Trans-Siberian Express Read Online Free PDF Page A

not synchronized,” she said.
    “I didn’t eat much for lunch,” he explained, embarrassed by his own banality. Sliding his bookbag from under her bunk, he pulled out a medical journal to take with him. He looked toward Mrs. Valentinov, but she had already turned away, and was staring into the darkness outside the moving train.

3
    IN the passageway Alex looked in either direction and saw Tania step out of one of the compartments and move toward the samovar. He walked toward her, passing some open compartments. In one of them, the fat Russian couple he had seen in the queue were munching sausages from a makeshift plate of oily paper. A bottle of vodka stood on the table. Seeing Alex watching, the man kicked the door shut. Alex shrugged, determined not to look inside the other compartments as he passed, although his eye quickly took in the layout of the carriage. There were twelve compartments and, along the outside wall of the passageway, a number of little pull-out seats which were now pushed tightly against the wall. At either end of the carriage were lighted signs reading “Toilet.” In the passageway he recognized the music that was playing in some of the compartments. It was “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Dimitrov, too, had a propensity for American popular music, and the dacha had rung with the familiar sounds.
    “The restaurant car is in the other direction,” Tania said, wiping her hands on her smock.
    “Thank you,” he said, retracing his steps, peeking into his own compartment again. The woman had not moved. Her eyes were still fixed on the window though nothing was visible except her own reflection. As Alex passed the door marked “Toilet,” a neatly dressed man he had seen on the queue emerged. He had discarded his bowler hat, but he was quite obviously British.
    “Bloody awful,” the man said. He seemed to be in his late fifties, thin, with a network of little red veins spread over his cheeks and nose. “The bloody thing’s stuck. I’ll have to tell the attendant.”
    “Will they fix it?” Alex asked with vague concern, remembering the faulty loudspeaker in his compartment.
    “They’re not much for fix-its.” The Englishman lowered his voice and winked. “Sometimes they do it deliberately, you know. It’s all part of their grand design.”
    “Grand design?”
    “To test the outer limits of our ability to tolerate hardship. A broken toilet provides an excellent model.”
    “Well then, we must fight back.” Alex smiled.
    “How?”
    “Shit in the corridors. Pee in the tea glasses.”
    The Englishman coughed and cleared his throat. “You’re American,” he said.
    “We’re all a bit uncouth.”
    “We’ll have to chat a bit. I have a sister in San Francisco.” He turned abruptly and passed Alex in the direction of Tania, who was now shoveling chunks of charcoal into the brazier. Had he been too rude, Alex thought. The man could be a conduit for what he knew. He filed away the idea. Had he the right to destroy the man’s innocence? It was a new moral question.
    Pulling open the heavy steel door, Alex felt the blast of icy air as it poured through the rips in the rubber coupling protectors. After the warmth of the corridor, he felt as if he had just walked into a refrigerator. He reached for the handle of the opposite door, feeling his fingers stick to the cold metal as he struggled to open it. Before he could pull the latch free, he heard a door open behind him, felt the sudden whoosh of air and the clang of heels on the metal flooring. He turned and saw the somber face and tight-cropped red hair of one of the security men who had ridden in the Chyka from Dimitrov’s dacha. The place must be crawling with them. Could he have believed they would let him go free? Dimitrov was hardly a fool, he thought, deliberately squeezing through the door quickly and letting it slip back in the spy’s face. He would not think about it, he told himself, knowing that it was getting increasingly