The Doomsday Box (16 page)

“You have a
file
on me?” Opal failed entirely to keep the shock from her voice. “Where
is
this place?”

“You asked before. I thought you might have guessed by now. This is KGB headquarters. Part of the building is administration offices, part is a prison, part consists of interrogation rooms like this one—where, I hope, we will not have to delay you for long.” He took a newly sharpened pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket and used it to flick up one corner of the folder. Inside she had the briefest glimpse of what looked like a single sheet of paper. Then he let the corner drop. “I have only a few questions for you, but before we get to them, let me tell you some things that will, perhaps, reassure you.” The smile again, to every appearance completely genuine. “Would I be correct in assuming that my mention of the KGB has left you a little . . . shall we say, apprehensive?”

Opal forced herself to smile back, although she doubted her attempt was as convincing as his own. “Perhaps just a little.”

Menshikov sat up and said briskly, “I'm afraid, as an organization, we have not been very skilled in”—he hesitated for the first time, suddenly frowning—“public relatives? Do you say ‘public relatives'?”

“Public relations,” Opal corrected him.

“Ah, yes, public
relations.
Forgive me: my English is very poor. As a result, there have been many misconceptions about the activities of the KGB. You will no doubt have heard that we torture prisoners, is this not so?”

It was Opal's turn to hesitate, but only for a moment. If she was to get anywhere, she had to give the impression of total honesty. “Yes.”

“Then let me assure you,” said Menshikov expansively, “this is not the case. KGB officers are expressly forbidden by our founding legislation to cause any physical harm to those in our custody, for whatever reason they are under investigation.”

Opal's instinct was to let him talk, but he looked at her now without speaking further. With a mild sensation of panic, she heard herself ask, “What about
mental
torture?”

To her surprise, he actually laughed. “Ah, the deprivation of sleep, the loud music played endlessly through speakers, the humiliation through the removal of clothes, the forced stress positions . . . you have heard of all these things, no doubt?”

She had. “Not true?” she asked.

“Not true,” Menshikov echoed. “We rely almost entirely on the willing cooperation of those we need to question.”

“So if I wanted to get up and leave now, you would do nothing to stop me?”

“Oh come, Miss Harrington, you toy with me. You know there are questions I must ask you. You are obviously a sensible young woman, so it is my hope and expectation that you will cooperate with me. I fear that unless you choose to give me satisfactory answers, I am forced to detain you here until you do—that is my job. I am simply telling you that you should have no fear of torture, physical or mental, during your stay here.” The easy smile came again. “Unless you count the food, of course, which I'm afraid is quite dreadful.”

“But nourishing,” Opal suggested ironically.

“Indeed,” he said, a little blankly. He drew the file toward him and flicked it open. Then he took a thick-barreled fountain pen from his breast pocket, unscrewed the top, and set it down beside the pencil by the folder. “Now, Miss Harrington, tell me all you know about psychotronics and time travel.”

I
t was cold. Michael's breath plumed in time to the rise and fall of his chest. His arms were shackled at the wrists and pulled above his head by a slack chain attached to a pulley on the ceiling. His ankles were also shackled, in this case to an iron bar that left his feet spread about a yard apart. The bar was, in turn, chained to fittings sunk into a concrete block beneath him. There was nothing painful about the shackles themselves—all four felt, if anything, a little loose—but the wrist chain meant he was unable to sit or even squat, while the bar prevented his taking so much as a single step across the room. He could bend, he could turn, but these were the only movements permitted.

His arms hurt from being held up at an unnatural angle. His legs hurt even more.

The cell was somewhere in the basement of the building where the three men had brought Opal and himself. It was windowless and lit only by a single dim bulb hanging from a length of electrical cord in the middle of the ceiling. The walls were whitewashed, with a splattering of curious brown stains. The floor was of worn stone flags. There was only one item of furniture, an old wooden chair.

Michael bent his knees to take some of the strain from his legs. Although he could not bend them much, it helped a little, but only for a moment. The problem was, bending his legs left him hanging from the chain that held his wrists, so that his arms immediately began to spasm and his shoulder sockets felt as if they were on fire. He endured it for as long as he could, then straightened his knees. His legs began to ache again.

Turning round on his own axis helped a little too. He could manage that fairly easily since the ankle bar was fixed in such a way as to allow a full 360-degree rotation. There was just enough chain to permit him to shuffle his feet. With a little concentration he could use the movement to turn slowly so that he faced each blank wall in turn. In one of them there was a steel-clad door with a sliding hatch at head height. Michael knew this had to be an observation hatch, although it had remained closed since he became aware of it. Michael even knew where he was, or thought he did. He was in a subterranean cell of the Lubyanka Prison, which formed part of KGB headquarters.

The classrooms of Eton College seemed very far away.

Despite his pain, he came close to a smile. It was in a history lesson at Eton that he'd learned about the KGB and their Lubyanka Prison. An old Soviet joke had stuck in his mind:

Why has KGB headquarters got the best view in the whole of Moscow?
Because from the basement you can see Siberia.

Siberia was where the Soviets kept their prison camps, the dreaded gulags, where dissident political prisoners spent brutal years of hard labor in subzero temperatures. Those who survived the Lubyanka itself, that was. The Lubyanka was where suspects were questioned, sometimes with such ferocity that they died.

