The Doomsday Box (22 page)

Perhaps that's how he was meant to feel. Perhaps gratitude encouraged prisoners to answer questions.

“Help him stand,” Menshikov told Opal sharply. “Then help him walk. There will be no permanent harm, but for now he will not be able to walk unaided, and it is important we leave here as quickly as possible.”

Opal was weeping, whether with relief at being freed or as a reaction to his appearance, Michael did not know. She held him gently, murmuring words of encouragement under her breath, then, glancing briefly at Menshikov, placed Michael's arm around her shoulders. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” Michael said. In fact, much to his surprise, he was feeling a little stronger already.

Menshikov drew his sidearm, a heavy revolver of some sort. “I would ask you to walk in front of me. It is important—very important—that you follow my instructions without question and without hesitation. Should anything unexpected occur, you must stand still, remain silent, and permit me to deal with it. It is absolutely vital that you make no attempt to escape my custody.”

Michael almost laughed aloud. The idea that he could somehow make a break for it in his present condition was ridiculous. But he noticed the word
custody.
Despite Menshikov's talk of release, it was obvious they were both still prisoners—and prisoners at gunpoint. This looked far less like a release than a transfer. But a transfer to where?

The next few minutes were a blur to Michael. The moment he tried to walk, the dizziness returned. He was aware of falling against Opal, of her half carrying him, of wanting to stand and walk by himself, yet not being able. They left the cell where he had hung for what seemed like a lifetime. There were impressions of a brick-red corridor and a linoleum strip beneath his feet. There were doors and guards and the colonel issuing abrupt orders in Russian. While Michael had hung in his cell, he thought he would never feel warm again, but this area of the prison was overheated. As he shuffled forward, using Opal as a crutch, he burst into a sudden sweat as if he'd been stricken by high fever. Then they were outside, and the cold night air of Moscow hit him like a physical blow.

They were not in the square from which he remembered entering the building. Instead they were in a narrow side street. The guards who had escorted them from the jail had disappeared, leaving Opal and himself alone with Colonel Menshikov. The gun trained on them never wavered. Michael stopped and managed to look around. The cold air was clearing his head. The alleyway was ill-lit and deserted. If Menshikov planned to shoot them, he could do it here with little chance of being seen. Then there was a large black car pulling up beside them. The driver got out, a man in a heavy overcoat and fur hat. He walked away without so much as glancing toward them, leaving the car engine running, the driver's door open.

Menshikov jerked open the car's rear door. “Inside,” he said tersely.

Michael was too disoriented to speak. “Where are you taking us?” Opal demanded.

“Later,” Menshikov snapped, gesturing with his pistol.

Michael half fell, half climbed into the backseat of the car. The heater must have been switched on full blast because the inside was almost tropical. He was aware of Opal beside him and the car door slamming. Menshikov said, “For God's sake, don't do anything stupid.” In his confused state, Michael thought he seemed to have lost his Russian accent. Then Menshikov was sliding into the driver's seat, and the car moved off. They emerged from the alley into the city's nighttime traffic, surprisingly a little heavier than he'd noticed during the day. He had no idea where they were, except that after a while they seemed to be driving beside the river.

“Are you all right?” Opal asked.

Michael licked his lips. “Yes,” he said, and in many ways it was true. Now he was sitting down, the dizziness had disappeared. His body, arms, and legs still ached, but not nearly so badly as they had done. The warmth of the car seemed to seep into his bones, giving him, little by little, renewed energy.

“Look,” Opal whispered. She was gently working the handle of the car door. It was obviously locked. She nodded toward the glass partition that separated the backseat from the driver's compartment, then leaned across to press her lips against his ear. “I bet that's bulletproof glass.” Her message was loud and clear. They were still prisoners.

