Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

Chapter One

There were eighteen carriages in the train, plus a dining car. The narrow corridors of the carriages were crowded. Sweat, grunts, hurrying, pushing. Languages. English, French, German, Chinese. Faces to match the languages. Some laughter. The shrill voice of a woman in Russian asking, “Petrov, are you behind me?” Petrov answered above the crowd and the awakening sounds of the train engine.

In 1857, N.N. Murav’ew-Amurski, governor of eastern Siberia, commissioned a military engineer named Romanov to explore the possibility of a railroad to connect Siberian cities to each other and the western metropolises, including St. Petersburg and Moscow. Romanov came up with a plan. The Russian government gave it no support till the czar became interested in the possibility of such an enterprise in 1885. Entrepreneurs from Germany, France, Japan, and England came forward with offers of help, but Czar Alexander III feared strengthening foreign influence in eastern Russia and decided to use government money for the project. In 1886, Czar Alexander approved a report from the governor of Irkutsk in Siberia.

The czar wrote: “I have read so many reports from the Siberian governors that now I can admit with sadness that the government did almost nothing to meet the needs of this rich, neglected region. It is time to correct that error.”

In 1887, three expeditions were launched, each headed by an engineer appointed by the czar. One expedition was to find a path to Zabaikalskaya, another to explore the construction possibilities through middle Siberia, and the third to examine the feasibility for a connection to the South-Ussuriyskaya railroads. Following the expeditions, the czar appointed a Siberian Railroad Construction Committee, which declared that the “Siberian railroad construction is a great national event which should be built by Russian people using Russian material.”

Rostnikov searched for his compartment. Most passengers were already stowing their bags in the compartments designed for four people. Western tourist agencies booked their clients together, four Frenchmen in a compartment, four Americans in another. But a compartment of Russians could be next to one with four Chinese or Americans, and a woman traveling alone might find herself in a compartment with three men. And another car might be filled with Russians, except for one with four Greeks. Sometimes tourists going nowhere but on a train ride asked to be placed in a compartment with Russians.

When Rostnikov found his compartment, he was greeted by a reasonably polite conductor, who said, “Your ticket.”

Rostnikov handed the ticket to the man, who took it and gave him another.

“You have been switched to the next compartment, thirty-one.”

Rosţnikov did not bother to ask the reason since the compartment was nearby and he knew there could be a dozen good reasons for the move or a dozen bad ones. The conductor probably did not even know.

So, whether by design or chance, Rostnikov found himself wedging into a compartment where three men sat speaking English. There was a small white table next to the window of the compartment. A bottle of vodka sat on it with glasses. The men had the tentative air of people who were getting acquainted.

“Excuse me,” Rostnikov said in English, lifting his suitcase toward the high luggage rack. The three men, two who appeared to be in their seventies and one who might be fifty, nodded at him. The slightly rotund youngest man said, “Welcome. Need some help with that?”

Rostnikov recognized the old men as the two who had boarded the train in front of himself and Sasha.

“I am able to manage,” Rostnikov answered. “Thank you.”

“A glass of vodka to toast our journey and new friends?” said one of the men.

Rostnikov finished stowing the suitcase and accepted the offered glass.

“Zah vahsheh zdahrov yeh ee blahgahpahlooch’yeh, health and happiness,” said the man who had handed Rostnikov his glass.

Rostnikov repeated the toast and touched his glass to those held out by the three men. And then he drank.

After receiving the report of the committee, Alexander III wrote a directive to his son, Czarevitch Nikolya Alexandrovitch, stating: “I order the start of construction of a continuous railroad across all of Siberia. I want to connect Siberian regions rich in natural resources with the rest of the Russian railroad system. This is my will. I want you to use the funds of the Russian treasury to complete this historic enterprise.”

On May 19, 1891, at ten in the morning, the first religious ceremony to bless the new project was held at the foundation of what was to become the Vladivostok station. Czarevitch Nikolya Alexandrovitch, the future czar, was present and laid the first stone and a silver plate designed in St. Petersburg and personally approved by the emperor, Alexander III, himself. Construction had officially begun on the railroad that would twenty-five years later transport the future czar and his family to their death.

