“None. I will be calling a number that will automatically scramble at this end.”
Zeldovich would say no more in front of the troops. He had learned long ago to distrust even the most common soldier, especially those under KGB command.
“It is done.” The soldier who was working with the wires held one earphone to his ear while the lieutenant whispered into the instrument behind the bald man’s desk.
“Please wait outside,” Zeldovich said to the soldiers. Everyone but he and Cousins filed out of the room. Zeldovich opened his coat, deliberately revealing the revolver stuck in his belt.
Dr. Cousins smiled. “Really, Zeldovich,” he said.
Zeldovich shrugged, removed the earpiece of the old-fashioned stand-up telephone and jiggled the cradle impatiently. He waited, hearing only the odd whishing sounds of the instrument. The Soviet telephone system was a constant embarrassment. Dimitrov would sometimes get so furious he would rip the wire out of its wall connection, continuing to shout expletives into the dead phone. Zeldovich could feel the beginning of his own fury now as the instrument refused to respond.
“Apparently you are better at running trains,” Dr. Cousins said. Zeldovich ignored him, listening to the whish of the ocean’s waves in the earpiece.
Dimitrov had tried everything to improve the telephone system, Zeldovich remembered, constantly bringing the heads of the telephone company to the Kremlin for a dressing down, firing them, replacing them, perpetually reshuffling personnel. Three top officials of the system had been sentenced to hard labor for negligence. At one point Dimitrov suspected saboteurs, but even the assignment of a special team of technicians to the Kremlin telephones had not solved the problem.
Dimitrov had even told the American Secretary of State that a prime condition of détente would be that the Americans redesign the phone. “If it is the last official act of my life,” Dimitrov had vowed, his face florid with anger, “I will fix the flaws in the Soviet telephone system.”
Zeldovich felt the irony of the remark as he waited, with Dr. Cousins watching him.
Finally Zeldovich heard an operator on the line, then a long pause, and he tried to get the operator back by shouting into the telephone his identity and his official capacity.
“I am Zeldovich, KGB. This is an official call to General Secretary Dimitrov. I must have absolute priority.” The operator faded out, then in again, then connected him to someone else.
“You idiot,” Zeldovich finally said, when it was apparent that someone with authority was at the other end.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the voice said.
Zeldovich debated whether service would improve if he tried to intimidate the voice, but instead he barked out the number in a tone that he hoped would be persuasive. He heard a series of buzzes and clicks that seemed to go on interminably. Finally he recognized the familiar voice of one of the operators at the Kremlin who put through calls to the dacha. The phone began to ring and another familiar voice answered. Zeldovich announced himself.
“One moment, please.” His hands trembled as he waved for the doctor to come and stand next to him.
“Zeldovich?” a voice said. It was unmistakably Dimitrov. He sounded hoarse, tired. It could be distorted in the line, Zeldovich thought—they were about four thousand miles apart.
“Yes, Comrade Dimitrov.”
“Where are you?”
“Ulan-Ude.”
“My God.”
“I have Dr. Cousins here beside me.”
“I was expecting his call last night,” Dimitrov said testily.
Zeldovich was sure now that the hoarseness was not due to the connection. He moved aside and handed the phone to Alex, quickly moving to the earphones that the soldier had connected. He drew his revolver and pointed it at Alex’s head.
“I am here, sir,” Alex said. He listened to a series of harsh coughs, followed by an expectoration.
“Kuznetsov?”
“Yes. I am here.”
“I’ve caught this damned abomination,” he said.
Zeldovich noted the sudden lightening of his attitude.
“Have you any fever?” Alex asked.
“Slight.”
“Exactly?”
“Two points above normal.”
“And your bowel movements?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Are you constipated?”
Zeldovich felt his lips break into a smile. The doctor’s demeanor was one of stony professionalism.
“No.” There was some hesitation. “No. I am sure of it. I went just before I went to bed.”
“Was the stool hard or soft?”
“I didn’t notice.” There was a pause. “Was it important?”
“Any other symptoms?”
“This damned cough.”
“Have you looked at the phlegm?”
“Just a moment.” There was a silence, then Dimitrov’s voice returned. “It is yellowish.”