The suspicion was confirmed when Menshikov pulled into the parking lot of a luxury apartment building on the outskirts of the city. They watched from the car as he unlocked a security gate, and tried the car door again while his attention was elsewhere. It remained locked until he returned and opened it from the outside. His sidearm was holstered again, which meant they had an opportunity to break for freedom, but while Michael was feeling stronger now than he had, he knew he was still in no fit state to run. With Opal's hand on his arm, he climbed stiffly from the car and looked around.

“Hurry,” Menshikov told them. “It's important you're not seen.” He herded them through reinforced glass entrance doors to a silent elevator ride up to a penthouse apartment. The place was luxurious by any standards: paintwork, furnishings, and curtains all looked brand-new. There was a well-stocked bar in one corner of the carpeted living room. It seemed senior members of the KGB were permitted to stray from their proletarian roots.

Opal guided Michael to a comfortable settee, and he sat down gratefully. Colonel Menshikov closed the door and slipped on a hefty security chain before turning to them. “Okay,” he said, “this place is guaranteed free of listening devices, so we can all talk openly. Now I don't know where you kids come from, but there's no record of you here in Russia or back home in Langley or Washington, so I want you to tell me one thing now: just who in hell
are
you?”

D
id he say
back home
? Opal stared at the colonel, who was busily shrugging out of his uniform jacket and undoing the neatly knotted tie. The accent was no longer Russian, but neutral, bordering on American. Was this another ploy, another trick to make them lower their defenses? Beside her, Michael moved, triggered a muscle cramp, and groaned as he began to massage his calf vigorously.

Menshikov said, “Listen, Michael, I'm really sorry about the way I had to treat you. No option. What you got was standard procedure. Couldn't deviate or I'd have blown everything—including your chances of getting out of there.” He looked at Opal, and his heavy features softened a little, reminding her of someone, although just at the moment she couldn't think of who. “At least I didn't have to give you both the treatment. The manual says pick one or the other, that way there's pressure on the one who's not being ill-treated. Thought the boy would be better able to stand up to it than you, young woman.”

“Colonel Menshikov—” Opal began.

“First off, the name's not Menshikov,” the man interrupted. He collapsed into an easy chair, his sidearm thrown carelessly on the table beside him. “And you can stop worrying about the fact I'm a colonel in the KGB—that's part of my cover.”

“Cover?” Michael echoed. He stopped massaging his leg.

“I'm CIA. As you're supposed to be, according to the embassy. Only I can't find any record of you anywhere. And you two don't even sound like Americans. You're a Brit, aren't you?” He turned his eyes to Michael. “And you're sure as hell not American either. Either Brit or French, I'd guess—you've got an accent I can't place.”

“Mali,” Michael said. “French is my first language.”

“Where's Mali?”

“Africa.”

“So you're African, and you're English, and you're both CIA. What about the other two?”

“What other two?” Opal asked quickly.

Menshikov, who said he wasn't Menshikov, sighed deeply and knuckled his eyes. “I suppose I can't blame you after what you've been through. The other two are called Danny Lipman and Fuchsia Benson. But before we start talking about them, let me fill you in on what's been happening, then maybe you'll trust me enough to open up a bit. Hey—can I get either of you anything to eat? Or drink? You can't get Coke in this godforsaken country, but the Russkies do a decent lemonade. I'm assuming neither of you is into vodka.”

To Opal's surprise, Michael said at once, “I'd like something to eat. And drink.”

“Of course. You've had nothing since they hauled you in. I have salmon in the fridge and caviar, bread, cheese I think, roast beef, and some boiled ham. Any of that appeal to you?”

“Will you make me a ham sandwich?” Michael asked. “Russian lemonade would be fine to drink.”

“Nothing for me,” Opal said. She still did not trust Menshikov. What he'd done to Michael amounted to serious torture, and she wasn't going to forget it just because he was suddenly coming on all hail-fellow “I'm American.” It could be an act. In fact, with every passing moment she was sure it must be an act. But she couldn't blame Michael for asking for food. After what he'd been through, he deserved a banquet.

