When Korolev awoke it was the intense light he was first conscious of-it seemed to press down on him, even through his closed eyelids. He moved his head to the side and lay there, feeling the ridges of a brick wall against his cheek, and cursing the pain that seemed to stretch his skull outward.
He knew where he was, he didn’t need to open his eyes. Prisons always smelled more or less the same-a mixture of piss, mildew, rotten cabbage and the stench of unwashed, frightened men. He mightn’t know which, but he was in one, that was for certain. He swallowed carefully, tasting blood in his mouth and, eyelash by eyelash, broke apart the crust that held them shut. Then he cursed again. He was in a small cell, about three meters long and two wide at the far end of which a tiny table and stool were bolted to the floor. The walls were painted a light, glossy blue, the smooth surface of which was scarred down to the brick with names, dates and messages. He didn’t need to read them to know where he was. The small wooden tiles barely visible under a layer of grime gave him the answer. The Lubianka had been the head office of an insurance firm before the Revolution, and its parquet flooring had famously survived when the paneled offices had been ripped out and replaced with cells and interrogation rooms. He’d known this case was cursed from the start.
Angry with himself, and uncomfortable, he pushed down at the filthy floor, rolling onto his shoulder and then his back and eventually releasing his left arm from beneath his body. The arm was utterly numb, as though it belonged to someone else. He lifted his hand with difficulty and flexed his fingers, feeling no sensation at all to start with, before an itchy tingle told him the blood was coming back. With another effort he pushed himself to a sitting position against the wall, feeling a dizzy nausea as he did so. There was a bench long enough to sleep on, folded up against the wall and getting up onto it was the objective he had in mind, but his whole body hurt, most particularly his head, where a mess of hair had crusted around a fat sticky bruise. Some dog had given him another crack on the skull and he couldn’t imagine that was going to do his concussion any good. His belt was gone and his winter coat and felt boots were missing as well. He hoped that dirty brigand Kolya hadn’t made off with them, and then smiled at the thought. Kolya wouldn’t bother with a patched-up, moth-eaten rag like his. Not in a million years. Only honest men wore coats like Korolev’s. The boots and the coat would be waiting for him if he got out of this in one piece, no doubt of it. And if he didn’t make it out, he’d have no need of them.
The metal plate that covered the Judas hole slid back and a pale blue eye examined him. Korolev instinctively raised a hand in greeting, but the metal plate was already sliding shut. He listened to the guard walk along the corridor, his keys jangling and the sound of other metal plates sliding back and forth. Well, at least they knew he was awake. Perhaps something would happen now. He allowed his eyes to shut.
…
When he came round for the second time, he found he’d enough energy to stand and then push down the wooden bed so he could sit on it. There was a thin blanket on the table which he hadn’t noticed before, and he placed it between himself and the wall to lean back on. A bucket stood in the corner, ringed with dried piss and more solid substances that he didn’t want to think about, so he didn’t. Anyway, he’d no need of it as yet. He sighed-the Lubianka, no less. Not the Butyrka, nor the Novinskaya. Not Lefertovo or any of the other Moscow prisons. The Lubianka. They only sent senior Party bosses here or foreigners. Zinoviev. Kamenev. The fellow who’d assassinated poor Kirov. British spies. That was the kind of traitor who ended up in the Lubianka-Central Committee types and foreign agents-not some half-dead Militia captain. He supposed he should feel privileged. It was enough to make him smile, although not with much humor.
And what the hell had happened back at the Arbat house? One of Kolya’s men had slugged him from behind, most likely, but Kolya couldn’t be responsible for him being here, could he? The only connections Kolya had with the Organs were the kind that would put Kolya in prison himself. No, Kolya’s lot must have knocked him out cold and then left him in the house. Then he’d been found and brought here. That wouldn’t have happened if it had been Militia or even ordinary Cheka-they’d have asked questions and, even then, he wouldn’t have ended up in the Lubianka. It must be Gregorin behind it. At least he hadn’t been shot, for the moment anyway.
The metal grate scraped open and the blue eye stared in at him once again. Korolev looked back, but the eye remained expressionless. Then the grate slid back into place and the keys moved off down the corridor to another cell. He stood up slowly and leaned his hands against the facing wall and stared at the painted bricks in front of him. “Forgive me, my darling wife,” some poor bastard had scrawled and he thought of Zhenia and the boy in Zagorsk. Maybe Yasimov would be able to look out for them. Or maybe not. The boy, of course, would suffer. Having an Enemy of the People for a father would be a burden on the youngster, even if he hadn’t seen the poor mite in the best part of a year. But then it occurred to him that, if it was Gregorin who’d found him, there’d be no judicial proceedings. If he was alive now, and here, it was for a reason. He’d want to know what Korolev knew and that would be that. He couldn’t let him go free. Not with what he knew. The thought sent cold sweat trickling down his spine-that was why they’d brought him to the Lubianka. To mine him of whatever information he had and then finish him off.
