Metcalfe grunted, then slammed his knee into the NKVD man’s stomach, even harder, and at the same time wrenching the gun out of his hand. He struck the Russian with it, in his temple, with such force that at first he thought he might have killed him.
The blond agent’s body went slack, his arms dropped to the floor, and the whites of his eyes showed. He was unconscious—but for how long?
Now the shouts were coming from all around. Men were coming at him, members of the crew, racing to tackle the intruder. Metcalfe jumped to his feet, saw that he was cornered!
He spun to his right, ran toward a metal ladder, and climbed up it. It led to a bridge constructed of metal pipes and wooden planks, directly above the stage. As he reached the bridge, he pulled the ladder up, keeping the others from chasing him up here. He ran across the bridge, and for the first time he saw what had happened when he’d sliced the rope and unharnessed the sash weights. No wonder the music had stopped, the theater was a cacophony of panicked voices. He had dropped a heavy black fire-safety curtain in front of the stage, thus cutting off the performance without warning; the audience had assumed that fire had broken out somewhere in the theater, and many were rushing to get out!
The bridge led to another catwalk. Metcalfe raced along the narrow catwalk until he reached a hatch that led to some kind of a wooden access panel. The shouts from below grew louder, more frenzied, as the members of the crew attempted to catch the intruder in the doctor’s white coat who had rung down the curtain in the middle of Swan Lake. The panel swung open. Metcalfe entered and was immediately plunged into total darkness. He felt his way along a low-ceilinged, narrow tunnel—a walkway, presumably. The voices, the shouts from the stage below, were muffled. He stumbled along the hall, his hands in front of him to protect himself from unseen obstructions.
A crack of light along the floor indicated another door; Metcalfe stopped, felt for the frame, then the handle of a crude wooden door. He turned the knob, pulled the door open, and he was in a dimly lit corridor that looked vaguely familiar. Yes! He remembered it from the last time he had gone backstage to find Lana. He had walked this way before. In a moment he had oriented himself, reversed directions before turning a corner and finding himself in the long row of dressing rooms. The third one down, marked BARANOVA, S.M., the door open a few inches.
He ran toward it, heard voices within. She was there! Dressed in her white swan outfit, the feathered headdress still atop her hair, speaking with a ruddy-cheeked young crew member.
“There is nothing,” the man was saying to the prima ballerina. “It is a false alarm—a malfunction of the backstage equipment, it must surely be.”
“This is crazy!” Lana replied. “It’s never happened before! Where’s the director, the stage manager? Someone must make an announcement!”
She looked up, gaped. “Stiva!” she shouted. “What are you—?”
“Quick, Lana. Listen to me!” He looked from the assistant to Lana, his eyes questioning.
“It’s all right, Stiva. This is Ilya, my friend. The one who warned me?”
“No, I’m sorry, Lana. We have to talk alone.” He gestured toward the door; Ilya nodded, looking abashed, and left the dressing room.
She rushed up to Metcalfe, embraced him. Her stage makeup was thick, her eyes kohl-lined, but it did not detract from her beauty. “Why are you here? You are dressed—I see you must have gotten in here as a doctor, but you should not have come here! Stiva, what is going on?”
“Lana, everything’s too risky! I’m leaving the country, and I want you to come with me.”
“What? Why do you say this?”
He told her quickly about Ted Bishop, about the NKVD agent who’d seen him at the dead drop. “Connections have been made. They know about me, they’ve seen me retrieving the documents. They know about my connection to you. It’s far too easy to connect us two, and I can’t have that; I won’t have that!”
“Stiva!” Lana blurted out. “Everything is a risk here, everything I do. I chose to do what I did not because you forced me but because I believed there is a good reason, because good will surely result from it—for the motherland as well as for my father. And no, I will not go with you, do you understand? Now, please—you must get out of here.”
“I don’t want to leave without you.”
Lana looked frightened. “No, Stiva, I can’t leave Russia.”
“It’s not safe for you here.”
“I don’t live here because it’s safe. It’s my home. It’s in my blood.”
