Chapter Twelve.

At precisely 11.50am, Moscow time, the Trans-Siberian Express pulled out of Tyumen station with the usual creak and clank of the coach couplings as the coach bogie wheels began to roll, and the coupling slack was taken up. Beyond Tyumen, the settlements became fewer and farther between. The birch woods thinned, and were reduced to occasional clumps. Soon the train was travelling across seemingly endless grassland, flat as a carpet, with what appeared to be a constant seam of forest attaching it to the horizon in the distance.

Mid-afternoon; they crossed the River Tobol, about four hundred kilometres south of Tobolsk, the historic capital of Siberia... but now, just an ordinary town… its importance having declined since the Trans-Siberian Railway bypassed it in the 1890's. The express pounded on, passing through Yalutorovsk, Zavodoukovsk; Omutinsky, Golyshmanovo, and Ishim. Here, the station was a small, white-stone, single-storey building where they halted for ten minutes for a change of locomotive and crew once again.

As usual; there was the stampede of passengers for the food stalls. Sacha and Karyn stepped down onto the platform to stretch their legs. Their two shadows followed them down the platform, only to be stopped by Anton and Tasha, fully uniformed and cradling their sub-machine guns. Tasha snapped his fingers at them,

"Propusk; Tovarishch"...Your papers, if you please, Comrades…'

He said in an authoritative tone.

The taller of the two looked the two GUGB Warrant Officers up and down. He was of a mind to tell these two goons to piss off, but saw Anton quietly raise his weapon and slip his finger onto the trigger. He delved inside his coat. Tasha raised his PPD-34, and said in a soft, menacing voice…

"Akkuratno, Tovarish"... Akkuratno"... 'Careful, Tovarishch… Careful.'

The man carefully brought out an Identity card between two fingers and thrust it at Tasha. It confirmed that Donya Jelavich had indeed, been spot-on with her intuition. The card identified the man as being Sergant Gozbezopasnosti… Sergeant of State Security Konstantine Byko of the Sverdlovsk NKVD Directorate. His colleague's card identified him as Sergant Gozbezopasnosti… Sergeant of State Security Michail Krukov; from the same office. Tasha handed the identity cards back with a malicious smile, and, with the sarcasm plain in his voice, said…

"Kakoy priyatnyy syurpriz"!… What a pleasant surprise! And your business; this far from home?'

Byko looked at him.

'What the fuck has it got to do with you? You GUGB dick-heads don't have any jurisdiction over an NKVD investigation.'

Tasha laughed, and cocked his PPD-34; idly pointing the muzzle in the direction of the two men.

'Bollocks; that's what you think, Mudack. You're well out of your pond now, and we're just about to piss in it. You know we have National range of authority, unlike you regional assholes. You can take your identity cards and shove them up your arses. Today is a very good day to die; how's your health? Let me see your Warrant; I can hardly wait for your answer.'

Krukov glanced uneasily at Byko. These two Warrant Officers wearing the uniform of the State Security personnel, with maroon collar tabs piped in raspberry, and the special oval State Security sleeve patches on both sleeves, obviously unnerved him. He knew that they were correct in what they had said. Neither he, nor Byko did have any authority here. They were four hundred kilometres outside their territory. Without a Warrant, they were powerless against these GUGB svolochi; and their boss, who was only a Captain of State Security; hadn't bothered to apply for one from the Sverdlovsk district Troika... the extra-judiciary organ composed of the regional head of the NKVD, the regional secretary of the party and the regional prosecutor. It had only been a shadowing job. There would be no need for a Warrant.

Tasha and Anton stood there, as the two goons turned, and moved back along the platform towards their coach with the mocking words of Tasha ringing in their ears…

"Poka vsyo, Do svidan'ya!"...'That's all for now; See you next time!'

With a shrill from the whistle of the Station-master, a blast from the steam exhaust of the fresh locomotive; and with the last few peddlers' transactions through the coach windows completed, the Trans-Siberian Express moved out of Ishim station, and before long, was once more out of sight of real civilisation, encircled by the wide horizon of limitless Siberia. There was nothing in sight except distance, bisected by the straight and seemingly endless line of the tracks. A couple of kilometres into the grasslands, and the Provodnitsa began hurling garbage out the windows. The sounds of smashing bottles could be plainly heard as they landed and shattered on the ballast of the permanent way. Tasha had spoken about this fate of the rubbish, and warned them not to be astonished when they saw it.

The express was now beginning to traverse the Taiga… the rich forest lands of Siberia which covered an area larger than all the rest of Western Europe. Contrary to popular belief, it was not the only sight from the train for days on end, for it yielded periodically to towns and swathes of boggy pasture growing straggly crops and sprinkled with heaping rubbish pits. It was out here among the lands of collectivisation that the harsh legacies of Soviet plunder and terror were most visible in the form of rusting barns, broken, and abandoned farm equipment, and decaying Siberian villages enclosed by sagging fences. And always, in these villages would be the little trackside graveyards fenced in by bright blue or yellow painted fences. The people appeared to be as cheerless as the unpainted buildings. The only colours to be seen… other than the graveyards and the endless drifts of rosebay willowherbs that lined the tracks, were the odd daubs of wild flowers out in the fields. Certainly, there were extraordinarily beautiful places in Russia, but much of the lands here were raw and marshy; and the people still endured the pains of past Governmental policies still festering like open sores.

They were rumbling through kilometres of wooded country where a broad swathe had been cut through the deep, shadowy forests of fir and silver birch. There was little variety in the landscape, only endless curves between tree-bordered aisles, where, more than in the open wilderness, the sense of vastness could be appreciated. As if to keep the peasants and the railway employees of the region from brooding on this oppressive vastness, there were millions of tiny, flying annoyances.