As if on cue, footsteps approached the cell, keys sounding their discordant tune, and the door squealed open. Three guards stood there. Two of them were young fellows, strong shoulders and broad faces-almost identical in fact-but with eyes that reminded Korolev of dead fish. The twins entered the cell and lifted Korolev to his feet. The third was taller and older, his skull shaved to a gray shine and softened by rolls of fat that pushed out his ears like cup handles. He, at least, had some expression in his eyes, even if it was contemptuous. The bald guard examined a file he was carrying and then looked up at Korolev.
“Prisoner, you will not speak unless asked a question, in which case your answer should be brief and to the point. For preference, use ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Any attempt to speak to the guards otherwise will be treated as a physical assault and dealt with accordingly. Understood?”
Korolev was surprised that the guard had the voice of an educated man, even if he looked like a brute. He considered trying to tell them about Gregorin, but dismissed the idea. He’d get his beating soon enough, no point in asking for one in advance.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
“Yes or no, prisoner.”
“Yes,” Korolev said.
“I’ll lead, one beside, one behind. Handcuff him first. Eyes front at all times, prisoner.”
The twins turned him to the wall, cuffed his hands behind his back and then pushed him out into a narrow corridor that was painted the same light blue as the cell. Heavy metal doors lined both sides of the passage, lit by single high-watt bulbs that dangled from the ceiling at regular intervals. In one of the cells someone was sobbing like a child; an unreal sound, as if it were happening on the radio in another room. The bald guard checked their positioning and then they started off, the lead warder jangling his keys like a bell as they walked. The brownish streaks on the painted floor and walls looked like dried blood to Korolev. In the circumstances he was surprised he didn’t feel fear. Instead, after the initial shock, he felt quite calm.
They entered a stairwell and descended four flights. The windows were blacked out to allow no light or noise to come in from the outside so, as a result, it felt like being underwater, the only solid sounds being those of their own footsteps, and even they seemed distorted. There were other sounds, but they were smothered and remote, from elsewhere in the building, and, like the sobbing from the cell, had an unnatural quality. Korolev half-wondered whether this might all be a dream, and it was almost a relief to be led into a plainly furnished room with a solid metal chair in front of a desk, thick leather straps hanging from its arms and legs. The room had the harsh rasp of reality to it.
“Sit in the chair, prisoner.”
He sat and the twins took off his handcuffs before buckling the leather straps on, tight as tourniquets. The only part of his body he could move was his head and he began to look around him to see what kind of a place he’d ended up in.
“Eyes front, prisoner.”
“But,” Korolev began and got no further. One of the twins hit his left ear with a blow that exploded inside his head like a pistol shot. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, but then his vision cleared and the room settled into something resembling focus. He thought he was deaf for a moment, until the bald guard spoke. It was if the blow had never been struck.
“Hood the prisoner. You, wait with him until the major comes.”
Some kind of small sack was put over his head. It stank of vomit and something worse which took him a moment to identify. Then he had it-rotting flesh. For a moment he was back among the broken, decomposing bodies scattered along a recaptured trench somewhere in the Ukraine. He gripped the arms of the chair and tried to breathe through his mouth. Korolev started to count, anything to distract himself. At first all he could hear was his own breathing and he felt like screaming or trying to throw the hood off but he knew he’d just be beaten for his troubles. He forced himself to concentrate on the counting. Seventy-five, seventy-six. He’d reached four hundred and sixty-two by the time the door opened.
“You may go. You’ve been told that you are never to discuss the prisoner, under any circumstances, not even with the other guards or your superiors. Please confirm you understand, and commit to fulfill this duty to the State.”
“Confirmed, Comrade,” the guard replied.
“He is secure?”
“Yes.”
“That will be all. This corridor is to be sealed until further instructions are given.”
The guard took care shutting the door, so that all Korolev heard was a quiet click, footsteps receding and then another door, far away, shutting with a metallic clang, and finally nothing except the sound of pages being turned.
“You know why you’re here, prisoner?” The voice was quiet, putting a small emphasis on the word “prisoner,” which succeeded in conveying resigned disappointment.
