Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

He took a slip of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table. "You have an hour, no more. Call me at this number."

He crossed to the door and skewered Rizov with a steely look.

"I mean it, don't fail me. One hour. It's a matter of life and death."

The room stank like a sewer and so did Lebel.

A blinding light blazed in the ceiling and his body was drenched in sweat.

As he came awake in the filthy cell and struggled to sit up he found he couldn't. He was lying on a metal table and tied down with leather straps.

He had come awake to the sound of distant screams and it didn't take much imagination to know where he was.

The cellars of the Lubyanka.

His body ached with pain and his mouth felt twisted. He tasted blood on his lips. The two men had beaten him senseless, punching and kicking him in the kidneys and stomach until the pain was unbearable and he threw up.

Then they started on his face. Punches and blows that made his head swim and finally left him unconscious. When he came to they started all over again, this time with rubber hoses, until he passed out once more.

Now he moaned and looked down at his body. His shirt and vest were gone. And his shoes and socks, although he still had his trousers. He had wet his pants after the painful blows to his kidneys.

He slumped back on the table.

He had been through it all before with the Gestapo. And what worried him was that he knew the real torture hadn't ever started yet. The men had only softened him up. The worst was yet to come.

As he lay there in agony, he tried to consider his options He had none really, except to tell Romulka everything. And then what? The man would probably kill him. He wondered what Romulka already knew. Very little. Otherwise, why bring him here? He was probing, trying to find answers.

He could hang in there playing dumb and hope that Roniulk@ would tire of the interrogation and let him go. But he guessed that Romulka wasn't the type to tire. Besides, the bastard seemed to enjoy inflicting pain.

Lebel had connections in Moscow. Someone would intervene. But when? And by then it might be too late. Confessing wouldn't help Massey. And it wouldn't help Massey's friends Above all, it wouldn't help Irena.

That thought worried him. Imprisoned, he had no way of warning her.

But he wasn't going to talk. He wasn't going to give her away. Besides, Romulka couldn't kill him. No, he just had to hold out and deny everything. A door clanged open. Romulka came into the room flanked by the two men who had given him the beating.

"Have you reconsidered, Lebel?"

Sweat ran down Lebel's face. He said hoarsely, "I told you you're making a dreadful mistake ... I'm an innocent man .. your superiors will hear of this ..."

Romulka stepped closer and gripped Lebel's face hard. "Talk to me, you little Jew. I haven't the patience or the time for games. You either talk or, I swear, what the Gestapo did to YOU is nothing compared to the little treat you have in store. In fact Lebel, I can promise you that you'll never see daylight again."

"On my life ... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then let's try and change that."

Romulka stepped over to a table in the corner. Lebel crained his neck and saw to his horror a selection of instruments and tools of torture which made his blood run cold.

"I always find concentrating on a man's weaknesses is the best approach."

Romulka selected an odd-looking implement with two small cup-shaped metal scoops with leather pads inside and a screw handle on the end.

"A little something we borrowed from the Tsar's secret police. They considered it most effective. It's a genital clamp. Know what it does?

Enough turns of this handle here and it crushes a man's testicles. Splits them wide open. But slowly, very slowly, and very painfully. Let's give it a try, shall we?"

Romulka turned to the men and nodded. One tied a gag around Lebel's mouth, while the other pulled down his sodden trousers and underpants.

Roniulka came forward and Lebel watched in horror as the implement was slipped under his scrotum and secured.

He gritted his teeth as he struggled behind the gag.

Romulka turned the screw handle and the implement tightened around Lebel's right testicle.

There was an excruciating, sickening pain, and Lebel felt as if a bolt of electricity had shot through his spine. His brain exploded with agony and he saw stars and felt the nausea to the pit of his stomach.

He screamed behind the gag and passed out.

The large house in the Degunino district north of Moscow was built of wood and brick and had once been the home of a wealthy Tsarist officer, but now it was badly dilapidated and the roof leaked.

Massey sat in the front room of a shabby second-floor apartment. It was sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs. An iron bed and a wardrobe in the small bedroom next door were the only other items of furniture, but there was a new valve radio sitting on a box near the bed. The place smelled of rot and damp and it was biting cold, despite the wood stove lit in the corner.

Massey had changed out of the uniform and now he wore a cloth cap and a coarse, frayed suit under his overcoat. On the table in front of him was a bowl of cabbage Soup and some fresh bread, but he ignored the food and concentrated on the map of Moscow lying next to it.

