After more than 90hrs on the train Pulikesi had become pretty good at predicting its sways, squeaks and its unlubricated left wheel. This obviously wasn’t his first time on a packed, malodorous train. Their train, the Moscow — Bishkek 917, usually ran for like ten minutes before pulling over for the high speed Trans Siberians.
Pulikesi believed that this ‘ordeal’ was an elaborate prank by those Ukrainian punks. He remembered dillydallying over the question of a day off. Ilya and the gang were starting a riot. But the rest was all black…
He had woken up on a train doing 40 tops surrounded by tough looking men. After ten hours, despite Pulikesi’s questionable Ukrainian, everyone had become ‘ok’ with everyone. Like everything in Russia it started off with cigarettes and vodka and soon they were exchanging penis jokes and plov. By the time they had hit Kazan, Pulikesi had become an expert at mooning Russian peasants.
After sixty hours, the party had been broken up by the train’s arrival in Dushanbe, Tajikistan. As everyone was undocumented, the guards had done ethnic tests like the density of the unibrow, curvature of the nose and Tajik proficiency. A cursory check failed Pulikesi on all accounts. The Tajik guard had declared, “Not ours. Onto to Tashkent.”
And the party continued for ten more hours before pulling into Tashkent, Uzbekistan. The Tashkent police had arrived at the same conclusion: “Doesn’t smell like ours. Doesn’t speak like ours. Not ours. Next stop.”
The final leg, Tashkent — Osh — Bishkek had provided some of the greatest views of the Fergana Valley. By the time the train pulled out of Osh, Pulikesi really and truly believed that this was an elaborate prank.
Primakov, Marko and Ilya waited at Bishkek’s Main Railway Station.
Korlov had confirmed that their Indian not-janitor guy had boarded the 917 out of Moscow’s Kazanskaya Station. The guards at Tashkent and Dushanbe had denied registering a Pulikesi. Playing the elimination game Primakov had flown out to Bishkek — the last stop on the 917.
“So this guy you are looking for, is he mentally loose?” asked Otorbayev, the Chief of Bishkek PD.
Petulant Russian guards often topped off deportee trains with Russian vagrants… just to mess with the republics.
“No. It was an administrative error,” said Primakov, before hastily adding, “… by the Ukrainians.” Korlov was already on the cover up effort. Nobody could know about this tossing the Consultant snafu.
“Ukrainians… of course,” observed Chief Otorbayev wearily, “Suddenly they are too good for our Kyrgyz guards. Their embassy wants… demands, Ukrainian guards. Can you believe it?”
“Those Ukrainians…” Primakov nodded.
“You know Comrade, shagging up with the Americans doesn’t make them Americans.”
“Hey nobody is ‘shagging up’ with anybody. If anything it’s you guys, with your American air base…,” it was the suddenly nationalistic Ilya. He was more than willing to take shit from the Russians. But Kyrgyz? Come on. The red republic had allowed the Americans to build a friggin air base… largest in Asia… that Kyrgyz? Hell no. Plus it violated the sacred insult rankings: You had Russia on top followed by Ukraine and Belarus. Then came the Chechens, Georgians and what not. At the bottom of the pile were the Kyrgyz below the Tajiks.
Otorbayev would have begged to differ.
“Shut up,” Primakov growled at Ilya. Affronting the town’s Police Chief wasn’t on his ‘things to do in Bishkek’ wish list. Plus the brief Kyrgyz flirtation with the Americans had already ended. Time to move on.
“Shut up, prisoner,” added Marko for emphasis.
Chief Otorbayev’s walkie-talkie cackled, “Chief, Train 917 is two kilometers away. You should be able to see it now.”
“Great… that’s Omburek, our Station Master,” said Otorbayev, “Let’s get close to the action.” Chief Otorbayev led the way as Primakov, Ilya and Marko followed.
“The illegals are on the last coaches. According to Omburek, we have three coaches today. Started with ten. Tashkent took three, Dushanbe four.”
“Is there gonna be a rush? We don’t want to lose him.”
“The coaches are locked. We let them out one by one. Everyone has to register.”
“How many guys are we talking here?”
“About hundred a coach… three hundred total.”
“Exits?”
“Every coach has four exits. We open only one. But this is a walk through train, so your guy can come out of any of the three.”
Train 917 from Moscow began braking. After like a minute of anal braying it came to a halt.
Three Kyrgyz guards approached and opened one door each. Primakov held his breath. Chief Otorbayev pulled out his phone and checked up on his daughter’s VK.com activities. Ilya craned his neck in search of his bro. Marko seemed uninterested in the proceedings.
“Ilyaaa… Ilyaaa… you crabby ass mofo… Ilyaaa…”
“Someone’s calling your name,” said Primakov.
Something flashed between the fur heads. Something tan. Something fast.
