The Yermakov Transfer. Derek Lambert

“Perhaps the Americans have a lot to thank the Soviet people for.”

      Harry Bridges said from his top bunk: “They have – they bought Alaska from Russia for one cent an acre.”

      The Intourist girl said: “Tomorrow we reach Sverdlovsk where a Soviet ground-to-air missile shot down the American U-2 spy plane piloted by Gary Powers.”

      “We get there at 14.00 hours,” Stanley Wagstaff chipped in. “Named after Jacob Sverdlov who arranged the execution of Nicholas II and his family on July 17, 1918. In those days it was called Ekaterinburg.…”

      “Mr. Wagstaff,” said the girl, “it is my job to explain the route.…”

      “Then you’re lucky I’m in your compartment,” Stanley said. “I can help you quite a bit.” He consulted a pamphlet. “We leave Sverdlovsk at 14.18. It’s 1,818 kilometres from Moscow,” he added.

      “It’s time to get undressed,” the girl said.

      It was the moment Libby Chandler had been anticipating with some trepidation. Liberated as she was, she wasn’t happy about undressing in front of three strangers; but, oddly, it was the thought of the Russian girl that worried her more than the men.

      Bridges said: “Okay, Stanley and I will wait in the corridor while you girls get changed.”

      Libby Chandler took out her pyjamas. The Russian girl was already stripped down to her brassiere and panties. Her body was on the thick side, but voluptuous. Libby thought she might put on a nightdress and remove her underwear beneath it. She didn’t. She unhooked the brassiere revealing big firm breasts; then the panties came off showing a thatch of black pubic hair.

      She glanced down at Libby and smiled. “Hurry up,” she said, “or the men will be back while you’re undressed.” She seemed completely unconcerned about her nakedness. She stood there for a few moments and Libby smelled her cologne – all Russian cologne smelled the same.

      “Perhaps,” Libby Chandler said, “there would be more room if you got into bed first.”

      The girl shrugged. “As you wish.” She pulled on a pink cotton nightdress, climbed into her bunk and lay watching Libby as she manoeuvred herself into her pyjamas feeling as if she were undressing in the convent where she had been educated, where one’s anatomy was not supposed to be visible to anyone – even God.

      * * *

      When Viktor Pavlov entered his compartment after meeting Stanley Wagstaff in the corridor he found that the breezy stranger, Yosif Gavralin, who had arrived last had occupied his berth. He looked up as Pavlov came in and said: “Hope you don’t mind. It was difficult climbing up there.” He slapped his thigh under the bedclothes. “A hunting accident.” Pavlov who knew there was nothing he could do said he didn’t mind, but during the night he dreamed a knife was coming through the mattress, sliding between spine and shoulder blade.

      * * *

      By 22.00 hours on the first day, the two K.G.B. officers had searched the next three cars to the special coach attached to the end of the train. They had re-examined the papers of every passenger and attendant, they had removed and replaced panelling, checked luggage and taken two Russians into custody in a compartment like a cell guarded by armed militia. The Russians had committed no real crime; but there were slight irregularities in their papers and the police couldn’t afford to take chances; they would be put off the train at Kirov.

      They started on the fourth coach. They took their time, apologising for getting passengers out of their beds, knowing that this was the best time to interrogate and search. They were very thorough and, although they were in civilian clothes, they looked as if they were in uniform – charcoal grey suits with shoulders filled with muscle, light grey ties almost transparent and wide trousers which had become fashionable in the West. One had a schoolboyish face, the other was shorter with slightly Mongolian features.

      “Quite trendy,” said a young Englishman on his way to Hong Kong, pointing at their trousers.

      “Your papers, please,” said the officer with the schoolboy features. He stared at the young man’s passport photograph. “Is that you?”

      “Of course it’s me. Who do you think it is? Mark Phillips?”

      The other policeman examined the photograph. “It doesn’t look like you.”

      Fear edged the young man’s voice. All he had ever read and ridiculed was coming true. “I’ve got my driving licence,” he said. He looked suddenly frail in his Kings Road nightshirt, his long hair falling across his eyes.

      The first officer said: “We’re on a train not in a car. When did you have this photograph taken?”

      “When I left school.”

      “How long ago was that?”

      “Two years.”

      The one with the Mongolian face stared hard at the photograph. Finally he said: “You weren’t quite so trendy – is that the word? – in those days.” He handed the passport back to the young man.

      Outside in the corridor the two officers smiled at each other.

      Before they entered the next compartment they were overtaken by Colonel Yury Razin who was in charge of the whole security operation. He was a big man, a benevolent family man, a professional survivor who had once been close to Beria and retained his rank even after Stalin and his stooges had been discredited; to maintain his survival record he allowed none of his paternal benevolence to affect his work.

      The two junior officers stopped smiling and straightened up. One of them made a small salute.

      The colonel was holding the list of names marked with red crosses. “Any luck?”

      “Two doubtfuls,” said the shorter of the two. “We wouldn’t have bothered with them normally. Minor irregularities in their papers.”

      Colonel Razin nodded. He had soft brown eyes, a big head and a blue chin which he shaved often. During the Stalin era he had been involved in fabricating charges against nine physicians – the infamous “Doctors’ Plot” exposed in Pravda on January 13, 1953. Six of the accused were Jews and they were charged with conspiring not only with American and British agents but with “Zionist spies”. One month after Stalin’s death Moscow Radio announced that the charges against the doctors were false. Colonel Razin, the survivor, who didn’t see himself as anti-Semitic – merely an obedient policeman – helped indict those who had fabricated the plot.

      He rubbed the cleft in his chin, which was difficult to shave, and prodded the list. “Leave the next compartment to me.”

      The two officers nodded. They didn’t expect an explanation, but they got one.

      The colonel said: “This man Pavlov. I know him. He’s given information against Jewish agitators in the past. A brilliant mathematician. Married to Anna Petrovna, heroine of the Soviet Union. Odd to find him on the train today?”

      The two officers looked at each other. Finally one of them asked: “Why’s that, sir?”

      The other said respectfully: “He’s got authorisation from the very top – from Comrade Baranov – and a letter from the State Committee of Ministers for Science and Technology.”

      Razin silenced them. “I know all that. And he’s going to meet his wife in Khabarovsk.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “He and I are old friends. I’ll talk to him.” He blew out a lot of smoke. “But it’s odd just the same.” He didn’t enlighten them any more.

      He opened the door and switched on the light.

      Pavlov wasn’t surprised to see him: he wouldn’t have been surprised to see anyone. He shaded his eyes and said: “Good evening, Comrade Razin.”

      “Good evening,” Razin said. “A pleasant surprise.”

      “Pleasant,” Pavlov said. “But surely no surprise?”