As night approached, Mikhail Kramer and his gang headed toward the train-yard at Ussurysk. What with all the press attention they had been getting lately, it had become impossible to operate during the day. The station manager had doubled - and when that hadn't worked, tripled - security, but unless he found men who could see in the dark, he would never be able to stop Mikhail Kramer and his gang.

They called themselves the Proletariat. Kramer wrote letters to the Russian press claiming they were the true voice of the underclass; an underclass, he wrote, that had been betrayed by Lenin, Stalin and Khrushchev just as much as it had been by the tsarist Romanov dynasty that precipitated the Revolution. To their folly, not many people paid attention, and continued to ride the night-trains from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok; a journey that had one change-over - at Ussurysk.

By necessity, the train-yard was almost a mile outside town. Seven different lines converged here. The station was an expansive series of platforms, bridges and line-crossings and it was quite a trek if you needed to change train. Kramer and his gang always targeted the stragglers. They were the last to get off the incoming train and the last to get on the outgoing one. This was usually because they had more luggage to carry, so they were ideal prey for thieves.

Not that Kramer and his gang thought of themselves as such. No, they were just being true to the word of Karl Marx, and sharing out the wealth. It's not like they could expect the rich to just give them what they wanted.

Though sometimes they did.

And that took most of the fun out of it.

Kramer parked the car - a sedan, stolen of course - about half a mile from the train-yard. They could have walked all the way from Ussurysk, but in the event of them being caught it would provide a quicker getaway. He left the car on a dirt track through the tundra and they walked the rest of the way.

They didn't get far before the sun set, but they had done this trip so many times they all knew the way in the dark. As they walked, however, one of the gang spotted something ahead and broke the silence.

"Is that a fire?" he said.

They all stopped. Sure enough, though the horizon was dark, there was a dancing orange glow in the direction they were headed.

"I thought I smelt burning."

"I saw smoke," said someone else.

They continued on their way, now curious as well as excited. But by the time they got into the vicinity of the train-yard, the glow had ebbed and the fire gone out, though the smell of something burning was still strong.

"Who burnt dinner?" someone said.

They all guffawed - it indeed smelt like burnt meat.

This end of the train-yard was dark. There were electric lights on the platforms, and if there had been any security guards walking around, they would have had powerful flashlights. But there weren't. The only other light came from train windows, but there weren't any trains presently in the station.

Kramer intuited that it had just gone six o'clock, which meant the first night-train was due through shortly. They followed the tracks toward the isolated platform where the train from Khabarovsk pulled in. The nearest security office was on another platform two bridges - and thus several minutes' run - away.

Of course, there was a good reason why Kramer and his gang had never been caught, and that was because the first things they ever stole were the uniforms of six train drivers. They were wearing them now. Nobody ever suspected a thing. In fact, Russia's slothful rich were often more than happy to let someone else carry their luggage. Only railway staff would know train drivers never did that.

"Ugh, that smell's really getting to me!"

"Shut up! Do you want someone to hear you?" Kramer said. But he had hardly gone another step when he fell over something on the tracks and let out a yelp twice as loud. That was the peril of leadership - making every mistake first.

The others bustled around him and picked him up. It was too dark to see what he had tripped over, but one of the gang felt out its shape.

"Oh, god, Mik! Mik, I think it's..."

He trailed off as Kramer pushed past and felt for himself. At first he thought it was an animal. It felt spongy like an animal, and when his fingers got wet, and he dabbed them with his tongue, he recognised the taste of blood.

But this animal was wearing clothes.

"It's a body! It's a body!" the first man cried.

"Yeah, he's dead." Kramer stood up and looked around. They were near enough for the faint glow of the electric lights from the platform to illuminate their faces, but that was a long way for someone to jump in front of a train.

And in completely the wrong direction. Trains entered this way. The body would have been thrown in the other direction.

"Come on," he said.

Then they continued toward the platform. They didn't get far before Kramer tripped over yet another body. He knew what it was before he checked. They were even nearer the lights of the platform now, and when he hefted the corpse up, as if onto its feet, they all saw the twin stab wounds in its forehead.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

And various mutterings to that effect.

Kramer dropped the body. He was breathing hard now. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong here. But he told them to continue anyway.

They reached the end of the platform. It sloped down to meet them and they just walked right up. But when he got to the top, Kramer froze, and all the others ran into the back of him. At first their agitated, frightened mutterings turned to anger, but when he didn't respond, didn't even speak, they moved around him.