The Siberian mosquitoes were not to be ignored. Generally, they attacked at the stations. They did not seem to appreciate chasing the train. Anton said that they should buy as much garlic as they could from the peddlers at the various stops along the way. Chewing a garlic clove was the only really effective way to repel the gnats and mosquitoes that they were now… and would most certainly encounter as they made their way up through the Taiga when they left the train.

Tasha Chernikova found Donya Jelavich and confirmed her suspicions about the two men. With a cold smile, she said that she would "facilitate" them, probably somewhere along the deeply forested, remote stretch between Novosibirsk and Krasnoyarsk, the seven hundred and sixty-kilometre run through the fourth night. She would have to administer the Ricin tablets in their tea, sometime that evening.

The journey from Ishim to the next major destination of Omsk was almost three-hundred kilometres. The only real populated places of any note would be Mangut and then, Nazyvaevka… a smallish settlement with a pretty stone station that was infinitely more attractive than the settlement itself; then it was on to Dragunskaya station, and ninety-six kilometres further east… Lyubinskaya station; a single-storey, brick-built fantasy, painted pink, with a rose-pink frieze and half-pilasters…. totally out of keeping with the surrounding dingy settlement and dwarfed by the huge, circular, brick-built water reservoir tower that rose some hundred metres above it, to its rear.

By now, it was early evening, and time to brave the restaurant car once again. Once through Lyubinskaya, it would be only another fifty or so kilometres, until they would be fast approaching Omsk, where the locomotives and crew would be changed once again. The main railway workshops were there, and the train would be thoroughly checked before its next major stop at Novosibirsk, six-hundred-and-twenty-five kilometres further east.

The restaurant car was virtually deserted. A couple of well-oiled men were slouching in the opposite corner, their charkas held loosely… and half-full, in their indolent grasps; with two empty vodka bottles rolling to and fro on the gently swaying table. Valentin stuck his head out of the tiny kitchen, and called to them,

'It's "Bitochki" tonight, as the main course… unless you want fish.'

Anton called back…

'Bitochki are fine… as long as you haven't messed them about, and the sauce is properly prepared.'

Valentin snorted,

'Bloody cheek! Of course, they're OK. Only the best Siberian beef and veal, fresh country mushrooms and sour cream. I picked up the ingredients at Ishim from old Katya Baryshev, and she always has the best.'

Anton laughed,

'Don't be so touchy, Valentin, I know you do the best Bitochki on The Great Siberian Way. How about starters and first course?'

Valentin snorted again.

'Piss off! You're not in that poncy Moscow restaurant of yours, now; but seeing as it's you, I suppose I could knock you all up a quick "Svejie ovoshy."

This was a salad made of cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions, marinated in vinegar or oil. Anton nodded,

'That will be fine. What's the soup in that witches' cauldron, tonight?'

Valentin laughed,

It's "Ukha," and I really wouldn't if I were you. The perch looked a bit tired, and you could end up spending the night clamped on the shitter in the crap-house.'

Anton laughed again.

'OK Valentin, just the salad, and easy on the onions. What booze have you got hidden away?'

Valentin smiled,

'For you, you old svoloch, a little something I picked up from Dmitri the Poof, at Tyumen. He always has a supply of Stolichnaya at good prices. He's a regular train station tart. For him, vodka is better currency than Roubles.'

While Valentin went to get the vodka, Anton explained to Karyn just what Bitochki were… traditional Russian meatballs. Ground beef and veal were mixed with onion, bread, salt and a little pepper. The mixture was kneaded well, and chilled. With wet hands, the mixture was formed into balls the size of golf balls. These were rolled in breadcrumbs and fried in butter or beef fat until browned all over. Then, they were removed and kept warm. The sauce was made by adding sour cream and mushrooms to the pan. This was heated and poured over the meatballs. The dish was served with boiled potatoes and fried mushrooms.

Valentin returned with two bottles of Stolichnaya; compliments of Dmitri the Poof. The charkas were filled, and the first toast of the evening was made. In a little while, the two waitresses, Larisa and Yuliya, brought out the dishes piled with the Svejie ovoshy salad, serving them onto the table with knowing looks at Tasha and Anton. It was a rather good salad, and was soon consumed in company with several more charkas and toastings. Then came the Bitochki. Valentin hadn't exaggerated. The beef and veal were, said Anton, of the standard he would expect, were he creating the dish in the kitchens of the Moscow Savoy.

The ingredients must have cost Valentin a small fortune. They would settle up later from their official funds. Valentin was a coarse, boozing member of the Proletariat… according to Marxist theory; and should have been held in the highest suspicion by the GUGB, but he was Anton's friend… and would do almost anything for his friend. He didn't deserve to be out of pocket by so much as a kopeck for his trouble.

Dessert was something special. Valentin had prepared, from scratch, "Mazurek iz Martsipana"… Marzipan Masurka; small squares of ground, sweet almonds mixed with egg whites and sugar, and rolled to a thickness of about two centimetres; then baked until golden; glazed, and decorated with fruit. He said it was a traditional Polish recipe, adopted in the time of the Tzars at the Russian Imperial Court. They were delicious, and before long, the vodka bottles were doing the rounds again.

Glancing out of the restaurant car window, they saw that they were approaching Omsk, as the sprawl of the western suburbs began to gather. The sun was on the wane, setting fireball red in the west, but the skies would remain bright until nearly half-past ten, this far east; when the cold blackness of night would descend. Since passing through Nazyvaevka, they had been in another time zone… three hours ahead of Moscow time.

