Inside the door of the Russian souvenir shop, she’d had a sudden impulse to call Simon to see how he was doing. Matrioshka s, eggs imitating Faberge creations, paintings, jars, ballpoints, postcards, jewelry, everything you could associate with a country. It’s unnecessary to add that not one of the offerings caught Sarah’s eye. She felt too tired, too worried, in a foreign country, in an exciting city, showy, but not at this moment for her. If she could have chosen, she’d have preferred to be at her parents’ estate in Trindade, without roads, flight, and persecution.
Instead of that, she heard a male voice behind her, very close to her ear. She could almost hear his breathing.
‘Little Sarah Monteiro.’ It was not a question. ‘Do me the favor of crossing the street and going into the barbershop. Calm and relaxed. Don’t try anything stupid. If you do, you’ll hurt yourself.’
Her heart almost jumped out of her mouth. No matter how many times we go through situations like that, nothing prepares us. Her first reaction had been a useless attempt to turn around and put a face on the voice of her captor, but he wouldn’t permit it.
‘No, no, no. Look straight ahead. We don’t want to be run over, right?’
He mixed a certain pleasure and sense of responsibility in his words. He spoke English with a heavy accent. Russian, probably.
‘Who are you?’ the journalist asked when she’d recovered her faculties.
‘That’s not important. Let’s go. Hurry.’
They crossed the street in the middle of traffic, making some cars honk in protest. At some moment Sarah had mentioned stopping, but something circular and cold poked her in the ribs and convinced her of the contrary.
A dissonant voice woke up the radio the man had fastened to his belt. He brought it to his mouth and answered something in Russian. The bright sun had faded as Sarah and the unknown man entered the barbershop. Her eyes were slow in adapting to the new conditions. Several barbers dressed in black were cutting hair. If she’d had doubts, they’d dissipated since Sarah could see she was really in a barbershop. Again she felt the cold barrel pushing her forward. No one looked at her, even with so many mirrors. The customers concentrated on their newspapers or admired their own faces reflected in the mirror, or watched the plasma televisions set above each mirror in front of every barber chair. All of them were indifferent to Sarah Monteiro and the man shoving her. In the back she saw an elevator. To the left, stairs going down.
‘Go down the stairs,’ the man ordered.
Step by step she went down into the deep darkness. She felt danger. She saw nothing. She only felt the cylinder stuck in her ribs. Was he going to kill her? But why? Who was he? It had been stupid to stay in the street alone. Where were Rafael and Phelps?
‘Wait,’ the man ordered her again. ‘Put these on.’
He gave her something she couldn’t identify immediately.
‘What is it?’
‘Goggles. Put them on.’
What you don’t see, you don’t know. She followed his order and immediately understood why the object had seemed strange. They were, in fact, night-vision goggles. The flight of stairs ended there. Another step and she would have walked into the wall. A greenish image made everything clearer. A landing supported another flight of steps that descended lower into the Russian earth. A new landing, a new flight of stairs, with many slippery steps.
‘What is this place?’ Sarah asked with more fear than she wanted to show.
‘The stairway to hell. Isn’t it pretty?’ the other responded sarcastically.
Sarah regretted asking. What was certain was that in all the way they’d come there was no lamp, light, or even a candle or place for it. The place had really been designed to have no light. A shiver ran up her spine.
‘Stop. Give me the goggles.’
Sarah had no choice but to obey. She found herself immersed in the darkness of the stairwell. She heard some noises to the side.
‘What’s that?’
Silence.
A new sound, like something dragging itself along.
‘What’s that?’
‘Be very quiet,’ the man said with a panting sound indicating physical effort. The voice came from in front. ‘It’s only a little way.’
The little way had been long, or seemed so. She heard the man’s voice behind her again.
‘Now take a step forward.’
A step forward.
‘Another.’
Another step ahead.
‘Now relax. Stay quiet.’
Sarah complied and again heard the sounds of dragging repeated.
Suddenly a white fluorescent light came on, illuminating an empty hallway. The man, almost sixty years old, was in front of her with a slightly mocking smile on his face.
‘We’ve arrived. You can go on,’ the unknown man said. ‘Keep going straight. You can’t get lost.’
The hallway had doors on only one side. They went in the second.
‘Stay here a minute. I’m going to urinate.’
The man closed the door, but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock.
Strange, Sarah thought. Could it be he didn’t lock it? After a staircase in which special goggles were required to go down, this seemed amateurish. Maybe the door could only be opened from outside. That was it. That had to be it.
Spurred on by curiosity, Sarah tried to turn the doorknob, sure it wouldn’t open.
She was wrong.
She spied the hallway. Not a living thing. She started to walk down it, step by step, not knowing what to look for. An exit? Only if there were a different one, because the stairs were impossible. There was no light. She had no idea where she was. The grated door of the elevator was closed and the elevator itself empty. No alarm button was visible. She tried the doors fearfully, always alert for a sound that would indicate the return of the unknown man. She turned the knobs carefully. Two were locked. She didn’t need to check the one she’d left. The door at the side was ajar. She opened it slightly and saw Phelps and Rafael seated on chairs face downward on a square table. Red stains on the floor made a shiver run down her spine.
‘Rafael,’ she whispered.
‘Sarah,’ he answered seriously. He showed no physical weakness. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. I mean, considering the possibilities.’ She was happy to see him again… see them… ‘Are you… all right?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Rafael answered calmly.
‘James is pale,’ Sarah realized. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Uh, don’t worry. It’s nerves,’ the Englishman said.
‘What are we doing here?’ Sarah wanted to know. ‘Is it Bar-’
Rafael put his finger on his lips, the obvious sign to shut up.
‘We are in the custody of the Russian secret service. Old-guard people without technological equipment or satellite images. They’re very patient and have their own training. This is one of their old methods.’
‘What method?’ Phelps asked doubtfully.
‘They leave us loose here without pressure, prepared to complain about our life, one to the other, to talk about what has brought us here and how everything has gone wrong for us, et cetera, et cetera.’
In fact all this sudden freedom had seemed strange to Sarah. It smacked of amateurism. It might have worked if Rafael were not here.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Rafael asked Sarah.
‘What?’ She hadn’t expected this question. ‘Ah, if I had the pleasure of a cup of tea…’
‘Three teas for us down here, please,’ he shouted at the door, startling Sarah and Phelps.
‘It’s not every day we receive a visit from foreigners who know our methods,’ a voice answered from the door. ‘The foreigners who know them are not usually in the world of the living.’