The Doomsday Box

by Herbie Brennan

“I found Opal,” Danny said. “I couldn’t find Michael, but if the KGB have her, they’ve definitely got him as well. Listen—”

  “Is she all right?” Fuchsia interrupted.

  “Yes, I think so. They have her in a room with a bed, so they obviously don’t plan to let her go anytime soon. But there’s no sign she’s been roughed up or anything. She was actually having a nap when I found her. So I don’t think they’re in any danger.”

  “Yet,” Fuchsia said.

  “Yes, I know. We can’t hang around. You happy we go tell somebody in the embassy?”

  “That’s what I always wanted to do,” Fuchsia said. “Shall we go find Mr. Henderson?”

  To Danny’s surprise, Henderson accepted their story without question. “I’ll need to alert the ambassador about this,” he said soberly when they’d finished. “This has to be tackled at the highest possible level.” Danny and Fuchsia looked at each other as he left the room.

  To Danny’s even greater surprise, Ambassador Llewellyn E. Thompson took the situation just as seriously as Henderson; but he did ask questions—and quite a lot of them.

  “This happened outside St. Basil’s?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You went there together, all four of you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How come they didn’t grab you two as well?”

  Fuchsia said, “Danny and I went off to look for . . . to look at the cathedral. When we came back, they were bundling Opal and Michael into the car.”

  Thompson frowned. “Matter of interest, how did you know it was the KGB?”

  “We followed them,” Danny said. It was sort of true. To anticipate an obvious question from the ambassador, he added, “They drove very slowly for some reason.”

  “Arrogant bastards,” Thompson muttered. “That’s the KGB, all right—think they own the city.” He looked at Danny. “And they took them to Lubyanka Square?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were together in one of the embassy’s meeting rooms, seated around a small, polished table. The young man Henderson was taking notes in a leather-bound book. The ambassador looked as if he might have been on his way to some state function: he was wearing a dinner jacket. All the same, he showed no sign of impatience, which suggested he was treating what they were telling him very seriously indeed. Danny half regretted taking the time to confirm the KGB really were involved: Ambassador Thompson never seemed to doubt it for an instant. Maybe the KGB had grabbed embassy people off the street before.

  Ambassador Thompson leaned forward and regarded them soberly. “Okay, now we get to the tricky bit; put the notebook away, Harry.”

  “Yes, sir.” Henderson dropped it into his side pocket, put away his pen, and sat staring ostentatiously into space.

  “You kids”—Ambassador Thompson pursed his lips—“that’s to say, you two and the two who’ve been seized, are all in Moscow on a sightseeing trip—right?” He stared at them knowingly and waited.

  Danny caught on faster than Fuchsia and said quickly, “Yes. Right.”

  “Fact that the arrangements were made by a guy who happens to work somewhere in Langley, Virginia, doesn’t mean you kids have any connection with any . . . official . . . organization of any sort in that neighborhood, does it?”

  “Certainly not,” Danny said.

  “You’re not affiliated with any . . . company?”

  “No.” Danny had been to enough spy movies to know the CIA referred to itself as the Company.

  “Okay, now we’ve got that clear, I’m going to ask you a very important question, and this time, Danny, I want you to answer with the truth. That clear?”

  “Yes,” Danny said, wondering what was coming.

  “Should I worry that anything you kids might be doing could prove embarrassing to the United States if I make a stink with the Russians about the actions of their KGB? I’m not saying I won’t take action if you are up to something. God knows some”—he coughed—“companies have very young employees these days. I’m just telling you that I need to know, in advance, if there are going to be any repercussions from the Russians when I accuse them of kidnapping innocent American citizens.”

  “Actually we’re British,” Fuchsia said, speaking for the first time.

  Ambassador Thompson shrugged. “Same difference—we’re all on the same side. If need be, I can go through the British embassy.”

  “I’d rather you handled it yourself, sir,” Danny said quickly. Patriotism aside, he knew the Americans had far more clout with the Russians than the British did. Besides, calling on the British embassy would involve explanations and waste time.

