The Hunters (12 page)

‘Is that all?’ Garcia joked.

‘For now,’ Cobb said.

‘You can do that before dessert,’ Papineau remarked.

‘We should make him do it
for
dessert,’ McNutt suggested.

Cobb looked at Jasmine. She was the team member he knew the least about. ‘Quick question: if I were to punch you in the face, what would you do?’

She shrugged. ‘Probably cry.’

He laughed. ‘That’s what I figured. There’s no doubting your skills as a historian - you’ve just demonstrated them. But I need to be sure that you can take care of yourself in the field. Starting early tomorrow morning, I want you to learn the rudiments of self-defense. Preferably judo or jiu-jitsu.’

‘Why Japanese?’ she asked.

Cobb smiled. ‘Good question. Those styles are directed outward, designed to use an opponent’s attack against him. The Chinese forms use inner strength and four-point movement from center. They take longer to master.’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a good school.’

‘No, find a good sensei for private lessons,’ Cobb said. ‘Eight hours a day. You won’t have a lot of time. Don’t worry: once you start, it’ll become addictive. And Hector?’ He turned back toward Garcia. ‘When you have the information I asked for, join her. That would make it after breakfast tomorrow, I’m guessing.’

‘I’m kind of a klutz,’ Garcia said.

Cobb glared at him. ‘Hector, that was our short discussion. You’re taking lessons.’

Garcia’s mouth didn’t move, but his eyes said,
Yes sir!

‘Hey, chief!’ McNutt called as he headed upstairs. ‘We’ve got our marching orders. What are you going to be doing?’

‘Me?’ Cobb said. ‘I’m going on a rekky of Eastern Europe.’

Andrei Dobrev roamed the reception, looking for someone to talk to, but his presence was mostly ignored by the well-dressed guests. There was a fake smile or two, and a few polite nods, but other than that, a lot of blank stares - especially when they learned that he was a semi-retired member of the working class, and not a dignitary or a well-connected politician.

But Dobrev didn’t take it personally.

At his advanced age, he was used to being ignored.

The only reason Dobrev had been invited to the Leningradsky Rail Terminal for the announcement of the new American-European train survey was because of his long career as a railway worker. He was nothing more than a token laborer to put a blue-collar spin on the proceedings. Having worked on thousands of miles of track and at various stations throughout Russia, Dobrev knew more about the railways than most of its executive officers.

When it came to trains, he was a walking encyclopedia.

His was a proud railroad family, dating back more than a hundred years. His grandfather, Bela, worked all the way through the mobilization and nationalizing of the system through World War I and the Revolution. His father, Cristian - who married a Russian woman and moved to Moscow from Romania - worked the lines at the height of the railroad industry’s golden age. And he, Andrei, had survived the screeching, convulsive collapse of the Soviet Union and the rise of the new Russian railway. Foreign investors had made financial and engineering contributions, but it was still a Russian line, sprawling through some of the most hostile rail territories on earth. It was the lifeline of towns and villages that could not be reached by any other means.

Two months earlier, after forty years of honorable service, Dobrev had lightened his load by becoming an advisor. He had surrendered his day-to-day activities with regret. Those first few days when he did not put on his coarse, bull-hide work gloves, he had felt worse than naked; he felt useless. But it was good not to be hurrying from one station or another, to one crisis or another, to one bar or another to find a local railway authority. His reassignment had been mandated by the implementation of Government Order #384:

When a member of the track workforce shall reach a certain age, that age being sixty-five …

But Dobrev was occasionally invited to major railway events, a proud example of Russian industry and dedication. And he never failed to feel an overwhelming rush of pride whenever he stepped into any station in Russia - particularly in Moscow, the shining city which the last three generations of Dobrevs had helped to connect to the rest of the continent.

The Leningradsky terminal was a particular favorite. It was the creation of the great Konstantin Andreyevich Thon, Imperial Russia’s official architect, who also designed the Grand Kremlin. This square, spired, palatial place was created in the great architect’s later years, but it still served as something of a revolution. Completed in 1851, it combined the best of old and new by rejecting Roman neoclassicism in favor of what became known as the Russian Revival style, identified by cunning and clever steel work, which was then one of the newest construction techniques.

