Anya Zimyanin owned a polished .32-caliber blaster, thrown together in one of the small industrial units around the back of the Museum of the Peoples' Struggle. And he'd even taught her how to use it. His own 9 mm Makarov was in its holster, which hung on the back of the door. But he had a slim-bladed skinning knife sheathed at the small of his back.
The woman made an obscene gesture to her husband, using the little finger of her left hand, curving it as an indication of what she thought of his sexual prowess.
He replied in kind, carefully placing the tips of his middle fingers together as well as the tips of his thumbs, creating a large circle.
"Like a tunnel, dear Comrade Sister," he mocked.
"Better than a peeled shrimp, Comrade Brother Gregori."
It was stalemate, a Kiev Standoff as they called it in Russia.
He shook his head and turned away, intending to take a shower — if there was any warm water in their heater — when his wife delivered her parting salvo.
"You're a failure, husband, a failure and a shit-stinking coward." He turned to face her, eyes blank and emotionless. Anya took a clumsy, stumbling step away from him, holding up a hand to ward off a blow that hadn't even been threatened.
"Slut," he whispered, his voice so quiet it barely disturbed the dusty air of the apartment. "Slattern. Whore. Bitch. There are many things that your tongue can slide to that I can ignore. But not coward. No, not that, dear Anya."
"I did not... Please, husband..." Her mouth was working in terror, her face becoming distorted with her own fear. Anya had been pleased enough when the sec officer had appeared in her social circle, less than two months earlier, with a reputation for bravery against undesirable social elements in the far, far east. Despite his slightly odd appearance, he had a definite charisma, an aura of something different in the safe world of Moscow petty officialdom. She had set out to bed him and then wed him.
It had seemed a good idea at the time.
Not now.
A thin-bladed knife glittered in Zimyanin's long, strong fingers, held point upward.
"Not coward, wife."
"I beseech you, husband."
He nodded. "I have had many men — and women — beg to me." His eyes were gazing into some far-off time and place. Anya Zimyanin was more terrified than she had ever believed possible, knowing with an utter certainty that he was going to kill her.
"Anything?" she whispered, throat dry.
He paused. "What?"
"Anything."
"I don't hear you, Comrade Sister Anya. Say it again."
"Anything, Comrade Brother Gregori. I'll do anything if you don't cut me."
"I've been offered a lot of things, wife. But I've never been offered anything. Let's stand a while and think about that."
The dusk gathered strength outside their windows. Inside the apartment the husband and wife stood, six feet apart, time crawling past them. Zimyanin was calmer now, completely in control of himself and his surging tide of anger. He was certain now that he wouldn't butcher the large, ungainly woman in front of him.
Anya felt the tension slipping away and her breathing began to return to normal. But her husband checked it once more when he took a half step toward her and spoke.
"Anything?" She nodded cautiously, fearful that her neck might snap if she moved too vigorously.
"Good. My men will call here if there's any news of our three visitors, so we have plenty of time. You and I have all the time in the world, my dear Anya. We can make a start now."
"A start, husband?"
Gregori Zimyanin smiled at her, very patiently. "Go into the kitchen, Anya. Put a large pan of water on to boil. Bring me the potato peeler, the roll of strong cord, your best darning needles, the short scissors with the serrated edge. I have my own knife."
"Then?" Tears bunched at the corners of her eyes.
"Then you may come in here. Remove all of your clothes." He paused. "And kneel down just in front of me. And then we shall begin."
For Anya Zimyanin, the night was both long and memorable.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For Ryan Cawdor, the night was both busy and memorable. After their razor-edged escape from the museum, their flight had taken the companions around the rear of one of the single-story industrial units only a couple of blocks away. With the wails of sirens already ripping at the air, Ryan hadn't hesitated in setting his shoulder to the bolted door, springing the lock and knocking it back on rusting hinges.
It had only taken moments for all three of them to slip inside, wedging the door closed again. There, in the cold, damp darkness, they waited until they were sure the search had passed them by.
"Move at around one in the morning. Lift the tools and then..."
"And the flag."
"Sure, Rick. And the flag. If we can get away with it. Return here. They'll be looking for us to make a clean break. Might not search this close. Best plan I got. Then a couple of days later we lift a wag and head out for the gateway. You fix the door, Rick, and we all make the jump. How's that sound to you two? Good?"
"Better than good, lover," Krysty agreed. "If it works it sounds miraculous. If it doesn't, we all get to buy the farm together."
Rick fell asleep quickly, lying on one side, curled up like a young child, arms wrapped around himself. The streetlights outside the building came on with the night, and they cast a feeble glow through the cobwebbed glass. Krysty stood looking down at the slumbering man.
"Gaia! He's so ill, Ryan."
"I know it. Can you feel how bad he is?"
She knelt and touched him very softly on the forehead, her long gray fur coat sweeping the floor.
Krysty looked up at Ryan. "I think the shadow is closing in fast," she said quietly.
Rick stirred in his sleep, swallowing hard. His lips moved, but neither Ryan nor Krysty could make out any words.
"Soon?" Ryan asked.
She straightened, shaking her head. "Depends on what 'soon' means, lover. If you mean in the next hour... or if you mean in the next week or so."
"Let's take the next week or so."
She nodded. "Think so. Could be his sickness might go into remission again. But it looks to me like he's near the wire."
"If he loses the race before we get the door of the gateway fixed..." He didn't need to complete the sentence.
"Then we get to live what's left here in Moscow. I know that. So we best get those tools tonight and try and make sure Rick's fit enough for the journey back."
"And the flag," Ryan added.
"Oh yeah." Krysty smiled. "And the flag."
Rick had a kind of fit around midnight. He began to moan loudly, until Ryan found a length of cotton rag and jammed it between his jaws to silence him. This time they'd been able to distinguish words. Sentences. Rick had been babbling about his parents who had lived in the ville of New York, on what had been known as the Lower East Side.
"Jack can't bring home the beef and Naomi hates the street gangs. Fears all fears. The subway and Central Park, mugging and dark places and being alone among millions, and shadows and sudden noises. Rats and roaches and Republicans. Porn houses and there goes the neighborhood. Serial butchers and men who pulled out..."
That was when Ryan finally shut him up, fearful that his echoing screams would penetrate into the dark ville beyond.
But Rick wasn't done.
His body suddenly flexed and tensed, his legs jerking spasmodically, heels beating a rattling tattoo on the concrete floor.
"Hold him!" Ryan called. "Fireblast! Keep him quiet, Krysty!"