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.