  “Thought you might,” Thompson told him. “Now, answer my question.”

  “We’re not doing anything that could be of any interest to the KGB,” Danny said. “Certainly nothing that’s going to be any diplomatic embarrassment to the United States.” He was fairly sure it was true. They were trying to contact an undercover agent of the CIA, which was admittedly a little iffy, but not about anything that was going to affect the Soviet Union in any way whatsoever.

  Ambassador Thompson stood up. “Okay. I’m going to set the wheels in motion, see if we can’t put on a little pressure, find out what the hell they think they’re playing at, and get them to release your friends. I want you to wait here. Harry will get you some coffee, sandwiches, anything you need. This shouldn’t take long.”

  In fact it took more than an hour and a half. Danny and Fuchsia began by politely refusing food and ended up eating their way through a plate of doorstop ham-and-mustard sandwiches, washed down by copious mugs of black coffee.

  Ambassador Thompson returned looking grim. “You sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me?” he asked without preliminary as he sat down.

  Danny shook his head innocently. “Nothing.”

  “What about you, young lady? See, the thing is, I’m leaving this posting in August. I don’t want to go with a black mark on my record and I’m not sure I trust your friend here.”

  Good judge of character, Danny thought admiringly, as Fuchsia said, “There’s nothing you need to know, Ambassador Thompson.”

  “Okay,” Thompson said, “I’m going to have to believe you.” He reached for the coffeepot. “There’s good news and bad news.”

  Danny set down the remainder of his sandwich. “What’s happened?”

  “I contacted the Soviet foreign office. Protocol. We have to do that first. They knew nothing about any KGB operation aimed against your friends or anybody else staying at the embassy. Didn’t know of any KGB operation anywhere in Moscow that went down today. But that’s not unusual. KGB are a law unto themselves. Most of the time they act first, tell their foreign office afterward, even when it involves foreign nationals. So I told the foreign office something had gone down and we were hopping mad, and if they wanted to avoid an international incident they’d better contact their KGB and find out what.” He spread his hands and gave the ghost of a grin. “Never does any harm to take a tough line with the Soviets—only thing they ever seem to understand.”

  “So did they, Mr. Ambassador?” Danny prompted. “Did they get in touch with the KGB?”

  “Got back to me after seven minutes—fastest turnaround I’ve gotten from them in years. The good news is, it was the KGB who arrested your friends—”

  “That’s the good news?” Danny muttered.

  “The better news is, they’re not holding them anymore—they were officially released earlier this evening.”

  “What’s the bad news, Mr. Ambassador?” Fuchsia asked.

  “The bad news is, I don’t believe the better news. Your friends haven’t come back to the embassy, haven’t made contact with us since they disappeared. We have no reports of any foreign youngsters wandering the streets. And most of all”—he leaned forward—“our people in the KGB can’t find any record of their release . . . or their arrest.”

  “You have people in the KGB?” Danny asked, astonished.
r />   “What do we do now, Mr. Ambassador?” Fuchsia asked at the same time.

  The ambassador ignored Danny completely as he turned to Fuchsia. “That’s the problem, young lady. We’ll continue to monitor the situation, of course, but apart from that, I don’t see there’s very much else we can do except hope they find their way back to us in one piece.”

  Chapter 33

  Michael, Lubyanka Prison, 1962

  The woman Anna Krylov folded out the thing that looked like an attaché case into a small table, which she set up almost directly in front of Michael. Her brother, Grigory, opened his attaché case.

  Michael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of his cell. The case contained a collection of shiny surgical instruments, plus several items that would not have looked out of place beside a dentist’s chair. With slow deliberation, Grigory began to lay them out on the table.

  Anna picked up a scalpel and moved toward Michael.

  Opal struck her like a wildcat, howling and clawing. Anna Krylov may have been expecting the attack, for she stepped back calmly. Michael twisted in his chains in time to see Opal clutch her arm, gasping. Blood was seeping between her fingers. Nonetheless she screamed, “Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” Anna stared at her without expression.