Omsk was a fine, and important city, with a population of over one hundred and thirty-five thousand, and a Cathedral in the bulb-towered Russian style, which acted as a landmark which could be seen for many miles across the surrounding Steppe. The place owed most of its development to people banished to Siberia in Tzarist days, for they included many who were allowed their freedom on condition that they never returned over the Urals. At Omsk, the Trans-Siberian Express would finally rejoin the old main line across the Urals, which came down through Cheliabinsk and Petropavlovsk. As Karyn and Sacha rose to leave, the two waitresses, Larisa and Yuliya moved to the table and sat with Anton and Tasha. So, another night that would not be spent alone!

Karyn gave Sacha a knowing smile as they left the restaurant car; braving the platskartny coaches, suffused with their eternal, lingering bouquet that smelled like a combination of cheap vodka, pickled sausage, and sweat. Making their way back across the swaying footplates to their coach; they opened the door and almost collided with Donya Jelavich; who was about to knock on the door of the rearmost compartment. She balanced a tray holding two glasses of tea precariously, as she gave them a sweet smile.

Karyn smiled back;

'Mmm; tea; could we have some, please?'

Donya nodded;

'Certainly; I'll bring you some directly. These two passengers have asked for a special Chinese green blend. I'll make you some fine tea from my Georgian blend.'

She knocked on the compartment door and passed the tray inside. It would be the last tea that the occupants would ever drink. Within a few hours… perhaps less; they would be dead. The tea that Donya innocently passed to them was laced with her Ricin assassination tablets. Tasteless; they caused acute gastroenteritis and vomiting. People poisoned by a large dose… such as the one that Donya had administered; could easily die of shock after massive fluid loss through severe diarrhoea. Effects on the central nervous system included fatal seizures which could easily be mistaken as heart attacks. The two passengers… the NKVD shadows; would think that something they had eaten in the restaurant car was "off"… perhaps, the "Ukha"… the fish soup; or possibly some sort of quick snack they had purchased from one of the vendors on the platform of Sverdlovsk station while they were waiting for the Trans-Siberian Express to arrive.

Donya Jelavich; GUGB "Facilitator" attached to the Fifth Directorate, Third Department of the Internal Security Special Forces Section; bid her two victims goodnight and closed the compartment door as the Trans-Siberian Express rattled onto the six- hundred-and-forty-metre-long, iron box-lattice girder bridge spanning the mighty Irtysh river. The monotonous "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum" rhythm of the bogies changed to a clattering rumble as the train sped across the bridge with the girder work flickering past and casting shadows across the compartment walls. As the locomotive and the first few coaches passed beyond the bridge the clattering rumble faded, and the familiar "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum" rhythm of the wheels crossing the rail joints began again.

As Karyn and Sacha undressed for bed, they felt the gentle sway of the coach as the train began to swing left towards Omsk station. The rhythm of the bogies slowed and quietened as the engineer began to close the steam regulator of the locomotive to coast the last half- kilometre into the station. There would be a delay of some twenty minutes here; while another change of locomotive and crew was made. The squeal and hiss of brakes told them they were almost into the station. The coaches shuddered and complained as the couplings tightened and the Trans-Siberian Express drew to a halt. Faintly, they could hear the clang of hammers on wheels as the wheel-tappers began their inspections.

As Karyn and Sacha snuggled into their shared bunk, there came a gentle tap on the door. Donya came in with two glasses of tea. She smiled and turned to leave. Then, she turned back to them. With a concerned expression, she said that they should not be alarmed if they heard any disconcerting sounds from the next compartment. The passengers in there were complaining of stomach upsets. She had given the ailing men some raspberry tea to try to help… she omitted to mention she had added another dose of Ricin to each of their glasses… just to make certain.

As they sipped their glasses of tea, Sacha grinned at Karyn;

'Just as well we took Valentin's advice and had the Bitochki and the salad. It sounds as if our neighbours will be up and down with "Drisnja"… the squirts, tonight. The poor bastards will have "Zhopi"… assholes like red-hot washers by the morning.'

Karyn giggled.

'Full of sympathy, aren't you?'

In the adjoining compartment, Anton and Tasha were; if the squeals and moans were anything to go by; indulging in a somewhat boisterous session of "Trajat'sya"… bed warming, with Larisa and Yuliya. What with that; and the groans and thumps coming from the compartment on the other side, as the stricken men continually rushed for the wash-room; any thoughts of love-making were far from Karyn's and Sacha's minds. Better to snuggle down and try to get some sleep.

Leaving Omsk station, the train plodded away over the great, flat lands to the east of the city. It would be something like ten hours before it would roll into the Steppe town of Novosibirsk. There would be no stops at the stations, Kalachinsk, and Tatarsk on route; except, at Barabinsk…five hours, and three-hundre- and-twenty-five kilometres east; where the locomotive and crew would change once again. Most of the passengers would be asleep at this stop. From Barabinsk; the Trans-Siberian Express would thunder on through the night, passing through the sleeping settlements of Ubinskoe and Kargat; pausing only at Chulym to top up the mighty locomotive's tender tank from the water tower situated there. Then, it would be on through Kochenevo and Ob; arriving at Novosibirsk at about eight o'clock in the morning.

Through the night, the express crossed the enormous flat plain of the Ob basin, sprinkled with dozens of lakes among the endless marshland and forests of the Baraba plains and Kulunda steppe... a vast expanse of greenish plains dotted with shallow lakes and ponds; coarse reeds and sedge grass concealing swamps, peat bogs; and rare patches of firm ground; as it headed for Novosibirsk... a typical, drab Stalinist-style city which served as the gateway to central Asia. The railway bridge thrown across the river Ob was the founding point of the city. The appearance of Novosibirsk was connected mainly with the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway and the railway bridge. Novosibirsk began as a small settlement for builders of the bridge, which was being constructed across the most extensive river in Russia.

