STORM: The Infinity Code

Andrew had spent the afternoon working on an update to one of his virus-spotting programs. Gaia had learned Arabic from a dictionary she’d borrowed from a Syrian woman she had met in the corridor.

In the meantime, Will had kept an eye on Caspian, and watched the landscape speed past. Only it didn’t always speed. Once, the train stopped for two hours, for no apparent reason. There was no station outside—only fields and distant hills, frost, and what looked like an industrial park in the gloomy distance.

Later, despite his claims in London, Andrew was the first to start snoring. Gaia curled up in a ball, like Natalia’s cat, Dmitri. Will lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sleep that finally came.

At some point in the night, other people entered their compartment. Will had no idea when. He’d woken occasionally as the train shuddered to a stop in some town or other. Occasionally, he heard the bang of compartment doors being thrown open, then slammed shut. Now, in the middle of the night, he felt the prod of a finger in his ribs.

Instantly, he was awake, his muscles contracted, ready for action . . . But what action? Sitting up, Will blinked at the person doing the prodding. It was a vast, amorphous woman dressed in black. Her gray hair was cut short, a golden cross dangled over the expanse of her chest. She was smiling. With a coarse, plump hand, she indicated what she wanted: for Will to move over and let her sit down.

“I’d move,” came Andrew’s subdued voice, from the opposite seat. “If you don’t, they just push you.”

Andrew’s eyes were bloodshot, Will noticed. His skinny body was pressed up against the brown wall of the train, his legs crossed. Next to him was Gaia, her eyes closed. But it wasn’t Gaia who was doing the squishing. Squeezed in beside her were three men with tree-trunk legs, no necks, and torsos that stretched the wool fabric of their coats.

“Where are we?” Will said. He clasped his duffel bags to his chest and took an upright position by the window.

He could see nothing through the window, only the reflection of the people inside. One of the men was reading a newspaper. Three o’clock in the morning, and no one else seemed to mind. Only Andrew, and Will.

“When I got up this morning, I didn’t exactly know we’d be going to Russia. I didn’t pack for a surveillance mission.”

“Well, you’re one up on me, because I didn’t pack for anything,” said Andrew. “If I’d known, I’d have brought a pillow. At least you’ve got the locust. And the other stuff.” Awkwardly, he tried to shift his body to gain just a little more comfort. “Gaia’s out of it,” he said. “She’s lucky.”

Will glanced at her face. She looked peaceful, he thought. He hadn’t seen her peaceful before. Unhappy, excited, rueful, contemplative—but not peaceful. He sighed and closed his eyes. The fat of the woman next to him was enveloping his arm and his thigh. Her legs were apart, her arms folded broadly across her belly. But he had to get some sleep. Struggling slightly, he crossed his arms around the bags, holding them tight.

The next time Will woke, the light was being switched on as someone else entered the compartment. The newspaper man was asleep, he noticed—he must have switched it off. Will’s first thought was that there was no more room. But his second was more serious. This newcomer wasn’t looking for a seat. He was asking, in what sounded like a language related to Russian, for papers.

This guard had an unpleasant face. He’d shaved badly and bristly tufts of black hair protruded from skin the shade of rancid milk. Sunk above the crooked nose, which clearly had been broken, if not once, then twice, were two raisiny black eyes. A wrinkled cigarette dangled from his mouth. It filled the compartment with dense smoke.

The other travelers were reacting, pulling passports and documents from their pockets. Andrew’s eyes were on the guard. Already, he was reaching in his pocket for the tickets. Gaia was awake now. She glanced at Will, an unspoken question in her eyes. What do we do? He shrugged imperceptibly.

“Come on! Hurry!” the guard said, or at least that was what Will guessed he meant as the fat woman beside him poked around with increased urgency in her small black bag.

“I’ve got an idea,” Andrew said. And he coughed as at last the woman found her papers and the guard threw them back at her, exhaling foul smoke right into Andrew’s face.