“Lana—”
“No, Stiva!”
It was useless to argue with her; it was infuriating! Metcalfe removed his white doctor’s coat and stethoscope, shoving them into the empty black doctor’s bag. “If you won’t come with me, I need a way out of here where I won’t be seen, and I’m afraid too many people have seen my face. They’re going to be searching everywhere. Any minute they’ll be up here.”
“Wait,” she said. She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway. Metcalfe could hear her speaking with someone not far away. She returned a minute later. “Ilya will help you.”
“You trust him?”
“With my life. And so with yours, too. He knows all the secret ways out of here, and he drives the prop truck, so he can take you out of Moscow.”
“But where?”
“There’s a warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow where the Bolshoi stores its larger props, scenery that’s not in use. Where sets are built. There’s someone on duty there, but he can be bought easily—and cheaply.”
Metcalfe nodded. “There’s a place for me to hide there?”
“Plenty of places. For a couple of days at least.”
“I won’t need that long. I just need a place to work from, to figure out my next step.”
There was a knock at the door, and Ilya entered, shoving a large face mask, hood, and black robe at Metcalfe. “This is one of Baron von Rothbart’s masks,” he said. “A spare. It’s the one he never uses.”
Metcalfe took it, impressed. “The evil genius. The sorcerer who keeps Odette imprisoned as a swan. Good idea. It’s the only plausible way for me to be walking around here with my face hidden.”
Ilya smiled gratefully. “Anything for a friend of Lana’s. Now, Lana—Grigoriev wants to resume the performance immediately.”
“Stiva,” said Lana, drawing near to him again. She put her arms around him. “I don’t need to tell you I’d rather be with you than down there, onstage.”
“That’s where you belong,” Metcalfe said. “Onstage.”
“Don’t say that!”
“But you do,” Metcalfe said. “I mean no disparagement. It’s where you’re most alive.”
“No,” she said. “I’m most alive when I’m with you. But this”—she indicated her costume, then the dressing room they stood in—“all this is part of me, too. We’ll see each other again soon, my Stiva. Ilya will take good care of you.” She kissed him on the lips, then rushed from the room.
The hall outside the row of dressing rooms was now bustling with various costumed performers rushing toward the stage. Someone, apparently in charge, was clapping her hands and chiding the dancers to move along quickly. Through this chaos Ilya was able to move unnoticed with Metcalfe, who wore the elaborate face mask and black robe. To all observers Metcalfe appeared to be the character named the Baron von Rothbart; the chief risk was that the real von Rothbart might appear, though fortunately he did not.
Then Metcalfe saw a pair of security guards among the flow of performers. They were surveying the passing faces, shouting out questions. Metcalfe passed within a few feet of one of the guards, bracing himself to be stopped and interrogated, but it was almost as if he were invisible. The guards paid him no notice. The mask he wore not only hid his face, but it conveyed a legitimacy to his presence here. He was a performer, therefore not to be stopped.
The risks of exposure seemed to diminish once the two had turned a corner to an unused section
of corridor Metcalfe hadn’t seen before, which led to a steep back stairway. Ilya gestured with a flick of his hand. They entered the dark staircase and descended quietly.
But another security guard entered the stairway from the level below. He put out his hand to stop them.
Metcalfe’s stomach clenched.
“Hey, Volodya!” called Ilya in a jovial voice. “What the hell’s going on here?”
The security guard knew Lana’s dresser! “We’re looking for an intruder wearing a doctor’s coat,” the guard said.
“Doctor? Haven’t seen one, sorry,” Ilya replied. “But if my friend here doesn’t get to the stage in thirty seconds, I’m out of a job.” He continued down the stairs, Metcalfe following close behind.
“Just a minute!” the guard shouted after them.
Ilya turned around. Metcalfe froze.
“You promised you’d get me two tickets for the performance this weekend,” the guard said. “Where are they?”
“Give me a little more time,” Ilya said. “Come on, Baron, we got to get going.” He continued down the steps, Metcalfe immediately behind.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Ilya led the way through another maze of passageways until they reached a steel hatch. He fiddled with a bolt, finally succeeding in yanking it open. “Livestock entrance,” he said.
