“Best regards,” the head repeated strictly.
Artyom swung the satchel up onto his shoulders; he grabbed it too abruptly, and a green metal side projected from the upper corner.
SergeI Sergeevich came to life and started lifting up his short, plump trunk, which he did after all possess, from behind the desk.
“Isn’t that a whatchamacallit radio set you’ve got there? It looks very much in a certain sense like an army radio in terms of carrying it into Hansa territory!”
Artyom squinted at the inconspicuous man; but now that Rozhin had woken up, the inconspicuous man, having barely managed to scrape his hundred cartridges away somewhere under the desk, had lost all interest in reality and was absentmindedly cleaning the dirt out from under his fingernails.
“Thank you!” Artyom retorted, picking up the bundle and pulling Homer towards the exit.
“There’s still my ten due to me,” the broker reminded them, scooting out behind.
Artyom heard muttering through the door that had slammed.
And on the platform they were already expected.
Not the sentries in camouflage gear who had led them here. Men in civilian clothes, holding their little security service ID books open. But it was impossible to read anything because it was so dark.
“Security Service,” one of them, a tall man, declared civilly.” Major Svinolup, Boris Ivanovich. Hand over your weapons, please, and the communications equipment. You are under arrest on suspicion of espionage for the Red Line.”
CHAPTER 5
— ENEMIES —
The major’s office was perfectly cozy and actually looked more like a bachelor apartment. It was clear immediately that the occupant of the office also slept here: one corner closed off with a curtain, with the edge of a bed, carelessly covered with a synthetic rug, protruding from under the curtain in a rather homely fashion. A moth-eaten carpet with an intricate oriental design, the details of which had begun to disappear. Fitted into another corner was a sumptuous icon: two slim male figures in red, with sad faces and fragile swords in long, delicate fingers.
After unlocking the door, the major cast a critical glance round the room, groaned as he gathered up the touching plush house slippers abandoned at opposite ends of the floor, and shoved them under the desk with an embarrassed air.
“I beg your pardon for the shambles. I prepared in a hurry.”
Meanwhile Artyom and the others were jostling in the hallway. When he had tidied up, Boris Ivanovich invited them in. But not everyone.
“A broker?” he asked Lyokha from arm’s length away.
“That’s right,” Lyokha admitted.
“You wait outside, my friend. We’ll talk separately. I eat in this office too, you know. I’m up to my neck in work. The enemy is ever vigilant.”
And he cut off the stench with a door—padded and soft, but it gave a metallic clang when it closed.
“Please take a seat on the chairs there.”
He swept the crumbs off the table, glanced into a hand-painted “Gzhel” mug, and clicked his tongue. Artyom was already wondering if he was actually going to offer them tea, but Boris Ivanovich didn’t. He moved aside the brass lamp with the green glass shade so that it wouldn’t glare in their eyes. And from out of the cozy twilight he asked, “Where have you come here from?”
“Exhibition”
“Oh.”
Boris Ivanovich rolled “Exhibition” around on his tongue like a vitamin pill and rubbed his nose, trying to recall.
“What’s that your boss is called? Kalyapin, I think, Alexander Nikolaevich? Is he managing all right?”
“Kalyapin retired six months ago. It’s SukhoI now.”
“Sukhoi … Sukhoi? The old security man, right? A colleague!” the major said delightedly.” I’m glad for him!”
“Affirmative.”
“And you’re from there yourself, as I understand it?” Svinolup leafed through Artyom’s passport.” What work do you do?”
“Stalker,” said Artyom.
“That’s what I thought. Well, and you?” asked Boris Ivanovich, switching to Homer.
“From Sebastopol.”
“Now that is interesting. Not the nearest of places. That’s Denis … Denis … Lord, what is that patronymic of his?
“Mikhailovich.”
“That’s right! Denis Mikhailich. How is he?”
“In good form.”
“In good form! Hah!” Boris Ivanovich winked conspiratorially at Homer.” Couldn’t have put it better. We came across each other once. I have a genuine respect for him. A professional. Mm, yes.”
Svinolup glanced into his mug again, as if hoping that it would fill itself. Then he cautiously touched his own cheeks. There was something wrong with his cheeks, but in the semi-darkness Artyom simply couldn’t make out exactly what. The major’s face seemed to … have something drawn on it. Was that it?
