The Doomsday Box (20 page)

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 he'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.

D
anny 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?”

“I found Opal,” Danny said. “I couldn't find Michael, but if the KGB have her, they've definitely got him as well. Listen—”

“Is she all right?” Fuchsia interrupted.

“Yes, I think so. They have her in a room with a bed, so they obviously don't plan to let her go anytime soon. But there's no sign she's been roughed up or anything. She was actually having a nap when I found her. So I don't think they're in any danger.”

“Yet,” Fuchsia said.

“Yes, I know. We can't hang around. You happy we go tell somebody in the embassy?”

“That's what I always wanted to do,” Fuchsia said. “Shall we go find Mr. Henderson?”

To Danny's surprise, Henderson accepted their story without question. “I'll need to alert the ambassador about this,” he said soberly when they'd finished. “This has to be tackled at the highest possible level.” Danny and Fuchsia looked at each other as he left the room.

To Danny's even greater surprise, Ambassador Llewellyn E. Thompson took the situation just as seriously as Henderson; but he
did
ask questions—and quite a lot of them.

“This happened outside St. Basil's?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You went there together, all four of you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How come they didn't grab you two as well?”

Fuchsia said, “Danny and I went off to look for . . . to look at the cathedral. When we came back, they were bundling Opal and Michael into the car.”

Thompson frowned. “Matter of interest, how did you know it was the KGB?”

“We followed them,” Danny said. It was sort of true. To anticipate an obvious question from the ambassador, he added, “They drove very slowly for some reason.”

“Arrogant bastards,” Thompson muttered. “That's the KGB, all right—think they own the city.” He looked at Danny. “And they took them to Lubyanka Square?”

“Yes, sir.”

They were together in one of the embassy's meeting rooms, seated around a small, polished table. The young man Henderson was taking notes in a leather-bound book. The ambassador looked as if he might have been on his way to some state function: he was wearing a dinner jacket. All the same, he showed no sign of impatience, which suggested he was treating what they were telling him very seriously indeed. Danny half regretted taking the time to confirm the KGB really were involved: Ambassador Thompson never seemed to doubt it for an instant. Maybe the KGB had grabbed embassy people off the street before.

Ambassador Thompson leaned forward and regarded them soberly. “Okay, now we get to the tricky bit; put the notebook away, Harry.”

“Yes, sir.” Henderson dropped it into his side pocket, put away his pen, and sat staring ostentatiously into space.

“You kids”—Ambassador Thompson pursed his lips—“that's to say, you two and the two who've been seized, are all in Moscow on a sightseeing trip—right?” He stared at them knowingly and waited.

Danny caught on faster than Fuchsia and said quickly, “Yes. Right.”

“Fact that the arrangements were made by a guy who happens to work somewhere in Langley, Virginia, doesn't mean you kids have any connection with any . . . official . . . organization of any sort in that neighborhood, does it?”

“Certainly not,” Danny said.

“You're not affiliated with any . . .
company
?”

“No.” Danny had been to enough spy movies to know the CIA referred to itself as the Company.

“Okay, now we've got that clear, I'm going to ask you a very important question, and this time, Danny, I want you to answer with the truth. That clear?”