“Livestock?”
“Horses, bears, sometimes even elephants when we do Aida. The filthy beasts don’t use the stage entrance, believe me. Not the way they drop dung all over the place.”
Metcalfe removed his mask. They raced through a long brick tunnel that smelled strongly of animal excrement, the cement floor covered with straw. It ended in a covered loading dock, where several vans were parked, each of them painted with the words STATE ACADEMIC BOLSHOI THEATER. Ilya ran to a wide set of double doors and unlocked them, then pushed them open. Outside, traffic roared by. Then he leaped into the cab of one of the vans. Metcalfe raced to the rear of the van, pulled open the door, and climbed in. The compartment was loaded with giant painted canvas sets, but he was able to squeeze in, then close the door behind him.
The engine turned over feebly, then came to life. Ilya revved it repeatedly, and then the vehicle started to move.
Metcalfe sank to the rusty steel floor, which vibrated as the van accelerated. The smell of partially combusted fuel was overpowering.
He settled back for the long ride to the outskirts of the city. Although it was completely dark, the image of Lana in his mind glowed, luminescent. He thought of the way she had dismissed his warning, the way she had kissed him and then run off. Her bravery, her impetuousness. Her passion.
And how she had refused his offer to get her out of the country. He was disappointed, deeply so, but at the same time he understood. She could not leave her father, could not leave her homeland. Not even for her Stiva. Her ties to her country were stronger; that was the grim truth.
Suddenly the van came to a stop; the engine shut off. It could not have been five minutes since they’d left the Bolshoi. What had happened—had Ilya been pulled over? The engine had not died; it had been shut off. He would not shut off the motor at a traffic light. Metcalfe listened for a signal of some sort, for voices. But there was nothing.
He stood, climbed behind one of the tall canvases to conceal himself in case the van was searched. Standing between two canvas sets, he waited.
Abruptly the door to the van opened and the interior was flooded with a strange yellow light. Metcalfe stood perfectly still, hoping that if the van was being searched, the inspection would be quick, cursory. Any searcher would see stage props from the Bolshoi, be satisfied, then close the van door, and they could safely resume.
Why? he wondered. Why had they been stopped?
“He’s back there!” a voice called.
Ilya’s voice; Metcalfe recognized it.
Several more voices, followed by the hollow footfalls of someone climbing onto the van’s steel floor. Metcalfe froze. He heard the voice again, the voice that had to be Ilya’s: “Believe me, he’s in there.”
But it couldn’t be Ilya! And if it was, who was he talking to?
The canvas set was yanked away, exposing Metcalfe. Two men shone flashlights at him. Two men in uniforms. Bolshoi uniforms? Were these security guards?
No. He recognized the uniforms, the coiled snake and dagger emblem on the epaulets. But it made no sense!
The two men grabbed him, pulled him out. Metcalfe saw at once that there was no use in struggling: the van was surrounded by uniformed officers. Ilya, smoking, was talking to a few of them, his casual pose indicating that he hadn’t been waylaid. He hadn’t been pulled over. These were people he knew, or at least people he seemed comfortable around, men he was cooperating with.
The van was in a courtyard, an area he recognized only from photographs. A place he thought he would never actually see in person.
Handcuffs were placed on his wrists; he was shoved forward, surrounded by a phalanx of uniformed men.
“Ilya,” Metcalfe shouted. “Clear up this misunderstanding!”
But Ilya was already climbing back into the driver’s seat of the van. He threw his cigarette onto the concrete surface, then gave the men a friendly wave before he started the engine and drove off.
Metcalfe was pushed, dragged along by the guards, into an arched entrance whose yellow bricks were sickeningly familiar.
He was in the headquarters of the NKVD.
In the Lubyanka.