Lying across the platform, lying all across the platform, numbering perhaps twenty or thirty or more, were bodies. Human bodies, not all of them complete. Half of Kramer's gang promptly threw up behind him. And still he didn't move.

"What's happened here?" he breathed.

Had someone beaten them to it? This was a massacre, a fucking massacre, but as he took his first few tentative steps toward the carnage, he found the mutilated corpses lying amongst their own belongings, their suitcases and bags.

Whoever did this, he realised, did it just for the kill.

He walked alone across the platform, leaving his gang behind, and went all the way to the other end. About halfway there, he heard the crackle of burning. The smell was still getting stronger. When he got to the end of the platform, he saw that the last train to leave the station hadn't got very far. About ten yards, in fact.

The burnt out husk of the last carriage lay dead on the tracks just as those who had departed it lay dead all around Kramer. The windows were blown out. The lights inside were no longer working. In the light from the platform, he thought he could see a blackened, burnt arm hanging out of one of the windows.

"Looks like a bomb hit," said one of his gang beside him, little knowing he hadn't been the first to use such a description these last couple of days.

The voice brought Kramer back down to earth. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, turned to his companion and clapped him on the shoulders. Then he picked up the nearest suitcase, and the second nearest, and beamed.

"Easy pickings!" he said.

Gharkov watched Khrushchev read the report. The further he read, the greyer, more drawn his face became. Khrushchev was not the slimmest of men, but his jowls seemed to be sagging even more than usual. Gharkov realised he was seeing his leader in a way he had never seen him before. He was seeing him look old.

By the time Khrushchev finished reading, he had crumpled the corners of the page in a tight, fearful grip. He offered it back to Gharkov.

"How quickly can we assemble the group?"

Gharkov took the report. "Sir, I know what you said about being stuck in a corner, but I don't think you should rush to any decisions."

"Oh, Gharkov." The Premier sighed.

"It's not too late, sir."

"How quickly can we get them all here?"

Gharkov paused. "They can be here within the hour."

Nakhodka only had one railway line. It didn't need two lines for trains going in opposite directions because only one train ever stopped there, and that was the train from Nakhodka to Ussurysk. It went back and forth all day, and for most of the night too, returning to Nakhodka at intervals every three hours.

Having only one line, the station needed only one platform, and standing on it, braced against a cold evening wind, was Malakov and Shelby.

"We should hear it coming soon," said Malakov.

Shelby nodded, shuffling on the spot to keep warm. The platform was almost deserted, but there was a severe looking man with a rather aristocratic moustache watching them. When Shelby glanced over, the man looked away.

"How far is Ussurysk, anyway?" he asked.

"I don't know. Twenty miles?"

"And that's twenty miles nearer Vladivostok?"

"I think it's about ten miles further north, but yes. Why?"

Shelby shook his head. "I'm just trying to understand it, that's all. If it is responsible for this latest attack, then it's double-backed on itself."

"'Double-backed'? Is that an American phrase?"

"No, think about it. First attack was in Vladivostok, right? Then it came thirty miles east here, right? Well, now it looks like it's gone halfway back again."

Malakov nodded. "I see your point."

"The question is: why? There's no logic to its movements, especially if it is looking for something. It's a totally inefficient way of searching."

"Unless what it's looking for is moving too."

Shelby looked at him and frowned.

"Here comes the train."

Gharkov was right. By eight o'clock, most of the eighteen Politburo members had arrived at the Kremlin. Not all of them were as well connected as Brezhnev and the muttered speculation began as soon as they sat down. They had been dragged away from dinner for this, so whatever it was, it had to be serious. Last to arrive was Brezhnev, with Metzin in tow. They both looked rather smug as they came in.

But despite the impromptu nature of the meeting, Metzkin wasn't the only adjutant in attendance. In fact, Khrushchev thought, there looked to be more bureaucrats in the room than there were members of the council.

We'll see about that, he thought, and brought his gavel down on the table several times. The muttering ceased and everyone looked up.

"This meeting is for members of the Praesidium only," he told them. "I must ask everyone else to leave the chamber before we begin."

Metzkin didn't look so smug now. Of course, the price Khrushchev paid for getting rid of Metzkin was that he lost Gharkov too. The KGB leader left his side and joined the adjutants filing out of the room. Metzkin had been the last in, and he was the last out. He left with an icy glare in Khrushchev's direction.

