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  — Is what mine?

  His boot soles tapped and splashed as he strode toward her. —This British-made wristwatch.

  Her vision cleared enough to let her see fear in Kostya’s eyes, then the wristwatch lying on his outstretched hand. —I believe it is. My initials are engraved on the back, MB.

  He softened his voice, sounding courteous. —A cherished gift?

  — My father gave it to me when I turned sixteen.

  — How old are you now?

  — Twenty-two.

  He almost murmured, as though sharing a secret. —Those initials look like they were engraved last week. Why are you here?

  Disorientation, step by step: Temerity could have written the script. Her knowledge changed nothing. Margaret Bush, Mildred Ferngate, Temerity West, or by any other name? Trapped. And what a coup for an up-and-coming NKVD officer, to expose her.

  Except he must then explain why he’d spared her.

  Temerity decided to play her strength. She took the tone of an offended memsahib, an upper-class British woman appalled by widespread incompetence in a foreign land and tasked with putting things right. —Now listen to me. I was arrested for no reason, and I demand—

  Kostya raised his eyebrows, then held up a hand. —No, no demands, just answers. Why are you in Moscow?

  — As I told the officer who arrested me, I am with Comintern, and I teach language classes to children.

  — I see. Back on the stool, please.

  — Pardon me?

  — Back on the stool!

  She hurried to obey, and the night’s familiar pain returned.

  He lowered his voice but kept the tone sharp. —You speak excellent Russian. Now put your watch back on.

  She did this, saying nothing.

  Dizzy, feeling he stood on the edge of a great fall, Kostya reached for his cigarettes. He’d omitted the British nurse from his report. Now she sat before him, the only explanation for her presence being the obvious one: she was a foreign spy. Under a beating, she’d scream soon enough about meeting Kostya before, and while such an allegation would be considered ridiculous, it would be investigated, and well, look at that, Nikto was in Spain, and why have you not mentioned this woman before, comrade? Is it because you’re both working together?

  He shook out a cigarette and pointed it at her. —Comrade Bush, you’re frightened. That makes me think you’re guilty.

  — This pretty picture would frighten Joan of Arc.

  Kostya lit a match. —She burned.

  — She did.

  He shook his match dead. —Travelled abroad before now?

  Words cluttered her mouth. This human contact, any human contact, after the arrest and the long wait, contact with someone she’d already met, even someone who remained a threat, felt crucial, even precious. It left her weak. —Of course I’ve gone abroad.

  Kostya held smoke in his lungs, waited.

  — I travelled to India when I was eighteen, with my aunt.

  He exhaled. —India?

  — My aunt thought I needed a husband.

  — And did you get one?

  — No.

  — Why not? You’re pretty enough.

  She tapped her finger on her head. —I couldn’t find a man to keep up with me.

  — No, I suppose not.

  Temerity almost smiled; once again, he seemed so disarming. —I’ve done nothing wrong, comrade. Can you tell me why I’m here?

  He stared at her again. —Travelled anywhere else?

  She stared back. His exhaled smoke obscured his eyes and, perhaps, the flicker of emotion there.

  Kostya walked around the edge of the light spill. His stomach tingled. —Answer my question.

  Temerity recalled Neville Freeman’s voice: People disappear in Russia.

  Dirty water splashed as Kostya strode though the puddles in a tight circle around the stool. Then he paused behind her. The insanity of coincidence now felt quite unexceptional to him, no worse than the insanity of queuing for necessities in a country claiming surplus and glut, no worse than the insanity of the entire Purge. He murmured, voice solicitous, pleading. —Don’t turn around, and don’t think. Just answer me. Have you travelled anywhere else?

  — No.

  Once more studying the back of this woman’s head, Kostya felt his mouth work.

  He strode back to the shadows and beat his fist on the door.

  Temerity took a deep and shaky breath and discovered she was weeping. —Wait. Comrade Officer, wait. You’ve not yet told me why I’m under arrest.

  The lock clunked, the door swung open, and the tap of Kostya’s boot soles faded as he stepped out of the cell. Then the heavy door slammed shut.