Rostnikov learned the names of the men who introduced themselves. One, a tall, lean. American who looked a bit like a very old Gary Cooper, shook Rostnikov’s hand and said his name was Robert Allberry.

“And this is Jim Susman,” Allberry said, nodding at a short man with a freckled bald head with a thatch of gray-white hair.

“And this,” Allberry said, nodding at the youngest man, “is David Drovny. I say that right?”

“David Drovny,” the youngest man said, offering his hand.

Drovny had the chest and build of an opera singer. He was heavy, on the verge of fat. The roundness of his face was given some line by his close-trimmed dark beard and mustache.

Most of the Trans-Siberian Railroad was built in nearly impossible weather over minimally populated or nonpopulated forest land. The roadbed had to go across strong Siberian rivers, around or over dozens of lakes, through swamps and permafrost. The most difficult section was around Baikal and Lake Baikal. Rocks had to be blasted to build tunnels and supporting structures and bridges.

The Railroad Construction Committee estimated the cost of road building at 350 million gold rubles. To keep costs down, the committee established conditions for the Ussuriysk and western Siberia sections. The proposed width of the roadbed was narrowed. Ballast layer was made thinner. Lighter rails were used. Major construction was to be used only on the biggest bridges. Smaller bridges were built of wood. The Circum-Baikal loop to the south of Lake Baikal alone needed two hundred bridges and thirty-three tunnels.

Rostnikov stepped into the corridor. Traffic had thinned. A conductor was walking through, calling out that the train would be taking off. Other Russian trains might be late, but not the Trans-Siberian Express.

Rostnikov went in search of Sasha Tkach. He passed the large white metal samovar in the corridor which provided hot water at all times for drinks and instant foods for those who did not want to spend the time or money going to the dining car.

He found that Sasha was in the same car, an end compartment. He had been placed with three French businessmen.

It appeared that Pankov had done his work. Rostnikov spoke English and was with two Americans and an English-speaking Russian. Sasha’s French was nearly perfect. Rostnikov did not pause as he passed the door. He did not pause till he was on the narrow platform between two cars. Sasha joined him.

“Our adventure begins,” said Rostnikov.

The most difficult problem in building the Trans-Siberian Express was not the distance, cost, or dangers. It was labor. The problem was dealt with by hiring workers in different sections and transporting them to Siberia, each group working separately, all destined to join. In western Siberia there were as many as fifteen thousand workers from western Russia, European Russia. The Zaaylalskaya section employed forty-five hundred workers from all areas. And in middle Siberia, the most dangerous of the three legs of the railroad, most of the workers were convicts and soldiers. Throughout the construction sites were peasants, youths seeking adventure, men who thought they could make a steady living which they could send or bring home to their families.

No one knows how many workers died from floods, plague, sustained temperatures of fifty degrees below zero in the winter and over one hundred degrees in the summer, cholera, landslides, anthrax, bandits who came in packs and stripped smaller work teams of their money and clothes before killing them, and tigers made winter-hungry.

Some estimate as many as ten thousand people died building the railroad. Others say this figure is far too low.

The train lurched a few feet forward. Rostnikov and Sasha Tkach steadied themselves on the metal doors. The train lurched three more times and began to move, very slowly, so slowly that they were aware of their movement at first only by the passing images on the platform, the people waving good-bye, tourist-agency representatives sighing with relief, uniformed police, the arches of the station itself.

Then, with a thrust, the train began to pick up speed.

“No one will sleep for hours,” Rostnikov said. “Excitement. Almost everyone will rise early to look through their windows. The first movement out will be at lunchtime. Most will want to go to the dining car. It may be the only time they go. That is when we begin our search.”

Sasha nodded.

“You looked at your timetable?”

“I did,” said Sasha. “There are so many stops. More than one hundred and thirty, stops every few hours. We can’t check at every one. We would get no sleep.”

“Most of the stops are only for a few minutes so people can stretch their legs, buy some trinkets, chocolates. We will take turns watching to see if someone gets off with a suspect suitcase or someone of interest gets on. It is most likely that the transaction will take place at one of the larger stops. We have three days till we get to Novosibirsk,” said Rostnikov as the train rattled forward, the lights of Moscow glowing a faint yellow through the falling snow outside the window.