The city's appearance had changed dramatically as monumental, architecturally striking, four and five-story buildings appeared. During the early part of Stalinist industrialization, Novosibirsk was transformed from a commercial to an industrial centre of Siberia. Well-known commercial giants were built here, like the Siberian Combine Factory; a mining equipment factory; numerous metalworking factories; light industry, and food industry companies, and a large power station.

In 1932-1933, when the terrible hunger broke out in Central Russia, more than one-hundred-and-sevent- thousand refugees arrived at Novosibirsk. They settled down in the town outskirts, in shacks and huts. The slums rose as quickly as mushrooms after autumn rain: Big Nakhalovka, Little Nakhalovka, and others. Novosibirsk might be dismissed as shabby, but it would not be as bad as Krasnoyarsk, farther on. Also, it was important as being the major junction with the Turksib Railway which ran all the way down into Turkestan.

The Ob Bridge itself was the largest construction in Russia at the time of its building. It was a massive, thousand-metres-long, split-beam, sheet iron truss girder bridge with seven main spans supported on large granite caissons sunk into the riverbed of the Ob. As with the other bridges in this region, the steel buttresses were supported by huge stone piers that were capable of withstanding the chunks of ice that flowed down the river in spring. A further pair of trusses joined the main spans to the shore at either end. It was widely regarded as one of the wonders of Siberia.

Novosibirsk was located at the junction of the forest-steppe and forest natural zones on the Priobsky plateau, which bordered the Ob River Valley. The general terrain was elevated and ridged. The city's left-bank part was flat; while the right-bank part was dotted with numerous gullies, crests, and ravines, since the terrain here started to rise toward the mountainous Salair Ridge. The city bordered on the Zaeltsovsky and Kudryashovsky pine forests. Novosibirsk sounded interesting. This vision was shattered when Anton mentioned that he had an acquaintance in the city who had advised not to visit because there was nothing to see, nothing to do; no one ever went there, and almost all other places were much more interesting.

The Express thundered on; groaning and creaking... usually with the rapid, soporific "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum" of the wheels striking the expansion joints of the rails, but occasionally, slowing to a staccato click-clack, click-clack, and sometimes stopping altogether as the Express was directed onto a loop to wait for one, or more trains to pass from the opposite direction.

In spite of the continual noises from the rearmost compartment, and the banging of doors all night, Karyn and Sacha had managed a reasonable night's sleep. They were awakened by Donya with tea at a little after seven o'clock. She handed them a pass key, saying that the two men were continually staggering to and from the lavatory, and they should use the private washroom at the front of the coach which was reserved for the Provodnitsa and other important passengers. Karyn enquired as to the men's condition. Donya said she was worried. They were vomiting and defecating almost continuously. If they didn't improve soon, she would have to get medical assistance, possibly at Novosibirsk... their next stop, or more likely at Krasnoyarsk, the administrative centre of the "Kransnoyark Krai"... the Krasnoyarsk territory.

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As the Express approached the great bridge, Karyn and Sacha made their way back to the restaurant car. The smell from the rear compartment and the lavatory was rank. Most long-distance trains in Russia smelt of Machorka smoke, vodka; old socks, and body odour; but the repulsive stench that the two afflicted passengers were producing paled these into insignificance. Quickly, they moved on across the swaying walkway connecting their coach to the next one, and the stench diminished. Six more coaches to the rear, and they arrived at the restaurant car. Tasha and Anton were already seated at the usual corner table; seemingly, deep in conversation that abruptly stopped when they saw Karyn and Sacha approaching. Anton looked up and smiled,

'Good morning, you slept well? I would recommend the Blini for breakfast. The "Kasha"... the porridge; is that crappy semolina or millet stuff again. Valentin has run out of oats and buckwheat... except for a couple of kilos that he'd stashed away for blini.'

The rhythm of the coach bogies changed abruptly as the Express came onto the bridge. The rattle and thump as it passed over the thick planking, upon which the rails were laid, vibrated through the coaches, amplified by the cage-like girder spans. They were only a couple of kilometres out of Novosibirsk station now. It would be somewhere to stretch the legs and get a breath of fresh air. The train accomplished the great bridge and began to turn to the left, slowing for the final approach to the station, clattering and lurching over the tangle of points as the engineer closed the steam regulator and began to apply the steam brakes. The express would remain at Novosibirsk for twenty minutes while they changed locomotives and crews once again. There was also a locomotive depot with workshops, so anything that needed to be done to the coaches could be attended to while the express was halted.

The first railway station of Novosibirsk had survived until 1936. It was a wooden one-storey, steeple-roofed building with oven heating pipes sticking out of it. The remains... still evident, adjacent to the new Railway station; stood, stark, and abandoned next to its successor. Two water towers; the first, built of wood, and the second of brick; stood on the river side of the approach to the station. The new station was certainly the largest railway station building in Siberia, and one of the largest in Russia. Having been planned in the "Constructionist" style, it was altered, early in its construction, to the Neo-classical style... as an example of the so-called "Imperial" architecture. Its construction had begun in 1932, and was close to completion.

The platform that the Trans-Siberian Express pulled into was on the other side of the central platform that separated the through tracks from the station building. As usual, all three platforms were crammed with stalls. As Karyn and Sacha prepared to alight from the restaurant car, they met Donya walking back along the platform. Karyn enquired as to the condition of the two men in the adjoining compartment of their coach. Donya said that she had checked a little while ago, and they appeared to be sleeping.

What she did not say was that they were not sleeping at all... they were comatose. The Ricin-laced tea had done its insidious work, and soon enough, they would be dead. Then, they could be disposed of somewhere between Achinsk and Krasnoyarsk, along the remote hundred and eighty kilometre stretch of dense forests that the Trans-Siberian railway line passed through in the deserted Taiga to the west of Krasnoyarsk.