  “She doesn’t speak,” said Grigory.

  “I don’t care!” Opal shouted. “I don’t care if she’s deaf, dumb, and blind! I won’t let her touch Michael!”

  Grigory Krylov finished laying out his instruments, then closed the case and set it on the floor. “She can hear and see perfectly well,” he said in his precise voice. “It is only that she does not speak. But you have caused yourself unnecessary pain. She approached your friend only in a preliminary capacity.”

  The adrenaline rush of the sudden excitement had washed away the worst of Michael’s aches, leaving behind a trembling stiffness. He wondered what ‘preliminary capacity’ meant. The woman had been carrying a scalpel. “Leave her,” he croaked to Opal. “You can’t stop these people, and I don’t want you hurt.”

  “He is correct.” Grigory nodded. “You are not in a position to stop my sister or me. If necessary, we shall restrain you, but I would hope you might restrain yourself.”

  “I won’t let you hurt Michael!” Opal spat.

  Grigory Krylov stared at her without expression. “Whether or not Michael is hurt will depend on Michael. How badly Michael is hurt will depend on my sister. She is efficient, but if you attack her while she works, she may cut deeper than she had intended.”

  It was strange, but Michael felt no particular fear, perhaps because his body was so numb. What was going to happen was clear. This woman was going to torture him while Opal was forced to watch. The torture on Michael would be physical. The torture on Opal would be emotional and psychological. It would stop only if they gave satisfactory answers to the Krylovs’ questions. And the problem, Michael knew, was that there were no satisfactory answers. Even if they told the truth, they would not be believed, for the truth was too incredible. He wanted to explain this to Opal, wanted to tell her their position was hopeless, but for the moment his mouth was too dry. He had been given nothing to eat or drink since they hung him here.

  Grigory Krylov was still speaking. “Is it your wish that we restrain you?”

  Opal seemed slightly calmer. She shook her head. “No.” Then the fire blazed freshly in her eyes. “But you mustn’t hurt him. He doesn’t know anything and he’ll tell you what he knows. Just give him the chance. Tell them what they want, Michael.”

  “You contradict yourself,” Krylov told her blankly. “If he knows nothing, then he cannot tell us what he knows. However, your attitude is basically correct. The prisoner must always be given the chance to avoid pain. Thus, when my sister completes the preliminaries, you shall both be questioned and given opportunity to answer.”

  Opal flared again. “You keep talking about preliminaries!” she shouted suddenly. “What are these preliminaries? What do you mean?”

  “For the prisoner to understand the nature and intensity of the pain he wishes to avoid, he must first experience it. The preliminaries allow him to do so, although for a shorter duration than might be the case at a later stage.”

  Opal stared at him, appalled. “I won’t let you!” She launched herself forward.

  Krylov moved with terrifying speed and, as if choreographed, his sister moved with him. Together, they overpowered Opal in a matter of seconds. Michael could see they secured only her thumbs and ankles with plastic ties. Minimal though it was, these immobilized her completely, and the twins dumped her unceremoniously in one corner. Grigory picked up a scalpel from the table as well, and both he and his sister stood only feet away from Michael, staring at him blankly.

  The adrenaline rush had died, and the numbness of his body no longer guarded him against the encroaching fear. His legs gave way again so that he hung from the ceiling chain, watching the twins for movement from beneath his lowered brow. Neither twin moved; they simply stood there with their scalpels. In a moment of useless observation he noticed both were left-handed. He studied their faces, trying to find evidence of emotion, but there was none. He wondered if their inaction and their passive stares were part of a psychological ploy, meant to frighten and disorient him, or just an indication of some hideous dissociation that left them bereft of any feeling. They were professional torturers. Surely professional torturers could not carry out their job if they had feelings?

  Michael found his voice. “Get on with it,” he murmured. He thought he heard a sound somewhere near the door, but did not bother to look up.

  “What are you waiting for?” Opal shouted. Whether deliberate or not, the psychological pressure was obviously getting to her.

