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  When Kostya recovered, Vadym introduced him to his nephew, Misha, an only child. The boys became good friends and called each other brother. On the awkward nights when Arkady would host a party and send Kostya to spend the night at Vadym’s flat, Vadym would also invite Misha over, and the three of them would play games and talk politics, music, and the irritating mysteries of girls. Vadym, very fond of the boys, invited them to address him as Dima. Arkady disapproved and insisted on the more formal and respectful Arkady Dmitrievich for himself.

  Paperwork completed, Vadym slapped down the clipboard and embraced Kostya. —You’re home. You’re safe. Arkady’s Little Tatar wins the day.

  Kostya allowed himself a smirk. —I am not Arkady Dmitrievich’s anything, little or otherwise. Not even to you, Dima.

  — I don’t like those scars. Lucky to keep your ear, yes?

  — It’s nothing.

  Vadym shook his head. —You’re too bony. Have you been ill?

  Surprised, Kostya recognized that Arkady had told Vadym nothing of his return. —Coming around, thanks. It was a long trip home.

  Vadym took the clipboard and tucked it beneath his arm, then poked Kostya in the ribs. —I’ll have you and Arkady over for supper, put some flesh on you. I’m due back in my department. Walk with me?

  In the corridors, Kostya and Vadym alternated the volume of their voices as they navigated past dozens of other people and struggled to continue their conversation about what Vadym might cook. NKVD officers, civilian support workers, military officers, and Party members proceeded in all directions, carrying dossiers, briefcases, boxes, and loose papers, intent on their own missions.

  Stopping near the stairwell that led to his own department, Vadym wagged his finger in mock rebuke. —And tell Arkady I won’t hear any excuses this time. The evening after next, yes? At my flat.

  — I’ll tell him.

  Vadym opened his mouth to ask something else, thought better of it, and instead sighed.

  — What is it, Dima?

  — Let me embrace you again.

  — Here?

  — Please.

  Kostya leaned in, and Vadym hugged him hard.

  — Dima, are you all right?

  Vadym murmured in Kostya’s ear. —Misha’s listed as missing.

  Kostya’s back stiffened.

  Vadym let him go, patted him on the good shoulder, and started his ascent up the stairs. In seconds, so many people filled the space between them that Kostya lost sight of Vadym.

  Then someone jostled Kostya’s bad shoulder, sending that wretched pain down his arm. It felt like an electric zap. Of course it does, Efim had explained. Electrical impulses drive the human body. Think of your nerves as wires. Your nerves are damaged, like exposed wires, and the electrical impulses cause not spark but pain. Then he’d added, voice calm, face serious, either mocking or supporting propaganda, perhaps both at once: All the energy for the state comes from the human body. The New Soviet Man is a human dynamo.

  Kostya shut his eyes. The steady noise of conversation, the clicks and taps and shuffles and scrapes of shoes and boots, invaded his ears and annexed his head. Jostled some more, he surrendered, opening his eyes and navigating the crowd. After his solitude in Spain, he found the crowding in Moscow a tiresome study in how to suppress cries of rage: so many people in so many queues. It’s gotten worse, he’d told Arkady. You’re imagining it, Arkady had said.

  A younger man, a sergeant, addressed Kostya by rank and surname. The new rank still sounded odd to Kostya, like a mistake, much as his surname no doubt sounded like a mistake to the sergeant. —Yes?

  The younger man saluted. —I am Katelnikov, Matvei Andreivich Katelnikov. Comrade Ismailovna asked me to keep an eye out for you and remind you to check with her for paperwork.

  — We’ve never met, yet you know me by sight?

  Matvei pointed to his own left ear, then thought better of it and lowered his hand. —I…

  Smirking, Kostya clapped Matvei on the shoulder. —I shouldn’t tease. Good work, Katelnikov.