On the railway route, every crossing, and almost every set of points were guarded by a man or woman with a signal baton, who stood at salute while the train passed, and then stepped out between the rails, watching the train until it was nearly out of sight. However, on the stretch of line that Donya had chosen, there were no crossings or points. It would be night-time, and no one would see or hear the corpses being thrown off the train into the bordering forest. Krasnoyarsk was a major centre of the Gulag system. When and if, the bodies were found it would be assumed that they were likely to be common criminals... "Urki" in Gulag slang... fugitives from one of the many Gulags in the area; perhaps the Old Siberian ITL, set up by the OGPU in 1929, or the more recent Krasnoyarsk ITL, with two units located at Kansk and Reshyoty.

"ITL" stood for "Ispravitel'no-Trudovoe Lager," or corrective labour camps and penal colonies. These were mainly logging camps in the area surrounding Krasnoyarsk. In these camps, it was common for the prisoners to be worked to death. The system of hard labour and minimal food rapidly reduced most prisoners to helpless "Dokhodyaga"... "Goners" as they were called in Gulag slang terms. This was also called "Zelenaya kazn"... "Green Execution"... because most prisoners lasted only a few short weeks before dying of exhaustion.

It would be reasonable to imagine that these two had escaped into the dense forests at some point, and perished in the harsh, inhospitable conditions as they made their way through the deserted Taiga... moss-grown, marshy steppes with little animal life; frozen as hard as stone in winter, and thawing during the short summer into dangerous swamps.

Donya Jelavich had decided that the two corpses would be thrown out onto the tracks between Bogotol and Achinsk; some eighty-five kilometres west of Krasnoyarsk, on the long, forested incline leading up to the Chulym river. Here, according to her intelligence sources; the big 2-8-4 freight locomotives heading for Moscow from the Kansk-Achinsk coalfields; hauling anything up to three million kilogrammes of coal, and almost a kilometre in length; came down the incline at anything up to one-hundred-and- thirty Km/h. There wouldn't be very much left of her two victims after being hit by one of these leviathans as it thundered down the gradient, barely under the control of its crew. Anyone who might discover the mangled remains would probably imagine that these two had been following the railway tracks in the pitch darkness and couldn't get out of the way in time... altogether; a very neat, and efficient closure to Donya Jelavich's "Facilitation." It would be about two o'clock in the morning by the time the express reached the incline and the passengers would be either dead-drunk, asleep, or otherwise engaged; and no-one would see or hear anything.

As they strolled down the platform with Donya, Karyn asked her whether the two afflicted passengers should be taken into the hospital here. Donya replied that she had enquired about this from the Station Master, but he had said that the place was only an infection hospital, and they should be taken off the train at the Tomsk branch line junction at Taiga station which was two-hundred- and-thirty kilometres east... in the next time zone.

There was enough time to walk along the platform and up the steps into the station for a look. It was a blue-green glass vaulted building with a very grand interior, and a huge waiting room with a ceiling that reached for the skies. There must have been seating for hundreds of passengers, the seats being arranged in groups of eight... back to back; in three vast rows stretching the length of the waiting room. Suspended from the ceiling were great, circular, ornately tiered, glass-and-bronze lamps. A wide gallery ran around the entire upper level of the waiting room. Impressive wasn't the word. Karyn had seen nothing like it at any of the stations she had ever been in.

Donya said that they should be thinking about starting back. The replacement locomotive was being reversed up and would be coupled within about ten minutes. Negotiating the throng of passengers and the peddlers, they moved back along the platform to their coach. As they climbed aboard, they were met by Anton and Tasha. Donya stopped to talk to them as Karyn and Sacha walked back to their compartment. As they did so, the three were talking with in low voices. Tasha motioned to the end compartment of the coach. Donya nodded, and moved to the compartment door. Unlocking it with her pass key, she slipped inside. As Sacha paused at their compartment, he glanced back towards the rear of the coach. He saw Donya emerge from the end compartment, and overheard her say conspiratorially to Anton...

"Kak dva pal'tsa obossat'!"... 'A piece of cake!'

The look of cold-eyed satisfaction on her face made him shiver. She obviously sensed that he was watching and had overheard her. She turned to look at him as Karyn pulled him into the compartment, whispering,

'Come in here. There's something very nasty going on. I think we've just witnessed the upshot of a GUGB liquidation. Donya was very ambiguous about getting medical help for those two in there. I think she has "Facilitated" them.'

Sacha stared at her.

'So you think they were the NKVD shadows that Anton and Tasha warned us about?'

Karyn nodded,

'They had to be. Why else would they suddenly fall ill when no one else on the train seems to have done so? Lots of people ate the fish soup last night. I think Donya must have poisoned them. Remember what Tasha said about her being a covert GUGB killer? I think she slipped something into the tea she took to them… the "Special Chinese blend" she mentioned.'

Sacha was about to say something when a shudder ran through the train. A whistle shrieked, and with a jolt, the Trans-Siberian Express began to move. Sacha gave Karyn a worried look. He was very aware of how these Security Service people thought and acted. Were they now in danger? Would Donya take it upon herself to deal with them, now that she knew her assassination of the two men had been exposed by her being overheard by Sacha? Surely not. Tasha and Anton had told them that she was one of theirs. Nevertheless, he dropped the dead latch on the compartment door... just in case.

The Trans-Siberian Express gathered speed as it rolled away to the northeast, and the tracks began to climb away from the flat spread of Novosibirsk towards the Steppes again. It rattled across the Turksib line over a lattice girder bridge as the sprawling outskirts of Novosibirsk thinned out and slowly gave way to a sprinkle of birch woodlands closing in once more. Here and there, through the trees, could be seen the Ob flood plain dotted with islands and glistening flat and silvery in the summer sunlight. In the winter, it would be a frozen ribbon, some sixty-kilometres-wide in places.

