Deck Z - The Titanic Read Online Free PDF

the brief the Agent had memorized earlier during passage to England, Jadovsky’s mission aboard
Titanic
was to reassure foreign investors that Russia was still a profitable place to do business, despite recent squabbles with labor.
    His particulars were burned into the Agent’s brain: Both father and mother died in a fire. Married to Ludmila, fourteen years. Three children. A fondness for Russian literature, Shutov vodka, and good tobacco. Jadovsky had acquired wealth by virtue of cheating two partners (including his own brother) of their rightful shares in a business venture. With his fortune and future secured, he’d concentrated for quite some time on writing inflammatory articles for the far right.
    The Agent knew what kind of Russian Jadovsky was without ever meeting him.
    The Agent stood and stretched, replacing the photograph in his pocket. It was time. He walked slowly down the aisle of the passenger car as if working out the kink in a trick knee that had stiffened on the journey. He passed Jadovsky, sitting alone and staring blankly out the window, and stopped two rows of seats behind him. The Agent then withdrew a pack of Sobranie cigarettes from his jacket and lit one. The smoke’s red tip cast a bright glow as he inhaled, slowly and deeply.
    The Russian noted the aroma at once, turning and smiling at the Agent. He gave Jadovsky a polite nod.
    “Sobranie. Are you Russian?” asked Jadovsky in his native language.
    “I am,” replied the Agent without an accent. He produced the cigarette box again and offered one to Jadovsky. “Won’t you join a countryman on the platform while I stretch my legs? I’ve been traveling on business for three days—the night air and company will do me good.”
    Jadovsky accepted the offer. He pulled on his long black coat and followed the Agent to the back of the car and through a sliding door.
    The platform was considerably louder than inside the train car; the thunder of wheel meeting rail rattled up the men’s legs and into their chests. The wooden floor shifted beneath them. High above, the nearly full moon glimmered between the tops of the cars, free of the city lights that dimmed its natural majesty.
    The Agent handed Jadovsky the cigarette and lit it for him. The Russian closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrant smoke, holding it in his lungs for a full five seconds before exhaling. Bliss.
    The Agent grinned and pulled on his own Sobranie, slowly releasing a trail of smoke into the cool night air. “What business are you in?” he asked.
    “I’m a writer,” replied Jadovsky.
    “Interesting. What kind of things do you write?” asked the Agent.
    “Editorials mostly.”
    “For whom?”
    “
Russkoye Znamya.
”
    “The Black Hundreds paper.”
    “That’s right. Where are you from, friend?” Jadovsky asked, sticking out his hand.
    The Agent grasped it tight. His eyes darkened. “Kishinev. I lived through the pogrom against the Jews. The pogrom your poisonous words incited.”
    Jadovsky blanched, his face stark with fear. He couldn’t pull away from the Agent’s cold, vice-like grip.
    “Women raped; babies with their heads kicked in. My father, a toolmaker, killed with his own pliers. His blood pooled at my feet. The killers ceased to be human, and in exacting revenge, so shall I. Know this: once the last Jews depart Kishinev, I will destroy it.”
    With his free hand, the Agent reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers, handcrafted by his dead father. The opened, pointed tips plunged into Jadovsky’s neck, grabbed his Adam’s apple, and jerked. Blood pumped from the fresh opening in time with the beating of the Russian’s heart. Jadovsky slumped against the railing and opened his mouth to gasp, perhaps even to scream for help, but no sound came out.
    The Agent had ripped his quarry’s larynx free. A faint mist drifted up from where the hot wound met the crisp night air. He brought the tool down a second time, and a third,