“When I say, ‘Go,’ you run for the terminal.” He glanced behind him. Zhomov lifted his head above the car door. Arkhip fired a shot, forcing Zhomov to retreat.
“Go,” he said.
As Maria scurried into the unprotected divide, another car skidded to a stop and cut off her approach to the terminal. The passenger door flung open. The man behind the wheel reached his hand across the seat. “Get in, Ms. Kulikova.”
Maria hesitated, confused. She knew this man. She knew him from years working at Lubyanka, but she had trouble placing him here. Then it clicked. “Viktor Federov,” she said.
“Get in, Ms. Kulikova. I am a friend.”
Maria felt Arkhip’s hand push at the small of her back and they rushed for the car. Federov aimed the barrel of a pistol at Arkhip. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“No,” Maria said. “It’s all right.”
No time to debate, Federov swore and lowered the weapon. Arkhip pushed inside and slammed the door shut. Maria looked over her shoulder. Zhomov hurried back inside his car as Federov punched the accelerator, swerved between cars and around pedestrians, and made a hard right turn onto the main road, tires squealing.
Maria gripped Arkhip, who held the door handle to keep from toppling over.
Federov reached across her and again pointed his gun at Arkhip. “Tell me who you are?” he said.
Maria reached to lower Federov’s arm, but it was rigid. “He’s a friend from the train,” Maria said.
“I don’t think so,” Federov said, his gaze dancing between the rearview mirror, the windshield, and Arkhip. “For one thing, your friend is carrying a gun. Tell me who you are, friend, or I will shoot you and leave your body along the side of the road.”
“I am Arkhip Mishkin, senior investigator with the Moscow police department.”
“You’re a police officer?” Maria said, stunned and feeling betrayed.
Arkhip glanced at the side mirror. “The other car is coming,” he said. “I suggest you turn, frequently, if you desire to lose him.”
Federov drew back the gun and checked his side and rearview mirrors, swearing repeatedly. He turned the car multiple times, weaving down alleys and streets without hesitation. Within a minute, Maria did not see Zhomov’s car in the side mirror.
Federov drove down a narrow alley, sending garbage cans flying over the hood and roof of the car. Just before the end of the alley, he pulled into a bay of a two-car garage in a concrete-block building. A car occupied the second bay, in the process of being pulled apart. Federov got out and quickly rolled the door shut.
Back at the car, he waved the gun at Arkhip and Maria inside the vehicle. “Both of you, get out.”
Maria and Arkhip did so. Light inside the concrete room came from fluorescent tubes in light fixtures suspended by chains from the ceiling. Spare car parts littered a wooden workbench along with tools. The aroma of oil and gas permeated the air.
Federov held Arkhip at gunpoint. “Remove your weapon slowly and hand it to me,” he said. Arkhip did so.
“You are a police officer? You have been following me?” Maria said again.
“Not a police officer. A senior investigator. And I was not following you, Ms. Kulikova. I was following Mr. Jenkins. I am sorry for not telling you the truth on the train, but I assume you can understand why.”
“How did you even know we were on the train?”
“I followed you from the apartment building in Moscow to the Yaroslavsky station. When you boarded the Trans-Siberian train I had no choice but to follow.”
“What is your business in this?” Federov asked.
“My business is the murder of Eldar Velikaya,” Arkhip said. “My business is speaking to Mr. Jenkins.”
Federov laughed. “Well, you’ve bitten off a lot more than a murder, Investigator Mishkin.”
Arkhip looked to Maria and spoke calmly. “Yes. It appears that I have.”
“On the train . . .” Maria struggled to find her words. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just arrest Mr. Jenkins? Why take the train all the way to Irkutsk?”
Arkhip didn’t immediately answer but his look was telling. He had not been following Maria, but he had been anticipating their meetings. “My situation is complicated, as is yours, Ms. Kulikova. As I said to you the other night, I am being retired. I might already be retired. This is the thanks I get for three decades of service, a pat on the back as I am ushered out the door. I am trying to come to terms with forced retirement, but not before I close this case. Not for them—they have already removed me from it. For myself.”