The man seated opposite poured vodka into two glasses and said gruffly in Russian, "You want to tell me what the fuck's going on, Americanski?"

Massey looked up. The man was big and red-haired and powerfully built. He wore a filthy woollen scarf around his neck and his black suit was worn and shiny.

He was the former Ukrainian SS captain Massey had dispatched from Munich six weeks before. It seemed so long ago Massey had difficulty remembering the face when the man had ushered him into the apartment. He looked older; his jaws were unshaven and his narrow eyes had the nervous look of a man under stress.

Massey said flatly, "You got the signal with your instructions."

"On The Voice of America. It said to give you total assistance, that it was top priority ..."

"Then that's all you need to know. Tell me about the dacha."

A war spent in SS uniform had taught the Ukrainian not to argue with an order. He nodded and pointed to a place on the map.

"Sergei's there now, covering the place. So far it seems the occupants haven't moved."

"How many people?"

"Sergei saw two, he thinks the man and woman you're after, but the signal said there was another woman. He hasn't seen her, but she could be inside."

"Can we contact Sergei by phone?"

The Ukrainian laughed. "Listen, this is Moscow, not Munich. I was lucky to get this dump of a place a month ago after I found work. It hasn't even got a fucking bath and I have to piss in the sink rather than walk to the downstairs toilet. The only way Sergei and I can keep in touch is a communal pay phone in the hallway below. Sergei has to drive to a kiosk in a village five minutes from the dacha if he wants to contact me." The man shrugged. "An unhelpful situation, and hardly conducive to surveillance, but there you have it."

Massey saw the tension on the man's face. He was living on his nerves, constantly in fear of being caught.

"How have you both been?"

The Ukrainian grimaced. "Munich seems like a lifetime ago, but we were lucky to get here. That crippled Finnish pilot of yours dropped us two miles from our target, in a fucking swamp that it took us half the night to wade out of. I think the bastard did it deliberately." He shrugged. "But we're still alive, and that counts for something. We've both found jobs.

Lucky for you, Sergei as a delivery driver, that's how he borrowed the van. So far, the papers your people supplied have worked and no one's bothered us."

Massey turned back to the map. "Tell me about the dacha."

The man took several minutes to describe the location and the layout of the property, then Massey said, "How far is it from here?"

"By taxi, over half an hour. But I suggest we take public transport. It's more reliable and less conspicuous. An hour ought to do it. Sergei can take us back."

"What if he telephones while we're gone?"

The man shrugged. "Can't be helped, I'm afraid. We'll have to take the risk and hope your friends stay put. But if they move I gave Sergei orders to follow them." He hesitated. "You still haven't told me why we're watching these people."

Massey stood and crossed to where he had left his duffel bag. He removed a large, heavy cotton cloth and laid it on the table. He unrolled the cloth. Inside were two Tokarev pistols with silencers and spare magazines. There was also a disassembled Kalashnikov AK47 automatic assault rifle with a folding stock.

The Ukrainian looked at the weapons, then over at Massey, and grinned. "We're going to kill them?"

"You've both had weapons training so I don't have to show you how to use these."

The Ukrainian picked up the Kalashnikov and expertly assembled the parts. He checked the magazine and clicked it home.

"My type of weapon-lethal. You didn't answer my question, Americanski. We're going to kill the people at the dacha?"

"Yes."

"You don't look too happy about it."

Massey ignored the remark and picked up a Tokarev and silencer. As he slipped the weapon and a spare magazine into his pocket, the Ukrainian looked at him.

"I don't have to know why they're going to die, but this is Moscow. What happens if we run into trouble and get caught?"

Massey held the man's stare. "The dacha's remote so it's unlikely the militia will turn up. We ought to have this over and done with and be back here in a couple of hours, Any problems with the militia showing up and we still finish the job, no matter what it takes. Then we get out of there fast. I've got air transport out and I take You and your friend with me. After this, you both have your freedom."

The Ukrainian grinned. "That sounds better. This could turn out to be interesting. A little action won't be bad after a month flattening my ass sitting in this dump. I've got a feeling it's going to be just like old times for Sergei and me, killing Russkis."

Massey didn't reply, just stood there silently, then picked up the other Tokarev, silencer and magazine and handed them across.

