The old man looked up as Danny entered, and for a moment Danny could have sworn the prisoner had seen him. He stared at Danny fixedly for a moment, wild eyes underneath an unruly shock of gray-white hair, then began a mewling sound deep in his throat that rose in pitch and volume until it became another scream that went on and on impossibly, as if he had an infinite reserve of breath. There was no one else in the cell, no reason for the old man to be screaming.
Except memories, Danny thought.
Danny withdrew. There was nothing he could do for the prisoner, nothing he could do for anyone while he was in his astral body. Except observe and hope it took a long time to drive anyone as mad as the old man. Michael had only been here for a few hours. If Michael was here at all.
For the next three-quarters of an hour, Danny searched. It was far easier here in one way than it had been above. The prison was a great deal smaller than even a single floor of the building above, obviously no more than a converted basement. Part of it was taken up by a guardroom where two uniformed men smoked and played a listless game of cards. Part, which made Danny sick to his stomach, was devoted to a modern torture chamber, currently mercifully empty. There were also several offices (radio sets seemed to be standard equipment) and a long, narrow, cramped kitchen, which surprised him until he thought about it: even KGB prisoners had to be fed. But while there were exactly one hundred and ten cells—he counted them carefully—fewer than thirty were occupied.
None that he found was occupied by Michael.
Danny felt a surge of relief that almost made him dizzy. Many of the occupied cells housed prisoners in overalls or civilian clothes who would not have been out of place in a conventional jail. Their cells had bunks and toilet facilities, and a few were equipped with tables, chairs, and, in a handful, even bookshelves. Their occupants looked frightened, bored, miserable, as prisoners usually did, but showed no immediate signs of severe ill treatment. But in sharp contrast with these prisoners, there were others who were half-dressed, bruised, and bloody from what were clearly recent beatings. Some were shackled in uncomfortable positions. Two were actually hanging by their arms from the ceiling. It was clear the KGB was ruthless in the methods it employed. He was glad Michael had not been forced to endure them.
Danny floated upward into the ground-floor foyer of the headquarters building above. He’d more than half decided to head back to Fuchsia in the embassy, but it still niggled that even though he was fairly sure now Michael was safe and unharmed, the fact was, he hadn’t been able to find him. On impulse he decided to try a few more rooms at random, and since he’d visited none at all on the ground floor, he thought he might start there.
Unlike those on the other floors, the ground-floor doors were large, paneled, and painted a glossy white. Danny passed through the nearest of them and discovered he was in a spacious, well-furnished conference room where a meeting was already taking place. The room was dominated by a large, highly polished oak table strewn with maps. Around it stood several men in army uniforms, some of whom Danny recognized from his meanderings upstairs as KGB. Beyond them, lounging in a leather armchair, was a heavily bearded man in battle fatigues. His uniform carried no insignia of rank, but he was holding a brandy glass and smoking a fat cigar, which in Danny’s book meant he had to be pretty important. Near him, another armchair was occupied by a civilian in his early fifties, the only man in the place out of uniform. Between them sat a nervous, fresh-faced young man whose uniform looked brand-new.
“¿Cuándo son enviados?” The bearded man took a sip of his brandy and smiled broadly. His teeth were very white against the black of his beard.
The nervous young man in uniform leaned across to whisper something to the civilian, who nodded soberly, then looked at his cigar-smoking companion. “Skoro. Yest’ diplomaticheskȏ tonkosti zavershit’ v protivnom sluchae amerikantsy ne budet dovolen.” As the young man translated, the bearded man began another slow smile, which quickly changed into a hearty laugh.
Danny lost interest. Without Russian or Spanish—it sounded like Spanish the bearded man was speaking—Danny had no idea at all what they were saying. It was obviously some sort of military meeting, but there was no reason to—
He stopped, his attention caught by the maps on the table. One was a large sea chart with five circles drawn on it, their common center near the westernmost tip of an island that lay just south of what looked like the edge of a major landmass, but all its features were marked in Cyrillic, so they meant nothing to him. The other maps, without exception, were of the island itself. None of them was named, and he didn’t recognize the long, thin, rather drooping shape. A black-and-white outline version of the island had hand-drawn boxes marking three locations: San Cristóbal, Guanajay, and, farther east, Sagua la Grande. This time the lettering was Roman, not Cyrillic, and the place names sounded Spanish. But Spain was part of a continent, not an island, so this had to be somewhere else—probably somewhere off the coast of South America.
Danny tore his eyes away from the maps. Fascinating though this meeting was, it didn’t bring him any closer to finding Michael. He made a sudden decision. He’d wasted enough time already. He’d found Opal, and Michael couldn’t be very far away. The important thing was to get them out. And that meant getting help from the embassy.
Danny turned away from the table and floated from the room, all the way out of the building. Then he lifted into the air and set a course back to the American embassy.
Chapter 31
Opal, KGB Headquarters, 1962
Opal awoke with a start as the door of her room slammed back. Two uniformed men burst in, each carrying rifles.
“Vstavȃ!” one shouted at her angrily.
