Free Duel of Assassins by Dan Pollock

hills
of northern Manchuria to wrinkle the horizon. The trick seemed to work, for all
at once the carriage began rumbling over bridge timbers, and steel beams
flashed by the window. Below, Taras glimpsed a white expanse of pack ice, perhaps
two kilometers wide, here and there sparkling in the low sun like sprinkled
rock salt; along its margin, boats and barges were stuck fast. They must be
crossing the frozen Amur River—on the outskirts of Khabarovsk.
    Across the bridge an oil refinery reared its blackened,
industrial tracery against the leaden sky, and a smokestack flamed a ragged red
ensign. Beyond, dilapidated bungalows marched    away down empty lanes of
frozen mud, then were replaced in the train windows by abandoned-looking
warehouses of brick and concrete, which gave way in turn to grim blocks of
apartment complexes.
    Arensky’s pulse accelerated as the train slowed, trundling
over uneven points into the rail yard, past stooping work crews of women in
orange canvas coveralls who scraped at the icy switches with shovels. Then, as
the Rossiya’s flanged wheels locked and squealed in metallic protest, a
roofline fanged with icicles slid into view, followed by the station itself.
Taras saw their conductor—the provodnik —jump down and trot alongside.
    Farther down the platform a knot of soldiers sharing a
bottle turned and waved at someone as a Mongol-faced family grabbed up its
bundles and hurried forward, only to be cut off by a burly woman driving a
minitram of hitched wagons full of parcels and mail sacks.
    But where was Eva? With a hollow nervousness akin to stage
fright, Taras hoisted his duffel bag and flowed with the crowd out of the
steam-heated car and into the bitter cold. He stood there on the wide, unevenly
paved platform, while a chill north wind knifed through his woolen greatcoat
and made his fingers ache inside their thick gloves. But Arensky was not
sensible of this, not at this moment. Only the pangs of his anxious heart
counted now as he searched the faces of strangers. He told himself to be
calm—to be a man, after all. It wouldn’t due to appear too eager. Of course Eva
was here somewhere. Perhaps waiting just inside, out of the cold. Or perhaps
she’d been detained for some perfectly ordinary and understandable reason. In
which case, he would simply have some tea and walk up and down, stretching his
train-cramped legs a bit, until she appeared. After seven and a half days, he
could certainly stand a few more seconds, or even minutes. But dammit, where
was she?
    “Tarushka! Tarushka, here!”
    He whirled and saw her at the end of the platform, waving as
she hurried forward in her heavy coat, her breath pluming in the air. But
something was very wrong, something that confirmed the dread that had been
stealing over him. A tall young man was striding along close beside her. Even
as Eva arrived and launched herself against Taras, and he bent to kiss her
flushed, laughing face, he was filled with despair. She was chattering away,
but he could not hear her words. His eyes were on those of the stranger, which
were slitted, and strikingly light-blue, like Eva’s.
    What was he doing here, this young, cocky-looking foreign
bastard—dressed up like a film cowboy in an expensive dublyonka , a
sheepskin coat, with a black scarf wrapped around his ears, on top of which was
a black felt “gunfighter” hat? He even wore a pair of high-heeled,
tooled-leather boots, which put him noticeable centimeters above Taras.
    “Tarushka, what is wrong?”
    “Who is he?”
    “This is Marcus. He’s an American tourist, silly. He came
yesterday on the boat train from Yokohama. He’s been assigned to me. Oh,
Tarushka, really, now don’t be jealous! I won’t have it!”
    She managed to look quite stern for a half second, before a
wide grin crinkled her plump, freckled face in its wreath of gold sable. That
sunny smile, exposing just the pearly tips of her little teeth, and the
girlish, guileless laugh that