In every other way his appearance was rather pleasant: tall, with a broad forehead rendered higher by a receding hairline, athletic youthfulness stooped by office work. His eyes glinted warmly and probingly out of the half shadow. His surname, with the unlikely meaning of “swine-beater,” was incredibly unsuitable, too insulting for him. He was no common man of the people.
“By the way, you’re not a Jew, are you?” Boris Ivanovich asked Homer.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“‘No. Why do you ask?’” the occupant of the office laughed. “I definitely like you. As it happens, I hold your kind in high esteem, unlike many of my colleagues …”
“I’m not a Jew. You’ve seen my passport. Anyway, is it of any importance?”
“Your passport. People forge passports. But I’m not talking about the passport, I’m talking about the condition of your soul. To answer your question—none at all! This isn’t the Reich, really and truly.”
A pendulum clock rustled its hands on the wall: a simple clock, a piece of glass set in blue plastic. Drawn on its face was what Artyom thought was a shield and a line of letters with dashes. In the green glow of the table lamp Artyom read to himself: “VChK-NKVD-MGB-KGB-FSK-FSB-SB CCL”.” CCL is the Commonwealth of the Circle Line.” Artyom mechanically deciphered the correct title of Hansa.
“A rare item,” Boris Ivanovich explained to him.” There are only a couple like it in the entire Metro. A connoisseur would understand.”
“Do you have any more questions for us?” Artyom asked.
“Of course. Quite a lot, in fact. Can you hold your hands out here in the light, palms upward?” the major asked, without leaving the shadow.” Aha, thank you. The fingers. Will you allow me to touch them? Well, as if I’m shaking your hand. Whoops. Calluses. And this here is from gunpowder, right? Will you show me your shoulder? Come on, show it to me. The right one. No, no need to get undressed. There you are, a bruise. So clearly you sometimes use an assault rifle, then?”
And that was another strange thing: His fingers were damp and a little bit sticky. Only it wasn’t sweat clinging to them, but … Artyom barely overcame the desire to sniff at his own hands as soon as they were released from the major’s clasp.
“A stalker. I explained.”
“Well yes, that’s right. But stalkers are always in protective suits and gloves, right. You didn’t fire all those shots of yours up on the surface. And you, NikolaI Ivanovich?” He said addressed Homer by his passport name, feeling neatly at his own temples.” Hands. If you please. Thank you. Right, here we see an intellectual.”
He pondered, kneading them, those fingers of his: thick and strong. As if he had been doing something with them that had made them numb and painful. Perhaps he had been charging a whirring pocket torch for a long time.
The museum-piece clock wound through a certain amount of time, ticking distinctly: tsik, tsik, tsik, tsik. No one spoke, allowing the clock to sound clearly. The metal door cut off voices on the outside. If it were not for the discrete and distinct ticks, it would have been as quiet in here as it is for men deafened by an
explosion.
Then Boris Ivanovich recollected himself.
“May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit to Hansa?”
“Transit,” Artyom replied.
“Destination?”
“Teatralnaya.”
“Are you aware that the importation of uncertified communications equipment into Hansa territory is prohibited?”
“It never was before!”
“Oh come now, probably you have simply never tried before, Artyom Alexandrovich.”
The sound of his patronymic grated: Sukhoi had got Artyom his first passport, and SukhoI couldn’t have known the name of Artyom’s real father. He hadn’t even heard the name of Artyom’s mother. And although Artyom could have heard it, he didn’t remember it. So Uncle Sasha had written himself in, and back then Artyom didn’t have the guts to argue with him. So it had stuck. But he had changed the surname afterwards anyway, when Miller got him new documents issued to replace the ones that were damaged.
“And here’s another question: You live and work at Exhibition, as it says in the stamp, but the passport was issued in Polis. Do you do a lot of traveling? Are you there often?”
“I lived there for a year. Working on the side.”
“Not at Lenin Library Station, by any chance?”
“At Lenin Library.”
“Pretty close to the Red Line?”
“Closer to the actual Library.”
Svinolup became interested; he started smiling.
“And you’re going to Teatralnaya because it’s closer to the theatre, obviously? And not because both transfer stations are on the Red Line? Don’t get me wrong; I’m only being curious. In the line of duty.”