Sacha gazed out of the compartment window. He was fretting about what had occurred in the next compartment. He didn't want to un-nerve Karyn with his misgivings concerning Donya, and what she might do. He watched the little stations and halts flashing past. Inya Vostochnaya... Oktabr'skiy... Mochische... Borak. It was almost two-hundred-and-fifty kilometres until the next major station stop at Taiga. The Express followed a long, winding valley through the low hills mantled with birch and pine. Glimpses of small settlements appeared briefly, and were swiftly swallowed by the thickening woodlands.

Karyn laid her hand on his arm;

'A kopek for your thoughts, Lapushka, you're very quiet.'

Sacha forced a smile.

'Sorry. I'm just a little worried about what happened next door, and what Donya might do.'

Karyn snorted.

'She won't do anything. Tasha and Anton will see to that. Now, come on, we'd better see what there is on the menu for tonight. According to my calculations, we're only a couple of hours away from the next time zone, so we'll lose another hour's sleep tonight. The last station was called Sokur, which means we're...'

She glanced out of the window as a wooden building with a corrugated iron roof flashed past.

'That was Koshevo, according to the sign. Now we're only a few kilometres out of Moshkovo. Anton said that Novosibirsk was thirty-six hours and two time zones away from Irkutsk; so, by my reckoning, we are an hour away from Yurga.'

Sacha nodded and stood up. He moved to the compartment door and released the dead lock. As he opened the door, he found Anton just about to knock. Anton smiled his open friendly smile.

'Come on, you two; let's get down to the restaurant car before all the tables are taken.'

He turned and moved towards the rear of the coach. As he passed the now silent, end compartment, he turned around, and looking carefully at Sacha and Karyn, he said...

'Don't worry about having overheard what Donya said earlier; she's on your side. Those two were NKVD, and they have been dealt with. She was a little concerned that you might think that she thought you were prying.'

Sacha gave a little forced laugh,

'Your business is yours. We're very good at being selectively deaf and blind; you have to be, these days.'

Anton smiled ruefully.

'Isn't that the truth! Come on; let's see what Valentin has thrown together for the evening menu.'

The restaurant car was half-full. Several men lolled... in true Russian style, totally drunk and slightly smelly... on tables strewn with empty soup bowls, dishes, and empty vodka and beer bottles. Anton settled them at a table and waited for his waitress, Yuliya, to come with the menu. As she stood waiting to take the order, she gave Anton a little secret smile. He scanned the menu and chose "Kotmis Satsivi"... Roast chicken with walnut sauce. Karyn and Sacha chose the same. As Yuliya turned away; Anton reached out and stroked her behind. She glanced back down at him over her shoulder with an inviting smile. Banging a bottle of Siberian vodka on the table, Anton rose from his chair to fetch the charka glasses from the serving counter. Placing four charkas on the table, he looked at Karyn and Sacha; saying...

'Have a drink. I'll be back soon. I have to make arrangements to drop off some "baggage" later tonight.'

Ten minutes later, Yuliya brought the food. Anton had not returned. Glancing at the full charka beside the empty place setting, Yuliya smiled.

'Eat now; I'm sure Anton won't be long. I'll dish up his meal when he returns. I have to wait for Tasha, anyway.'

An hour later, neither had shown up. Yuliya was becoming uneasy. She was polishing glasses far more than was necessary, and her eyes scarcely left the door to the restaurant car. Now and again, she would give a worried glance towards the empty place setting and the still-full charka. Watching her, Karyn was becoming increasingly uneasy. There was something wrong here... very wrong. Anton was far too fond of his food to have missed this delicious "Kotmis Satsivi." She motioned to Sacha with her eyes that they should leave. As they moved towards the door of the restaurant car, she smiled her thanks to Yuliya; who gave a forced smile in return, and then went back to obsessively polishing glasses.

All was quiet, except for the iron symphony of the coach bogie wheels on the rails, and the creak of the wood panelling as they negotiated the corridors of the first few coaches. The connecting footplates squeaked and scraped beneath their feet as they moved from one coach to the next. The three "platskartny" class coaches were filled with drunken snores, body odour, and the thick, rancid smell of cheap candles. Drying clothes hung from ropes strung across the roofs of the coaches; while soldiers who were little more than boys sprawled on the hard bunks playing cards and boozing on cheap wine drunk straight from the communal bottles they passed around.

As they moved along the open corridor, they had to step over several drunken bodies lying in the gangway, and carefully avoid slimy pools of vomit. At last, they came to the footplate of their coach. Opening the rear door of the coach, Karyn stepped on a cartridge case which skittered away with a sharp tinkle. Looking down, she saw five more rolling to and fro as the coach swayed. Glancing across at the first compartment door; there! The unmistakable bullet holes around the shattered lock. She glanced at Sacha, who drew his pistol and pulled her away towards the door of their compartment, pushing her against the corridor wall. Cautiously opening the door of their compartment, he glanced inside... and was faced with Anton, levelling his Tokarev at him. Seeing Sacha, he lowered the pistol. Blood seeped through his shirt at his shoulder. Sacha gasped...

'Anton... what the hell...?'

Anton motioned him inside quickly; Sacha pulled Karyn into the compartment and locked the door. As they both stared, Anton hissed through gritted teeth...

'The bastard was waiting for me at the far end of the coach, but he wasn't quite quick enough. He only winged me; but he got Tasha and Donya.'

Sacha gasped,

'Who?... Where?'

Anton winced;

'Next door... but don't let Karyn go in there... it's not pretty, and he might be coming back to finish the job.'

