Chapter 21
KONSTANTIN
The last usable aircraft remains disassembled inside my terminal when the train begins to move.
Through the lounge window, I watch the hangars pass beneath banks of white light.
Panels lie open across six jets. Mikhail's inspection teams work in sealed suits despite the hour, removing access covers and photographing each connection before they touch it.
The damaged long-range aircraft waits apart from the others behind a line of red lamps.
For four days, my wife has slept inside the upper floor of a residence stripped of staff.
Every meal, delivery, and medical decision passed through a ring of people I chose myself.
The service halls stayed dark while teams searched walls, vents, and employee records for the source of the stolen schedule.
The copy still offers no trail that ends with the person who sold it.
Winter removed the alternatives while we searched.
Ice closed the lake road. Freight wreckage still blocks the northern bridge, and watchers returned twice to the routes leading toward the family stronghold.
Mikhail found no further damage in the fleet, but one opened actuator is sufficient.
None of us will fly until every aircraft can be reassembled under new supervision.
He refuses to connect the aircraft with the defective seal discovered weeks ago.
That part came from a documented manufacturing batch, and the loosened actuator connection carries fresh tool marks under a panel someone resealed.
I'd prefer one enemy and one solution. Mikhail has made his teams preserve the difference so the evidence remains separate.
The rail line is the sole route that survived inspection.
At the platform, Mikhail signed an orange strip across the rear coupling's command housing after the terminal team completed its final sweep. The strip number entered the departure record, while any opening would tear the material across his initials.
Nora sits in a curved chair opposite me with a blanket over her knees.
She wears black trousers and a soft blue sweater.
Seven cups of ginger tea have reached her since boarding, and the latest remains untouched between her hands.
"If you ask whether I'm nauseated again, I will become nauseated out of spite. "
"You were ill before dinner after choosing the fish yourself."
"The fish changed after I ordered it."
I put the medical bag beneath the side table rather than asking another question. Her eyes follow the movement.
"That bag contains more equipment than my clinic," she says. "The doctor requested antacids, vitamins, and a thermometer. You added oxygen and three sealed IV kits."
"They are portable, and the physician is two cars ahead."
Nora closes her eyes. Her mouth bends before she hides it behind the teacup.
The rear sleeper carriage was commissioned by a head of state who lost an election before taking delivery.
I bought it with the rest of the private set and replaced every communication line, lock, and window.
A bedroom occupies the back half. The lounge contains a dining alcove, a small kitchen, and a bathroom supplied from independent tanks.
Its heating system can run for two days without the engine, while batteries under the floor power the lights and protected communication suite.
A narrow vestibule connects us to the protection car ahead.
The steel inner door remains open during routine travel, giving the eight-person detail direct access.
Two exterior camera arrays feed both cars through separate circuits.
A guard in the protection car watches the rear platform through a dedicated thermal feed.
Beyond the protection car, the physician and two train technicians occupy a service coach. The locomotive crew knows the approved rail path, though not which family property waits beyond the last junction.
Nora chose the arrangement after refusing my first version.
I wanted the physician inside our carriage, a second medic in the bedroom passage, and a guard posted at each door.
She agreed to medical help within two cars, then reminded me that early pregnancy hadn't converted our rooms into a ward.
The security chief supported her because crowding more people into the rear car would create extra credentials.
I accepted the same recommendation from him five minutes after rejecting it from her, a mistake Nora has mentioned twice.
Only six people received the full destination and arrival window. Nora and I know. My security chief, Mikhail, and Anton hold the plan. The sixth is the stronghold liaison responsible for opening the hardened rail entrance after our identifier reaches him.
Each received the route less than an hour before departure. The file cannot be forwarded or printed, and opening it requires an internal credential tied to the recipient's current device.
No port system touches the line.
I built that separation after the restaurant attack.
Anton checked it again before boarding, tracing every arrival credential back through our own access office.
Mikhail replaced the train's terminal crew with aviation employees he has known for years.
The stronghold liaison served my father before he served me.
If I can't trust that group, the word has no practical meaning.
The terminal falls behind us. Snow thickens beyond the windows as the train moves through industrial yards, past dark warehouses and frozen loading cranes.
The carriage rocks beneath my feet with a motion softer than flight, though every wheel joint sends a small vibration through the floor, a steady iron pulse carrying us out of the city.
Nora watches the city recede. "How long, and what happens if the northern switch closes?"
"Seven hours if it remains open. We take the western line and add two hours if it doesn't."
"What's the stronghold like? I need more than old, fortified, and expensive."
"The original house was a hunting lodge. My father expanded the lower levels after someone fired into his car outside a courthouse. There are independent generators, a rail entrance under stone, and food for eighty people."
"Warm sales pitch."
I look past her toward the dark glass. "The upper rooms overlook a frozen river."
"Better."
I sit across from her. She lowers the blanket from the adjoining cushion without comment, making space beside her.
The train clears the last freight yard. City light fades behind us, replaced by snow rushing through the beam cast from the carriage windows. Beyond that illuminated white, the countryside has no edges. I place one hand on her knee beneath the blanket.
She has brought one small suitcase despite the uncertain length of our stay.
Mine occupies a luggage compartment because three members of the household packed for every meeting I might conduct while hidden in the forest. Her clinic shoes sit beside an old paperback, an old photograph of her grandparents, and the green sweater she wears whenever comfort matters more than appearance.
"You can still object to the location," I say.
"Can I object to the weather? If not, the location seems secondary."
"I can have you moved elsewhere after the fleet is cleared."
"You can ask me where I'd like to go."
The correction no longer surprises me, though I still feel the impulse to answer danger with movement before asking which life she wishes to preserve.
"Where would you like to go?"
"At the moment, somewhere with grilled cheese. Nothing in this train kitchen smells safe."
I call the attendant. Nora catches my wrist before I finish. "I can make it."
"The cook can make it."
"The cook put dill in the potatoes. I don't trust him with grilled cheese."
I follow her into the narrow kitchen.
The space contains a black induction surface, a copper sink, and cabinets fitted with brass latches against the movement of the train. Nora finds bread, butter, and three cheeses while I remove a skillet from under the oven.
"You know where pans live," she says. "The mystery deepens."
"I lived without staff longer than you've known me."
Nora passes me the knife handle first. "Did you cook?"
"I made food hot."
"That sounds prosecutable."
She butters the bread while I slice cheese. The train bends through a curve, shifting her into my shoulder. I put an arm around her waist until the carriage straightens. Her hair brushes my chin, carrying the clean scent of her shampoo.
Desire comes quickly when our bodies meet.
The weeks since the wedding have taught me the sounds she makes before losing patience with restraint, the places her skin warms first, and how eagerly she yields after choosing the terms of surrender.
Pregnancy changes none of that. It adds fear to the wanting, a cold thread pulled through the heat whenever I remember how little of our child exists yet.
Nora looks up. "I'm not fragile. You've been looking at me as if sudden movement might void the warranty."
"I know there is no warranty. I still can't stop searching for what might hurt you."
She presses a buttered slice of bread into my hand. I take it without arguing again.
We eat at the small table while sleet begins striking the glass.
The security chief calls every twenty minutes from the next car.
Track clearance holds. No road vehicle follows the line for more than a mile, and the exterior cameras show empty snow across the rear view.
The attendant collects the abandoned dinner service, rolls the cart forward, and seals it in the service coach with the cook before the weather worsens.