Sounds from the outside woke Kozachenko. Disoriented, it took him a moment to get his bearings. They were on the train car.
Clicking a button on his watch, he lit up the face. 1:00 PM.
Glancing across at Yolkin still sleeping in the truck’s passenger seat, Kozachenko wondered how Barkov and the others were doing. He sent Barkov a text, fearing any verbal communication would lead to detection. Until they were under way, their phones and lips would need to remain silent.
It had grown warm inside the car. Kozachenko stripped to his T-shirt, though he knew he should relish the heat. It would be cold for the next few days. Still, somehow the temperature made his anger rise.
The noise outside increased, and Kozachenko strained to hear. Was it Dudyk?
He and the men with him had not returned. Kozachenko had texted Dudyk hours ago, but he’d heard nothing in return. The only thing convincing him they hadn’t been captured was that no soldiers or police had come looking for them. Maybe their luck had returned. Time would tell.
A jolt rocked the train, and the voice sounded louder.
Railroad workers! They were coupling the cars. So far it had worked the way Stas had told him it would. Another good sign.
In a few more minutes, the refrigeration cranked on, and the air began to cool. Then came a jolt. The quick movement caused Yolkin to wake and sit bolt upright in the passenger seat.
“What’s going on?”
Kozachenko signaled Yolkin to be silent.
The voices outside the car paused.
Yolkin’s eyes widened. He clamped his mouth shut and sat stock-still. Kozachenko froze. It took several moments for the chatter outside to resume, then Kozachenko let out his breath.
A few minutes later, there came another jolt, but this time the train picked up speed.
“Okay, Yolkin, now it’s safe to talk for a while.”
“Sorry.”
Kozachenko shrugged off the apology. As long as they hadn’t been caught.
“How far is it to where we’re going?”
Being just the two of them in the truck, Kozachenko hoped Yolkin wasn’t the type who liked to talk all the time. “About an hour.”
“Have you heard from Dudyk?”
“No, but we must hope he made his way back to the west and connected up with the Russian soldiers at the front. The window for rejoining us here has passed.”
The two men rode in silence from then on. The temperature inside continued dropping, and Kozachenko briefly considered starting the truck and running the heater. The problem was the container was solid, and carbon dioxide buildup might kill them. It wouldn’t pay to be warm and dead. Instead, he slipped his shirt back on, and a few minutes later he added a jacket. Finally, he pulled out his sleep sack.
True to the timetable Stas had presented, the train traveled for little more than an hour before it slowed to a stop. It jerked forward once or twice as the cars were positioned along the track, and then outside, he could hear a number of voices—Ukrainian soldiers and first responders, perhaps some volunteers.
He heard the doors of the railroad car slide open and shallowed his breathing.
“Fill this one with debris,” someone yelled out. It sounded like Stas. “Put any bodies in the first two cars.”
Kozachenko heard a tractor fire up and then, in a matter of minutes, felt the vibration of debris hitting the floor of the railroad car, rocking it on the track. His stomach turned at the smell. Even with the refrigeration, the stench was bound to permeate. He wondered how much Stas was enjoying their dilemma.
“Where are they taking us from here?” Yolkin whispered.
Kozachenko glared, pulling a finger across his throat. Was Yolkin trying to get them caught?
“Poland,” he mouthed, then made the motion of zipping his lips.
Most of the passengers on Flight 91 were from Krakow. They would ship the bodies home to where an army of soldiers and volunteers waited to sift through the bits of refuse—separating body parts from artifacts, items of value from trash—with one exception. If all went according to plan, after they crossed the border the train would be missing one car full of rubbish and men.