Tasha's PPD-34 sub-machine gun was lying on the bunk. Sacha picked it up and cocked it. He knew there was a rudimentary first-aid kit in Donya's locker, and Anton was bleeding quite badly. Telling Karyn to stay in the compartment, he carefully unlocked the door and glanced up and down the corridor. It was deserted. He slipped outside and warily moved to the front of the coach where the Provodnitsa's compartment was located. Grabbing the little first-aid kit, he hurried back to their compartment. As he slipped inside and locked the door, he saw that Karyn had managed to get Anton's shirt off, and was gently dabbing at the wound with one of her German "Camelia" brand Damenbinden... sanitary towels. Anton looked up and gave a tight grin.

'Not quite a wound dressing that I'm familiar with... but very effective! The bullet went straight through without hitting any bone. It actually looks a lot worse than it is.'

Sacha handed the first-aid kit to Karyn and asked...

'Who did this? What did he look like?'

Anton winced again as Karyn began gently packing the wound with cotton wadding. Looking at Sacha, he said,

'Who... I don't know. Why... I can guess. He carried a weird-looking automatic that had a bulbous built-in silencer that was part of the barrel rather than a screw-in "Bramit." The only weapon I know of that is like that; is the specially modified, clandestine Mauser "Bolo." The Bolshevik government placed large orders for that particular model in the 1920's. My gut feeling is that he is NKVD. He executed Tasha and Donya in the signature style of the NKVD: one bullet to the back of the head for each of them.'

Sacha's face was grim; he glanced at Karyn, and said,

'Another NKVD?... But, why? Somebody must want whatever we might find out there, very badly. Stay here; I'll go next door and see how bad it is.'

Anton made to get up to stop him; but the pain in his shoulder took his breath away. By the time, he recovered; Sacha was gone.

Carefully inching along the corridor; hugging the wooden panels in case, whoever it was; appeared suddenly at either end of the coach; Sacha pushed the end compartment door open with his heel and slipped inside. The compartment was pitch-black. The stench of faeces and blood made him retch. Groping across the wall; his fingers found the light switch and flicked it down. There, in the sudden bright glare of the light; he saw the true horror of what had happened here.

The two victims of Donya's "Chinese Blend" tea lay sprawled on their bunks which were soaked in bloodstained excrement. Laying crumpled on the floor were the bodies of Tasha Chernikova and Donya Jelavich. What remained of their heads rested in great pools of congealing blood. The whole of the far wall of the compartment was splattered with blood, brain matter, and splinters of bone.

Feeling the bile rising into his throat, Sacha backed away; fumbling behind himself for the door handle. He stumbled out into the still-deserted corridor. Dragging open the coach rear door; he stood out on the footplate, gulping in great lungfuls of the cold night air as he tried to settle his churning stomach.

In the first compartment of the next coach forward; Kapitan Gozbezopasnosti... Captain of State Security, Igor Barovenkat thumbed ten more rounds into the stripper clip that was used to load the magazine of his specially modified assassination Mauser. He had slipped unseen onto the train while the locomotive was being changed at Novosibirsk, as a result of the telephone call that the NKVD shadow, Byko, had made from the telegraph office of Tyumen station. He smiled. Those two GUGB morons hadn't known what had hit them. Now, there was just the one he had wounded that he had to deal with. The little bastard had been just a little too quick for him.

Barovenkat was young and arrogant. A rising star in the Novosibirsk NKVD Directorate; he thought he knew better than the seasoned operatives, and, against their solemn, admonishing advice, always carried two weapons of similar calibre... the special silenced Mauser, and a high-power Tokarev TT Special. His colleagues had warned him time and again that if he had to carry two weapons they should be of totally different calibres. As usual, Barovenkat had ignored their prudent advice... a decision that he would soon come to regret. The Mauser was 7.63mm calibre; the Tokarev was 7.62mm. On the face of it, the ammunition was interchangeable... the rounds looked exactly the same; but... the Tokarev rounds he chose to use were the high-power Czech versions. They had almost forty-per-cent more powder load than a normal Mauser round.

The rounds that he was now idly thumbing into the stripper clip were, in fact, these Tokarev rounds. They were far too "hot" for the Mauser, and would create much too high a pressure in the breech... which would be just as likely to cause the pistol to explode as the first round was fired. This was the fundamental, and deadly mistake of carrying two types of similar calibre ammunition... which would not have occurred had he taken his experienced colleagues' advice.

The other danger with all variants of the Mauser C96 "Bolo" was; that after the rounds had been inserted into the magazine, and the stripper clip pulled out; the bolt automatically moved forward and loaded a round into the chamber. The weapon was now cocked and ready to fire... very useful for a rapid first shot... but bloody dangerous in all other circumstances unless the safety catch was set to "Safe" immediately after loading... and for the sort of job now in hand, flicking the safety off wasted precious seconds.

Pulling back the bolt and slipping in the full stripper clip, he pushed downwards on the top round until all the rounds were fed into the magazine. He then removed the stripper clip as the bolt sprang forwards, chambering the first round. Barovenkat smiled smugly to himself. Time to blow the little bastard away.

He glanced out into the corridor... it was deserted. He really should have finished the job earlier; but, as he lined up for his second shot, he had heard the door of the next coach opening. He saw his target duck into the second compartment; and he only had two rounds left. No matter; his target would keep; and, with a bullet through the shoulder, he would be easy meat.

Quietly; he slipped into the corridor and moved towards the rear door of the coach with the Mauser in his hand, and the muzzle pointing towards the floor. As he crossed the footplate to the next coach, he reached up and tugged the electrical cable out of the coach corridor lights junction box. Now; if the little bastard was armed and ready, he wouldn't present himself as an easy target silhouetted against the corridor lighting when he kicked in the door of the compartment.