“Almost. I have a trip to the surface planned at Teatralnaya.”
“Of course, to use a military-style radio unit? Who are you going to send coded messages to there? The corps de ballet? The corpse de ballet, ha.”
“Listen,” Artyom interrupted him.” We haven’t got anything to do with the Reds. I explained: I’m a stalker. That’s clear enough anyway, isn’t it? From my face and my hair. I don’t even have to turn the light on at night in the john; my bloody pee glows. Yes, right, I have a radio with me. What of it? What if I get stuck there, up on the surface? If something tries to eat me? Aren’t I allowed to call anyone for help?”
“And is there anyone to call?” Boris Ivanovich asked.
He leaned forward, moved out of the shadow. And it became clear why he was touching his face. It was slashed all over with swollen scratches oozing bloody lymph. One of them ploughed obliquely through his eyebrow and, after a break, his cheekbone, as if someone had been trying to rip out the major’s eye, but he had squeezed his eye shut and saved it.
That was what was sticking to his fingers: the juice that had oozed out of these scratches, which were quite fresh, not dried out yet; something had happened to the major only a few minutes before he arrested them.” I had to prepare in a hurry …”
“Maybe there is,” Artyom replied slowly.
Should Artyom ask him What’s wrong with your face, Boris Ivanovich? But what would he gain by that? Nothing, except maybe to distract the major for a moment.
“Then perhaps you should call them?” Boris Ivanovich smiled; with the scratches it didn’t come out too well.” Because that could be handy for you right now. Registered at one station, documents issued at a different one. Carrying a firearm. With three magazines of ammunition. With your prohibited radio equipment. You understand what I’m talking about? This radio of yours … We have good reason to detain you, Artyom Alexandrovich. Until things are clarified, so to speak.”
Offer reasons? Explain to this man about what he needed the radio for? Artyom himself could make this Svinolup’s entire reply to him: In twenty years—no signals, no evidence that anyone else had survived anywhere at all. Who are you trying to fool, Artyom Alexandrovich?
The major moved out from behind his bulwark and walked to the center of the room—to trample with his dirty boots the pattern that was turning blind and dark because of age.
“And you, NikolaI Ivanovich, for company’s sake … Perhaps you at least have something to tell me? Not necessarily here, in front of the young man. Nothing has been found in your baggage, except for a diary. That is, your cute scribblings can be interpreted in various different ways. Maybe it’s a Chronicle of Bygone Years, or maybe you’re dashing off a report for the state security services of the Red Line. Eh?”
Homer pulled his head down into his shoulders and kept his mouth shut, but he didn’t forswear Artyom. Svinolup screwed the vise just a little bit tighter.
“Well, just as you like. These are difficult times. Anxious times. Difficult times require difficult decisions. You understand what I mean?”
Artyom searched for an answer down there on the bald carpet.
The melancholy plush slippers peeped out from under the desk. They somehow … didn’t belong in this office.
Too small for Boris Ivanovich with his immense boots.
A woman’s?
“And it might be possible that you have some explanation for all of this. But I don’t know it yet, do I? Put yourself in my position: I have to invent my own hypotheses. And so far my hypothesis is shaping up this way …
He had to prepare in a hurry. Didn’t have time to tidy away the slippers. His face is lacerated and bloody. Who did that to him, Artyom wondered, instead of thinking how to exculpate himself. A woman. With her nails. His entire face. She had tried to scratch his eyes out. It wasn’t a game. What had he done to her?
“You, comrades, attempted to gain entry to the territory of the hostile state of Hansa, bypassing border control by means of bribing a public official. For purposes, naturally, of espionage. Or, perhaps, to prepare a terrorist attack?”
What had he done to her?
The damned lamp was too sparing with its light, and in the gloom Artyom couldn’t tell if the pattern of the carpet was intertwined with crimson blotches. The little bachelor apartment looked tidy; no one had fought here, or rolled around on the floor, or knocked over furniture; but those slippers … Those slippers had been lying here, scattered. So she had сome here. They had brought her … They slammed the door with that clang, turned the key. The same way they did behind them now.