Dobrev drank in the rail terminal’s handsome exterior as he looked around at the small crowd. This party - announcing and celebrating a new rail survey that would improve track conditions in rural regions - was suitably austere and ostentatious. They had cordoned off a corner just inside the main entrance so passengers could flow by with a minimum of inconvenience to them. Dobrev noticed that the rush and bustle of commuters, crowded but never congested, would be visible to the foreign guests.

The organizers had set up a cocktail bar and several tables of caviar, buckwheat blinis, pelmenis, and pierogis in a cordoned section off to the right of the main entrance, with enough security guards to discourage the gypsies and mafia wannabes who always hovered nearby anything of significance in Moscow. Dobrev studied the crowd: minor dignitaries, lesser committee members, petty trade representatives, and unimportant railway officials.

Obviously they wanted to put on a low-level, dog-and-pony show for the ‘Amerikos’. That was how Russians termed ugly Americans, men and women who came with money and opinions but very little experience. Sometimes, no experience at all. Therefore, the total absence of Russian, state-run media wasn’t much of a surprise. The only other guest who stood out was the thin, bald man in a black tunic, pants, boots, and coat. Dobrev felt a chill, remembering the black, ripstop uniforms of the Russian OMON - a special-purpose mobile unit deployed during violent situations, including some Dobrev wished he could forget.

But it was more than his outfit that set this man apart. The bald figure in black had beady, attentive eyes, giving the impression that he was half security officer, half vulture. Just as Dobrev was heir to a great railroad tradition, this man was a throwback to Okhrana, the secret police of the Romanov dynasty. Not only did he observe, he judged with his gaze.

A minute later, Dobrev’s attention was drawn to the team of surveyors who entered the side door to polite applause. They were led by the study sponsor, Jean-Marc Papineau, who waved to the crowd like a visiting king. While most of the male guests gawked at the blue-eyed blonde in the form-hugging black dress and heels who was standing beside Papineau, Dobrev focused on the Asian woman in the pencil-skirt suit and bone-colored, high-necked blouse. He knew she would be treated poorly because she was
different
than him and his comrades.

Sadly, that mattered to Russians who were Russian to the core.

But Dobrev wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about race, or age, or anything superficial. He only cared about the person inside. Intrigued by her presence, he took it upon himself to watch over her at the reception, like a parent keeping an eye on his child at the playground. He gave her plenty of distance, but was ready to spring into action if he deemed it necessary.

The rest of Papineau’s team seemed to hover near English speakers. The man with short, light hair was joking with the politicians. The man with longer hair hung out at the bar with the serious drinkers. The small, Latin-looking man only had eyes for the tablet screen he carried. And the blonde was busy turning all the men who approached her to stone.

As expected, virtually no one was speaking to the Asian girl, so he decided to strike up a conversation. She stood with a closed leather notebook clutched to her chest and drank white wine almost wistfully as he approached.

‘It is very odd, yes?’ Dobrev said in Russian.

She turned toward him. ‘What is?’

‘Of your delegation, you are the only one I have heard speaking Russian. Yet no one is talking to you.’

She laughed quietly, which brought a wide smile to Dobrev’s face. Most women - Russian or foreign - dismissed him quickly. He was clearly of the old guard: squat, stocky, square-headed, and partial to ill-fitting tan suits that allowed his big arms to move. His white shirts were always stained with grease or oil because he couldn’t help touching things on trains, and he wore dark ties no matter what the weather or occasion. Although he’d had a son, Ivan, out of wedlock, he rarely felt comfortable with the opposite sex. He spoke easily to locomotives and stubborn rail spikes, less so to human beings, and rarely at all with women.

But this women was different. She was open, responsive, almost excited to talk to him. Like a granddaughter meeting her grandfather for the very first time.

‘Have you seen the train selected for your survey?’ Dobrev asked.

‘I have,’ Jasmine answered. ‘It seems very nice.’

‘She
is
very nice,’ Dobrev insisted. ‘She is the pride of the fleet. Perhaps the most efficient engine ever run in our system. You will have no issues with her.’

‘That is certainly good news,’ Jasmine replied. ‘Although I highly doubt that I would be the one having problems. I think driving a locomotive is a bit out of my league.’

