— I work.
— But what is it you do?
Efim disassembled the needle and syringe. —Is this how you question criminals, with such subtlety? How long were you in surgery with those wounds?
— I don’t know.
— General anaesthetic can affect the memory.
— The clinic had no general anaesthetic.
Efim felt ill. He kept his voice mild. —Oh?
— Too many patients. They rationed the morphine, too. I got bromides. It still took two men to hold me down. I think I’ll sit in the front room now. Thank you.
After a moment, Efim heard the radio. A tense female voice rapped out details of an ongoing trial. The accused had confessed to sabotage of equipment, sabotage of morale, plots to kidnap, plots to murder, pedophilia, hoarding of food, smuggling of warm coats from France…
— France? Why would they make better winter coats than we do?
Then Efim bit the inside of his lip, hard. One did not ask such questions out loud.
The announcer concluded her report with the criminal’s sentence. Because the accused had cooperated with the investigation and given NKVD further assistance, the state would grant leniency and commute the expected sentence of death to twenty-five years labour in Kolyma.
Efim found Kostya sitting in their one soft chair, his body at a sharp angle to the radio, as if he bowed to it. He seemed to listen with great attention.
— Nikto, I’ll be in my room. You should make an early night of it.
Jaw tight, Kostya nodded. Then he sat back in the chair, felt his jaw relax, and dozed.
Temerity woke up, checked her watch: not long after six in the evening. She ached all over. As if coming down with flu, she thought, oh, wouldn’t Freeman enjoy that. Somehow, her room smelled like the Lubyanka cell. She put on fresh clothes and tucked her Temerity West passport into the special lining of the blouse. Then she opened her curtains and peered out her window at Gorky Street. Two parked NKVD cars. Four officers leaned against the cars, chatting, smoking, and staring up at the Hotel Lux windows. Temerity recognized two of the men: Comrade Subtle and Comrade Quiet, still there.
The room’s stuffiness worsened.
Christ, I can’t think in here.
When upset as a child and adolescent, Temerity would walk the grounds of Roedean or, if at home, the Kurseong House estate, perhaps soak her shoes in the fen or run until she got breathless and then lie on her back on the ground. Air, her father said, good fresh air. Cures anything. The greatest men in history have solved their problems while out for a walk. Just a short stroll along Gorky Street, as far as the Gastronom food shop, and then, if she slipped Comrades Quite and Subtle, she could stroll a little farther, yes, make it a good hike, cross the river Moskva and get herself the bloody hell to the British embassy and maybe, just maybe, NKVD wouldn’t arrest her again before she reached the embassy doors.
How best to leave? A service entrance might help her avoid the NKVD tail out front, presuming she could get past hotel staff and their suspicious questions. Leaving through the main doors meant informing the desk clerk of one’s plans and destination, and, of course, attracting the attention of the NKVD officers.
Temerity descended the stairs to the lobby and strode up to the desk clerk, a young man with brown eyes and spectacles. He glanced up at Temerity, then returned his full attention to his paperwork.
After a moment, Temerity cleared her throat. —Good evening, comrade. I need some air and shall go for a walk.
— Destination?
— The Gastronom food store at Gorky Street Forty, then back here.
He took up a pen to make a note in a ledger and checked the time on his watch. —Very well, Comrade Bush.
— Oh, the last time I visited Gastronom, I picked up some chocolate, one of those big slabs, but it’s the wrong kind. Would you care for it?
The young man’s eyes betrayed his desire for the chocolate and his fear of a possible trap. How much did one name in a ledger really mean? And really, how could any chocolate be the wrong kind? Yet… —Is the wrapper intact?
— Yes.
After a moment, he closed the ledger without writing anything in it. Temerity gave him the chocolate, then strode outside through the main doors.
Three of the NKVD officers stared at a disturbance down the street, a quarrelling couple oblivious to their audience, while the fourth noticed Temerity.
Underarms slick with sweat, she kept walking.
The officer made no reaction.
The stench of that Lubyanaka cell still in her nose, Temerity found herself thinking of the Gernika fires, and then imagining a lecture from Neville Freeman about deserting one’s post. Have you no backbone at all, Miss West? First little upset and you gallop to the embassy? England expects that every man will do his duty. Are you really suited for this work?