By pure chance, after she had dressed Anton's shoulder wound; Karyn had gone to the forward Provodnitsa's compartment to search for some sort of analgesic pills. She was just about to step back out into the corridor when she saw the lights go out, and heard faint footsteps outside the door. She had strapped the slender Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife onto her left inner thigh before she left Anton... just in case. Now she reached up under her skirt and quietly drew it from the scabbard. She carefully opened the compartment door and glanced out down the corridor. The shadowy figure was some five metres further down the coach. She saw the gun, and crept out; hugging the corridor wall. The figure paused at her compartment. She crept closer, and watched as he raised his foot and his weapon. Then, came the crash as he kicked in the door and squeezed the trigger.

There was a bright flash, a loud explosion; a scream, and a single gunshot. The figure was hurled backwards, to crash against the corridor wall. From the light streaming out of the compartment; she glimpsed him staring in utter disbelief at the bloody mangle of flesh and splintered bone that had been his right hand. He bounced off the corridor wall and spun around towards her. She saw the blood spurting from a gunshot wound in his chest as she gritted her teeth, lunged at him, and drove the thin, razor-sharp blade up under his ribs. He stared, disbelievingly, at her for a few moments; then his eyes glazed, and he slumped towards her; driving the blade further into his flesh.

The rear door of the coach crashed open as Sacha rushed in, with his PPD sub-machine gun raised, and aimed along the corridor. Karyn felt the hot, sticky blood spurting over her hand, and wrenched the knife free. Barovenkat crashed to the floor. Sacha dropped the weapon and ran to her. She was shivering; the fighting knife held loosely by her side. Her eyes were wide and frightened. With a tremble in her voice, she whispered...

'He was coming for Anton again... so I had to stop him.'

Sacha grabbed her arm and pulled her into the compartment. It stank of gunpowder and blood. Anton was sitting on the far bunk scraping blood and fragments of flesh and bone from his face. He gave a broad grin;

'Stupid fucking amateur! He comes barrelling in here with a triumphant smirk on his face; catches me cold; points his cannon; squeezes the trigger and... BOOM!... Wrong ammo, sonny. I bet he's one of these smart-asses who carries a "TT Special" as well as that Mauser.'

He nodded to the blood and flesh-spattered Mauser lying on the floor. Its breech was shattered; the firing pin and recoil spring had been blown out; and the remainder of one shredded finger was jammed in the trigger guard.

'I put a round into him as well. He probably won't be back.'

Sacha nodded;

'That's for sure. He's lying out in the corridor... stone dead. Karyn stuck him with that damned fighting knife they gave her back in Berlin.'

Anton stared;

'Really? I knew you should have been a Kuban Cossack, Zaychik moya! Let's drag the bastard next door in case anyone falls over him; then we can chuck all three out onto the tracks, together.'

Sacha nodded;

'But what about Tasha and Donya? We can't leave them in there.'

Anton's face was grim.

'We'll have to drop them off too... a little further on... and on the forest side. Hopefully, when they're found, it'll be thought that these other three killed them, and were then hit by a coal train.'

Karyn, by now, was more composed. To her thinking, Anton's plan had one flaw. Why would Tasha and Donya have left the train in the middle of nowhere?... and what about the bullet holes in the compartment door? Perhaps, a better plan would be to dump just the two poisoned goons out onto the tracks, and leave Tasha and Donya exactly where they were; re-arranging the bodies into suitable positions; and dumping the assassin's body into the compartment... together with the shattered Mauser... to make it appear that this had been a typical NKVD execution that had gone terribly wrong... for whatever reason. The soiled bedding on the bunks could be thrown off the train and replaced by fresh linen from the stock in the Provodnitsa's compartment. Anton nodded;

'Sounds good.... but what about the stab wound?'

Karyn looked at him... a cold, steady look; her voice was calm;

'Give me your pistol Anton.'

She looked out into the darkened corridor. There was no sign of light from under any of the doors. All was quiet; except for the monotonous "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum" of the wheels striking the expansion joints of the rails; and the creaking of the wooden panelling. She turned to Barovenkat who was lying on his back where he had fallen. She raised the Tokarev.

She hesitated. If she fired now; the crash of the gun might waken the whole train. Perhaps it would be better to drag the body into the compartment for now; and move it outside onto the footplate later on, where the noise of the express and the wind would muffle the shot as she put a bullet into the stab wound under his ribs to disguise the fact that he had been both shot and stabbed..

It would be a fairly easy... if messy, task to clean up the blood from Anton's shoulder wound, and the shreds of flesh and gobbets of blood from Barovenkat's hand spattered about in the compartment could be left as proof of his blunder concerning the ammunition. The blood in the corridor could be washed away with the maintenance hose that hung, coiled up in the rear washroom. They should try to find Barovenkat's compartment. Perhaps there might be some clue as to why he had come onto the express to execute the GUGB operatives... and was he alone? Or did he have a back-up?

At just after 00.2am, on the morning of Sunday 31st July; four days after leaving Moscow; The Trans-Siberian Express came onto the ten-kilometres-long incline bordered by deep, impenetrable birch forests that led up to the Chulym river. The soporific chuffing of the locomotive deepened, and took on a more resolute tone as the engineer opened the steam regulator to maintain the locomotive's momentum. If there had been anyone in the third First-class coach who was not in a drunken stupor, they might have witnessed two men heaving what appeared to be two lifeless bodies out of the rearmost compartment and carrying them out through the rear door of the coach, into the night.

Had they glanced out of the corridor windows, they might have glimpsed the two bodies being thrown off the connecting footplate onto the tracks. If anyone had been awake, they would have observed the two men return to the compartment and carry out another body. They would have watched as the men were followed by a pretty, blonde woman who held a large military pistol in her hand. They would have seen them go outside onto the footplate and close the door. They would have heard the muffled sound of a single shot, and watched, as the door opened again and the body was carried back in and dumped in the end compartment... but there was no-one awake to see what took place.