She saw affection in his gaze and in the gentle tone of his voice. She didn’t know the last time she had received an unconditional compliment from a man. She felt it in her stomach and fought the urge to cry. “That’s a beautiful sentiment, Arkhip. Who said that?”
He smiled. “Will I see you tomorrow evening?”
He wouldn’t, she knew, and a part of her felt disappointed. “I hope so,” she said.
43
Trans-Siberian Railway
Outside of Irkutsk
Charles Jenkins tensed when the cabin door clicked. He had awakened earlier to use the washroom. When he had returned, he took a peek into Kulikova’s berth. When he didn’t find Kulikova in her berth he felt his blood pressure surge. He had been about to rush out to look for her when she stepped in their cabin door.
“Where did you go?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearly reading the concerned look on his face. “You were sleeping. I just went for a cup of tea and a chance to sit for a moment someplace other than this cabin. I feel claustrophobic.”
“Did you see anyone? Anything suspicious?”
“No. No one.”
He should have told her they needed to devise some code when she left the cabin to get tea, a sticky note on the door . . . something, but there was no point now. They would exit the train when it pulled into Irkutsk in a little less than an hour. “We need to talk about how we’re going to handle things when the train stops.”
She sat on her berth. Jenkins sat across from her but further up the bunk to make room for his knees. “I’ll exit the front of the carriage and look for ‘a friend,’ whoever he or she is. If I find the person on the platform and everything is okay, I’ll drop my backpack onto the ground. That will be your cue to exit from the other end of the car. If I don’t drop the backpack, don’t depart. Stay in the compartment and lock the door.”
“I understand,” she said. “But unless this friend has purchased a ticket, he won’t be on the platform. He’ll be on the other side of the train station, waiting in the parking lot.”
She was right. Jenkins had not considered that possibility. He gave it a moment of thought, then said, “If I don’t see anyone on the platform, I’ll continue into the terminal. You’ll need to follow, but try to blend in, as you did when we boarded. Again, if I get outside the terminal, meet a friend, and everything is okay, I’ll drop the backpack. If not, use your ticket to get back on the train. It is good to Vladivostok.”
Kulikova nodded stoically, but Jenkins could see her nerves in the slight tremor of her hands, which she held in her lap. She projected a strong image, and Jenkins surmised that she had done so for many years. He thought of her telling him that every day, for decades, she had gone to work thinking that day could be her last, that every day she had thought she might bite down on her pen and crush the cyanide capsule, taking her life. He had no doubt of her strength, but even the strongest person would get weak-kneed when they got this close to the finish line, this close to being free. He knew this was the moment when panic could set in. Training and planning often went out the window. His job was to project confidence and to hold things together—for both of them.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “stick to the plan. If something goes wrong, get back on the train. If they could get us a note once, they can do it again. We just have to stay positive.”
“I will try.” She looked down as if in thought, then glanced up at him. “Tell me what my life will be like in the United States.”
Jenkins deduced she’d changed the subject to calm herself. “Initially, you’ll spend some time being debriefed with CIA officers. After that, the relocation center will work to provide you with a new life—a new name, new identity, new background. You’ll be treated well, given a nice house in a nice neighborhood.”
“And then what?” she asked.
“You’ll be free,” he said.
“To do what?” She asked a simple question, though Jenkins realized it was anything but. She had never been free. She’d always been trapped within the confines of her spying. It had occupied her every waking moment and thought.
“Whatever you want,” he said.
“I wish I knew, Mr. Jenkins. For years my day was predetermined to the minute, and many of my nights as well. When I wasn’t working, I thought of work, of the things I had done, and that I would have to do. I prepared for the possibility that each day would be my last. I fear I won’t know what to do without that burden that took up so much of my life, that filled my every waking hour.”