Then she saw her own reflection in a glass window, her head sliced off at the neck by the edge of small poster promising plenty. The poster shone, paper glossy, colours slick: tumbling sausage, cheese, bread. Behind the poster, the window showed many empty shelves. The sign over the door read Deli Number 12, and someone had painted a surname beneath that: Babichev.
The light had changed, darkened.
Temerity blinked a few times. This isn’t Gorky Street. Wrong turn?
Her watch told her that almost two hours had passed since she’d left Hotel Lux.
I’ve seen this deli before. Haven’t I? Did I walk in circles?
A car approached, all rumble and rattle of metal and screws, and Temerity, about to turn and seek a street sign, caught the car’s reflection in the deli window: matte black. She dug her nails into her palms. Comrade Subtle and Comrade Quiet had followed her, after all.
The car stopped; two men climbed out. They wore civilian clothes, and Temerity did not recognize their faces. Just a coincidence, then.
A radio blared through the window of a flat one storey up: classical music, Mikhail Glinka, the overture to his opera Ruslan and Lyudmila.
Temerity glanced up and down the street and saw no one else. Then she resumed her study of the deli’s display, watching the men’s headless reflections. They closed in. As she turned to face them, one took her handbag while the other reached for her left arm. —Come, little one.
Instinct took over. Temerity grasped the reaching man’s sleeve, embraced him round the back while getting her knee between his legs, lifted him, then turned and flipped him over her shoulder. The thud and gasp of him landing on his back on the street seemed too quiet, and the pounding of Temerity’s pulse seemed too loud. So did the second man’s command to stop, heavy with the authority of an aimed Nagant. Head slow, Temerity looked up. One tiny black hole pricked her vision, and she stared at the muzzle’s narrow darkness in the utter opposite of gazing at a star.
She lifted her hands and showed her palms.
The music of Glinka continued, quite merry.
The man who aimed the Nagant snarled at his colleague to stand up. The fallen man, breathing hard and complaining of the dangers of unmuzzled bitches, got to his feet, and locked handcuffs on Temerity, too tight. When she cried out, he gave her a hard shove. She fell to her knees, scraping them open and ruining her stockings. The men hauled her up by the arms, and the three of them walked in a brisk lock-step to the car. A witness, an adolescent girl watching from a third-storey window, caught Temerity’s eye and then darted away.
As the men forced Temerity into the back seat, she commanded herself to speak. Her angry voice, however, remained imprisoned in her head, where it echoed alongside long-memorized instructions in case of detention. Keep quiet and observe. What you see and learn may be invaluable. If compelled to speak, recite in growing detail your cover story and thereby stall for time. Your duty at all times is to observe and then escape and make report.
The driver started the car.
Blood trickling down her knees, Temerity leaned forward to ease the pressure on her arms and peered throu
gh the windshield. Tears blurred her vision, and she saw little of the drive until they turned onto Gorky Street and passed the Hotel Lux. Comrade Quiet and Comrade Subtle had left, but the other two uniformed officers still smoked and chatted. The men in the car gave the officers no signal, and the officers in turn only glanced at the car. Temerity felt cold. The men in the car, while armed, wore civilian clothes and had not demanded to see her papers. Nor had they identified themselves in any way as NKVD.
Her voice sounded small. —Wait.
The man she’d flipped whirled round, ready to strike her across the face; the driver steered with one hand and grabbed his colleague’s arm with the other. —Don’t bruise the pastry.
A pause, a snort, a lowered hand: the man faced front.
Temerity worked to crack the idiom. Pastry? Like crumpet? Desirable young female?
The driver caught Temerity’s eye in the rear-view mirror. —No need to cry, girl. Just cooperate, and nothing bad will happen to you or your family.
She said nothing.
Eyes back on the road, the driver continued. —You love your papa, don’t you?
Play along. —Yes.
— You don’t want to be the reason why he gets arrested.
Temerity made her eyes wide and spoke on a dry whisper. —No.
— Then don’t fight. Just keep quiet, and your family will be fine. Everything will be fine.