She didn’t understand Russian, but the meaning was clear enough. She swung her feet off the bed and stood up, silently thanking heaven she’d fallen asleep fully clothed. She doubted very much that these men would have shown much respect for her modesty. As it was, her heart was pounding with fear. Both men looked like brutes. Neither showed the least hint of Menshikov’s earlier cool courtesy.
“Pȏdem s nami!” the second man shouted. Opal looked at him blankly, and he gestured with his rifle so that she had the sense he wanted her to go with them. But where were they taking her?
She tried desperately to estimate how long she’d been asleep. It felt like a short time, but she vaguely remembered a dream that seemed to go on forever. Could it be morning already? The window of her room had padlocked shutters and a heavy curtain, so there was no way to see if it was daylight outside. Menshikov had promised to return in the morning, so perhaps these men were taking her to him.
As the confusion of sleep fell away from her mind, old fears tumbled in. Menshikov had been courteous and reassuring when her interview began, but when she claimed to know nothing of time travel or psychotronics—how had he known to ask her about either of those?—the mask had slipped a little. Not that he’d threatened her openly, but it was clear he did not believe her denials, and there were veiled hints that continued lack of cooperation might soon create problems. But what worried her far more than these hints was the fact he would tell her nothing about Michael. When she asked, he simply shrugged and claimed Michael was not his responsibility. When she pushed, he told her blankly he had “no information.”
She would have given anything to know if Michael was all right.
The men used their rifles to prod her toward the door, then marched her down two corridors until they reached an elevator. The second corridor had windows on an outside wall, which allowed her to discover it was dark outside. As they waited for the elevator to arrive, she stared out across the lights of the city, trying to estimate the time. By her best guess it seemed to be the middle of the night, but it might be earlier; possibly a lot earlier. But if it wasn’t almost morning, when Menshikov was returning, where were they taking her?
Her mind began to feed her stories she’d heard about the interrogation techniques used by totalitarian states. Sl
eep deprivation was high among them. You were allowed no sleep at all or, alternatively, permitted to sleep only a short time, then dragged awake for questioning while your resistance was at its lowest ebb. Was this what was happening to her now?
The elevator arrived with the sort of mechanical clatter she associated with a railway station. One of her guards pulled aside the old-fashioned trellised doors, and the other pushed her inside so brutally that she almost fell. They took their places on either side of her, closed the doors again, and pulled sharply on a heavy metal knob. The lift began a slow, shuddering descent.
Opal fought hard to control an almost overpowering fear. “Do either of you speak English?”
Neither guard answered, neither guard looked at her.
Opal licked dry lips. “Can you tell me where you’re taking me?”
“Zatknis’!”
She didn’t have to be a Russian speaker to get the sense of that one either. The man’s intonation was enough. She closed her mouth and stared blankly ahead as the elevator continued to rattle slowly downward.
A crude pointer and dial on one wall marked the rate of their descent. Four of the segments were marked only with numerals: 5, 4, 3, 2. The final one—they’d started off on the fifth floor—was labeled in Cyrillic. When they reached the ground floor, the elevator cage stopped with a jerk. Through the trellised doors she could see people waiting outside. One even moved to open the outer door, but pulled back suddenly as he caught sight of the guards. The guards themselves made no move to open the doors, let alone get out. After a moment, the cage shuddered, then resumed its descent. It dropped a single floor farther before stopping again. Opal looked up at the pointer. It was centered in the final segment. They were obviously below street level. The men had taken her into some sort of basement. Opal felt her heart begin to race again and could do nothing to control it.
They emerged into a passageway with brick-lined walls and a stone-flagged floor partly covered by a strip of heavily worn linoleum. For some reason a dream she’d once had about the Spanish Inquisition came flooding back to her. The passage was absolutely featureless, but its walls exuded a smell, like a mixture of stale sweat and dried blood, that made her think of human pain. Her guards slung their rifles across their backs in a single coordinated movement, took each of her arms, and marched her down the corridor. She almost stumbled when they reached a short flight of stone steps, but regained her balance in time to make note of the fact she was now in a different sort of passageway. There were still the same unplastered walls, still the same strip of faded linoleum, but now there were cell doors every few yards. Each one had metal sheeting. Each one had an observation hatch.
Opal was moving close to panic. While she was in the office or the makeshift bedroom, she could tell herself that her situation was temporary, that she might be released at any moment. But to be thrown into a cell was another matter altogether. A cell meant you were going to be held for days, perhaps even weeks.
Perhaps forever, her mind whispered disloyally.
Opal made one more try. “Why have you brought me here?” she demanded in her most assertive tone. “Where are you taking me now?”
They continued to ignore her, not even bothering to shout at her in Russian, but it didn’t really matter because she found out where she was going within minutes. One guard kept hold of her arm while the other opened a cell door using a large, old-fashioned key. She assumed this would be her home for a while, but when they pushed her through the doorway, she discovered, with a sharp intake of breath, the cell was already occupied.
The door slammed behind her.
“Michael!” Opal gasped, and ran toward him. He was slumped forward, hanging by his wrists from a chain attached to the ceiling. His ankles were shackled to a bar attached to the floor. His eyes were red and staring, his face contorted with pain.