  As Temerity dried her face with the backs of her hands, she saw how a puddle reflected back the caged light.

  [ ]

  PARTY FAVOURS

  Saturday 5 June–Sunday 6 June

  — Because truly, comrades, life is more cheerful than ever before. And now, Tchaikovsky.

  Temerity strode down the corridor to the communal kitchen of Hotel Lux, hotel workers staring at her. She wished she could rip the bolted radio speaker off the wall and leave it trailing torn wires like guts. Then again, Temerity reminded herself, at least the blare of the speaker meant the hotel’s electricity still ran.

  For now.

  Just outside the kitchen, Temerity could hear many of the gathered Comintern women speaking quiet Russian. They had yet to notice her. In the middle of the crowd, the French mother with the smiling baby wept. After arresting her husband, NKVD officers had sealed the hotel room with padlock and tape. All of her clothes, her baby’s diapers and blankets, and her travel papers lay in that sealed room. She could access the room again once her husband returned, and he would only return once proven innocent. For now, she must find someone willing to share a room and perhaps a bed with her and the baby.

  On the edge of this circle, her situation just as dire, Mikko Toppinen’s mother Kielo scowled. Next to her, Nina Fontana sobbed as she told the other women how she’d sacrificed her relationship with her parents and most of her friends to serve in Comintern and move to the Soviet Union. —We’ve done everything asked of us, everything. Why must this happen?

  Temerity wanted to spit. Loyal servants of the Revolution, and this their reward: loved ones and faith bloody torn away.

  Kielo noticed Temerity then, and flinched: a spectre, a fetch, a Lubyanka wraith. —Comrade Bush?

  Nina gasped. —Margaret!

  Temerity wanted to strike Nina full on the mouth, that mouth so quick to give her up to NKVD. And yet, Temerity asked herself, what else could she have done?

  Sounding happy to see her, relieved, Nina took Temerity in her arms. —I knew all along you weren’t a traitor. Some of us might think NKVD sent you back to spy on us, but that’s nonsense.

  The others seemed to consider the suggestion as perhaps, just perhaps, more than nonsense.

  Anger fled, leaving Temerity numb. She patted Nina on a shoulder and eased out of the embrace. —Of course it’s nonsense.

  Kielo laid her hand on Temerity’s shoulder. —Did you see Lauri?

  Nina grasped for Temerity’s hand, missed. —What happened to Marco?

  Temerity glanced about for an escape. The other women filled her sightline.

  — Jean-Pierre?

  — Carlos?

  — Dietrich?

  — Olafur?

  She cringed. Don’t touch me. —I don’t know.

  The other women stared at Temerity, demanding a better answer.

  She tried to give it. —They shoved us into different cars, and then I was in a cell by myself. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  Nina wobbled and swayed. Temerity and Kielo caught her and helped her to a chair. The samovar hissed. Then Temerity noticed several of the children had gathered as well. They now studied Comrade Bush, their English teacher, arrested but freed and returned in under twenty-four hours, when some of their parents had been gone for
weeks, with no word.

  Temerity saw evacuees’ name tags hanging from their necks. When she blinked, the name tags disappeared, some shred of a dream.

  Ursula Friesen broke free from the crowd in the kitchen and shooed the children away, telling them to go review their language lessons, for she and Comrade Bush might set a quiz tomorrow. Then she embraced Temerity, whispering in her ear. —I feel like I hold a ghost.

  As her vision greyed out, returned, Temerity felt no affection, no relief.

  Just fear. A buzz of it, a steady whisper, like static in the speakers.

  Arrest and disappearance: it had happened once, so it could happen again, at any moment. And to add to it: guilt, wretched, clammy guilt at being one who came back, and came back useless, with no information. If she had a drink, she’d raise a toast to NKVD. Not twenty-four hours’ captivity, a gentle interrogation, a release, a drive back to Hotel Lux, and now a two-man surveillance detail parked outside, all so polite by NKVD standards, and yet she felt gutted, marked, pried in two with emotions wild and intellect bound.

  Well done, gentlemen.

  Radio Moscow fell silent as the electricity failed.

  Ursula offered her arm.