“Thick?”
“Yes, slightly. What does that mean?”
“Is there nasal congestion?”
“Occasionally. When I lie down.”
“Are you in bed?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there.”
“What does it mean?”
Was Dimitrov feeling more than routine anxiety? Zeldovich wondered. Was he beginning to panic?
“Have you been following the regimen, the exact doses recommended?”
“To the letter.”
“Do you feel weak?”
“I have felt better,” Dimitrov said. “I have not had a cold like this in years.”
Alex hesitated, turning his face from Zeldovich, who was watching for a reaction.
“Is it a recurrence?” Dimitrov asked. The timbre of his voice seemed weaker.
“It is probably a bad cold, maybe a grippe,” Alex said.
Zeldovich thought the response was being forced.
“Not the other?”
Alex hesitated. “No,” he said flatly.
“You’re sure?”
“It is a bad cold,” Alex said.
Zeldovich noted that the doctor was perspiring, although the room was chilly.
“Get me one of the nurses. I’ll give you a prescription.”
“I have sent them all away.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I felt better. There was no need. I was feeling fine. It only came upon me yesterday.”
“I was going to prescribe some antibiotics. They should make you feel better faster.”
“And if not?”
“It will take longer.”
“Are you sure it is not the other?”
Alex hesitated again. “If I thought it was, I would ask for transportation immediately.”
“Well then, that’s a relief.”
“I don’t like the idea of no nurses,” Alex said.
“They were all so ugly.” Dimitrov’s good humor was returning, his anxiety dissipated.
“I will call you tonight. If there is any change, contact me. If you feel that I should be with you, let me know.”
“I feel better already.”
“Good.”
“You like our trains?” Dimitrov asked.
“They are quite interesting.”
“And have you found Siberia interesting?”
“I have found something, but I’m not quite sure it was what I might have expected.”
Zeldovich felt his stomach tighten. He prodded the doctor’s temple with the barrel of his gun.
“I hope that Zeldovich is not heavy-handed. I sent him along to watch over you.”
“He is doing an excellent job.”
“Good.”
“I will call you later.” Alex paused. “If you need me, you know exactly where to find me.”
Dimitrov chuckled. There was a click. Zeldovich felt his stomach relax as he replaced the gun in his belt. He watched the doctor run his sleeve over his forehead, wiping away the perspiration. The soldier who had worked on the telphone came back and began dismantling the work he had done.
They moved outside of the station house again, into the cold misty rain.
Zeldovich deliberately held back his questions as they walked quietly toward the waiting train. All the windows of the carriages had misted and people were writing words and drawing pictures in the moisture. In one of the windows of the soft carriage, Vladimir was writing the word “shit.”
As they neared the train, they heard the sounds of an argument. The driver of the huge engine had climbed down from his cab and was holding a big round watch in front of the major. The KGB troops stood in front of the engine, blocking the tracks.
“We are thirty minutes behind schedule,” the engineer cried.
The major towered over him, trying to ignore him, but the engineer went on, pointing furiously at the watch.
“Do you know what it means for us to be thirty minutes late? There will be delays along the entire six thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven miles of this track. Supplies, troops, passengers. This is a deliberate crime against the Soviet people!”
At the sight of Zeldovich, the major barked an order to his men and they immediately moved back to the troop train. Triumphant, the engineer lifted himself up the metal stairs to the cab. The attendants who had stood on the platform hoisted themselves back into the carriages. Zeldovich stepped aside to let Alex climb up first, following quickly.
As the train began to move, Zeldovich followed the doctor along the passageway. Vladimir looked at them briefly and continued his writing with long unhurried strokes. The sandy-haired Australian was sitting on a spring seat watching the boy.
“I taught him that,” he said in English to Alex, who paused, watching the boy at work. Zeldovich could not make out what they were saying.
“He is expressing exactly my feelings about the trip,” the man said. “And about these Russian bastards.”
“What is he saying?” Zeldovich asked, feeling awkward, wanting to prod the doctor back into his compartment.
“I have been sitting here and telling him dirty jokes,” said the Australian, pointing to the guard posted at Alex’s door.