“I haven’t committed any crime.”
“Everyone has committed a crime, prisoner.” The voice sounded bored. “It’s only a question of discovering which one. Would you like me to take off the hood?”
“Of course I would.”
“Well then, perhaps you could tell me what you were doing lying unconscious in the apartment of a known proponent of the Orthodox cult.” There was that rustle of papers again.
“I was making inquiries with regard to a criminal case, in the course of which I was attacked.”
“What case is this?”
“A series of murders. One of which was the murder of Citizeness Kuznetsova, also known as Mary Smithson, an American nun. I’ve been working under the direction of Staff Colonel Gregorin of the NKVD.”
He could hear the interrogator approach him and braced himself for a blow, but instead he felt hands pulling at the hood and then the stark light of the interrogation room flooded in.
“It’s not very pleasant, the hood.” The interrogator said, his disinterested voice coming from behind Korolev. Korolev knew better than to turn to look. “Deliberately so, of course. It’s often as effective as more traditional methods. You know how it goes, being an investigator-a brutal interrogation is exhausting. It leaves some people in as bad a state as the prisoner. But the hood works well.” The interrogator sounded as if he were speaking to himself.
“I don’t beat confessions out of prisoners. I find such measures counter-productive.”
A hand patted Korolev’s shoulder-it wasn’t clear whether in approval or sympathy.
“Now, who do you say assaulted you?” The voice had moved to Korolev’s left. It was disconcerting, having no one to look at. But then it was probably deliberately so.
“I didn’t see him. He hit me from behind. Why am I being held, Comrade? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
There was silence while the interrogator walked to the desk and then turned. With a shock, Korolev recognized him. It was the man from the football game. His watery blue eyes looked tired and his face seemed grayer than Korolev remembered, but it was definitely him, and now in the uniform of an NKVD major. He smiled when he saw he’d been recognized; a small upward spasm of the lips; the smile of a man unaccustomed to the act.
“Yes, a strange coincidence,” the major agreed. “I was surprised to see you at the game.”
“You knew who I was?”
The major considered the question and then shook his head as if deciding it couldn’t be answered safely.
“To business. Prisoner, we’re here to determine the extent of your involvement in a conspiracy concerning the theft of State property. The priority of the investigation at this stage is directed at recovering the property in question.” He paused for a moment and then added, almost as an afterthought. “The extent of your guilt will be determined at a later stage. But your cooperation will be considered a mitigating factor.”
“A conspiracy? I’ve been involved in no such conspiracy and no such theft,” Korolev said, feeling anger boiling up inside him. The major considered him for a moment and then nodded toward the file. He displayed no emotion except, perhaps, melancholy. He spoke like an accountant might speak about a factory’s output of shoes; calmly, with the remorseless weight of facts to back his words.
“Let me put it this way,” he said, quiet to the point that Korolev, with his damaged ear, had to lean forward to hear him. “You can tell me what I want to know freely, or I’ll break you like a frozen branch. And then you’ll tell me all I want to know anyway. And then you will be shot, your ex-wife will be sent to the Zone and your son will end up begging on trams. Your friends will also suffer.” He looked at his notes for a moment. “Popov, Semionov, Chestnova, Yasimov, Babel, Koltsova…” In a flat voice, he recorded the names of friends, family and acquaintances, his voice becoming quieter and quieter. When he slapped the file down on the table, the sudden sound seemed as loud as the guard’s punch.
“Do I need to go on?” Anger burned in his eyes for an instant and then his voice returned to a whisper. “There are fifty names there; you must know how this works. They’ll be arrested and imprisoned, and then their families and friends will suffer, and so on and so on. It will be a ripple across Moscow, one by one by one. Hundreds of people. All because you didn’t cooperate. What advice do you think they would give you, were they here beside you? Would they tell you to keep quiet? To defy the State? To fly your little flag of selfish honor from your besieged individualist castle of sand. Be sensible, prisoner. In fact, be merciful. Their lives are in your hands.”
The major shook his head and it seemed to Korolev that the light caught a glint of moisture in his defeated eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor. The cigarettes from the snowy football pitch where Tesak had been found. The major lit one and then walked over and put it into Korolev’s mouth. Korolev inhaled and watched the major light another. Korolev nodded to the empty stenographer’s desk, speaking from the corner of his mouth.
“No typist? This isn’t an official investigation, is it?”
The major sighed. “Come on, Captain. I ask questions, you answer. This isn’t a conversation. Do I have to beat that into your thick skull? Cooperate, Korolev, for your own sake. You will in the end, believe me.”