“I'll make you some tea,” Menshikov said. “Something else the Russians do quite well. You'll appreciate that, being a Brit.” He pushed himself out of his chair and headed through an open doorway into what was clearly a small kitchen. “Coming right up.”

“What do you think?” Michael whispered at once.

“I don't know,” Opal told him honestly.

“Do you trust him?”

Opal shook her head. “Definitely not.”

“Listen,” Michael said, “I'm still a bit stiff. Before he comes back, could you find out if he's locked that door? I mean, he's put on a security chain, but I didn't notice if he locked the door or if it's the sort that locks itself.”

“Are you thinking of making a run for it?”

“No, I'm not fit enough yet. I just want to see if he's still treating us as prisoners.”

Opal glanced through the open doorway to make sure Menshikov remained distracted in the kitchen, then moved quickly to try the apartment door. “It's not locked,” she whispered as she returned to Michael.

“So we're not prisoners?”

“Well . . . ,” Opal began uncertainly. Her eye suddenly went to the table beside Menshikov's chair. “Michael, he's left his gun!”

Michael stared at the weapon. After a moment, he said, “Do you think we should grab it?”

Opal glanced toward the kitchen, locked in indecision. “I don't—” But then it was too late. Menshikov was returning, carrying a plate of sandwiches in one hand, a teapot in the other, and a large lemonade bottle tucked under one arm. If ever there was a time to jump him, it was now, Opal thought, but then that moment passed too as he handed her the plate.

“You feed him those until he stops shaking.” Menshikov set the teapot on the floor in front of her and handed Michael the lemonade. “I'll get you a cup and a glass.”

Menshikov poured himself a measure of vodka when he went to the bar to collect Michael's glass, and took a deep drink as he threw himself back into his chair. “Okay, from the beginning, then let's see if you forgive me, and maybe after that we can get some sensible answers. Like I told you, I'm CIA, working under deep cover as Colonel Menshikov of the KGB. It's a special assignment, short-term and dangerous as hell. Either of you guys read the James Bond books?”

Opal nodded. “Yes.” Michael said nothing.

Menshikov grinned. “My assignment's more dangerous, and I've got a very limited time to complete it. Anyway, lucky for you I was on it. I heard you kids had been pulled in. You were the talk of the department. Not often the KGB goes after four American youngsters—I thought you were Americans at that stage—so I started to take an interest. Russkies had info you were CIA. Seemed unlikely to me, but my contact in the embassy confirmed it. I didn't know what was going down—nobody had told me anything; they wouldn't if it wasn't need-to-know—but I knew it had to be important to get you away from Lubyanka before they beat the details out of you. So I assigned myself to your case. One of the perks of being a KGB colonel.” He stopped. “You're not drinking your tea.”

“Sorry,” Opal said. She poured herself a cup of hot, strong tea, looked vainly around for milk and sugar, then decided to drink it black. The first sip was pretty foul. She looked at Menshikov expectantly.

“Thing was,” Menshikov said, “there's a standard procedure for interrogating prisoners and bugs in every office and cell to make sure it's carried out.” He turned to Michael, who was wolfing the sandwiches, and said with every indication of genuine regret, “I'm sorry about what I did to you, but like I said, I thought it better you than her, and it was the very minimum I could get away with under the rules. Even a colonel can't break them.”

The reminder of Michael's treatment sent a wave of anger through Opal. “You turned him over to those ghastly Krylov twins,” she snapped accusingly.

Menshikov looked at her soberly. “When the Krylovs go to work, there's no recording made of what happens. That's so the KGB can claim any confession was given freely without torture. Any other time, every word is automatically recorded. I needed to be sure nothing was monitored that would incriminate either of us while I was getting you out of there. As it happened, you were reasonably cooperative, but I couldn't take chances. Frankly, my mission is too important to have my cover blown at this stage. Your problems are just a sideshow.” He grinned again, suddenly. “But an interesting sideshow. You ready to tell me what's going on yet?”