Chapter Thirty
To call it a nightmare would be inaccurate: nightmares always contain the tiniest kernel of realization that they are but dreams, that one can and will awake and be free of the horror. Metcalfe knew this was no nightmare. It was reality, his reality, the most horrific thing about it that there was no way out. In the last year working for Alfred Corcoran’s organization, he had been in quite a few frightening situations. He had come close to being discovered, had evaded detection or arrest on numerous occasions. He had been shot, nearly killed. And then he had witnessed murder, the deaths of people he cared about deeply.
But all of it paled to insignificance now.
He was in a cell in the infamous Lubyanka prison; he was in another world, where escape was impossible, where the skills that had gotten him out of so many difficult situations could no longer help him. He had no idea how long he had been in this cell: Was it ten hours? Twenty? There was no way to keep track of time, no rising or setting of the sun, no schedule, no regularity.
He was in a narrow, solitary underground cell, unheated and frigid. He lay on a hard iron bed whose mattress was no more than an inch or two thick and reeked of innumerable prisoners before him. There was a coarse gray woolen blanket no more than four feet long, which just covered his feet and knees and not much more.
Metcalfe was exhausted beyond exhaustion, but he couldn’t sleep: there was a bright electric light in the cell that never went out and slatted iron blinds that admitted tiny slits of electric light from somewhere outside. They didn’t want him to sleep; exhaustion, physical and mental, was their objective. Every half-minute or so, the metal disk that covered the spy hole on the door slid open and an eye peered in. Whenever he pulled the short blanket over his face, a guard slid open the spy hole and barked at him to uncover his face. Whenever he turned to the wall, a guard would bark at him to turn back.
The cell was so cold he could see his breath. He couldn’t stop himself from shivering. He had been forced to undress, his clothes removed and slit open with razor blades, all metal buttons removed, his belt taken away. His body was searched. He was ordered to take a shower but was given no towel with which to dry himself. He had to put his ruined clothes back on his wet body, and he was then marched across an icy courtyard to another part of the building, where he was fingerprinted, his photograph taken, front and profile.
He knew a fair amount about the Lubyanka, but what he knew was nothing more than the dry, dispassionate stuff of briefing books, of intelligence
reports, and the occasional whispered rumor. He knew that the oldest building in the Lubyanka complex had once been, before the Revolution, the headquarters of the All-Russian Insurance Company. He knew that the Cheka, the first incarnation of the Soviet secret police, had converted it into offices and interrogation chambers and prison cells.
He knew that it was a death factory, that important prisoners were executed in the cellar of Number 1 Dzerzhinsky Street, the most secretive of the connected Lubyanka buildings. He had been told that when a prisoner was about to be executed, he was led into a chamber in the cellar, where a tarpaulin was spread on the floor and a bullet administered to the back of his head from an eight-shot Tokarev automatic pistol, either just as he entered the room or as he faced the wall. The executioners were paid well, were always male and usually illiterate, and their work was said to take a toll: alcoholism and suicide ran rampant among the men who fired the shots.
Immediately afterward, the body was taken away to be buried in a common grave. A woman came in to mop up. Death was certified by a doctor employed by the NKVD, the death certificate the last piece of paper placed in a victim’s file. Unless the victim was famous, his relatives were always told that the executed man had been sentenced to ten years in prison with no right to correspondence, and that would be the last the relatives would ever hear.
All this he knew, but what he didn’t know was far greater. Had he been betrayed by someone—or had the NKVD simply decided it was time to bring him in? He’d been seen at the dead drop; his hotel room had been searched; his transmitter had been found. There were a dozen reasons to arrest him.
But why had it been Lana’s friend, her dresser and crew member, Ilya—a man she seemed to trust implicitly, a man who had warned her that agents were searching for her—who had brought him here?
It was possible, certainly, that Ilya was an informer, a low-level collaborator with the NKVD like so many people in Soviet life. The secret police would get a hold on someone—a threat against a family member, the discovery of a petty dishonesty—or simply offer a token regular payment. It didn’t take much to co-opt someone. The NKVD was suspicious of Metcalfe, knew that he regularly visited Lana: it was logical for them to hire or subvert Lana’s trusted assistant, to order Ilya to bring Metcalfe.
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