It was not much of a plan, but Rostnikov did not intend to simply wait.

“We begin our search now,” he said. “We walk through the train, noting any luggage or people who might be suspicious. Most important, look for a person who does not leave his or her compartment or does so only with a suitcase.”

The chances of success seemed very slim to Sasha Tkach, but the responsibility was not his and the chief inspector did not appear to be concerned. But then Porfiry Petrovich was not a man who showed excitement.

Rostnikov pointed to his left, the direction he wanted Sasha to take, and he turned to the right, toward the car from which they had come.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” Sasha said. “My mother is planning to get married.”

Rostnikov hesitated. “Perhaps the sun will burn out sooner than we think,” he said. “Tell me more in the morning.”

The sun? What did the sun have to do with it? Sasha wondered. On more than one occasion in the past, Sasha had given serious consideration to the possibility that the chief inspector had moments of great eccentricity.

Almost all the work done on the railroad was by hand. Axes, saws, shovels, miners’ hacks, wheelbarrows. Despite the primitive tools and weather, 600 kilometers of railway were built every day. Not only were thousands of miles of track laid, but one-hundred-million cubic feet of earth was moved. In just one 230-kilometer span, the Circum-Baikal Railway, fifty protection barriers against landslide had to be constructed, thirty-nine tunnels blasted and reinforced, 14 kilometers of support walls built with concrete. Just the cost of the tunnels with support walls was more than ten million rubles.

In October 26, 1897, temporary traffic began from Vladivostok to Khabarovsk. In 1898, the western-Siberian section from Chelybansk to Novosibrsk was put into operation. The middle-Siberian section from Ob’River to Irkutsk was completed in 1899. In 1905 regular traffic began. Only one track had been laid. There had not been enough money to lay a track running in each direction.

Pavel Cherkasov was more than slightly bothered by the coincidental appearance of the barrel of a man who shared the compartment with him and the two old Americans. Pavel recognized Chief Inspector Rostnikov of the office of Special Investigation. There was no doubt. He recognized the face, and his impression was confirmed by the man’s distinct limp.

He had never met Rostnikov, and he was quite sure Rostnikov had never seen him or a photograph of him. Pavel had a computer. It was not with him. Far too large and he did not like carrying laptops. Pavel was a professional. He kept track of supposed friends and potential enemies. There were web sites with photographs of the Washtub. People had e-mailed him photographs via scanner of the policeman and many others whom it would behoove him to recognize. Pavel, in turn, had occasionally put out some information on people and places to avoid or be wary of. And Pavel had an excellent memory.

The possibility of the detectives being on the train by chance was slim to nonexistent, though it was certainly a possibility. However, the chance of the policeman being in the same compartment defied the odds. It was most likely that Rostnikov had some information on the transaction. It might be very little but it might be enough to present some danger.

No matter. He would find out how much help Rostnikov had with him. He would guard the blue duffel bag containing the money, put it, if necessary, in a safer place than the compartment carrier. He had a number of thoughts about that. It would all be done tomorrow, after breakfast.

He lifted the duffel bag to his lap, zipped it open, and removed a pair of blue pajamas and a white robe. He did this casually, laying the items on the seat next to him, wanting them to see but pay no attention. Even if Rostnikov was watching him, it was most unlikely that he would consider the boldness of Pavel’s carrying more than half a million British pounds under his nightclothes and underwear.

“Gentlemen,” he said in English to the other three people in his compartment as he zipped the duffel closed and deposited it casually on the rack over his head. “I asked a young friend of mine who his father was. He answered, ‘Comrade Putin.’ I asked who his mother was. He answered, ‘Russia.’ I asked him what he would like to be when he grows up. He answered, ‘An orphan.’”

The two old Americans laughed and Pavel immediately said, “Two Jewish women meet on Kalinin Street. One is holding the hands of her two little boys. ‘Well,’ says the one woman, ‘how old are your children?’ And the other woman answers, ‘The doctor is six. The lawyer is four.’”

Again his compartment mates laughed.