But even after Metzkin had left, there were still nineteen men in the room. The other council-members didn't need to perform a count to spot the odd-one-out. They all recognised General Gurov, standing to attention behind Khrushchev. They all knew what he did. That serious, huh? That's what their faces said.

Because Gurov was head of nuclear strategy.

The train from Nakhodka to Ussurysk was old-fashioned. It had doors at the end of each carriage, but they led into a long, narrow corridor that went the length of the train. Off this corridor were individual cabins that sat six or eight. Malakov found the first cabin empty and slid the wood and glass door open. The train waited at the station another five minutes before it set out on its return journey.

"I was thinking," Shelby said. "If what it's looking for is moving, then that suggests what it's looking for is alive, right? Well, what if these attacks are the work of more than just one? What if it's looking for one of its own kind?"

Malakov just nodded. He had been watching the corridor through the glass door since they'd sat down. That man with the moustache had walked past twice even though the rest of the train was empty. He had looked in both times.

"Actually, that doesn't make much sense," Shelby continued. "If there were more than one, then that would explain why the attacks have been spread out, which invalidates the searching theory. Malakov, are you listening to me?"

But Malakov was watching the man walk past a third time.

Khrushchev briefed the Politburo on recent events. He was repeating from memory a report Gharkov had written. It glossed over the chronology of the attacks, thereby hiding the fact that the Premier had known for days - even if that did give the impression all three attacks took place tonight, simultaneously.

The council listened like quiet schoolchildren. When Khrushchev finished, they sat in silence. If Gurov was here, they knew what was coming next.

"What is required now," Khrushchev said. "Is to give America the starkest warning possible, to show them that our resolve has no limits, and that we are as prepared as they to see this through to its eventual conclusion."

Even as he said it he was aware just how empty the words were. But the quiet schoolchildren who ran the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics felt safe with rhetoric; they started nodding and muttering with their neighbours.

"I've asked General Gurov to this meeting to explain the course of action I have elected to follow, which I will then ask you to ratify in a vote."

Which wasn't something he had to do. And indeed, Gharkov didn't want him to. It would make him look indecisive and unsure, the KGB leader said. Secretly, Khrushchev hoped they did vote against him. It would weaken his position for sure, but at least it would be a snub to Brezhnev, too - Khrushchev was just about to offer them what his squint-eyed opponent had been seeking for years.

"General?" Khrushchev said, sitting down.

The general stepped forward and cleared his throat. "As all of you will be aware, ever since the communist uprising on Cuba, we have sought closer diplomatic and strategic ties with the country." He paused. "What most of you won't be aware of is that for the last six months, by invitation of Fidel Castro himself, the Soviet Union has been housing inactive atomic weapons in silos on the island.

"I'm afraid I don't have a map, gentlemen, but I'm sure you all remember your American geography. The island of Cuba is two hundred miles off the coast of Florida. That puts our long-range missiles within range of every major American city as far north as Chicago. By comparison, the Americans have no missiles closer to our soil than the United Kingdom - one thousand miles away.

"Now, we're pretty sure the Americans know we have the silos on Cuba. They send enough spy planes in that direction. So they probably also know that the missiles we have stored there are in a dismantled, deactivated form. What we're suggesting, if you will ratify our plan, is to assemble and activate these weapons. Short of starting a war, President Kennedy will have no option but to stand down and cease hostile actions on Soviet soil. But we will be prepared for either eventuality."

The schoolchildren started muttering again. The first to speak up was the bespectacled man who reminded Khrushchev of Trotsky.

"This is playing with fire, Mr Chairman."

General Gurov stepped away from the table and Khrushchev got back up out of his chair. "I understand your concerns. I share them."

"You're provoking a nuclear war."

The other kids didn't like this. Someone threw a pen at him.

"Well, they started it," snapped Khrushchev. "They sent us that communiqué and accused us of attacking their ship. Then they started attacking our ports and now an inland target as well. They've driven us to this action."

Khrushchev stopped there, shocked to hear these things coming out of his own mouth. The man who looked like Trotsky was right. Khrushchev himself agreed with him. Yet he felt cornered by having to defend himself, and he didn't like it.

"Anyway," he said, waving away further argument. "We shall put it to the vote, and you can vote accordingly. We must be unanimous."

Then came the part he was dreading. He had eighteen slips of paper. There was nothing official about them. They had been torn from a small notepad. He took one for himself and then passed the loose wad around the table.

