23

“Welcome in Petersburg!”

The old man was drunk. He spun a little, tripping on his laces as he stared up at the roof of Vitebski station.

“Can you still see him?” Gaia said.

They were pushing through the crowd. People jostled all around them. Will’s nostrils were filled with peculiar scents. Body odor. Perfume. Damp fur. The stench of something hot and bitter from a brown paper bag. Ahead, through the bodies, was Caspian. Will’s eyes were clasped on to his head, his gaze suckered to that boy. He pulled Andrew and Gaia in his wake.

“Wait!” Andrew called, his arm entangling with someone else’s bag. But Will only yanked him on, hoisting the twin duffel bags farther up his back.

Half past five in the afternoon. The train had arrived eight hours late. Now they entered the main concourse and the cold cut through them, snatching Will’s breath.

“Wait,” Andrew was saying, “I need to find my hat.” His words condensed, swirling around his face. Gaia had his hand, and she pulled him on behind Will, in the direction of the exit.

“Come on,” she said.

It was bewildering. Motion, and all that noise. Russian voices, loud and shrill, deep and ringing, solid as the frozen earth. If Will had let himself pay attention, he would have been thrown back through the years. To his grandfather’s funeral. To all those memories, of his grandmother, and her apartment, his mother, his father . . . But they’d followed Caspian as at last he’d disembarked from the train. And now Caspian was clutching his bag and striding toward the dimness outside, and a line of private cabs. For Will, the lethargy of the long journey had vanished the very instant the train had stopped. The chase was on.

“Come on,” Will urged. He broke into a jog. Caspian was nearing that line of waiting cars.

And then: “Will!”

Gaia’s voice. From behind.

Will skidded to a halt. His head shot around. The scene drew all the breath out of him. Ten yards back, the drunk from the platform was clutching Andrew’s collar. He seemed to be demanding money.

“Shake him off!” Will shouted. “Andrew—run.”

And he heard Andrew’s voice: “My father is Illyr Ruskin! Do you hear me? Illyr Ruskin!”

Andrew’s shouts had no effect on the drunk. But two policemen who’d been buying breakfast from a stall across the concourse turned sharply at the name.

Will glanced back over his shoulder. Caspian was talking to a driver.

“Andrew, shut up and run.”

Andrew tried. But the old man must have been stronger than he looked. Gaia threw herself on him and pulled at his arms. Now the two police officers were advancing.

It was useless. With one final, furious glance toward the taxi rank, Will turned away from Caspian, away from their quarry. He ran and he took the drunk’s left arm, Gaia his right. Inch by inch, they pulled the gnarled hands from Andrew’s collar. A stink of onions filled Will’s nostrils.

The drunk reeled—right into the policemen, who grabbed him.

“Come on!” Will yelled. And his feet felt light as he dashed around bustling passengers, hearing the shouts of the drunk. They had to escape now. They’d lost Caspian. But they had to find a cab.

Will threw himself into the first car, a battered gray Audi, and slammed the door shut. Gaia and Andrew leaped in behind. A rapid glance showed the policemen were pushing their way after them, through the crowd, and Will demanded: “Vasilevsky Ostrov. Maly Prospect.”

To his relief, the elderly driver did not hesitate. As the car pulled out, Will did not look back.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew said. His voice was breaking, collapsed with nerves. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Will said.

He tried to sound upbeat, but his spirits were suddenly rock-bottom.

St. Petersburg was a city of more than four million people. They had about as much chance of finding Caspian as Andrew had of curing AIDS. All that work, all that care not to be seen, to keep track of Caspian, all those hours on the train—and for what? One drunk to ruin everything. One unlucky moment, and everything had changed.

“Will, where are we going?” Gaia said.

Will focused on the blocks of Nevsky Prospect. Under harsh streetlights, solid men strode by in black leather jackets, women in elegant white coats, some in furs. Ahead was the river. Past that, St. Basil’s Island. Things had changed so quickly, he hardly knew how to think. All those hours. All that anticipation held in check. They’d been in limbo on the train. Now they’d woken to a world that was shifting away beneath them.

“I know someone here,” Will said at last. “Maybe they can help.”

“It’s me. I have to be quick.”

“Where are you?”

The young man stared out at the view from his cab. He felt tired, frozen, and dirty. His clothes itched. He hadn’t washed for two days and hadn’t slept for what felt like eight. For the past forty-eight hours he’d been on duty, constantly vigilant, afraid his target might alight at any one of the endless stops the train had made through the long day and nights.

But the excitement of the chase kept his eyes open and his pulse racing. He managed a smile at the gray concrete and slush.

“St. Petersburg,” he replied.

“Petersburg . . . Really? That’s interesting,” came the voice, assured and distinct. It announced a decision. “I’m going to join you. Stay on him.”

What else? thought the man, but he only flipped his phone shut.