"For your friend. Let's not waste any more time."

The telephone rang on Lukin's desk. He picked it up. Rizov's voice. "Major Lukin?"

"This is Lukin."

"I've done as you asked. One of the Turkmenistans claims he sold a bottle of ether to a woman two days ago at the Kazan market."

Lukin grabbed a pencil and reached for the pad on his desk. "Did he get a description of the woman?"

"Late thirties. Matronly build. Good-looking. Dark hair. Reasonably well dressed. The man I spoke to sometimes sells anesthetics and drugs to the illegal abortion clinics, but this woman wasn't one of his usual customers. And she seemed to have no shortage of rubles."

"What about the woman's name?"

"Are you joking?"

Lukin sighed. "Come on, Rizov, there has to be more. That description could fit a quarter of the women in Moscow."

"The man never saw her before, that's what made him remember. He remembers seeing her getting into a Czech Skoda parked across the street. Also, the woman bought another drug. Adrenalin. And a single hypodermic syringe. He thought that was odd. That's all I've got."

Lukin thought for a moment. He knew a shot of Adrenalin could be used to give a person an energy boost to overcome exhaustion. He had seen it used during the war. Someone in Stanski's position might need such a drug, to ward off tiredness. His pulse quickened. "Was there anyone else in the Skoda?"

"The man didn't notice."

"The color of the car?"

"Gray."

"License number?"

Rizov snorted. "Major, these Turkmenistans in the black market can buy and sell like nobody's business, but they can hardly read and write. License numbers they don't notice."

"There's nothing else your friend remembers?"

"Nothing, I swear it."

Lukin tore the sheet from the pad. He knew Rizov was telling the truth, but it was still little to go on. It might not even be the connection he was looking for, but it had to be investigated, and fast. He sighed with tiredness and frustration. "It's not much. But I owe you a favor."

"I suppose an exit visa would be too much to ask?"

"Don't joke, Rizov. I'm not in the mood."

He slammed down the phone. He was already moving toward the door when the telephone jangled again. He went back and lifted the receiver. It was Pasha's voice. "We need to talk, Yuri."

"It'll have to wait. I thought I told you to rest."

"No, it can't wait. It's important." There was a pause, then Pasha said urgently, "It's about the Wolf. It's about Stanski."

"What do you mean? What about him?"

There was another pause. "Meet me in the Sandunov bathhouse in ten minutes. Ask for me at the door."

"Can't you come here?"

Pasha ignored the question. The line clicked dead.

The faded wooden sign above the blackened granite building said "Sanciunov Public Baths."

The double oak doors were closed and locked, but Lukin saw a splinter of light showing at the bottom. He knocked hard and waited.

He glimpsed back down the cobbled lane. It was deserted. He had left the car parked outside the Berlin Hotel around the next corner and walked.

What the hell was Pasha playing at?

And why meet here; at this hour? Sandunov was one of Moscow's oldest public bathhouses. Pasha had been coming here for almost twenty years, and usually when in the evening, the steam rooms were quiet and he could have some privacy.

He heard the rattle of bolts behind the oak doors and turned.

A middle-aged woman wearina a blue smock stood in the doorway. Her hair was tied in a bun and her huge breasts seemed to unbalance her. "We're closed. Come back tomorrow."

"I believe Pasha Kokunko is expecting me."

The woman hesitated. She studied him carefully for several moments, then looked out into the lane before she gestured for Lukin to enter.

He stepped into a warm tiled hallway. The woman closed the door and slid the bolts.

Most of the lights in the entrance hall were switched off, but across the hallway Lukin saw the cracked stone steps that led down to the bathhouse and the sweat rooms.

The woman crossed to the glass booth in the lobby and came back with a thick white cotton towel and a bunch of birch twigs tied with string. "Go down the steps and take the first door on the right. You'll find Pasha in the sweat room."

Lukin took the towel and birch twigs. The woman went to sit behind the glass booth and began counting a small mountain of kopeck coins and stacking them in neat Piles.

Lukin went down the stone steps.

He stopped halfway and sucked in a deep breath. He felt the warm steam mixed with a sharp fragrance of mint reach deep into the pit of his lungs, and it instantly soothed him. At the bottom of the steps he noticed that a glass door on the right was half open.