"Be sure to make no mistake," he said. "If you agree with my plan, you must write 'yes' on your slip. If you don't, you must write 'no'."

Just so there was no confusion. The eighteen of them curved a hand round the edge of their voting slip, made their mark, then folded them over twice.

Khrushchev watched as the wad returned, hand to hand. Once everyone had voted, he could start counting. He unfolded each slip, held it up so that they could all see the result, and then put it onto the corresponding pile.

"One for 'yes'," he began.

"What was the final result?" Gharkov asked later. About half the Politburo had left the room by then. Others stood around, talking, looking slightly guilty.

"Sixteen 'yes' votes, one 'no', and one abstention."

"Any idea who abstained? Brezhnev?"

Khrushchev glanced across the table to where Brezhnev hadn't moved from his seat. He looked like a man swindled out of his inheritance. Metzkin was perched on the edge of a pulled-up chair, making jarring hand gestures.

"No." Khrushchev sighed. "It was me."

General Gurov brought the document to him last. All the others had signed it, including the 'no'-voting Trotsky Two. Just like the vote, it wasn't necessary, but it oiled the cogs of bureaucracy and made the Politburo feel substantiated.

Khrushchev signed his name at the top of the page.

"I don't know, Gharkov," he said as soon as Gurov was out of range. "I really thought they would vote against me this time. I must have presented too good a case, just to keep Brezhnev at bay. And now he's got his way anyway."

"But you're still in charge, and he's not. That's the main thing."

Khrushchev snorted. "In charge, Gharkov? How? I feel my power to control events slipping through my fingers faster and faster. You know as well as I that the end result of this crisis won't be determined by anybody in this room."

Gharkov frowned. "Don't give up yet, sir."

"No?"

"Our man is heading to Ussurysk."

Khrushchev chuckled. "Won't be determined by him, either."

The fourth or fifth time the moustachioed man walked past their cabin, Shelby noticed him too. They were about forty-five minutes out of Nakhodka at the time, and Malakov claimed he hadn't seen him at all. However, a minute or so after the man passed a sixth time, Malakov got up and said he was going to the toilet.

Shelby didn't say a word. He knew there weren't any facilities on board the train, for starters, so unless Malakov was going to piss out a window...

Shelby was alone when he heard the smashing of glass.

He leapt straight to his feet. He shoved the cabin door aside and went out into the corridor. Immediately, he was swept in the face by an icy gust of wind channelling through the train. Somewhere there was a window broken.

"Malakov?" he called over the howl.

Slowly, quietly, he proceeded in the direction from which the wind was coming. It was two doors down. At first he thought it was Malakov standing in the cabin with his back to him, looking out of the window.

But Malakov was gone. And so was the window.

The man heard Shelby and turned. Shelby recognised him immediately. He had a rather aristocratic moustache. And he was smiling.

He held out his hand. "Jack Shelby?"

The man was an American!

"Mark Hanlon, CIA."

NOTES:
The longest chapter so far, largely due to the first third, which is entirely devoted to secondary characters. I just wasn't sure if I could leave the end of chapter nine without further detailing what happened, plus setting up the Ussurysk location before the main characters get to it, rather than delaying the action when they arrive. In two other attempts, I wrote about the Predator massacring, but I thought that was getting old, and in another version, Kramer was the sole survivor of the attack. Regardless, I didn't think I could leave yet another slaughter largely off the page. Though it means now I have to work Kramer in to a later chapter just to justify his getting over 1000 words here.

A lot of details in this chapter have been fictionalised for greater dramatic effect. Whilst it was true in the last chapter there's no railway line from Vladivostok to Nakhodka, there's not one from Nakhodka to Ussurysk, either. Nakhodka doesn't even have a station. And Ussurysk isn't a major train junction. It only has about three lines, two of which go into China. The workings of the Soviet Politburo (aka the Praesidium) are also made up. Whilst it did indeed have eighteen members, only twelve of these actually hadn't any voting powers. I could have worked that in, making the Trotsky-alike one of the six non-voting members, but I thought it'd just slow stuff down to explain it.

Incidentally, Mark Hanlon is named after the character of Mike Hanlon in Stephen King's "It", which I have been reading during writing this story. Other names I considered were Greg Luke Robeshaw, Luke Roger Begshaw and Luke Gregor Ebshaw, but they all sounded too English. All of those are anagrams of George Walker Bush, by the way. But to explain the relevance of that would be to spoil the rest of the story.