Together in Paris

7.

He gripped the handle of his black suitcase firmly, the streetlights dimly lightened the deserted way to the station as the wind blew mercilessly through the buildings of St. Petersburg, howling as it hit the corners of them. He turned up the collar of his coat and covered his mouth and nose with his scarf. Both had been very useful tools during the spying missions he had carried out in the past, especially in cases in which those he had to follow knew him. 
He checked with fleeting eyes that none of his comrades were nearby. Fortunately, there seemed not to be anyone but him.

Strange, he told himself, better stay alert.

He hadn't warned Gorlinsky of his departure, let alone his subordinates! The only one who knew about it was the soldier who had given him the unfortunate news, and he had paid him well to be quiet about the matter. Also because, if it weren't so, he would have had half Russia at his heels.

"Tell them where I am only if they threaten you." he had ordered the spy when he had come to deliver the visa "Otherwise, pretend to know nothing about this story."

It had seemed to him the right thing to do. He would have solved the problem himself, perhaps by negotiating with the Dowager Empress, but he would have put an end to those stupid rumors.

Anastasiya was dead.
And he had to bring Anya home.

The idea of leaving Russia had at first frightened him, despite the strong feelings that burned into his chest. After all, what could he rely on outside his country? He didn't speak languages other than Russian, except a little bad German, so how could he survive in States he didn't know either language or laws? 
But then, when his mind had come to the point of refusing to fight the soul and his heart had finally risen a winning flag, he had no longer bothered about his knowledge.

"For Anya." he had whispered to himself as he had come out of his house.

For Russia, his brain had immediately corrected him.

He quickly passed the pillars of Leningrad's station, where life was extremely active despite the late hour and the long-standing curfew. Armed men patrolled the end of the marble atrium, children complained, women ran along the huge hall as their boots ticked on the stone floor, and the stationmaster tried, with his powerful voice, to overcome that nocturnal chaos to draw attention on the departure and arrival of the trains.

"Leningrad - Constantinople coming to the platform!" he announced, emerging painfully from that cacophony of voices to the sound of a whistle.

It was his train.

He slipped through the crowd with quick mastery, instilled in him after years of espionage: he dodged elbows, dangerous stomps and erroneous movements that, had he been someone else, would have intruded him. He soon reached the platform, the only one of the station still in operation. Despite all the efforts that the government was making to put Russia back into the world, the means of transportation had become difficult to be found, especially if one tried to leave the borders of the State: Stalin wasn't enthusiastic about emigration. Russian population had to remain in Russia to bring it back to the apex as it once was. It was considered treason to try to escape, and that was why intercontinental trains left late at night: there never were too many controllers on board and the soldiers supervising the station often acted like they didn't know anything. Gleb should have been unhappy with that inefficiency. Yet, at the moment, he couldn't help but thank it.

He stopped a few steps from the rails, all dressed up in his black coat, with a heavy hat on his raven hair and the scarf that almost prevented him from breathing. He let his eyes wander over the silent figures that surrounded him: he would have recognized their posture and their supposed superiority anywhere. They were all aristocrats fleeing to Europe, the land of salvation. Once in Constantinople, he would surely meet then all again on the Orient Express, which would take them to the Gare de Paris Est, France. There, an unknown future awaited them. He himself didn't know what he would have done once in Paris, but at the moment he didn't care at all.