He stepped inside, He was in a dressing room lined with metal lockers. Wooden benches were set in a square around the center. Off to the left, another glass-fronted door, fogged with steam, led to one of the sweat rooms. Behind the fogged glass he saw a moving blur of flesh and heard a faint swishing sound.

There were three stages to the ritual of cleansing in the bathhouse.

First came the sweat room, where you steamed and flayed your body with birch twigs until it burned red and the pores opened. Afterwards you washed your body with hot sponges to cleanse your skin. Then you plunged into the icy water pools once it became too hot. And finally, you relaxed in the refreshment lounge.

Lukin could feel a wave of heat from the next room, pleasant after the icy air in the freczina streets outside. On one of the wooden benches were Pasha's clothes. On another lay an enamel basin of hot steaming water, obviously left for Lukin.

He undressed and laid his clothes neatly on one of the benches. He left the metal hook strapped to his arm; it looked ugly and awkward. He placed the cotton towel over his head and soaked the birch leaves in the basin of hot water.

Then he opened the glass door and stepped into the scented mist.

Pasha lay naked on a damp stone bench, looking terribly pale, a white cotton towel around his shoulders, a patch of blood on his bandaged wound.

A bearded, elderly Uzbek wearing a towel around his waist stood over him. The Uzbek was vigorously flaying Pasha's sweating legs and buttocks with a bundle of damp birch leaves.

On the floor lay a small enamel tub of hot water, fresh sponges and a small pile of mint leaves laid out on a wooden tray. Next to the tray was a bottle of vodka and two glasses, and beside them Pasha's worn leather briefcase. The Uzbek stopped flaying and looked around at Lukin. Slit eyes squinted out of a cautious yellow face.

Pasha stirred and raised his body painfully from the stone bench. He saw Lukin and turned to the Uzbek.

"Leave us, Itzkhan."

The Uzbek nodded and went out. Pasha waited until he heard the outer door close, then gestured to one of the stone benches.

"Sit down, Yuri."

There was something odd in his tone, but Lukin removed the towel from his head and put it around his waist, then sat on a bench opposite. The steam room was hot. He put down the birch leaves; he was too tired to flay his skin. He watched as Pasha picked up one of the sponges and soaked it in hot water and began to sponge himself, his face strained with pain, although he seemed in no hurry.

Lukin said impatiently, "You said this was important, Pasha."

Pasha studied his face. "You look like you haven't slept in a week.

Lukin felt on the verge of collapse but managed a weak smile. "I guess a good night's sleep wouldn't hurt. How do you feel?"

"It could be worse. The morphine the doctor gave me to ease the pain is wearing off. But this place helps me to relax."

He stopped sponging his body and stood. He crossed to a hot-water tap in the corner, filled an enamel basin with steaming water and crushed a handful of mint leaves into the basin. He came back and cupped Lukin's chin in his hand. For several moments he studied Lukin's face oddly, like an examining physician, then handed him the basin and a fresh sponge.

"Your adrenaline's flowing like sweat. Here, soak yourself and inhale the steam. You know what we old bathers say. "The steam bath makes you sweat to get tough and get slim. It cleanses the body and the devils within.' " He smiled faintly at the old Moscow rhyme. The smile faded and his face became more serious. "You look like you have devils in your soul, Yuri."

Lukin lifted the basin and inhaled. The aroma of the hot fragrant water was like a balm. He dipped the sponge in the steaming basin, closed his eyes, and slowly ran it over his face. The scent of mint filled his nostrils, the fragrant liquid soothing on his skin. He stopped sponging, opened his wet eyes, and saw Pasha staring at him.

"The mint helps?"

"A little.. Tell me what this is about. Tell me what's so important?"

Pasha stood and picked up his leather briefcase. He nodded toward the door that led to the dressing room. "Come, let's go inside. There's something I have to show you."

When they stepped into the dressing room Pasha closed the door. He crossed to the wooden bench and undid the straps on the briefcase, removed a red-covered file, and looked back.

"Did anything about the Wolf strike you as strange?"

Lukin frowned. "What do you mean, strange?"

"For one, we know there were several pages missing from the copy of his file. Like I said before, it's usual that an investigator be given access to all information for the case he's working on."

"Look, what's this about, Pasha?"

Pasha paused, "I've known you a long time, Yuri. I've always liked and admired you. We've seen good and bad times together.

Lukin said almost irritably, "Will you tell me what all this is about?"