It was the first time since he’d found himself in the prison that he’d been addressed by his name or rank. It felt almost intimate, and the half-smile the major gave him opened a chink that Korolev aimed for, almost without thinking.
“With electricity? Like you did to Kuznetsova?” It wasn’t exactly a shot in the dark, but the words surprised Korolev almost as much as they seemed to surprise the major. Of course, it was a possibility-here was a man threatening to torture him who knew him by sight, in front of an empty stenographer’s desk, with a packet of Hercegovina Flor on the table beside him-but yet the major reminded Korolev more of a priest than a psychopath.
However, any doubts vanished when the blood seeped away from the major’s face. Korolev watched him in fascination; he looked like a hunted animal. Eventually he seemed to control himself and began to speak in a furious whisper, two red spots appearing on his blanched cheeks.
“What are you talking about? What foul nonsense is this? How dare you accuse a Chekist of such a crime? You dog. You filthy, rotten, slanderous dog. I’ll rip your skin off inch by inch.” He rose to his feet and jabbed a finger at Korolev, his voice rising to a scream. “Shut your dirty mouth, do you hear?”
But Korolev was, temporarily at least, past intimidation.
“A strange reaction, if you don’t mind me saying so, Comrade. I suppose the State property you’re looking for isn’t a certain icon either? That’s why you tortured her. Isn’t it, traitor? To find the icon?”
“You know where the icon is, prisoner,” The major replied, calmer now. “And you know who the real traitor is as well, you black-hearted dog.”
“What will your lad make of it when you arrive in America? To find out his own father’s a traitor to the Soviet People. It will be difficult for him. I could see how he looked up to you. A Pioneer, isn’t he? Will you pack his red scarf for the journey?”
The major’s eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, then Korolev’s words seemed to give him some comfort and he relaxed, waving Korolev’s barbs aside.
“You fool, I’m not going anywhere. You, on the other hand, will be shot this very hour if you refuse to cooperate. To hell is where you’re going.”
“Maybe I am. But why did you shoot your Comrade, Mironov, from the Foreign Department? Because he didn’t go along with the plan to sell the icon to the highest bidder?”
The major again blinked in surprise, and then it occurred to Korolev: perhaps the fool didn’t realize the conspiracy was Gregorin’s. Perhaps he was a dupe as well.
“You don’t know about Mironov, do you? Major Mironov? They went to him to arrange the visas. But no visa for you, it seems. You’ll be left to face the music, while they salute the Statue of Liberty with French champagne from the deck of an ocean liner. At least I got wise in time. If I’m going to be shot, let me be shot with my eyes open.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We’re the dupes, brother. The icon was recovered from Thieves in a raid led by Gregorin, and then it was stolen again right from this very building. You know this much, am I right?”
The major shrugged an acknowledgment. At least he wasn’t threatening to peel his skin off, Korolev thought to himself. That was progress, he supposed.
“What you don’t know is that the icon was a secret. Only Gregorin and a couple of others knew about it. He never told his superiors its significance-instead he made contact with foreign enemies, looking to sell it. Mironov was to help them with visas, but he took the icon for his own purposes, so they had to get it back. They knew the nun had entered the Soviet Union, and that there was a chance she was here for the icon-so they sent you after her in case she had it. With me so far?”
The major still wasn’t stopping him, so Korolev carried on, the pieces fitting into place as he talked.
“So, when she was found, us poor Militia investigators, we thought it was just another murder. Then Gregorin started taking an interest and told us there was an ongoing Cheka investigation into stolen artifacts and that the crime was probably connected. It was Gregorin who pointed us in the direction of the icon. We worked out the dead woman was a foreigner from her fillings and her clothes, but without him we’d never have made her for a nun or had a clue about the icon. So you were pursuing your line of inquiry, using your methods, and I was pursuing mine, following you, but we’re both looking for the icon and both of us dancing like puppets on strings pulled by Gregorin. Now do you see?”
The major looked at his fist for a long time. Eventually he lifted his head and frowned.
“No. Everything was authorized, of course it was, and at the highest levels. Sometimes a Chekist has to perform unpleasant tasks, but we’re the Party’s sword and it isn’t for us to decide the nature of the blow we must strike. No one likes the wet jobs, but sometimes they’re necessary-to exact retribution without judicial process. And this Mironov? What is he to this? A Chekist dies-there are many of us ready to do as much. There’s no connection to this matter.”
