Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(40)
“I’m a bit tuned out.”
“Let’s just say that Juliette’s side of the family is in a bit of trouble. Actually, scratch that—they’re in a lot of trouble… international war–level trouble.”
Benedikt shook himself out of his reverie, unfolding his shirt and hanging it in the little nook beside the bunk bed.
“When we get to Vladivostok, we have to find Lourens within hours to make the train into Harbin,” he said to Marshall, if only to hear their plan aloud once more. “Or else we won’t make the earliest train into Tianjin. And then we’ll miss the next train into Suzhou.”
And from Suzhou, they would have to drive an hour by car before finally arriving in Zhouzhuang. The route wouldn’t have needed such an intensive plan if they took the last train leg into a major city with plenty of rail activity, like Nanjing or Shanghai, but Nanjing was a key capital crawling with Nationalists, and Shanghai was even more dangerous for getting spotted and hauled in. They could hardly bring Lourens for help if the three of them were marked en route as former White Flowers and taken in for execution.
All to say: Benedikt was stressed. It wasn’t only the train schedule that they were up against, either. Vladivostok to Harbin ran on what was once the Chinese Eastern Railway, a shortcut that diverged from the Trans-Siberian line and passed through Manchuria instead of around. But Manchuria was under the control of the Japanese now, and in journeying through that territory, Benedikt and Marshall could only hope that they weren’t stopped by a soldier making trouble with their entry papers or some larger conflict on the land that pulled all passenger transport to a halt. Each step of this journey had to go smoothly if they were to get to their final destination in time.
Once they left Vladivostok, it would be another two days of traveling, give or take. They would have to squeeze in their sleep during the train rides, which was a risk when the stops didn’t come with station announcements and they needed to pay attention to when they were getting off. For now, at least, Benedikt and Marshall had these seven days until they had to fret about what was coming next.
“I am most concerned about whether we can get Lourens to come along once we find him,” Marshall said. “Do we have a plan if he refuses?”
“We kidnap him,” Benedikt replied easily.
“Are you going to pistol-whip him into shape?”
Benedikt shot over a brief glance. He put his gun on the shelf. “Would you like me to?”
“Now who’s the one flirting?”
Before Benedikt could throw his hands up in defeat, the floor jolted beneath him. The tracks emitted a loud screech, and the train’s heavy wheels began to turn. Each clank of metal and clatter of chains strained through the glass of the compartment window with effort. Then the whole train shook once, and they were moving, pulling away from Yaroslavsky Station with little other warning.
Marshall went to stand by the window, staring out at the snowy white landscape, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“Honestly,” he started, “this might even be fun.”
Coming from anyone else’s mouth, Benedikt might have fumed at the very idea that such a stressful assignment with someone else’s life at stake could possibly be fun. But it was Marshall, and Marshall brought genuine levity anywhere he went no matter how dark the night grew, so Benedikt only walked over too, joining him by the window as the train picked up speed.
“Whatever you say,” Benedikt replied, knocking their shoulders together. “All aboard the Trans-Siberian Express.”
2
Marshall was eavesdropping on the grouchy man next door.
He hadn’t intended to. He had only wandered out into the passageway to find the provodnitsa, hoping to have some tea, but she was nowhere to be seen, so he had ambled down to the samovar himself for boiling water.
Then he heard the muffled argument.
“… you can’t… ridiculous!”
Marshall paused, hands wrapped around his thermos. There was clearly someone else in the compartment with the man, but their voice was too quiet to be heard, and the train itself was always humming with the noise of its journey. On occasion, the whole carriage felt like it was bouncing on its tracks, hitting certain sections of the rail that were built in a peculiar way.
“They’ve been arguing for quite some time.”
Marshall’s grip tightened on his thermos, startled by the voice behind him, but he managed not to jump before he turned around. A short, middle-aged man had poked his head out from the compartment on the left. If Marshall could hear the occasional snippets from his compartment on the right, surely the same would be wafting in the other direction.
“Do you know who he is?” Marshall asked.
The man paused, then nodded. “Danila Andreyevich Popov. He introduced himself when we almost collided on the way to the toilet. Seemed to be in a terrible rush.”
What rush could there possibly be aboard a moving train? It had been late afternoon when they set off. Now that they were a few hours into their journey, night was rapidly falling, directing passengers toward the dining carriage as stomachs started to growl and body clocks started to adjust to their own schedules. From Moscow to Vladivostok they would be passing eight different time zones. Soon it would become impossible to follow one watch.
“And the other party?”