For one hideous, savage moment, she thought he might be dead, then he took a rasping breath and murmured, “Opal.”
Opal instinctively wrapped both arms around him and hoisted him upward to relieve the strain on his arms. His wrists were bleeding from beneath the shackles, and his ankles were rubbed raw. For a moment she managed to hold him, but he was a sturdy, muscular boy, and her arms quickly tired. Despite every effort, he began to slip down again. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry.” Opal felt the tears on her cheeks. She grasped him again, strained to lift him back up.
Michael straightened abruptly, taking his weight on his own legs. They trembled violently, but held him. He licked his lips, which were encrusted with blood where he had bitten them. “I’m very glad to see you,” he told her in that dreadful, rasping voice.
“We have to get you out of here,” Opal said desperately. “This is horrible. This is . . . unacceptable.” It was a stupid word to use, but she couldn’t think of another one. God alone knew how long they’d left Michael like that—maybe even since they brought him here—and the pain he must be in was beyond belief.
“Menshikov’s not going to let us out of here,” Michael said. “Not before morning.”
“Menshikov did this to you? He told me he didn’t know where you were. He told me you weren’t his responsibility.”
Michael’s legs gave way suddenly, and the chains rattled as he slumped forward to hang from the ceiling. He caught his breath. “Menshikov lied.”
Opal held him again. She couldn’t support his weight for long, but even a small easement of his pain had to be a help. He must have guessed what she was thinking, for he said, “It’s not as bad as it looks. My legs don’t hurt anymore: they’ve gone numb. But they won’t hold me up very long, so there’s a bit of strain on my arms. My shoulders are the worst.”
“Your wrists are bleeding.”
“Are they? I can’t see. I thought they felt grazed.”
He was so brave! She felt a surge of almost overwhelming affection for him, mixed with a white-hot rage against Menshikov. How dare he do something like this? If she’d had it in her power at that precise instant, she would have killed him! She reined in the anger. An emotional response wasn’t going to do any good in these circumstances. What she needed was to think logically, try to figure out what was going on, make a plan to get them both out of here. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Did Menshikov say what he planned to do with you?” There must be something planned. Torture was always applied for a reason.
“He wants information on time travel and psycho-tronics.”
“He asked me about that too.” She wondered suddenly why Menshikov hadn’t tortured her as well. She had refused to talk, just like Michael. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
Michael whispered quickly, “I think there are hidden microphones in these cells.”
Opal stopped short. “You know,” she added casually, “I don’t even know what ‘psychotronics’ means.”
Michael released a small groan, then promptly apologized. “Sorry. It feels as if I’ve been like this forever. Do you know what time it is?”
Opal shook her head. “No. It’s dark outside, but I don’t know the time.”
“Menshikov said he’d come back today.”
“He told me that too,” Opal said.
“He didn’t—?” Michael stopped.
Opal, who was still holding him, felt the new tension at once. “He didn’t what?”
“He didn’t mention the Krylov twins?” Michael finished reluctantly.
Opal shook her head. “Who are they?”
“I’m not sure,” Michael said. “I think they may be specialists in torture.”
Opal held him closer. She was certain he must feel the wild beating of her heart. “He can’t do anything else to you!”
Michael gave a sharp, coughing laugh, cut short by a wince of pain. “I think this may just be the softening-up.”
“But it’s pointless torturing you,” Opal said loudly for the benefit of the hidden microphones. “You don’t know any more than I do about anything h
e’s asked you.” There was a subtle change in his body. She dropped her voice. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” Michael said; and she didn’t believe him. He pushed down on his trembling legs again and managed to stand erect. Opal let go of him reluctantly.
“There’s something,” she said sternly. “You can’t keep things from me if we’re to find a way out of here. We’re in this together.”
Michael made a small gesture with his head. Opal moved closer and put her ear to his mouth so he could whisper without his words being picked up by any listening devices. As she did so, there was the sound of a key in the cell door. Opal jerked away from Michael as if she’d been stung, and Michael raised his head in alarm.
A man and woman in their forties were standing in the doorway. Both wore white coats, like doctors, and carried small attaché cases. The man’s eyes, behind rimless glasses, were cold as a dead fish. “I am Grigory Krylov,” he said softly. His English was overlaid by the distinct hint of an East European accent. “This is my sister, Anna.”
“We were just talking about you,” Michael said.
Chapter 32
Danny, the American Embassy, Moscow, 1962
Danny jerked upright, gasping as if he were drowning. He became aware of Fuchsia seated beside him on the bed. “I didn’t touch you,” she said anxiously. “Honestly.” She hesitated, then added, “Can I touch you now?”
“Yes,” Danny gasped.
She put an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe,” she said. “Deep breaths.” Then, as he began to settle down a little, “Are you all right?”
Danny nodded. “Yes. Fine.” He drew another stuttering breath. “Fine.”
“What happened?”
Danny swung his legs off the bed. “Came back into the body too quickly. Bit overexcited.”
“Did you find them? Were they in KGB headquarters?”
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