—I’m coming.
I’ll reassess in the car. I’ll fare better in there anyway. Confined space, limited freedom of movement. Holsters aren’t made for sitting. Drawing is awkward when you sit. They put me in the middle, one man on each side. The doors are unlocked, so I could push one out if need be. We’re moving now, but where to? I guess I can just ask.
—Where are we going?
—Just sit back and relax, ma’am.
Of course. I’ll relax. Who doesn’t like being driven to an unknown location by the secret police? One of them is pouring himself a drink. He’s relaxing, that’s for s—Oh, he’s handing it to me. I guess he was pouring me a drink. This is crazy. I don’t know what’s going on but, clearly, I’m not getting arrested.
I wonder how far we’re going. I hope it’s nearby, because neither of these guys is the talking type. It’ll be a long—EWWWWW. Warm vodka. A whole juice glass of it. For once, I agree with Mother. I don’t think I should be drinking this. Then again, I could be on my way to a firing squad. I’ll have one more sip.
Music would be good…. Anything….
Shit. I forgot about dinner. Billie probably spent the whole day cooking. She’ll have to eat alone. I hope she doesn’t stare at the clock while our food’s getting cold. Not that it makes a difference, Billie can’t cook to save her life, but I like it when she tries. I know she does it for me. She couldn’t care less about everyday things. I wish I were like her, but I need a bit of normal in my life.
I think this is it. We’re pulling into a driveway. It’s a big house. Big big. Here’s the limousine I saw earlier. This has to be a party official, a general maybe. This whole place screams: “Look at me! I’m important!” What the hell am I doing here?
—You can get out now, ma’am.
Hand on my back. I could turn fast and break his arm, shoot the other one and take the car. This might be my last chance. He’s guiding me towards the door. I’ll play along. At this point, I’m more curious than scared. I have to know who went through all this trouble just to meet me.
It could be someone saw me with Korolev and wants to know what he’s working on. Maybe someone from another bureau. Glushko? It’s no secret he and Korolev aren’t fans of each other. Maybe it’s one of the Germans. There are only a handful left, but Korolev doesn’t trust them. He’s had them working on rockets that will never be built. He’ll cherry-pick a few things from their designs, but that’s about as much as they can hope to contribute. I’m not sure any of them has enough pull with the party higher-ups, though. Maybe Gröttrup. He must know someone. He lives in a villa outside of Moscow. This could be it for all I know. Everyone else sleeps in crowded barracks. “Communal apartments,” they call them. Has a nice ring to it.
—This way, please.
Again with the hand on my back. I don’t like being touched, especially by MGB goons.
We’re inside. This is not Gröttrup’s. I’ve met his wife, and whoever lives here isn’t married. I’ve only seen the lobby but I know a man decorated this place, an insecure one at that. Ostentatious doesn’t even begin to cover it. Is that a fucking Fabergé egg? Seriously, who puts that in a lobby? Someone who thinks it’ll look great next to medieval armor, I suppose. There is so much ugly here, it feels like a yard sale for stupidly rich people.
We’re walking now. They’re taking me to another room, the dining room. Not as crowded as the entrance, but more pretentious if that’s even possible. This room is meant for guests. I bet whoever lives here never set foot in here alone. Goon number one is pulling out a chair for me. Goon number two is pouring me some wine. These guys really want me drinking. Nice glass, though. I can still run, but I really want to know whose house this is. The table is set for two. White porcelain with gold trim. I suppose all I have to do is wait. Ewww, that wine. I really shouldn’t be drinking…. Anyone who serves this to guests has to be evil.
The Tracker. What if it’s him? I doubt the devil lives in the suburbs, but why not? He… wants to see me before he kills me. He’ll torture me until I give up Mother. Stop it, Mia. This is stupid. There’s no— Oh, someone’s coming.
… Beria? Lavrentiy Fucking Beria? Now I know why the MGB is here. He doesn’t run the agency anymore, but he is the—what’s that stupid title again?—Curator of the Organs of State Security. He’s not the Tracker, that’s for sure. Mother said they’re stronger than us. Beria’s an… emaciated little rat. What could he possibly want with me? Is he after Korolev? I’ll know soon enough. He’s sitting down.
—How do you like the wine?
He’s waving the goons away. Whatever he needs to discuss, he wants it to be private.
—It’s very good, sir.
Worst thing I ever drank. Warm vodka was better than this.
—Château Trotanoy. A ’45. The soil in the region consists almost exclusively of black clay.
How la-di-da. Now I know who decorated the house.
—I did not know that, sir. Thank you.
—I’m terribly sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Do you know who I am?
—Yes, sir. I do. It’s an honor to meet the deputy chairman.
—Oh, please. Call me Lavrentiy. We’re amongst friends here.
Friends? He’s been drinking more than me if he thinks we could ever be friends. This man kills and tortures for a living.
—I couldn’t possibly, sir.
They’re bringing us food now. The secret police are bringing me food. Why? This house is so big, I know he has staff. Why aren’t they serving us? What is this thing? Is this a fucking bisque?
—Please. Eat.
It smells fine but I’m too nervous to eat. Anyway, I’m not sharing a meal with this man. I just want to know why I’m here and get the hell out.
—I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know if I’m coming down with something or if I’m just very tired but I seem to have lost my appetite.
—Are you sure? I had the chef prepare his veal blanquette for us. It is absolutely divine.
—Please send the chef my apologies.
—I will. Shall we get on to business, then?
Finally.
—Yes. Please.
He’s getting up. He’s thanking the MGB officers. I guess they’re not coming with us. There’s a large double door ahead of us. That’s where he’s taking me.
—After you.
It’s his office. It’s oddly empty. There’s a large wooden desk—dark wood; it’s actually pretty—but not much else. A rug, a couple of chairs. A red sofa, velvet. There’s something odd about this room. It’s the walls. There are no books here, no bookshelves. There’s nothing on any of the walls. They’re all padded. Red velvet with crystal buttons. The man loves his velvet. He even put some on the inside of the doors. Speaking of, he just closed them.
—You should get comfortable.
Comf—I’m sorry, what? Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I meant to, though. This is…
The walls. Now I know what’s bugging me about the walls. The padding isn’t decoration. It’s soundproofing. Beria is taking his jacket off.
—I should go.
—When I say so.
Whoa. So this is his thing? He prowls the streets at night. He brings girls to his home, wines them and dines them, then he rapes them in his soundproof office. I thought this had something to do with Korolev, with my work. I bet this asshole doesn’t even know who I am.
—Let me go now or I’ll call for help.