The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(76)

She was not home in her bed.

The gentle rocking of the carriage and uneven sound of the train rolling on the tracks pulled her back to the present. She took deep breaths and looked to the window. It was dark outside. Night.

She looked at her door. Jenkins had applied the deadbolt. Through the interior door to the adjacent cabin, she saw that Charles Jenkins slept on his side on one of the two berths, his face turned toward the wall. He looked like Svyatogor, the giant warrior in Russian mythology and folklore, trying to sleep in a child’s bed. Heavy, rhythmic breathing. She envied him; it was a rare night Maria slept so soundly, or until morning. The good nights, she slept in spurts, awakened by her thoughts, but most nights she was able to keep those thoughts from spinning out of control. Reading sometimes helped, as did exercise.

The bad nights, such as this, she awoke in a panic, her shirt drenched in sweat, her heart racing, unable to slow or rationalize her thoughts that she had been discovered, that men were coming for her. She slept with her pen beside her and, on more than one occasion, she had contemplated biting down on the capsule concealed in the end.

She had lost her pen in the Neglinnaya River. She felt naked without it.

She looked at the small confines of her room and concluded that exercise would be cumbersome and likely wake Jenkins. Chamomile tea helped, and the samovar was just a few doors down in a cubby at the front of the carriage car. She looked again at Jenkins and thought about what he had said, about a better life awaiting her in America. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that maybe, once forever free of the person she had allowed herself to become, she would find her true self again. She felt the onset of tears but pushed them back. Maria Kulikova, she told herself, was a good and decent person, and she would find her again.

If she made it out of Russia alive.

She thought of her earlier conversation with Jenkins and the way his face had lit up when he spoke of his wife and his family. She had been surprised to learn he was not only married but had two young children. It made her realize that he, too, had sacrificed, maybe not for as long as she had sacrificed, as each of the seven sisters had sacrificed, but perhaps just as deeply, maybe more so. Maria never had anything to lose, except her sense of self. When the time came to end her life, she would be comforted by the thought that no one would miss her. Her parents were gone. She had no siblings. No children. Helge would have missed only the luxuries she provided, the apartment and the clothes. He would not have missed her.

Her lack of family made her realize that Jenkins, despite having a wife and two small children he clearly adored, was here, in a country that had placed him on a kill list, to rescue a woman he did not know. So perhaps his risk was greater, as was his need to succeed and get back home. He had people to live for. She concluded that he must be a man of very high moral character and ethics. It was one thing to do your job. It was another to risk your life for the life of another, especially with so much to lose.

Maria slid on the pair of cheap slippers beside her berth, unlocked the cabin door, and stepped out into the hall. The train chugged along the tracks, the carriage shaking gently, but the ride relatively stable. A man holding a cup to the samovar had his back to her but turned as she approached.

“It is good to see I am not the only one who cannot sleep,” the man said. He looked about her age. Midsixties. Short, with thinning hair and round glasses on a face her mother would have called genteel. His soft blue eyes invited conversation.

Maria smiled but did not respond.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

Maria closed her eyes, then shook her head. “I don’t drink,” she said. “Not with strangers.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding remorseful. “It was meant as a joke. A poor joke. I meant, Can I get you a cup of coffee or perhaps tea?”

She studied him, his face. He sounded sincere. “Tea, please. Chamomile.”

“A good choice,” he said. “Soothing. Sometimes if I have a cup, I can get back to sleep. Sometimes not.” The man grabbed a cup and filled it with hot water.

“You also have trouble sleeping,” Maria said. “What is it that keeps you awake?”

“Many things. Common troubles.” He handed her the cup of hot water and stepped to the side so she could choose a tea. “Mint soothes the stomach,” he said.

She stepped forward, considered her choices, and chose peppermint.

“My name is Arkhip.” He extended a hand. “So we do not have to be strangers.”

“Maria,” she said, still not certain about him.

“The dining car is closed, but I believe the sitting car is open.” Arkhip gestured behind him. “So you don’t have to drink alone in your room. A nasty habit if one can avoid it. I know this myself.” He smiled but it waned. “Another poor attempt at humor.”

Maria laughed.

“A laugh. Maybe not so poor an attempt.”

“Sure,” she said.

He looked confused.

“The sitting car.” She figured there was little trouble she could get in while on the train, and she did not wish to sit in her room and ruminate on all the things that could go wrong. “Lead the way.”

Arkhip slid open a door between the carriages, and they stepped into a brightly decorated sitting room with upholstered seats, intricate woodwork, and stained-glass windows. “It doesn’t lack for color, does it?” he said.