“Hansa has quite a lot of enemies. Those who envy us. But that radio set, now … A radio set, smuggled in undeclared and uncertified … What does it mean? It means you’re not acting alone. Your intrusion is part of some kind of plan. Someone was intending to coordinate your actions. Infiltrate the territory of the Circle, establish arms caches here, possibly, find contacts, obtain false documents from them, lie low, wait for the order … And emerge at the appointed time, together with the other sleeper agents.”
Homer probed Artyom helplessly with his transparent, honest eyes. But Artyom didn’t want to answer him; he kept turning blank eyes in his direction, slithering away.
Who is she? he wondered. What happened to her?
“And the fact that you say nothing means that you have no objections to raise. That is, I have guessed everything correctly, eh?”
There wasn’t any other way out of the office. One door—padded, muffling any sound. A desk. A clock. A phone. An icon. A bed curtained off in the corner. A bed. Covered with a synthetic rug. What if, on the bed … The curtain is thick, you can’t see through it, but behind it … On the bed …
“Well?”
Artyom opened his mouth, preparing to make a confession. Svinolup gathered himself, lurked in waiting, stopped droning. The Chekist clock dragged out a bit more time. Tsik. Tsik. Tsik. Homer filled his lungs up with air, didn’t dare to breathe. And no one was breathing anymore.
The reason she had tried to blind the major with her final ounces of strength was because he was killing her. He threw himself on top of her, maybe … and he was strangling her.
That curtain. Behind it. The covered bed. And right there on the bed. Where he sleeps.
&
nbsp; Dead. But what if she’s still alive?
Leap across? Tear back the curtain? Shout? Lunge in and fight?
No one’s breathing. And what if there’s nothing there?
“Who were you intending to signal? What about? Where from?” The major was losing patience.
Artyom started at him, transfixed. His head filled up with dirty ground water; it couldn’t contain it and was threatening to burst. It hurt.
Who is she? Who is that woman? Why was it done to her?
He had to do something. He couldn’t stay here. And the curtain—was that really any of Artyom’s business?
“Are you really accusing me of spying, Major? For the Reds?” Artyom rose halfway out of his chair.
Svinolup pulled a matte little Makarov pistol out of the air and arranged it beside him on the desk, a broad, black pupil staring into Artyom’s pupils. But it was too late to retreat. Artyom had to open the padded door; he absolutely had to get out of this cozy little apartment. Get out himself and take the old man out.
“So you found calluses on me, did you? Gunpowder? All right. Very well, let me tell you where the calluses are from. Do you remember the business with the bunker last year? You must remember. Do you remember Korbut from the Red Line? You must have known him! He was your colleague. When the Order lost half its soldiers, do you remember? Holding back the Reds. Fighting against your enemies, yours! Because if they had taken over that bunker … And we asked for help from you, from your Hansa, remember? When we thought everything was over! But apparently you bastards had all your forces occupied on the invisible front! That’s where I got my calluses! From the same place where Miller got his wheelchair!”
“Roll up your sleeve,” the major told him in a changed voice.
Screwing up his face, Artyom rolled up his sleeve.” If not we, then who?” The tattoo had already turned gray.
“Well, at least now the business with the passport has been cleared up.” Boris Ivanovich cleared his throat.
“Any more questions for us?”
“You shouldn’t act so jumpy with me. It so happens that I had good grounds to hold you here until things were clarified. Perhaps you don’t know, but at this moment we’re on the verge of declaring a state of emergency. Only last week fifteen agents of the Red Line were exposed and neutralized. Spies, saboteurs, and terrorists. The Order, of course, is busy with other things. I understand. But your Order, greatly as I respect it, doesn’t have a clue about counterintelligence. Maybe it seems to you that the future of the entire planet lies in your hands alone. You probably think that the peace and stability of Hansa can be taken for granted, right? But what if I tell you that only yesterday we caught a little man who had obtained access to our water supply system? And they confiscated twenty kilos of rat poison from him? Do you know how agonizingly people die from rat poison? Or that a happy-go-lucky shit-shifter who looked just like your little friend carried an anti-tank mine into Belorussia in his barrel? Do you know that? If it was put in the right place, can you imagine what would happen? And that’s just the saboteurs. We catch agents by the bunch. Propagandists. They start by whining that we don’t have any justice here, that the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer, that Hansa, so they say, is stifling business, or that the working man’s life is unendurable throughout the entire Metro, because Hansa’s sucking the juice out of everyone, and then there are the leaflets—there now!”
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