Free Trans-Siberian Express by Warren Adler Page A

was propped up on his palm and he was looking blankly into space, munching a carrot. A carrot! Godorov had looked at the man curiously, hardly comprehending why he should have the luxury of so much room, while the others were cramped together like sardines.
    He felt the train move under him, felt it pick up speed, heard the clanking of the metal as the train strained against its couplings. He tried to sleep, but the surroundings were too uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It could have been hours or minutes later—he could never remember—except that at the first light of dawn he had seen Shmiot’s gaze alight on him. Then he pointed his finger at Godorov.
    “The bag,” he said, smiling. Stupidly Godorov had turned his head around, as if the man might be addressing someone behind him. He felt a poke in his ribs, and turning, saw the round and innocent face of Platinov for the first time.
    “He means you.”
    “Me?”
    “The bag,” Shmiot repeated.
    “What does he mean?” Godorov whispered.
    “He wants to see what’s in the bag.”
    “That’s none of his business,” Godorov hissed.
    “You’d better tell him.”
    “Why?”
    Platinov shrugged. “Because.”
    “Show me the bag,” Shmiot repeated. Godorov noticed that the men in the compartment stirred. Some jumped from their high perches to take positions on either side of Godorov. Since there was room, they landed on top of the men below them. He is a prisoner like me, Godorov thought. But before he could protect his package, two grim prisoners had grabbed it from his hands and offered it to Shmiot.
    “Goddammit, that’s mine,” he shouted, trying to stand up. One of the men kicked him down again and placed a heavy knee on his chest, pinning him to the floor.
    “I’ll call the guard.”
    “Well, well,” Shmiot said loudly, looking about the crammed compartment. “Call away.”
    “Guard,” Godorov shouted, feeling his temper strain, the anger rise within him like the rumbling of a volcano. “Guard,” he shouted, “I am being robbed.” He watched as eyes turned away from him. “Help me,” he cried, struggling to free himself from the knee.
    “Beautiful,” he heard Shmiot say. “It is a suit. Look, gentlemen, we have here a suit. Quite a tradable commodity, wouldn’t you say?” Shmiot’s eyes turned toward him, cold as flint.
    “You bastard,” Godorov shouted. All this was still beyond his comprehension. He had not yet learned the pecking order of the prisons, the power of the thieves and murderers over the “white collar” convicts. What could he possibly know of such a life?
    “Leave it alone,” Platinov said in his ear. “It won’t do you any good.”
    Instead of quieting him, the whisper fed his anger. He managed to remove one arm that was pinned under him and, concentrating his energy into a tight balling of his fist, he moved his arm upward and smashed it into the softness of his captor’s unprotected crotch. The man’s agonized scream echoed in the compartment. Springing loose from the man’s weight, Godorov scrambled to where Shmiot sat, displaying the suit. He managed to get a grasp on Shmiot’s arm, but it was futile. He felt himself grabbed from behind and his arms were pinioned behind him.
    “Nasty. Nasty,” Shmiot said, kicking Godorov in the stomach. He doubled up in pain. He could never remember whether it was the sudden loss of breath or his own will that caused him to remain silent. Again he gathered his energy as he recovered from the blow, then, head down, he lunged at Shmiot like a bull. His skull pounded into the man’s iron-hard torso, laying Shmiot flat against the outer wall of the bunk.
    He felt hands tear at him harshly, pulling his body down to the floor again. Perhaps a half-dozen men held him now, as Shmiot stood up and watched him sullenly in the half-light.
    “Strip him,” Shmiot said.
    Godorov felt hands mauling his clothes, unbuttoning, pulling off his shirt and pants. He struggled, twisted,