She memorized street signs, memorized the address of the house where they stopped: an older home, set back from the street, the front yard a thriving garden of flowers and shrubs.
The men discussed the risks of taking the cuffs off the pastry now versus the risks of a neighbour noticing two men leading a restrained woman to the house. The car doors opened, and the scents of flowers, turned soil, and sharp resin seemed to promise beauty and peace. The man she’d flipped reached into the back seat, wrenched Temerity around, unlocked the cuffs, and hauled her out of the car. Her hands tingled; her arms ached.
The front door of the house opened, and a man welcomed them. He stood about six feet tall, his body broad, muscular once, now turning to fat. Bald on top with greying hair over his ears, a heavy greying moustache, and black eyebrows, he wore dark trousers and an open-necked white shirt. —Come in, come in.
A large cat rested on an upper windowsill and stared down at them all.
Once inside, the host grasped Temerity’s left forearm and ran his fingers over the mark of the cuff. Then he glared at the two men. —I thought I made myself clear: no samples, and no rough play. I want them as calm as possible.
The man Temerity had flipped answered. —With respect, Arkady Dmitrievich, she fought back.
— This little one?
The driver smirked. —Yes, she flipped him onto his back and would have chopped into his neck if I hadn’t saved his arse.
The other man glared. —Shut up! It’s not like she could have killed me.
— Yes, she could have. One good blow. Or did you miss that class?
— I didn’t miss anything. I fight better than you any day.
The driver mimed drinking. —Only when you find some guts in a bottle.
Rolling his eyes, Arkady strengthened his grip on Temerity’s forearm and hauled her to a large dining table, this table covered with a cloth, bottles, glasses, many plates of food, and several bunches of cut flowers. He spoke with solicitous respect. —What can I get you to drink?
She glanced around the room, struggling to understand the meaning of this house, these men, the table, and the smaller batch of bottles to one side.
Arkady picked up one of the flower bunches. —I cut these myself. Pretty, aren’t they?
Temerity accepted the flowers in her free hand, almost dropped them, held them to her nose. —Lovely.
He let go of her arm.
The other two men blocked access to the porch, and the back windows offered a view of another beautiful garden. A breeze played with her hair, as from an open door or window just out of sight.
Arkady gave her a glass of red wine, then raised his own in a toast. —To the beauty of women.
Steady the Buffs. She took a sip: sweet and heavy with a tainted finish, just salty enough to make her want to drink more and so get rid of that taste.
Smiling, she placed the glass on the table. —Oh, it’s too strong for me. You see, I don’t drink. My father wouldn’t approve.
— Would your father approve of you insulting your host?
— I…
— Drink it, please. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make sure your evening is pleasant.
She backed away, and sunlight glinted off her watch. Arkady grabbed her left wrist again, peered at the watch face, at the brand name: English. He threw her wrist down as though shaking off repulsive debris and craned his head to look at the other two men. —How old is she?
The men glanced at each other, shrugged.
— You’re to check their papers! Eighteen’s the cutoff. Give me the handbag. I’ll do it myself.
His back to the other men, Arkady faced Temerity as he scanned the British passport and travel papers for one Margaret Bush.
He stared at her.
Feeling the breeze on her face, she stared back.
Arkady dropped the papers and passport into the handbag, snapped it shut, and let it dangle on his forearm. —Let’s not waste good wine. Drink.
Temerity kept still.
Outside, dogs barked.
Arkady took a step towards her. —Drink it. Last chance.
— No.
— Stepanov, get in here.
Temerity ran towards the source of the breeze and collided with another man. Short and slender, with a snub nose and receding hairline, Yury Stepanov seemed half-lost in the poor tailoring of his NKVD uniform. As Temerity staggered back from him, the two men who’d seized her on the street dragged her to an overstuffed armchair and forced her to sit. Dust rose. The man she’d flipped spat in her face. Metal clinked glass, and Arkady, still balancing the handbag on his forearm, looked tired.
Yury stepped in front of him, holding a needle and loaded syringe. He’d pursed his lips into an odd pout, one that Temerity recognized from photos of another man. Knowing or not, Yury Stepanov imitated the new NKVD chief, Nikolai Yezhov.