“But there is.” Korolev considered for a moment and then became resolute-after all, if Mironov had been murdered, it was because Gregorin already knew he’d taken the icon. “They offered to cut Mironov in, in exchange for the passports and visas, but instead Mironov stole the icon and handed it over to the Church. That’s why the nun was here. That’s what was confirmed to me by the cultists this evening. Now do you see?”
“Mironov?” The major seemed to be considering the name. “I’ve heard nothing about a Chekist being killed. When do you say this happened?”
“He was found four days ago. When he was killed is another question. But his body wasn’t meant to be found. They put it in a church due for demolition. By chance, someone came across it and, by another chance, I identified it. Gregorin took the body from the morgue and my guess is it’s buried deep in the forest by now.”
The major shook his head with a frown and, in the silence, Korolev heard a metal door down the corridor creak open and footsteps approaching. The door opened behind him and the major stood to attention.
“Well?” the voice asked.
“As you predicted, Colonel. He was turned by the cultists.” The major looked at Korolev with a disgust that chilled him to the core. Korolev tried to turn, but the chair held him tight. Then the colonel walked into his line of sight, a sad smile making his expression almost gentle. Gregorin. Korolev would have given a lot for a free right hand and room enough to swing it.
“Poor Korolev,” Gregorin said with a sympathetic smile. “You became confused, didn’t you? Political matters are complex-shades of gray, whereas you see things in black and white. You swam into deep waters and the Party’s enemies were waiting. The Party warns of this over and over again. ‘Be vigilant!’ they tell you. ‘They’re not fools, these counterrevolutionaries.’ No, indeed they’re not-they’re adept at deception and deceit and yet citizens are always surprised at their cunning ways. So and so was a Party member for thirty years, Lenin’s right-hand man, how could he have been a traitor? Because we’re fighting a many-headed hydra, Korolev, with infinite patience and incomparable self-control and its agents are everywhere. Your Mendeleyev, for example, an apparently useful contributor to the Revolution for many years and then he’s spreading Fascist lies dressed up as humor. A dupe perhaps, or was he simply in hibernation, waiting for this time of crisis to unleash his poison? And what about you? Were you a willing participant in this attempt to steal from the State or were you cynically manipulated without even being aware of it? What’s Korolev’s son’s name?”
The major looked at his file.
“Yuri.”
“Yes, Yuri. Poor child. You know about State orphanages, don’t you? They’re in transition, of course. In time, ordinary children will be envious of orphans who are cared for by the State. But these days, I’m afraid, things aren’t so good. Did you hear about that little boy who was crucified for wetting his bed? Crucified? Nailed to the wall in the dormitory as an example to the other children? Nailed, I ask you. Of course, the perpetrators were punished when it was discovered, but even so these things happen more than we would like. And he’s a good-looking boy, your son. It’s a shame, but some of the staff are degenerates. They slip in, no matter how hard we try. Well, one can only hope for the best.”
“Why isn’t there a stenographer, Colonel?”
Gregorin smiled, his teeth white, and Korolev was not for the first time reminded of a predator toying with its prey.
“I told you, Korolev. This is a confidential matter. And that comes from the top. The very top. You know how the peasants are about icons-we can’t have them getting upset about Kazanskaya now, can we? Not the same year the cultist cathedral named for her in Red Square is blown to smithereens. I don’t think that would be very sensible. Do you?” His voice lost its amused tone and became hard. “So no stenographer, and no mercy if you don’t tell us everything we need to hear. Not to you or anyone who knows you. That isn’t a threat, Korolev. It’s a sacred oath.”
“Explain Mironov to me, that’s the one I don’t understand. Why did you kill one of your own?”
The colonel’s eyes slid sideways to look at the major-enough to confirm to Korolev that Gregorin was a crook, and that the major probably wasn’t.
“Mironov was part of the conspiracy-it had to be resolved expediently and quietly. I can’t say anything else-Major Chaikov here isn’t cleared for the information, and you most certainly aren’t. Suffice it to say that Mironov had betrayed the Party’s trust for far too long and got what he deserved. Still.” Gregorin smiled. “I took my hat off to you when you came up with his body. You may not be very bright, but you have the Devil’s own way of being in the right place at the right time.”
“I don’t believe you. Mironov may have been working for the cultists out of misguided belief, but you’re even worse. You’re just after the money.”
