5:25 a.m., Leningradsky Station
No shot rang out as Nikolai crossed the cavernous station. Sasha said several words about "pretty" something, but he wasn't paying all that much attention as his gaze darted from face to face.
They had their tickets. He studied the Departures board, figuring out their gate. Then off he headed for Gate 4 at the far end of the station.
Leningradsky Station was crawling with men in uniform. He felt threatened by this totalitarian display, and, for a moment, his overheated imagination made him think they were looking for him. Then he remembered that young people from all over the world were pouring into the city for an international youth festival due to open that day. The first event of that kind, held in 1957, had seemed to him a marvelous occasion, lit up by the spontaneous excitement of mysterious new music by a man named Elvis Presley whose records everyone had hoped might come to Soviet black-market record stores.
Today's crowd was double the size judging from the tourist queues. He saw that it might work to his advantage. Creating confusion, the mass of foreigners going back across to Scandinavia would surely help distract the frontier officials when the outbound lines queued at the border for permission to leave the Soviet Union. But it was impossible to predict what might happen.
They waited at the train for the doors to slide open. Just as he turned his back to the train and studied the oncoming passengers, Nikolai caught a glimpse of a face he thought belonged to Bucharov. The face was dodging through the crowd, trying to get a look back at Nikolai.
At that moment the doors parted, and Nikolai leaped onto the train. Sasha squealed with delight as he hurried into the aisle and started searching for their seats. Nikolai quickly set Sasha down onto the train seat and then loaded his knapsack above his head. He looked out the window at the crowd down below. The face he had seen wasn't Bucharov after all.
He settled Sasha with her doll and covered her with a blanket, her head on his lap, and bought a newspaper from a vendor walking through the car. Now his face was blocked by the paper to passersby.
The train whistled and slowly pulled away from the platform. Nikolai lowered the newspaper and inventoried the faces he could see around him. He began to get the feeling they had made it onboard without Bucharov in hot pursuit. As he looked outside, he saw Moscow receding behind. His heart fell as he thought about Yulia and the happiness they'd known here. But that was slowly lessening as the train picked up speed.
Hours passed. Sasha slept soundly; he even managed to doze to the clackety-clack under the floor.
Three hours out of Moscow, he breathed a sigh of relief and played with Sasha, walking her through the cars. People smiled and touched her on the head and gave her a cookie or sweet. Then the father and child returned to their seats.
They devoured lunch with a hungry traveler's appetite and then napped, Nikolai lightly.
Nikolai's newspaper was again a shield against curious eyes when he resumed reading. He was ready if suddenly confronted. He now had Sasha positioned so that he could leap from his seat and engage. Relaxation might come later. For now, he was ready to die to protect his daughter.
And so, he waited.
63
5:30 a.m., Dobrinsky Prospekt, Moscow
Colonel Bucharov was late because Masirov waited too long. He should have sent Bucharov to shoot Nikolai as soon as they knew his secret. Which angered Bucharov so that he would shoot Semenov on sight.
He arrived at Nikolai’s flat and pounded on the door with his gloved hand. He called out Nikolai’s name, demanding he open up. When there was no answer, he opened the small case containing his lock picks. He let himself in and immediately scouted room to room. He picked up a clock radio from the bedside and threw it at the wall. He was in a rage—both at Masirov and Nikolai.
At that point, he forced himself to calm down and think. He needed to know what kind of weapons Nikolai might have on him.
He began in the kitchen, looking under the sink for chemicals the KGB fugitive could use to blind or burn. He saw drain cleaner, an abrasive white powder for stubborn grease, vinegar, and turpentine.
He nodded and moved into the bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet and found analgesics and prescription pain relievers. Two pill bottles, mostly used up, one of aspirin and the other an antacid. He was doubtful any of it was along for the run. There was missing, however, no plastic bottles capable of spraying. So noted.
He opened drawers throughout the flat, looking for the junk drawer. He found it and began pawing. No picture wire meant to watch for garrotes. No cigarette lighters ensured the runner would have the ability to light fuses, bombs, Molotovs, flammables. No blades, not foldable, not fixed.
He wasn’t necessarily hurrying as he snooped. He reasoned Colonel Semenov was already aboard the Leningrad train, snuggled down into a seat with his daughter, maybe hidden beneath a blanket, perhaps a newspaper blocking out the world and passing eyes. So be it. His Volga would outrun the train, for it made many stops along its tracks, while Bucharov’s Volga was on a straight shot through. He turned and decided where he might focus next.
He took inventory of knives, kitchen utensils, automobile tools, box openers, wires, and chains. There was a gun hanging in the closet inside its holster. Extra magazines on a strap. Wasn’t conclusive. Most KGB carried a .380 hidden on their ankle or an inner pocket.
He cast an eye over baby paraphernalia. She would be with him since the wife was dead. Plus, he wouldn’t leave her in Russia. He might not make it just because of her, but he wasn’t going to try it without her, regardless. He pursed his lips then let go. Had to admire the guy, but she would slow him considerably and all but take away his ability to flee on foot.
He assessed what he saw—and what he didn’t see, maybe more importantly. The turpentine was extremely volatile. Squirted through a flame, it could be deadly. He might have a squeeze bottle along full of it. There might be a second gun. There might be a blade or straight razor since Bucharov had found no shaving items. Enough pain meds pulverized and sprinkled into a drink could be deadly, too. Screwdrivers and box cutters—killers.
He stepped out onto the walkway. Officers would be checking the railroad for passenger lists. He expected to receive news at any moment. So he went downstairs to his car, climbed inside, and waited. Someone would be along.
64
5:50 a.m., KGB Headquarters, KGB Moscow
A very frustrated and angry Bucharov called in. Any news from the train station? The bus station? Car rental outlets?
He learned Masirov had ordered a manhunt. A messenger was on the way with news since the phones were tapped.
65
6 a.m., British Embassy, Moscow
First Assistant British Ambassador Adam Staples pulled his green Saab into the sally port at the British Embassy. The steel-reinforced door closed behind him. He was alone in his car and had with him a thermos of Colombian coffee, the good stuff you couldn’t buy off the shelves in Moscow.
He took the elevator two floors up where he checked the 24-hour clock on the wall: 0600. He entered his office and buzzed Sidney Browning, his First Assistant Deputy Ambassador. “I’m here.”
“On my way.”