Someone entered the room, a smaller man, dark, swarthy, rather handsome.
“Ah, Boris,” he shook his head sadly. “I followed you because I suspected something like this would happen. What do you think we are, the old Nazi Gestapo? Primitive barbarians?”
For all its strength, Rashevsky’s booming voice was fawning. “I tried, my Commissar. Really I did. I started in the prescribed way. ‘Would you like to leave Lubianka Street alive?’ I said. But I thought—”
“You thought! Truly, Boris, why don’t you leave that to me? Here, I tell you what. You may sit and watch while I demonstrate the proper technique on this frightened young man here. But I’m a busy man, Boris, and I will give you this one demonstration only.”
FRIGHTENED young man—yes! Skinner felt like hell, weak, dizzy, his face swollen and bloody. On top of that, he’d had one minute with Colonel Rashevsky of the M.V.D. But Rashevsky rapidly assumed the role of a mere hatchetman. In his place now, enigmatic Laurenti Beria. Molotov, they told you in Washington, might be a yes-man for Stalin. Vishihsky, the same. But not Beria. Beria had a mind of his own, and Beria was the second most dangerous man in Moscow, if not the first….
“…Comrade,” Beria was saying, “what my aide started to say was true. Despite what you hear, you can leave this building alive. How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds fine.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Mironov, Nikolay. Here are my papers—”
“I don’t have to see your papers. I believe you know your name. Where are you from?”
“Tula.”
“Tula—a beautiful little city! What brought you to Moscow?”
“Work. I sought work.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes—no!”
“That’s an interesting answer. Did you find it?”
“Yes. A man said he would pay me a hundred rubles if I took him that briefcase.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t he have a name?”
“He failed to tell me.”
“You’re lying.”
“He failed, to tell me.”
“Where did you say you’d meet her?”
“Not her. Him. A man, like I said.”
“My mistake. Where?”
“In Lunatcharsky Square. On a bench.”
“Near the fountain?”
“Yes, near the fountain.”
“Strange, there’s no fountain in the Square. What fountain did you have in mind?”
“No fountain. Just in the Square.”
“When?”
“12:15.”
“A shame. The tune is long past. What did they look like?”
“Who?”
“The men.”
“One man, just-one. Short, heavy, nondescript.”
“Nondescript, I see. Did you know the contents of the briefcase?”
“No.”
“Their point of origin?”
“No.”
“Where was it being taken?”
“I wasn’t told.”
“Do you know what treason is?”
“Of course I know.”
“And what you did—was that treason do you think?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re no fool, Mironov. It was treason. Now, did the man have a name?”
“I said no.”
“Where were you educated, Mironov?”
“In Tula.”
“At the University?”
“Yes. At the University.”
“Peculiar. Tula has no University. What did you study at this University which doesn’t exist, Nihilism?”
“I…”
“Let me see’ your papers now.”
Beria lit a cigarette, blew smoke in Skinner’s face. “Umm-mm. Tula, all right. Why did you say at the University?”
“I thought you’d like me better if I was educated.”
“Why are you free to travel in Russia and Poland?”
“I’m a transient laborer.”
“I can read. Why? What can you do?”
“A—lot of things. They gave me the visa in Tula.”
Beria took the knife from a guard. “I take it this was yours.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The man gave it to me.”
“Why did you agree to his proposition?”
“Money. I needed money.”
“What did he look like?”
“You asked me that.”
“What did he look like?”
“Short, heavy—”
“I know. Nondescript. Do you know who I am?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Do you know?”
“I think you are Commissar Beria.”
“Beria, that is who I am. I will talk with you again, Mironov. Guards, take him to Quarters C, please.”
Beria was speaking in earnest whispers with Colonel Rashevsky when they led Skinner from the room.
“TUMAN! Tuman, you idiot! You see, Mironov did not return.”
“Perhaps he’s been caught.”
“I doubt it.” Sonya paced back and forth for a moment, then put her coat on. “Tuman, this could mean trouble. If he works for the M.V.D. he knows who we are. I will have to warn our—no! I might be followed. Tuman, you’ve made a mess of things.”
The old man sipped his tea noisily. “I still don’t think so, Sonya. I believe Mironov told the truth. I believe they have him in Lubianka Street even now, if he’s alive. I intend to find out.”
“Ridiculous, Tuman! But if you insist, I have a better way. When Rashevsky calls, I will permit him to take me out. Men, bah! After I speak with Rashevsky, I’ll find out just how wrong you are.”
“Or right,” said Tumanov, sipping his tea.
CHAPTER IV
SILENCE and madness.
Quarters C.
Black, black, black…
Interminably.
Suddenly, light. Blinding, stabbing agony lancing in through dilated pupils, cutting into the brain, wrenching a scream from the lips.
Laughter. His own? Skinner didn’t know.
Then silence again.
Food. A bowl of slops from somewhere.
Thud! A crashing sound, every three seconds. Outside his cell at first, theft within it. Outside his head, then within. Thud, thud, thud…
Silence.
Silence.
SCREAMING SILENCE!
Damp seeping in, and cold. The damp froze, solidified. The clammy sweat on Skinner’s flesh turned to ice. Cold. Almost too cold to move. But you had to move, because if you stood still the cold would get out, and you never would move again. Stamp back and forth. Five paces forward, five to the rear. Beat your chest. Work your fingers. Slap your face against the cold.
Another bowl of slops, frozen slops. Suck the ice and it will melt into an odious slush which you can eat. If you can stop trembling long enough to eat.
To survive, the human body can acclimate itself to outrageous temperature changes. Skinner’s did. But not necessarily subtle, the Russian torture-chamber is unique in its thoroughness.
Skinner got so he could laugh at the cold. He laughed.
It grew hot. Not slowly, for Skinner hardly remembered that vague midpoint where mounting heat returned the room to normal. Heat merely encroached, at once, and the cold was gone. Broiling, roasting heat took its place.
Moisture evaporated. Lips cracked. Skin parched, blistered. Sweat failed to come. Eyes burned shut. Breathing became an impossible effort.
Cold again. Hot. Cold…
Then normal. Cheery light. Glowing dully at first, easing Skinner’s eyes back into the visible spectrum. More light, bright, invigorating.
A table. And food. Delicacies, heaped one on the other in attractive dishes. Caviar, black and red. Champagne. Crisp roast fowl. All the trimmings.
Taste them. Taste—
Spit and retch…
Champagne like dishwater. Worse than dishwater. Bicarbonate-flavored caviar.