  Temerity first shook her head, then accepted, and Ursula guided her away from the kitchen.

  Away from the others, Temerity murmured in Ursula’s ear. —I’m sorry. I need to tell them how sorry I am.

  — You’re limping.

  — NKVD forced me to sit on a stool.

  — Is that all?

  A fair question, Temerity told herself, yet she snapped her answer. —What?

  Ursula held Temerity’s gaze. —We hear of much worse. Really, I’m very happy to see you again. Let’s get you cleaned up.

  As Ursula and Temerity reached the next floor, they found children playing, five boys, eight to ten years told. Four chased one, and they made very little noise. One of the chasers, Mikko Toppinen, broke off, turned around, and ran towards them. He stood before Temerity and gave the little bow due a teacher. Then he stared up into her face, asking so much yet saying nothing.

  She shook her head. —I don’t know.

  His reply in English sounded hollow and rehearsed, and he gave another little bow. —Thank you.

  Then something changed with the other boys. As they strode to Mikko, calm, certain, and, after two steps, in unison, they seemed older. Faster. They surrounded Mikko, Temerity, and Ursula, and their voices, calm, even bored at first, soon trembled with something like desire.

  — Are you Comrade Toppinen?

  — I am.

  — Pack a few things and come with us. It’s a small matter.

  Ursula’s face flushed a deep red. —Stop it. Stop it now.

  The boys all laughed, laughed at how the adults understood nothing, until Mikko cried out.

  His friends crowded round him, rubbed his shoulders. —He’ll come back, Mikko. Your father will come back.

  — Mikko, it’s all right.

  — Mikko, it was just a game.

  Eyes clenched shut, Mikko struck the others with fists. —Shut up. Shut up!

  The boys stepped away from him, looked at one another, ran down the stairs.

  Mikko squinted into the dusty light, saw only Comrade Bush looking down on him. He raised his right forearm over his face, as in defence, and he whispered in excellent Russian. —Leave me alone.

  Ursula patted Temerity’s shoulder. As they both backed away from Mikko, the electricity returned and all the lights burned bright, too bright. Filaments blew, and the electricity vanished again.

  Mikko ran after the other boys. —Wait!

  Temerity shut her eyes. —Ursula, I need to lie down.

  — Your room’s not sealed. Perhaps they forgot after arresting you from my room. They gave you back your handbag?

  Temerity recalled checking the handbag at Lubyanka. All her Margaret Bush papers, her Margaret Bush passport, her cash, her hundred-gram slab of chocolate, even the compact, perfume, and cervical cap, lay within. —I’ve no doubt they manhandled every little thing, but it’s all there.

  — Then you’re being watched.

  — Comrade Quiet and Comrade Subtle? Yes, they’re parked outside.

  No voices from the radio speakers, no voices from the rooms: the silence clung like ash.

  — Margaret?

  Leaning on the jamb, Temerity unlocked the door. —I’m just tired.

  Ursula said something about returning in a few moments, so Temerity left the door ajar. Stooped, bent as if bearing a child on her back, she shuffled to the bed and, with some difficulty, perched there.

  How can sitting hurt so much?

  Ursula returned, carrying a metal bowl, a cloth, and a scrap of soap. —The water’s only tepid. It’s the best I could do.

  The lining of Temerity’s blouse, weighted by the hidden passport, clung to her skin. —Please, leave me alone. Just for the moment.

  — What is this? We shower together.

  Light glinted off the bowl, reminding Temerity of Spain. All right, Tikhon, I’ve got about as much of the corruption as I can manage. —Let me undress myself!

  Ursula took a step back. —Those pigs.

  — No, nobody touched me. Just the stool. It’s nothing. I’m sorry.

  Ursula turned down the covers on Temerity’s bed. —Stop apologizing. It’s far more than nothing. Now let me help.

  Temerity held up her hands, showing her palms, and Ursula could not quite read the gesture: submission, or warning?

  Fingers trembling, arms slow, Temerity unbuttoned her blouse. Shook it out. Folded it. Placed it in the middle of her pillow. Chin high, mouth stiff, she reached behind her back and unhooked her brassiere, an item of clothing that had elicited some envy in the shower room. She leaned forward, and the brassiere slid to her lap, cups and straps in disarray. Then, in some echo of being a child at bath time, in some dull surrender to mercy, she raised her arms.