‘It has never been easier, my dear,’ Dobrev countered. ‘Operating an engine used to be an art, requiring both skill and instinct. The best engineers were those who understood the nature of the beast, who listened to the engine’s every creak and groan and felt her most subtle wobbles and shimmies. Knowing when to lay off or when to throttle up meant the difference between delivering the cars safely and tumbling down the side of the mountain.’ Dobrev stared in the direction of the tracks. ‘Today’s engines have more bells and whistles than a luxury automobile. Even a child could set the autopilot. What was then is now gone.’ Dobrev hung his head, mournful of the days gone by. ‘The best engineers are no longer needed.’

Jasmine nodded. ‘You mean, experts like you?’

Dobrev lifted his head and smiled. ‘Perhaps in my heyday, yes. But that time has passed. These days I am never called upon to participate in the day-to-day activities of our great railway, only to regale the current regime with stories of our history. Young, bored dignitaries who always seem to have better things to do than listen to the ramblings of an old man.’

Jasmine understood the implication of his words: if she wanted to end this conversation, he would understand. But she had no intention of cutting him off.

‘What makes you such an authority?’ she asked.

‘More than a century of first-hand knowledge,’ he answered. ‘Information passed down from grandfather to father to son. Three generations of Dobrevs, all in love with the same mistress: the railway.’

Jasmine laughed at the comment. She found his commitment to his work to be honest and oddly gratifying. Here was a man who made no illusions about who he really was. Even if his knowledge hadn’t been directly connected to their task, she still would have enjoyed listening to his stories about the past. As it was, she was beginning to think that he could be a valuable asset - even more valuable than they had originally thought when they added his name to the guest list.

‘Well, I’m not sure if I still qualify as “young” or as a “dignitary”, but I know for certain that I am not bored,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘If you don’t mind, please, regale me.’

Dobrev smiled. It would be his pleasure.

Two days later, Jasmine and Dobrev met again to continue their discussion. This time, under the watchful eye of the rest of the team.

Jasmine laughed at Dobrev’s choice of meeting spot - the Soviet retro-chic restaurant on the fourth level above the check-in area of the Sheremetyevo Airport’s Terminal F. But she also appreciated its functional, 1960s ‘charm’.

‘This is like the restaurant version of you,’ she pointed out with a smile.

He was not offended in the slightest. As she took in the dark, plain decorations, heavy curtains, and faded carpet - all in shades of dark red - he explained why he had selected it.

‘I wished to find someplace you could get to easily, one with a minimum of danger from lecherous drunks or racist skinheads.’

‘It was very easy, thank you,’ she said.

‘There is none easier, in fact,’ he said proudly. ‘The Aero express train from the station runs every half-hour, and you were here in thirty-five minutes with a minimum of fuss, muss, or whistles. Whistles from men,’ he teased, ‘not—’ He finished the statement by pulling on an imaginary train whistle and blowing two short bursts of sound from his pursed lips.

She laughed, which made him laugh as well.

As they watched the tarmac through the restaurant’s window and enjoyed a bowl of borscht, they talked about all things Russian. After dinner, he walked her back to the Aero express entrance. Since she seemed amenable to another get-together before setting off on their survey, he cautiously suggested that they meet at the true repository of his family’s legacy: his apartment.

‘Please understand,’ he assured her, ‘I mean nothing untoward. It is just that, with your interest in our rail history and my unique collection, I thought you’d be interested.’

‘I definitely am.’

‘You are?’ he said, half surprised.

She laughed at his reaction. ‘I’m free now if you have the time.’

‘Yes! That would be wonderful!’

In a blur of trains and stations and people and sights, they arrived at his apartment. She was quickly impressed by what she saw. His collection of Russian railroad memorabilia covered the walls, lined the shelves, and filled the cabinets of his longtime residence. It took up roughly one-third of the floor of a nondescript apartment building in Kartmazovo, twenty-nine miles outside of Moscow. The building was constructed in the industrial egg-crate style of the 1950s on an unremarkable street just off the M3 highway. The apartment had originally been intended to house a family of five but when his parents died and his younger brother Vlad joined the army, there was only Dobrev. It was strange to see the place through the first fresh set of eyes that had been there in years. He looked with approval at the floors covered in dark, Russian rugs, the smallish room decorated with ornate if time-worn furniture, the light fixtures of heavy, antique iron and pelican-shaped glass lamps which bathed the towers of well-maintained memorabilia in soft, yellow light.