  “They are waiting for me to ask you the first set of questions,” said a new voice quietly.

  Michael’s head jerked up. Menshikov was standing in the doorway of the cell. He had exchanged his civilian suit for what Michael took to be the full uniform of a KGB colonel, complete with sidearm holstered at his waist. It made him look older than he had before . . . and far more menacing.

  Menshikov caught Michael’s eye and gave a grim little smile. “Unfortunately I may have to disappoint them.” He turned to the Krylov twins. “You followed correct procedure?”

  From the corner of his eye, Michael saw the Krylovs had snapped to attention. “Yes, Comrade Colonel!” Grigory Krylov said stiffly. Michael thought he heard fear in his voice. What sort of man was Colonel Menshikov to frighten monsters like these?

  “Then you may stand down,” Menshikov said. “These prisoners are scheduled for immediate release.”

  Immediate release? Michael used the last of his strength to push up on shaky legs so that he could see what was happening. A part of him was suddenly incandescent with relief, but a different, perhaps wiser, part remained suspicious. Was this another psychological ploy—raising hopes only to dash them and thus break a prisoner’s spirit? But Grigory Krylov was taking his instruments from the tabletop and placing them back in his attaché case with meticulous care. His sister, stone-faced as ever, let down her scalpel and stood watching him. As he finished and snapped shut the case, she folded the little table again and placed it underneath her arm. Both twins turned together to face Menshikov; made neat, simultaneous salutes; then marched from the cell.

  Menshikov unclipped the fastening of his holster to make his sidearm accessible. “I hope you two are not going to give me any trouble,” he said menacingly.

  Opal asked what Michael wanted to ask but didn’t dare. “Are we really scheduled for release? You’re not going to harm us?”

  “It is best you are quiet,” Menshikov said. He walked over to Michael and began to fumble with the chains. The smell of cheap cologne hung round him like a cloud. “Help me with this,” Menshikov called to Opal. He glanced toward her. “Oh, they’ve tied you, have they?” He turned back to Michael. The ceiling chain suddenly ran free, and Michael collap
sed in a heap on the floor. Menshikov knelt to unshackle his wrists and ankles. When he’d done so, he said shortly, “We need to move fast,” then walked briskly toward Opal. He pulled a knife from his pocket as he did so, but it was only a penknife.

  Michael curled for a moment into a fetal position. Incredibly, the pains he’d endured while chained were a thousand times worse now he’d been freed. Nerves and muscles throughout his body burst into fiery agony as blood circulation returned. But the pain didn’t last, and after a moment he tried pushing himself stiffly to his feet. He felt weak, dizzy, and very shaky but managed to retain his balance. From the corner of his eye, he could see Menshikov cut the plastic ties on Opal’s wrists and ankles. Were they really about to be released? Somehow he doubted it. All the same, he was grateful to be freed from his chains.

  Perhaps that’s how he was meant to feel. Perhaps gratitude encouraged prisoners to answer questions.

  “Help him stand,” Menshikov told Opal sharply. “Then help him walk. There will be no permanent harm, but for now he will not be able to walk unaided, and it is important we leave here as quickly as possible.”

  Opal was weeping, whether with relief at being freed or as a reaction to his appearance, Michael did not know. She held him gently, murmuring words of encouragement under her breath, then, glancing briefly at Menshikov, placed Michael’s arm around her shoulders. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so,” Michael said. In fact, much to his surprise, he was feeling a little stronger already.

  Menshikov drew his sidearm, a heavy revolver of some sort. “I would ask you to walk in front of me. It is important—very important—that you follow my instructions without question and without hesitation. Should anything unexpected occur, you must stand still, remain silent, and permit me to deal with it. It is absolutely vital that you make no attempt to escape my custody.”

  Michael almost laughed aloud. The idea that he could somehow make a break for it in his present condition was ridiculous. But he noticed the word custody. Despite Menshikov’s talk of release, it was obvious they were both still prisoners—and prisoners at gunpoint. This looked far less like a release than a transfer. But a transfer to where?