Pavel had many more. He put any thoughts of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov in a little mental box to be opened when he did not have a willing audience.

In 1904 the Japanese attacked and defeated the Russian fleet in the Sea of Japan at Port Arthur, near Vladivostok. Troops had to be sent to the front to protect the coast of Siberia. The Trans-Siberian Railroad could handle only thirteen trains a day. The czar ordered the elimination of civilian services on the line. Transferring troops was also hampered because a portion of the Circum-Baikal section of the line had to be used. Part of that line, the connection of the west and east coasts of Baikal Lake, was not completed. Trains were ferried on a 3,470-ton icebreaker called Baikal, which could carry up to 25 loaded cars at a time. When winter came and the lake froze Siberian-solid, tracks were laid across it and 220 cars a day rattled across. There are no reports of the ice giving way.

After the war with Japan, the czar ordered an increase in the capacity of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. To increase the speed of the trains, the earth bed was widened, light rails were replaced by heavier ones, rails were laid on metal plates instead of wood, wooden bridges were torn down and replaced by others of concrete and metal. A second track was begun in 1909 and completed in 1913. New branches were also built.

By 1912, 3.2 million passengers traveled on the Trans-Siberian Express, but during World War I the Russian railway system, suffering from shortages, began to break down. It was further devastated by the Russian civil war. Cars and locomotives were destroyed, bridges were burned, and passenger stations bombed.

When the czar was overthrown and the White Army defeated, rebuilding began. During the winter of 1924–1925, the badly damaged Amur Bridge was rebuilt. In March of 1925, traffic on the railroad was opened again. It has not once been interrupted in more than seventy-five years.

Porfiry Petrovich bypassed his compartment, where the three men were drinking and laughing. He considered joining them to work on his English, but he knew there would be time for that and that his English was certainly passable.

He found the dining car. It was almost empty. People were settling into their compartments. The dining-car seats were comfortable. Through the windows he could see the last lights of the outskirts of Moscow growing more apart and more dim and small.

He took the Ed McBain novel out of his pocket and began to read. He would have liked to remove his leg but that would have to wait till he returned to his compartment, where he would immediately tell the others how he had lost it. The two old men with whom he shared his compartment had mentioned that they were veterans of World War II. They might want to discuss their own experiences, but then again they might not. Rostnikov’s explanation of his own participation in the war was always short and precise. It invited no conversation but discouraged no comment.

“I was a child,” he said. “A very young boy soldier. I made a mistake and my leg was run over by a German tank. The ground was muddy. The leg would not die. Not long ago it was necessary to remove it.”

Story done. He did not want to go into details. Most who had served in an army did not press him.

He planted both his good and his artificial leg on the floor and opened his book. The train jostled, but he was not prone to motion sickness.

There were a few others in the car, a couple in their late thirties or early forties talking softly in Russian, pointing out the window. A woman of about fifty, slight, thick glasses, alone, sat with her elbow bent on the train seat and her head resting upon her hand. She looked sadly and deeply into the night.

Rostnikov was absorbed in the text of the ragged paperback. The Deaf Man was killing people again, confounding Carella and the others. Rostnikov did not wonder if he would be caught. He knew. He had read the novel three times before.

Even absorbed in the book he was aware that someone had sat across from him. He did not take his eyes from the page but he could see the figure of a woman, sense her presence and perhaps the faint smell of perfume. When he finished the chapter, Rostnikov looked up.

The woman was about forty, lean, wearing a tan skirt and blouse. She was quite beautiful. She was looking directly at him. She smiled. Rostnikov smiled back.

Over the woman’s shoulder Porfiry Petrovich saw Sasha Tkach enter the car. Rostnikov blinked his eyes once without looking at Sasha. The blink was enough. Sasha understood. He backed out of the car.

“Are you traveling alone?” the woman asked in Russian in a surprisingly deep voice.

“Yes,” he answered. “And you?”

“The same,” she said. “I think I know you.”

“I think that not likely,” he said. “I know I should remember you if we had met.”

“Thank you,” she said, widening her smile and holding out her hand. “I am Svetlana Britchevna.”