For several long moments Pasha's eyes seemed to search Lukin's face, then he said, "You were right when you said you didn't trust Beria. You were right to doubt why he picked you. And tonight I found out why."

"I don't understand."

"You're a good man, Yuri Lukin. And a good investigator. However, they've fooled you."

"Who has?"

"Stalin and Beria."

Lukin frowned in confusion.

Pasha sat down next to him on the bench. He looked away for a moment, at nothing in particular, then looked back.

Lukin searched the Mongolian's face. He saw fear there. Pasha wasn't hesitating in order to prolong telling him. He seemed genuinely afraid. As he handed the file over, his hands shook.

"I want you to see this."

"What is it?"

"It came from Alex Stanski's original file."

"Pasha, you fool."

"Don't lecture me, Yuri. We're desperate. We're down a dead end so I went to the Archives office and stole a key and had a look for the original file. I was seen by one of the clerks who came in, but not before I managed to get the file."

"Pasha.

"Listen to me. It couldn't get any worse for me if I was caught. It couldn't get any worse for both of us. We're in deep enough trouble. Me, I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

"Pasha, you've put yourself in real danger."

"No more than I'm in already." Pasha hesitated. "Yuri there's something in the file you were deliberately not allowed to see. And there's more, but first you should examine what I've given you."

Pasha stood and crossed to the door, opened it softly. He looked back at Lukin, a wistful look on his face.

"I'm going to leave you alone now. Look and read carefully, Yuri. Afterwards, we'll talk."

The door closed and Pasha was gone.

Lukin opened the file.

There was a single photograph and a single, faded flimsy page inside.

Lukin looked at the photograph first. It was old and yellowed and its edges were frayed. It showed a man and a woman, laughing out at the camera. The man was handsome and cleanshaven, with a fine chiseled face and dark soft eyes. The woman was blond and quite beautiful, with high cheekbones and a strong, determined face. She sat on the man's knee with her arms around his neck. They looked happy and very much in love.

From the style and cut of the couple's clothes, Lukin guessed the photograph had been taken some time in the late twenties or early thirties.

He flipped it over and saw a blue ink stamp in the lower right-hand corner which gave the name of a photographer's studio on Marx Prospect. There was something familiar about the couple's features and he guessed they were Stanski's parents. He had the odd feeling he had seen their faces somewhere before. He guessed they could have been well-known Party members.

He put the photograph aside.

The single page gave brief details of Stanski's family background. His real family name was Stefanovitch and his father was a rural doctor living in Smolensk. The report stated that the OGPU, the precursor to the KGB secret police, had called to arrest him and his family. But no reason was given.

According to the report, the doctor had resisted arrest and had been killed trying to escape. His wife had tried to assist his escape and was shot also. The three children were arrested and the order stated they were to be shot. The death warrant for the doctor and his wife had been authorized personally by Joseph Stalin.

It didn't make sense. How had Stanski survived if he was one of the children?

Again, Lukin read the file carefully. In many ways the information seemed unimportant. The tragedy made him better understand a powerful motive of revenge on Stanski's part, but little else. But there was nothing there that could really help his investigation. Nothing that would point a way for him.

No names of family friends Stanski might try to contact in Moscow. And it did not explain how Stanski had survived while all the other members of his family had perished.

That puzzled Lukin. For a long time he sat there. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl in front of his face.

There had to be something in all this he didn't see. Had to be. But what?

And why? That was the question. Why had Pasha given him the file?

A little later the door opened softly.

Pasha stood there. He had the bottle of vodka and the two glasses. He poured a generous measure into each before putting the bottle down on the bench and handing one of the glasses to Lukin.

"Take it.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"No, but I think you're going to need it."

"Why?"

Pasha studied Lukin's face. "Did you find nothing familiar in what you just read and saw?"

"In what way familiar?"

Pasha stared back, unblinking. "I meant the way the information in the file fits together like a puzzle."

Lukin shook his head, confused. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Pasha sat down opposite. He placed his glass beside him and sighed. "Nothing in the file about Stanski's parents struck you as odd? Who they were? What happened to them?"

"What happened to his father and mother happened to many children during the purges. What I don't understand is how Stanski survived. The file said the entire family were killed."

