Tsarist Commission. Until two days ago, I didn't think anybody even knew I was alive, other than my boss."
He sat on the opposite bed. The adrenaline was receding, replaced by a throbbing in every muscle of his body. Fatigue was setting in. But he still had a major problem. "One of those men, the first who spoke to you, was supposed to be my bodyguard. Apparently there's a lot more to him than I thought."
The features on her compact face wrinkled. "I would not recommend turning to him for help. The three appeared to be working together."
He asked, "Is this an everyday thing in Russia? Strange men slipping into your compartment? Mobsters at your door. You seem to have no fear."
"Should I?"
"I'm not saying you should. God knows, I'm harmless. But in America this could be construed as a dangerous situation."
She shrugged. "You don't appear dangerous. Actually, when I saw you, I thought of my grandmother."
He waited for her to explain.
"She grew up in the time of Khrushchev and Brezhnev. The Americans used to send spies to test the soil for radioactivity, trying to find the missile silos. Everyone was warned about them, told they were dangerous, told to be on the lookout. Once, my grandmother was out in the woods and met a strange man gathering mushrooms. He was dressed as a peasant and carried a wicker basket like people do in the woods. She was completely unafraid and walked straight up to him and said, 'Hello, spy.' He stared at her, shocked, but didn't deny the allegation. Instead, he said, 'I was trained so well. I learned everything about Russia I could. How did you know I was a spy?' 'That's easy,' my grandmother said. 'I've lived here all my life and you're the first black man I've ever seen in these woods.' The same is true for you, Miles Lord. You're the first black man I've ever seen on this train."
He smiled. "Your grandmother sounds like a practical woman."
"She was. Until the communists took her one night. Somehow, a seventy-year-old woman threatened an empire."
He'd read about how Stalin slaughtered twenty million in the name of the Motherland, and how the party secretaries and Soviet presidents who came after him weren't any better. What had Lenin said? Better to arrest a hundred innocent people than run the risk of one enemy of the regime remaining free.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Why should you be?"
"I don't know. It's the appropriate thing to say. What do you want me to say? Too bad your grandmother was butchered by a bunch of fanatics?"
"That's what they were."
"That why you covered for me?"
She shrugged. "I hate the government and the mafiya. One and the same."
"Do you think those men were mafiya?"
"No doubt."
"I need to find a steward and talk to the conductor."
She smiled. "That would be foolish. Everyone is for sale in this land. If those men seek you, they will buy influence on this train."
She was right. The police weren't much better than the mafiya. He thought of Inspector Orleg. He had disliked the burly Russian from the moment they'd met. "What do you suggest?"
"I have no suggestions. You are the lawyer for the Tsarist Commission. You think of what to do."
He noticed her overnight bag on the bed, a MOSCOW CIRCUS emblem embroidered on its side. "You told them you performed in the circus. That true?"
"Of course."
"What's your talent?"
"You tell me. What do you believe I could do?"
"Your petite size would make you an ideal tumbler." He stared at her dark tennis shoes. "Your feet are tight and compact. I'd wager long toes. Your arms are short, but muscular. I'd say an acrobat, maybe the balance beam."
She smiled. "You're quite good. Have you ever seen me perform?"
"I haven't been to the circus in many years."
He wondered about her age. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
"How did you come to speak our language so well?" she asked.
"I've studied it for years." His mind turned to the more immediate problem. "I need to get out of here and leave you be. You've done more than anyone could ask."
"Where would you go?"
"I'll find an empty compartment somewhere. Then try to get off this train tomorrow without anyone seeing me."
"Don't be foolish. Those men will search this train all night. The only safe place is here."
She tossed her travel bag to the floor between them and stretched out on her bunk. Then she reached up and switched off the light above the pillow. "Go to sleep, Miles Lord. You're safe here. They will not come back."
He was too tired to argue. And there was no sense arguing since she was right. So he loosened his tie and slipped off his suit jacket, then lay on his bunk and did what she said.
Lord opened his eyes.
Wheels still clanged on steel rails beneath him. He glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. Five twenty AM. He'd been asleep five hours.
He'd dreamed of his father. The Misunderstood Son sermon he'd heard so many times. Grover Lord loved to mix politics and religion, communists and atheists his main targets, his eldest son the example he liked to parade before the faithful. The concept played well to southern congregations, and the reverend was great at screaming fear, passing the plate, then pocketing his 80 percent before moving on to the next town.
His mother defended the bastard till the end, refusing to believe what she must have known. It had fallen to him, as the oldest, to retrieve his father's body from an Alabama motel. The woman with whom he'd spent the night had been whisked away, hysterical, after awakening to find herself naked with the corpse of the Reverend Grover Lord. Only then had he discovered what he'd long suspected-two half brothers the good reverend had supported out of the collection plate for years. Why the five children back home weren't enough, he assumed only God and Grover Lord knew. Apparently the Adultery and Evils of the Flesh sermon had gone unheeded.
He glanced across the darkened compartment. Akilina Petrovna rested quietly under a white quilt. He could barely discern her rhythmic breathing over the monotonous rattle of the tracks. He'd gotten himself into something bad, and no matter how much history was about to be made, he needed to get the hell out of Russia. Thank goodness he'd brought his passport with him. Tomorrow he'd leave for Atlanta on the first flight he could book. But right now, the sway of the compartment and the click of wheels, along with the darkness that surrounded him, allowed sleep to once again take hold.