Gregorin shook his head in disagreement, “No, Captain. I followed orders. You were given orders-to stay away from the case-and you ignored them like the petty individualist you are. Your clumsy bumbling messed up the Arbat operation. We burst in on that damned house hoping to find the icon and a pack of traitors. Instead all we found was an unconscious, blundering fool lying on the kitchen floor with a bump on his head. Presumably they turned you, got the information they wanted, and then knocked you out cold. Perhaps you really did think you were getting something useful from them. Who knows? We may still be able to find it in our hearts to forgive you-accept that you were stupid rather than criminal. We could even spare your friends and family. If you cooperate fully and with an open heart.”
Korolev sat there, conscious of the two men’s cold eyes on him, and decided he’d run out of cards to play. As he’d listened to Gregorin’s explanation, he’d been half-convinced. It was just possible he’d been mistaken-even if his instinct was telling him louder than ever that Gregorin was a crook of the highest degree. But Chaikov seemed to have fallen for it hook, line and sinker, and that meant Korolev’s room for maneuver was limited. It was time to roll over. After all, who was he protecting by keeping quiet? Kolya, who’d left him to be found? The nun-a woman he’d met once? He owed it to Yasimov and Babel to keep quiet about their parts in the affair, but the others could go hang. At least his son and his friends might have a chance this way. So he told them what had happened in the Arbat House…
“Come, Korolev,” Gregorin said, when he’d finished, “this is all very interesting, but where is the icon? It was there, of course-but where did they take it when you warned them we were coming?”
“I didn’t see the icon. It may have been there, but I saw none of it. I’ve told you the conversation I had with Kolya, word for word, and that’s as far as I got. If I knew who had it, I’d tell you. To me, it’s just a wooden board with some paint on it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but this wasn’t the time to expand on the nature of his religious beliefs.
Gregorin considered him and there was no charm in his expression now, only calculation. It occurred to Korolev that, without the veneer of charm, Gregorin’s features had the cold malevolence of a snake. Gregorin scowled and turned to the major.
“He’s lying. Break him.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
“You’ve four hours. Don’t bother telling me it’s not enough. We have to find this damned piece of cultist chicanery before they smuggle it out of the country. Don’t fail-there can be no excuses. My office will know where to find me.”
He turned to Korolev.
“The major here is skilled at what he does. For your own sake, Korolev, tell us now. Where’s the damned icon?”
“I don’t know, Colonel.”
“This isn’t a game, Korolev. The major isn’t just going to beat you. He’ll destroy you-you’ll be praying for a bullet by the end.”
Korolev didn’t doubt it, and he felt his body trying to back its way into the chair, but he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know.
“One thing, Colonel Gregorin,” Korolev said, as Gregorin turned away from him.
“Yes?” The colonel turned, impatient.
“What happens if you haven’t got the icon by tomorrow? Will you have enough money for the visas? Is the net closing in? Is that why you’re rushing? You won’t get a million dollars for a promise.”
The colonel was a sturdily built man and his knuckles had calluses from where he’d hit others before, so perhaps Korolev shouldn’t have been surprised at the force of the punch that sent his head slamming back into the headrest and warm blood coursing from above his eye, blinding him even as he tried to blink it away.
“You fool, you deserve everything you’re about to get,” Gregorin hissed. “When you’ve finished with him, Chaikov-room H.”
The door slammed as he left.
Once the far door shut as well, the major walked over and, bending down, cleaned the blood from Korolev’s forehead with a handkerchief. His touch was gentle on the raw cut. He held Korolev’s head back and stared into his eyes.
“You have concussion.”
“Everyone keeps hitting me.”
“Perhaps you provoke them.”
“Look, I know nothing, but if I did, I’d rather shoot myself than cooperate with a devil like Gregorin.”
“Fuck that Georgian rat,” Chaikov whispered, pulling the handkerchief down Korolev’s face with an almost dreamy expression. “Fuck his mother. Fuck his sister.” The handkerchief was soaked with blood now. “I had suspicions, but I ignored them. I let him lead me by the nose-like a pig to the slaughter. What will happen to my own son? Answer me that.”
Korolev stared at the man in amazement, wondering if this was some ploy to soften him up. A single tear rolled down the major’s face. “See what I’ve become. Look at me. He’s turned me into an enemy.”
There was the clang of the far door opening and then running footsteps in the corridor. What the hell was going to happen now, Korolev asked himself, as the door crashed open behind him.
“Up against the wall, one move and I fire. Hands high, hands high.”
Chaikov looked up calmly, smiled and reached for his pocket. Instantly there were three loud explosions and the major was thrown over the table by the force of the bullets hitting him.
“Damn,” an easily recognized voice said, through the ringing in Korolev’s ears.