Pasha slowly shook his head. "That's not what I meant, Yuri. Let me remind you of something about Stalin, something all of us in the KGB know. Some evil streak in him gets delight in inflicting a very personal form of punishment. It was especially so during the purges in the thirties. When Stalin's victims were parents, their children over the age of twelve were killed also.

"Those younger were sent to the orphanages controlled by the KGB. Many of the boys, when they came of age, were inducted into the same KGB. And so they became the one thing their parents would probably never have wanted them to become. Dedicated to Stalin, the sword and shield of the Party, a member of his secret police. Most likely to become the same kind of man as the one who arrested and killed their parents. Stalin finds it cruelly amusing." He paused. "You see, there's another reason you were chosen to find and kill this American, but you still haven't figured it out yet. A reason why the page and photograph were missing from the Wolf's file."

"Why?"

A look of concern crossed Pasha's face. "Stalin probably told Beria not to let you see them. Because once you did you'd see through his sick joke. It was no doubt Stalin's idea to pick you to hunt down and kill Stanski. He had a perverted reason which amused him. Think back, Yuri. Like me you were in orphan. What happened to my parents could have happened to Stanski's. Think back to your own life, before you were sent to the orphanage. Think back to your family."

"I ... I can't remember."

"You can. But you don't want to. You've tried to blot everything about your past from your mind, and were made to do so at the orphanage, just like me, weren't you?"

Pasha removed another flimsy page and a photograph from his tunic pocket. He handed the photograph over.

"That was also in Stanski's file. It's a photograph of the couple's children." He held up the page. "So was this-the second missing page. It says the order to kill the children was rescinded at the last moment. Instead, they were sent to an orphanage in Moscow. It says two of them, a boy and a girl, were later given different names. One of the names you know well. Study the photograph, Yuri. Study it closely."

Lukin looked down at the photograph. It was of two small boys and a very young girl with blond hair. They stood together in a wheat field laughing out at the camera. The oldest of the three, the one in the middle, was obviously Stanski as a child. He had his arms around the smaller children protectively.

Suddenly the two other faces in the photograph jolted Lukin. The girl was aged no more than four or five, her pale face angelic. And the second boy, his face was suddenly and frighteningly familiar.

Lukin felt a shock go through him and looked up.

Pasha said, "The little girl's name was Katya. She was your sister. The couple in the photograph were your parents. The boy on the right is you, Petya Stefanovitch, before you were given the name Yuri Lukin. You were seven years old."

Lukin turned white. Not a muscle moved on his face as he stared back at Pasha, his body numbed with shock. Pasha said, "Alex Stanski is your brother."

Lukin signed in at the entrance hall of the Officer's Club on Dzerzhinsky Square and climbed the winding marble staircase to the second floor.

The large room he entered looked like a miniature palace, with its marble columns and gilded chandeliers and redcarpeted floors. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and a babble of voices. Lukin pushed his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a large vodka, but as the white-coated orderly poured he said, "I've changed my mind. Give me the bottle."

He took the bottle and glass to an empty table by the window.

He was hardly conscious of the noise at the bar behind him as he filled the glass to the brim and swallowed. He had swallowed three glasses and poured a fourth before he noticed he was shaking.

He felt icy cold and sweat poured down his temples. He felt anger and a terrible feeling of confusion. He felt ... He didn't know what he felt.

As he sat there he stared out through the window. The massive form of the KGB Headquarters stood on the far side of the square, lit up by the soft white glow of the security arc lamps. For a long time he stared out at the building in a daze.

Suddenly he felt tears welling up and a powerful feeling of distress overcame him. He could hardly believe what Pasha had told him. The man and woman in the photograph were his parents. The little girl his sister Katya. Alex Stanski his brother, Mischa. Lukin's own name was Petya Ivan Stefanovitch.

But now he had read the second missing page from the file he knew it was true. He shuddered and a wave of anger rose and almost smothered him. He swallowed the fourth vodka in one gulp and poured another.

His mind fogged. Then cleared. He racked his brains for memories from his past, a past he had always been forced to block at the Moscow orphanage. Racked his brains until his head hurt. Once he had always tried to forget; now he could do nothing but remember.

That day he had gone to collect Anna Khorev's daughter and saw the urchin faces at the orphanage window he had stiuddered. He had shuddered because it was his own past. He remembered always looking out of the window after his brother had escaped; always hoping. Hoping Mischa would come back. Hoping Mischa was still alive. But they told him Mischa was dead.