Michael stopped his circle. The result was always the same. He could change position slightly, but ultimately it made no difference. He could ease one ache a little, but only at the expense of starting another. There was no easement, no letup. The pains had crept into his back and chest, and while no single pain was unbearable in itself, the combination of aches never stopped. There was a term for what was happening to him, and it diverted him to try to remember it. Eventually he did. He was in a ‘stress position.' If you had to endure a stress position long enough, you would tell your captors anything.

He had no idea how long he had hung in this stress position. He thought it must be at least an hour, although it might well have been longer. It certainly felt longer. Time stretched endlessly when your body was filled with pain. He wished he had one of the Shadow Project's psychotronic helmets. With that he could leave his body and its ills. Without it, he was trapped.

Facing the cell door, Michael slumped forward and hung by his arms to ease the fire that had started in his calves and thighs. He set his mind to solving the mystery of why he was here, partly to take his mind off the pain, partly because it was important to work out some sort of strategy before his captors returned.

Why had the KGB shown this sudden interest in four young visitors to the American embassy? They were, admittedly, secret agents of a sort as members of the Shadow Project, but that was years in the future, with no possibility of the KGB discovering it. No documentation existed anywhere. There was no reason for the Soviet authorities to see them as anything more than innocent visitors. So why had they been taken? The Russians must have had some reason, and a pressing one.

He still needed to work out what that reason was. He reviewed the situation. One thing stood out. They had been seized as they made contact with Cobra. This was surely not a coincidence. Cobra was a CIA agent, working undercover on heaven-knew-what sort of mission. If Cobra's cover had somehow been blown, he and Opal might have been arrested as part of the fallout, innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The only problem with that theory was that Cobra himself had not been arrested. At least, Michael didn't think he had. But it was possible to imagine the KGB might have a reason for that. For example, Michael could envision a scenario in which he and Opal were arrested in order to panic Cobra into revealing himself, or running for safety and hence revealing others who might be involved in his operation. There were so many—

Michael jerked upright and swallowed desperately to clear a dry throat. There was a key inserting into the lock of his cell door.

The man who entered smelled of cheap cologne and hair cream. Michael mistrusted him at once. He stared at Michael almost blankly for a moment, then pushed the door so that it closed slowly with a soft click. He did not relock it, but instead dropped the key into the side pocket of his jacket.

“Michael Potolo,” he said in English. “Is it true you are a prince in your own country? Should I address you as
Prince
Michael?
Et peut-être vous préférez que nous parlions en français?
”

Name, title—and since he knew Michael's native language, almost certainly he knew his country of origin. The shock was almost palpable, but Michael fought hard not to let it show. “In English,” he said, and was surprised how difficult it was to speak. His voice emerged as a dry croak.

“As you wish. I am fluent in either tongue. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Menshikov of the KGB. You have heard of the KGB, no doubt?”

There was something in the angle of his arms and the cramping of his chest muscles that made it literally painful to speak, as if something was jabbing into his lungs. But it was important to show no weakness. Michael murmured, “Yes.”

Menshikov dragged the wooden chair across the floor until it was hardly more than a foot or so away from Michael, then sat down. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a slim silver cigarette case, and extracted a black, gold-tipped cigarette. “May I offer you a cigarette?”

“No.” Michael shook his head and immediately regretted it as a new pain flowed into his neck.

“A pity.” Menshikov placed the cigarette slowly in his mouth, lit it with a flip-top lighter, and drew smoke deep into his lungs. He removed the cigarette and stared at it fondly between his fingers.

“Ah well,” said Menshikov briskly, “I must not keep you waiting. First, I must apologize for your degree of discomfort. Should you elect to answer a few questions, it will be relieved at once. Do you understand?”

Michael nodded his head, unwilling to risk the pain of speaking more than he had to. Despite the cold, he felt a single bead of sweat begin to trickle down his forehead.

Menshikov tilted his head to one side and stared at him shrewdly. “Is it painful for you to speak?” he asked sharply.

Michael nodded again.

“An error of judgment on the part of my subordinates. I wish to encourage you to talk, not make it difficult.” He stood up and quickly made an adjustment to the length of the chain holding Michael's arms. “A little easier?”

Michael felt the relief at once. “Yes.”

“Ah, good.” Menshikov sat down again. He smiled warmly at Michael. “I require a few words from you on certain topics, just a few words to show willingness; then you can be released and your belongings returned to you, and we may continue our conversation in a more civilized manner.” The smile disappeared abruptly. “If, however, you refuse to speak, I fear your current level of discomfort will be greatly increased. In fact, I shall be forced—with great reluctance—to deliver you into the hands of the Krylov twins. You have perhaps heard of the Krylov twins?”

Michael watched him, saying nothing.

Menshikov shrugged. “Perhaps they are less well known than I imagined. Grigory and Anna Krylov. I thought everyone in Moscow knew of them, even a visitor such as yourself. They are, one might say . . . specialists. But hopefully there will be no need for you to discover the extent of their talents. Or your charming companion, come to that.”

Michael was instantly alert. “What do you mean?”

“Your companion Miss Harrington. I have just had the pleasure of speaking with her. I'm afraid she was not very forthcoming, so I left her to ponder on her situation while I attempt to find out if you might be a little more cooperative. If you are not, the Krylovs will visit you both. You first, since you are already prepared and since it will allow you to think on what will subsequently happen to your pretty girlfriend.”

He knew Opal's name as well! And the threat behind his words was obvious. Michael licked dry lips. “What do you want to ask me?”