“And does he laugh?”
“Hello, you dumb prick,” he said to the guard. “You’ve got all your brains in your ass. See?”
“Yes,” Alex said.
“What did he say?” Zeldovich asked.
“He said that the guard has all his brains in his ass,” Alex translated.
“He’s probably right.” Zeldovich smiled, relaxing a little.
“He says you are probably right,” Alex said.
The sandy-haired man smiled.
“I’m going to have the kid write ‘asshole’ in English on all the other windows,” he said.
They were silent for a moment, watching the train slide away from the station.
“Did you see laughing boy get off?” the sandy-haired man asked.
“You mean Farmer?”
“My roommate. The voice of doom and gloom. He said good-bye as if he was going to see his Maker. He insists the whole world is going to blow up, beginning right here.” He waved his hands wildly about him.
“He may be right.”
“They should blow each other’s balls off, the bastards.”
Zeldovich was getting uneasy about the length of the conversation. “He is drunk?” he asked Alex. “Or crazy?”
“What did he say?” the sandy-haired man asked.
“He wants to know if you’re drunk or crazy.”
“Tell him to go jerk off.”
“What did he say?” Zeldovich asked.
Before Alex could answer, Vladimir came running up and tugged on the Australian’s arm.
“Good?” he asked in Russian, pointing at his handiwork.
“How do you say cocksucker in Russian?” the Australian asked Alex.
“The word is too long to fit on the window.”
Zeldovich squeezed Alex’s upper arm, indicating that it was time to move on. Does it all come down to that? Zeldovich wondered, whether the stool is hard or soft? He followed Dr. Cousins into the compartment.
TANIA
recognized the chief inspector as the train slid into the Chita station. He was standing in a crowd of waiting passengers, mostly young soldiers and rough farmers from the big agricultural communes that stretched through this part of Eastern Siberia. He was watching, Tania imagined, his small pig eyes looking for reportable violations of procedure. He was a dumpy, heavy man, with puddles of chins that shook as he moved. He looked jolly, but that was a false impression. He was a dour, serious man, whose ruthless pursuit of violators had earned him the post of chief inspector for this section of the line. With him was another man, taller, with a mane of white hair that stuck out from under his fur hat. They stood motionless in the freezing cold, watching, waiting for the crowd to disperse.
Tania grabbed the handrail and hopped off the train. The American doctor and the KGB man rushed past her, followed by a group of armed soldiers. The crowd watched them with great interest, as did the inspector and his companion. Tania, uninterested, was surveying the debarking passengers for any sign of the general. He had, after all, been ticketed for Chita and, although she had inspected every inch of the train, she still hoped that the old crone had been lying and he was hiding somewhere. Hadn’t he confided his fears, and pressed her for information about the KGB men and the strange cripple? She might have been more thorough in her search for the general, but the sight of the inspector made her remember her lost master key. Was it possible that the general had reported her? she wondered. It made her bitter to think about it.
She felt a sudden tightness in her throat, as the inspector and his companion moved toward her. Was it possible? Why had they singled her out? When they reached her, she bowed obsequiously to the chief inspector.
“Comrade Romoran,” the chief inspector said, nodding, the puddles of chins shaking like jelly as he spoke.
“Comrade S-Sokolovich,” she stammered.
“This is Comrade Voikov of the Railway Police.”
The presence of a policeman startled her, adding another dimension to her fear.
“Comrade,” the white-maned man responded pleasantly, showing a set of yellow teeth. He extended his hand and she took it gratefully, feeling a little relieved.
“We will be traveling with you, Comrade,” Sokolovich said.
He talked in a low, even voice that was deliberately noncommittal, expressionless. One never knew what he thought of one’s performance until he actually sent his memorandums, which were frequently scathing.
Tania picked up their suitcases and carried them into the train. They followed her along the passageway to the compartment formerly shared by the Jew and his wife. Hesitating at the door, she wondered if the old crone had done a good job of clean-up. She had meant to inspect it, but never had. The stench of death had always sickened her, made her afraid. It was a superstition from her childhood. She was thankful that at least she had wiped away the obscenities the Trubetskoi brat had written on the misted windows.