For the past day and a half, Kozachenko had suffered flashbacks of Siberia. Only living there had been worse than his current situation, with temperatures averaging minus twenty-five degrees Celsius in the wintertime. This car set around two degrees was balmy by comparison. Cold by refrigeration standards, but not freezing. Hunched down like he was inside his sleep sack with a bottle of vodka, it was tolerable.
He and Yolkin had talked for a while once the train had begun moving, but now Yolkin snored softly in the seat beside him. There were no cell connections out here, so he’d turned off his phone to conserve the battery. Lulled by the rocking rhythm of the train, he tried to sleep, but it eluded him. Their days were running short.
Reluctantly, he gave Stas credit. The plan seemed to be working, and they were back on schedule. He was sure the pakhan was pleased, but it irritated Kozachenko to be beholden to Stas. Not to mention it made Stas look good.
Kozachenko took another swig of vodka, and the train lurched, spilling it down his shirt.
“What a waste,” he mumbled.
When the train lurched again, he realized they were stopping. He pressed the button on his watch and noted the time. It was 11:00 PM, which put them at the Polish border crossing.
His heart rate quickened, and he kicked Yolkin’s leg. “Wake up!”
The last thing he needed was for Yolkin to wake with a start again while the border guards searched the train.
“What? What is going on?” Yolkin asked. “Why did you kick me?”
“We’re at the border. It will take some time for the train to pass, and we must stay alert. First, the wagon wheels will be adjusted. The track is wider in the west than in Ukraine. Then there will be border guards.”
Yolkin’s expression showed concern. “Will they come inside?”
“I doubt if they can,” he said. Imagining what was stacked inside the car behind the false walls, he assumed it would be hard to search. “It’s possible they will open the doors.”
The Ukrainian border was heavily policed. It was the most traveled border between the Eastern bloc countries and Poland and served as a smuggling route for goods and illegal immigrants to the EU. It was easy to get into Ukraine, but difficult to leave.
He could hear the guards outside now and signaled to Yolkin to stay very still. No light seeped into the metal car, so he could only imagine that they were shining flashlights along the undercarriage. He heard a shout, and then the train crept forward.
“We’re through,” Yolkin cried. “We’ve made it across.”
“Ssshhh,” Kozachenko said. “We are not through yet.”
There was a series of false stops and starts as the wheels on each car were adjusted, then the train pulled forward a distance before stopping again. There came more voices, still in Ukrainian.
“The first guards were customs,” Kozachenko said softly. “These are Ukrainian border control.”
Again, it seemed as though they conducted only a cursory check before the train lurched forward. This time it traveled twice the distance before grinding to a halt.
Kozachenko listened carefully. Now the guards were speaking Polish, and from the commands, he could tell they had dogs. Would they pick up the scent of the live men among the dead?
He strained to listen, trying to figure out what they were saying, but the language was just a jumble in his ears. Had they noticed the difference in the size of the car?
Two men began arguing, then the latch on the door was popped open. The guards were coming inside. The door slid back, and Kozachenko sucked in his breath. He could hear the disgust in the voices of the guards. Even the dog whimpered. Then the door was slammed shut, and the train moved on.
Kozachenko took another swig of vodka and shared the bottle with Yolkin, who was now wide awake. They drank in companionable silence. Then about the time the bottle was finished, the train stopped again.
“What now?” Yolkin asked, his voice full of alarm.
His fear was a bad sign, thought Kozachenko. There were too many hurdles to jump before this mission was done. It was no time to be dragging along a coward.