  The scent of smoky tea guided Kostya to Evgenia Ismailovna’s desk. Evgenia worked two jobs in one, both as a general secretary for the department and as a private secretary to the department head. Piles of paper and dossiers covered her desk and threatened avalanche, yet somehow she kept the paper moving. Shelves loomed behind her desk, shelves holding the samovar, a tea tin decorated with red stars, tea glasses and podstakanniks, and yet more paper and files. In her mid-twenties, Evegenia affected the stern maternal manner of some of the older female Party members, and she would ask even the department head to wait in silence until she’d finished typing a sentence. Many new officers tried to flirt with her; she tolerated none of it. Experienced officers might take the new man aside and explain how much power Evgenia could wield. She had the ear of the department head, yes, of course, any fool could guess that. Far more important: Comrade Ismailovna tended the paperwork.

  A dizziness took Kostya, a sense of disorientation deeper than what any day off or even a hospital stay might ease. He felt like he’d woken up in the wrong story. Not quite solid, these floors and walls of Lubyanka. Not quite right, the clock behind Evgenia reading eight minutes after ten, nor these fever-bright colours: Comrade Ismailovna’s green eyes behind her black-rimmed pince-nez, for example, and her purple crosstie, that little strip of silk she wound around her buttoned collar. Shot silk, Kostya now noticed. At certain angles, a jade green showed. He studied her face. Apart from one small mole on her right cheek, she had no marks, freckles, or scars. Nor did she wear cosmetics. She kept her hair in a short wedge bob that bared the back of her neck, and that haircut, like the line of dark down on her upper lip, only made her seem more feminine. Kostya recognized in that moment how much he admired all her contrasts. The old-fashioned manners and pince-nez, the short hair and insistence on her equality with any man: for Kostya, she almost shimmered.

  — Comrade Senior Lieutenant, are you all right?

  Kostya reminded himself to focus and then ask for Ippolitov’s paperwork without mentioning Ippolitov. —Not enough sleep. What have you got for me?

  She gave Kostya a thin dossier and stroked the back of his left hand with her fingers, perhaps by accident.

  Startled by the touch, Kostya jerked away, then told himself his arm often twitched like that.

  Evgenia clasped her hands together atop her desk. —Would you like some tea?

  Some mornings, Evgenia took first pour, despite that privilege belonging to the department head. The latest head, however, not expected to last much longer, likely wouldn’t arrive until noon, only then in a cloud of vicious words and wine fumes, and Evgenia saw no point in wasting good tea. When Kostya had asked Arkady about the department head and his deplorable state, Arkady murmured, A Yagoda man. Genrikh Yagoda, their former chief, languished in a cell beneath their feet, and his absence pressed them all. As Yagoda’s imprisonment wore on, and time and expectation hauled him towards a show trial and brutal execution, other officers drank themselves to oblivion and choked on vomit, crashed their cars into walls and trees, jumped from windows, shot themselves in the head. Each officer understood the escalating brutality inflicted on prisoners because each officer practised it. If Yagoda could fall from grace, then so might any officer, policeman to prisoner at any moment, any moment. Dread, and truth.

  Arkady had always spoken well of Yagoda. So had Vadym.

  Yet they carried on as though nothing bothered them, and so must Kostya.

  Tea. —Yes, please, Comrade Ismailovna. Strong.

  As Evgenia got up, Kostya noticed the closed door of the office where a colleague —Bogdanovich — the one with the big grey eyes — Bogdanovich, Maksim Maksimovich Bogdanovich, one year older than me — had shot himself with his own weapon — a Tokarev, fucking ugly pistol — his blood and brain matter staining the walls. And his paperwork. The office, like the flat of someone arrested, had been sealed.

  A pity, several officers had said, we
need the space.

  — Sugar, Comrade Senior Lieutenant?

  Kostya broke out of his stare. —We have sugar?

  A racket of steel buckets dragged over floors interrupted. Clutching the dossier to his chest, Kostya turned around. Three men armed with brooms, chemicals, brushes, and mops identified themselves as a work crew here to perform a Special Clean.

  Evgenia held up a typed memo. —I didn’t expect you until this afternoon, comrades. See? Special Clean, 14:10.

  The foreman, a man in his sixties, spoke to Evgenia as though addressing the most troublesome pupil in the classroom. —Look, young comrade, I’m sure you mean well, but you must understand that we were told to come here right now. You requested a Special Clean, and Special Cleans are urgent.