Rostnikov leaned over somewhat awkwardly. Her skin was tender but her grip was firm.

“I am Ivan Pavlov,” he said.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I’m a bit forward, I know, but I anticipate a boring trip and the more interesting people with whom I can converse the more quickly the time will pass.”

“The scenery during the day is supposed to be magnificent,” he said.

“I know,” she answered, straightening her skirt. “I’ve seen it many times. I travel the line frequently, three or four times a year. I’m an engineer. Electrical. Safety checks on various plants throughout Siberia. There are no stops on the line of any great interest to me till we get to Novosibirsk.”

“Nothing of interest is likely to happen before then?” asked Rostnikov.

“I speak from experience,” she said pleasantly. “And you?”

“I have never traveled on this train before.”

“No,” she said with a smile. “I mean, what do you do?”

“I am a plumbing contractor,” Rostnikov said. “Not terribly interesting to others.”

“But you find it so,” she said.

“Yes.”

“As I find computer programs. You know about plumbing, then?”

He nodded.

“My husband and I have a problem,” she said, leaning forward as if she were about to share an intimate secret. “We have cast-iron drain pipes in our basement. They are rotting. Were planning a new fixture. Do we have to, should we, use galvanized iron again?”

“No,” Rostnikov said, putting his book in his pocket. “A no-hub fitting can get you into the stack, with minimum difficulty. With special adapter fittings, copper or plastic supply lines can take over where the galvanized leaves off. It can usually be accomplished with the right tools, some no-hub clamps, spacers, a few sanitary crosses, possibly a tee and a riser clamp, using the right tools.”

“I think we had better get a plumber,” she said.

“It is really not difficult,” Rostnikov said. “You live in Moscow?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I would be happy to come to your home and examine your problem.”

“I couldn’t …” she began.

“No,” he said. “Plumbing is my pleasure.”

“But it might not be simple.”

“That would be even better,” he said.

“We will talk again,” she said, rising and offering her hand. He took it.

“That would be pleasant,” he said.

The woman turned and left the car. Rostnikov turned his eyes to the window, finding the last village lights before the plunge into darkness. In the reflection from the window a few seconds later he saw Sasha Tkach, who sat where the woman had been.

“Who was that?” Sasha asked.

“A very beautiful woman.”

“That I could see. What did she want?”

“To find out if I am a plumber,” said Rostnikov.

“If you are a plumber?”

“Yes. I believe she knows who I am.”

“Why would she approach you?” asked Sasha.

“A very good question. She wants me to know that she knows.”

“Then she doesn’t believe you are a plumber?”

“No,” he said. “She was playing a game. Like chess. She begins the game with a small move of a pawn. She asks me about a plumbing problem she does not have. I think she was pleasantly surprised that I was able to answer her question.”

“What does she want?” asked Sasha. “Is she the one with the suitcase?”

“Perhaps. I don’t think so. The question is, Why does she want me to know that she knows who I am?”

Sasha shrugged. It was the sort of problem Rostnikov relished.

“She has something to gain by my knowing of her presence.”

“FSB?” asked Sasha.

“Very likely,” Rostnikov answered.

FSB, the Federal Security Service, Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the heir to most of the empire of the former KGB. The FSB was even headquartered in Lubyanka, in Derzhinski Square, the former headquarters of the KGB.

The FSB, established in April of 1995, is overseen by the procurator general of Russia and has over seventy-five thousand agents. The FSB’s primary mission is civil counter-espionage, internal Russian security, organized crime, and state secrets. Terrorism, international borders, drugs, and various other classified areas are the province of the Russian Security Ministry, MBR, Ministertvo Bezopasnosti Rushkii. The MBR has more than one hundred thousand agents. That leaves the SVR, the Foreign Intelligence Service, whose numbers are unreported.

“And she did tell me something which may be important,” Rostnikov said.

“What?”

“That the transaction will almost certainly not take place before we reach Novosibirsk.”

“She told you that?”

“I believe so. It will be an interesting trip. Do you want to try to sleep?”

“Too noisy in my compartment,” said Sasha.

“Mine too,” said Rostnikov. “Let us talk about your mother and her impending marriage.”