Yury studied the scene, surprised by how much this pastry struggled. Did she not know she was overpowered? —Keep her still. Now, hold her hand out to me. I said keep her still. Why can’t we just force them to drink?
Arkady peered over Yury’s shoulder. —Because they might vomit. Not too much. She’s small. We don’t want to kill her. She’s still swollen from the handcuffs, so you should get a good vein. No, not like that. Wait, what the hell are you doing?
Yury almost shoved the needle at Arkady, then thought better of it. —With respect, Comrade Major, I’ll ask you to do it.
His boot soles tapped hard as he strode off.
Muttering an insult, Arkady tugged the handbag onto his shoulder, read the label on the bottle, held the syringe to the light, and flicked his thumbnail at the glass a few times to burst bubbles. He depressed the plunger; a drop of liquid emerged at the needle’s tip.
Temerity writhed. —Wait!
— For what?
Temerity could not answer him.
Without easing their grip, the other two men moved to give Arkady room. Arkady knelt beside Temerity, something Yury had not thought to do, and so wielded his delicate weapon with stability and balance. He leaned in close to her ear, as if to kiss her.
She froze.
Arkady nodded. —That’s better. Now, not a sound.
He injected a vein on the top of her right hand, the prick and burn signalling defeat. Still, as much in anger as fear, she did scream.
It guttered out.
The flat was quiet except for the music from the radio, and Kostya smiled, unaware he did so. Then he cried out and got to his feet. He thought he might vomit, not because of the morphine, which no longer bothered him that wa
y, but because of a sudden cold and desperate anxiety.
He’d forgotten.
The old man’s dessert party. Shit!
In his bedroom, he hauled on civilian clothes. Snub Arkady and avoid the party? Unthinkable. All those years, Arkady would say, all those years that you begged me to invite you, and now you forget?
Kostya strode and swayed through the flat door and locked it behind him, and as his shoes swished on the steps, so much quieter than his boots, he thought of his veins and how they rose to the skin and announced their presence after an injection, never before. In the lobby he nodded to the watchwoman. She rocked in her chair. Then he ran to Vasilisa Prekrasnaya — with some grace, he thought — paid his fare, and descended the steps. The train rumbled its arrival, the driver looking skeletal though the shadowed glass. The tile mosaic of Vasilisa, all her many pieces, shimmered.
As Arkady eased through a haze of tobacco smoke, laughing at the end of a joke and swatting one of his cats down off the dining table, he spotted Kostya’s arrival at the front door. Kostya nodded to him, then answered a hearty greeting from another guest. Fifteen NKVD officers, old Chekists and a few favoured up-and-comers like Kostya, filled the parlour; male voices shouted and laughed and cursed, told stories, made toasts. Glancing around at his house, at the decor unchanged since 1903, Arkady could not decide which felt more bourgeois: keeping all the frills and stripes and curving lines of his parents’ youth, or spending time and money on new and plain decoration. Busy with his career and then with raising Kostya, Arkady had ignored the house. Many visitors commented on how Arkady’s house felt like an old photograph, a refuge from sharp lines and paperwork.
The men glanced at the closed study door, then pretended disinterest. Knowing what waited inside the study, Kostya smirked. The study had once been his bedroom, and he’d completed hours and hours of language drill there. At fourteen, he’d announced to Arkady and Vadym that he wished to become a Chekist like them, and surely his gift for languages would be useful there, just as Arkady had said for two years now. Arkady made the plans and arranged for more language tutors. Some of those tutors had asked Kostya when they might expect to see him at the university, and Kostya had never known what to say. Just before starting as a cadet in NKVD, Kostya considered changing his mind and instead attending university, perhaps studying to become a translator or even a doctor, like his grandfather. He chased the thought away, hardly able to admit it to himself, let alone voice it to Arkady. So the plan remained in place, and Cadet Nikto graduated and took up his duty. No doubts then, he told himself, and tonight, standing in Arkady’s house with other officers while confined women waited in his old bedroom, and no doubts now. He shook his head. No, no doubts.
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