Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(38)
“Your frequency with this”—Marshall tapped on Benedikt’s luggage case, indicating the amount of times he had opened and closed it—“increases the more you fret about something else. Everything will go smoothly. Think happy thoughts. Food carts. Snow-capped mountains. My dazzling smile.”
Benedikt punched Marshall lightly on the shoulder. Still… his words did help. They always did.
At the front of the line, Marshall passed their tickets forward, flashing that smile of his. The attendant ripped a notch into the tickets without looking for longer than a second. Gave the slips back. Waved them through.
“Platform number one,” Benedikt reminded.
“You’re my only number one,” Marshall replied, somewhat nonsensically.
A flurry of freezing wind blew around them. The train loomed up ahead, the steam funnels on the head carriage rising into the smoggy air, its engine already rumbling. The chains around its sides rattled with every gust, like an orchestral welcome while the passengers boarded. Their tickets put them in soft-class, among the first few carriages with either one or two beds to every compartment, which fortunately meant they wouldn’t be sharing a room with strangers.
“I beg of you,” Benedikt said, starting his climb up the steps, careful to hold the handrail so he wouldn’t slip on the ice-cold metal. “Stop flirting with me while we’re on an important mission.”
Though Benedikt didn’t swivel around to look, he knew that Marshall had a sly expression while he proceeded after him. “Can’t I? You don’t look like a married man. Seems like delicious low-hanging fruit to me.”
They had left their wedding rings at home—there was no use playing with fire while traveling. As perpetually ready as Marshall was to finish a fight against anyone trying to start one, they really were on a tight schedule for this trip and had no time to be getting into arguments with bigots. If anyone asked, they were roommates.
“Don’t you dare bite me when I least expect it.”
Marshall only clacked his teeth in response. With the slightest twitch of his lips, Benedikt entered the carriage and shook his hair out, getting rid of the water droplets that had condensed in his blond curls from the cold. A gray-haired woman strode toward him immediately: the provodnitsa, coming to check tickets. She hesitated for a second when making eye contact with Marshall, but he extended their tickets and asked about her day in Russian, establishing himself as a native instead of a foreigner before a snap judgment could be made.
Marshall was far better at mimicking the Moscow accent than Benedikt was. They both had rather irregular ways of speaking when they weren’t watching themselves, the result of learning the language from Russians in Shanghai who had come from all over the place, fleeing war or oppressive regimes. Where Benedikt had a hard time telling the difference between which parts of his speech were mere habits and which were proper rules, Marshall had long learned how to adjust in public. It didn’t matter as much for Benedikt. Hiding in the Soviet Union had been a matter of safety while the Nationalists were after them in Shanghai, but here, his face gave him the privilege of blending in and brushing away questions before they were even asked.
“All the way to Vladivostok?” the provodnitsa said, eyeing the print on their tickets.
A clatter of footfalls sounded from the steps outside, bringing in more passengers who were embarking. From the corner of Benedikt’s eye, he caught sight of a man squeezing into the carriage despite the orderly procession, pushing close to the provodnitsa and offering his ticket even while she was already holding two.
The provodnitsa eyed him, unimpressed. He was Russian, a briefcase clutched tight in his other hand. Benedikt would have marked him to be in his fifties, but when he discounted the deep-carved forehead wrinkles, he wondered if the man was younger in actuality and only prematurely haggard.
“Sir, please hold on.”
“Just take it, would you? I have business to attend to.”
Before the provodnitsa could clutch the ticket properly, he had shoved it against her shoulder and pushed through the passageway, striding fast into his allocated compartment and slamming the door closed.
“Chert poberi,” Marshall muttered. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
But the old provodnitsa looked unfazed, likely used to rude passengers. She folded their two tickets, pursing her lips. Though the Trans-Siberian Express’s last stop was Vladivostok, many had destinations along the way instead, needing to be ushered off by the provodnitsa in those few minutes that the train paused at that station. She had a lot to keep track of.
“Lucky for you two, you’re right next door to him. Go on and get settled.”
Marshall was prodding for Benedikt to hurry along before Benedikt had registered the instruction. They maneuvered out of the way, shuffling into the compartment and dropping their luggage on the floor. The room was small despite the luxury of a soft-class ticket, which was far more expensive than hard-class carriages near the back of the train. The two categorizations were named plainly to represent their arrangements: where the more expensive ticket in soft-class got additional space and nicer decorations, hard-class was crammed with four to a room.
“A bunk bed,” Marshall remarked as he closed the door after them, taking inventory of their room. “Are you going to miss the warmth of my embrace at night?”
“I’m actually going to have such a great time freed from the relentless twitching you do in your sleep.”