  — Comrades, I don’t have a key to the office in question, and the department head’s not yet here. Surely you can return after lunch?

  Sighing, the foreman detailed the tasks in other buildings scheduled for after lunch and then, of course, the need to get any amendments to this schedule approved by the Special Tasks Committee, which did not meet for another three weeks, and the further need to report first to the Works and Procurement Committee in a special liaison meeting with the Central Schedules. —So you see, young comrade, if you do not let us in, then you cannot have a Special Clean.

  — No, don’t go. That office needs a Special Clean.

  — Then show us where and get out of the way.

  — I don’t have a key!

  Kostya recalled his own new keys, those tokens of promotion, one of them engraved with an initial: a master key? —Can I help?

  Despairing over the folly of young people, the foreman shook his head. —We’d need a commanding officer, Comrade Sergeant.

  Kostya passed the dossier back to Evegenia and showed his ID. —It’s Comrade Senior Lieutentant.

  After reading the ID card and peering at the insignia, the foreman cleared his throat and spoke with a new respect. —Which office, Comrade Senior Lieutenant?

  — This way.

  Boot soles tapping, face impassive, Kostya strode to the sealed door

  Odour seeped past the tape.

  The key fit; the lock turned. Some of the tape gave way, and the odour thickened.

  Kostya nodded to the foreman. —You’ve brought some bleach, yes?

  Ignoring Kostya, feigning deafness, the foreman studied the door and discussed with his workers how best to remove the tape and leave no residue on the door.

  Kostya returned to Evgenia’s desk to collect his dossier and glass of tea. Evgenia held out a small plate of hard sugar pieces cut from a loaf, picked up a piece with little tongs, and then dropped it into Kostya’s hand. —Thank you, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.

  He tucked the sugar into his mouth. —It’s nothing.

  In his office, relieved to be alone and away from the racket of tape, Kostya unwound the dossier’s red string.

  A confiscated wristwatch fell out.

  He picked up the watch and rubbed the face between his fingers, noticing a brand name on the face in the Latin alphabet and feeling something odd on the back. Turning the watch over, he found two engraved initials, Latin alphabet, MB. He read Ippolitov’s summary. Reason for detention: passport irregularity. Site of arrest: Hotel Lux. Comintern member, British passport.

  Maybe I can practise my English.

  Another officer passed Kostya’s open door and called out a greeting: Matvei Katelnikov.

  Kostya nodded acknowledgement and resumed reading. The sunlight through the window warmed the back of his neck, and he turned away from his desk. In this moment, with the sky so blue, the tea so sweet, paperwork didn’t matter. His wounds didn’t matter. Bogdanovich and Yagoda and the ever-changing department head, even Arkady’s fears and the uncertainty of Kostya’s own position in NKVD, none of it mattered. A delicious lassitude took him, for lassitude it must be, some relaxation of standards and morals, and he wanted to share this pleasure of existence, of being alive.

  You sound loose, Boris Kuznets had said.

  The dossier fell from his hand.

  Kostya took up the dossier again and then rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. If he pursued Ippolitov’s note of passport irregularity, then he would involve whoever at Intourist signed off on Comrade Britisher here, and then that poor Intourist bastard might get arrested for that connection with Ippolitov, and that would only make the case against Ippolitov worse…

  The British passport peeked out from beneath page 3 of the arrest report.

  Sipping tea, Kostya took up the passport, admired the cover, opened to the photograph.

  Almost spat.

  Swallowing the tea, telling himself he felt nothing, he compared the travel documents to the information in the passport, checked the translations: English and Russian all fine, no irregularity here. Ippolitov, like any other officer, had simply filled his quota and needed an official reason for the paperwork.

  Kostya stared again at the photograph of Margaret Bush.

  A simple explanation, he told himself, yes, everyone has a double, somewhere in the world.

  He tucked the British woman’s passport, travel papers, and wristwatch into the pouch on his portupeya. The last of his tea scalded his throat, and ‘Ey, Ukhnyem’ echoed in his thoughts. As he left the dossier with Evgenia, he refused to think about that British nurse in Spain, because thoughts of her invited thoughts of Misha.