  Ursula washed and dried Temerity’s neck, shoulders, and armpits. Then she kissed Temerity on the forehead, whispering for her to lie down.

  Temerity fastened her bra again and slipped on the soiled blouse, aware of its smell. Rolling down her stockings and prying off her shoes, she scowled. —How did my feet get so swollen?

  — The stool-sitting. It’s very bad for the circulation. I’ll leave you in peace if you promise to lie down.

  — I promise.

  Eyelids heavy, Temerity walked Ursula to the door, kissed her on the cheek, and then, even as Ursula opened her mouth to say something else, shut and locked the door.

  On the bed, she lay on her side, clenched her body into a tight ball, and tugged the covers up to her chin. Safety and solitude at last.

  She wanted to scream into her pillow.

  She couldn’t make a sound.

  Later, her dreams smelled of iron and copper and spice, of blood.

  — How much have you had to drink?

  Perched on the side of his bed, Kostya giggled, cleared his throat. He’d stripped down to his undershirt but still wore his galife pants, and they looked huge and absurd. —Rough day, Comrade Doctor. I took a few glasses as soon as I got home.

  — And a few more before you got here? Alcohol thins the blood and interferes with the healing of wounds. Keep still. How bad is the pain?

  — I’m fucked in the mouth and one-third demented. Quite mild, really. Just fix it.

  Efim took a step back. —You need to rest.

  — I’ll rest when I’m dead.

  — That attitude will not help you.

  — Look, when you wear this uniform, then, and only then, may you advise me on my work. Not before.

  Efim studied Kostya’s face; the scowl lines cut deep. —Untreated pain wears down the mind. It’s like grit in the gears, and the works seize.

  — A startling insight. Can you help me, or not?

  — Will you allow me?

  After a confused moment, Kostya nodded.

  — I’ll
be right back.

  As his flatmate rustled in his bedroom, and then ran water in the bathroom, Kostya thought about electric lights. The switch for the bathroom light also operated a lamp on Efim’s bedroom wall. If Efim turned off the lamp, then the bathroom switch wouldn’t work at all. They had come to an understanding, if a reluctant one on Kostya’s part. Night visits to the bathroom would be unlit. Not that this bothered Kostya. He’d long overcome his childhood fear of the dark, and he often worked at night, so why would darkness ever frighten him? He told himself he merely disliked how the unlit bathroom reminded him of sleeping in the Basque graveyard in Spain, and in the catacombs in Odessa.

  Efim returned to Kostya’s room and prepared the injection, brooding on the visit to the lab of one NKVD sergeant Yury Stepanov. After Stepanov’s departure, Efim had discovered the disturbing absences of two batches of an experimental hypnotic drug. One version could be added to a drink, though it left a salty taste; the other formula would be injected into a vein. Each bottle’s label gave clear instructions. The formulae, however, remained problematic. Stupefied prisoners, at first compliant, soon became too disoriented to give their own names and succumbed to a frightening state, walking in circles, sometimes able to answer simple questions and follow instructions but otherwise, even at gunpoint, talking nonsense. Six to twelve hours later, depending on dose and route of administration, the prisoners endured severe headache, vertigo, and vomiting. Afterwards, they remembered almost nothing.

  And to whom might Dr. Scherba complain about missing experimental drugs likely stolen by an NKVD officer?

  Efim tied a tourniquet around Kostya’s arm. —My day was long. Make a fist. Release it. Make a fist again. You’ll feel a pinch. Don’t move.

  Kostya hissed at the prick and the burn. The two men counted to sixteen, one-two, three-four, five-six, as though counting the beats of a heart. On seven, Kostya felt a lick of relief. On ten, he lay down.

  Efim took his pulse. —Better?

  — It still hurts.

  — I gave you the full dose. Come home drunk again, and I’ll leave you to writhe on the floor.

  Kostya’s head lolled on the pillow. —Such excellent bedside manner. What do you do all day, Scherba?