“They Are With Our Mother,” Andrew said, loudly and distinctly. “Down The Train.” And he pointed through the wall of the compartment.

The guard’s face blackened. He spoke rapidly in his own language, which produced a laugh from three of the other passengers. One of the hefty men beside Gaia leaned over and slapped Andrew on the thigh. “Passport,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. “Need passport.”

Andrew nervously pushed his glasses back up his nose, and at that moment, the guard’s demeanor changed. He scanned the faces around him. What was he thinking?

As Andrew had lifted his arm, the sleeve of his shirt had dropped a few inches, revealing his heavy gold watch. Now the guard leaned forward and grasped Andrew’s wrist. With the other hand, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

At once Will bent forward. But the guard let go of Andrew and with the flat of his hand shoved Will back. Will felt his body burn with anger.

It was futile. Will could see that the guard didn’t believe their unlikely story. Once again, the man’s wiry fingers contracted around Andrew’s wrist.

“You give me watch and is all okay,” the guard was saying. “You don’t give me, maybe I have to take you inside for question. You get some other train. When we find passport.”

Will’s brain scrambled. As the guard was preparing to flip open the catch himself, Will spoke in Russian: “You leave us alone, and I will not tell my father.”

His voice had been low. Distinct. With every atom of strength he could muster. Will was aiming for anger rather than defiance. At once, the guard froze. Very slowly, he turned his head. Will glared back at him, feeling his chest strain. It was a good thing, he reflected, that the guard had understood.

“If you do not leave now, I will tell my father about this. These are my friends. We go to school together, in London. But I know this station. My father has people in this town. He will find you.”

Now the guard glanced at the men sitting beside Gaia. He raised his eyebrows at them, for support. “Your father?” he said. And he scoffed. “Your father? And who exactly is your father?”

Will paused for effect. He might not have a photographic memory, but this name, from the newspaper he had read in the courtyard of Somerset House, had stuck. “My father is Illyr Ruskin.”

It was a gamble. Would the guard even have heard of Illyr Ruskin? Ruskin might be a notorious mafia über-boss, with an empire that spread from St. Petersburg to London, but would a frontier guard in some remote train station in some unidentified country even know his name?

But at once, Will saw that the gamble had paid off. It was as though the temperature in the compartment dropped twenty degrees. The guard had heard of Illyr Ruskin. Moreover, to Will’s secret astonishment, it appeared that he might even have believed him.

After a moment, the guard gave a short laugh. “Illyr Ruskin!” he said, as though it was a joke. But no one else in the compartment was laughing. The tension gripped everyone like ice. Will could read in the guard’s eyes that, with that laugh, he was trying it on. If he joked, would Will break?

Reluctantly, the guard let go of Andrew’s wrist. It fell like a rock into Andrew’s lap. The guard raised his arm and glanced at his own black plastic watch. He made a tutting noise. Perhaps, Will thought, he was pretending that he now realized the train was late. Without another word, he pushed between Andrew and Will and reached through the window to release the door. He stepped out onto the platform and slammed it shut. From somewhere beyond him in the murky darkness a whistle blew. A moment later, the engine heaved, and the seats creaked.

The man with the newspaper was reaching into the luggage rack to grab a battered suitcase. A moment later, he left, followed by the fat woman and another of the huge men. The last passenger—the one who had slapped Andrew on the leg—leaned over to them. His face was drawn. Swallowing, he prepared to speak.

“I hope,” he said, in Russian to Andrew, while glancing at Will, “that when I touched you, you took no offense. I was trying only to help.”

Gaia faced Will, her eyes shining. “They’ve all gone,” she said, grinning. “They’re all afraid.” And she shifted into the far corner of the bench seat from Andrew and stretched out. “I can’t believe it! Thanks to your watch, Andrew, now we can sleep.”

“It wasn’t my watch that did it,” Andrew said, smiling at Will, still slightly disbelieving. “Though,” he added, “as an inventor, I might have thought you’d use one of your devices to get us out of our spot.”