  Yet he could think about nothing else.

  One of hundreds on an errand in Lubyanka, he descended to the cells.

  The one electric light bulb in the cell, caged, cast feeble light and mocked time, stretching it so it split and surrendered all meaning. Two steady leaks ran down the walls and pooled and spread on the floor, leaving no spot dry. Temerity lifted her nodding head. Since arriving near three, she’d perched on a wooden stool, the only piece of furniture in the cell, with no idea of how much time had passed. She struggled to think past confusion and fear. Pain interrupted. Stool-sitting, a standard method for softening those already deemed co-operative, exhausted body and mind with minimal effort from an interrogator, and it left no marks. She knew how it worked. It still hurt.

  An officer had confiscated her watch, as she expected, but had not, despite a pat-down, discovered the Temerity West passport in the lining of her blouse. As the night wore on, Temerity had cried, to her disgust, blown her nose on the inside of her blouse, cried again, reminded herself that her period had ended the week before, so some small comfort there, then reviewed her cover story in minute detail. She left the small circle of light to pace the floor to stretch her back and check if maybe this time a patch of floor looked dry enough to sit on. The leaks flowed, and liquid almost breached her shoes. She returned to the stool, repeating this cycle many times throughout the night. When she kept still on the stool, fatigue and sleep took over. The soft edges of dreams interfered with her thoughts, these dreams no less anxious than her reality. As her balance slipped, her head would jerk upright.

  The heavy cell door swung open, letting in muffled yells, cries, thuds. Down the hall, another cell door opened, another woman screamed, and that heavy door banged shut. Kostya stood at the edge of the open door, obscured, he knew, by shadow. Here, at this moment, in this created space, the prisoner would squint and peer, struggle to see.

  Temerity did so.

  No supplication in her eyes. Confusion and fear, Kostya noticed, and anger, even outrage, but no supplication. The slouch in her back as she perched on the stool betrayed her pain and fatigue. Kostya could smell soured sweat and a tang very common in the cells: dread. He could also smell perfume, faint, something spicy and floral. Incense? Iris?

  Temerity shut her eyes, hoping to soothe the dryness, opened them again. Shiny boots and galife pants, gymnastyorka, shoulder sling, portupeya and holstered weapon, and that cap, topped in a blue reminiscent of the sky reflected in a dirty puddle: her NKVD interrogator. Lubyanka remained true. This cell and her presence i
n it remained true. It was no dream.

  The officer turned to the guard outside and murmured instruction. The guard questioned something. The officer repeated his instruction in an irked tone, and the guard apologized, addressing the officer as Senior Lieutenant. Then, still speaking to the guard outside, the senior lieutenant made his voice friendly, soothing. —At ease. Long night? You look like you’d kill your own grandmother for a glass of vodka. Best I can do is tell you to get some tea, yes? Lock me in, get your tea, and then just wait outside. I’ll signal when I’m done.

  She knew the voice. Denied it, dismissed the very idea.

  The door thudded shut, the lock engaged, and the officer took off his cap and stepped into the light.

  He’d lost the beard and cut his hair, short back and sides, plenty of length on top and swept back with pomade. The green eyes, the cheekbones, the voice: all unmistakable.

  Kostya looked around the cell, stepped back into shadow, and gave a short sigh. —Nowhere for me to work?

  — I am not in charge of furnishings, I promise you.

  He put his cap back on. —You have no leave to speak. You may get down from the stool.

  The assertion of authority: right on schedule. Temerity slipped off the stool, stumbled, got her balance, and avoided the worst of a puddle. She took no pride in recognizing patterns of interrogation, because right now the patterns didn’t matter. In another country, this man had aimed his Nagant at her head, only to spare her. Then she’d helped him with evacuees. And now they’d met once more, in a Lubyanka cell. Questions, so many questions, tumbled in her mind. Giving them voice would only sharpen the danger.

  Kostya opened the pouch on his portupeya and retrieved something that glinted. He held it beneath the caged light bulb, and the glare bounced off the object and into Temerity’s eyes. —Is this yours?