Polina Dashkova - Madness Treads Lightly

“Why do you think I’m not telling you the truth?” Lena asked quietly.

The deaf-mute was focusing her bright blue eyes on Lena’s lips as she spoke. No one besides Lena noticed.

“You’re a strange woman.” The bald man sighed. “You pitied some prison bastard, but you don’t pity your own child. Or maybe you haven’t completely caught on, eh? Fine. I’ll give you another day. You can take the cigarettes and lighter with you. And if there’s anything you need, don’t be shy. Consider yourself my guest.”

They took Lena back to the small room. Only now did she realize the room was in the basement. When the door slammed, Lena collapsed on the bare mattress of the creaky cot and began to weep. She sensed that this wasn’t the time for tears, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her tears streamed and she angrily wiped them over her cheeks. Yes, if she was ever going to calm down, she first had to get good and angry.

“Pigs, brutes, brainless bastards!” she whispered.

And that really did make her feel better. Her tears dried. Now she could calmly contemplate her situation.

Misha heard the announcement that the plane from London had landed, and he got even more nervous. Krotov was about to deplane, and Misha was going to lay it all out for him straightaway, from beginning to end—Mitya, Katya, the stroller bomb, and the fact that Lena had been abducted by Curly. No one knew where she was or whether she was even alive. All they knew was that Curly didn’t joke around. The mere thought of what might happen to Lena Polyanskaya made Misha’s stomach hurt. He could only imagine what it would be like for Seryozha.

Krotov was waiting for his bags. He had two hefty suitcases full of presents—for Liza, Lena, and Vera Fyodorovna—as well as souvenirs for his friends and coworkers. The only thing that saddened him was that Lena wasn’t going to meet him at the airport. She wasn’t due to fly in for another four days. He decided that today he’d catch up on his sleep, and tomorrow morning he’d go see Liza at the holiday house. He’d missed his family terribly.

It was just after midnight when he finally pushed the trolley with the two hefty suitcases into the arrivals hall. And immediately saw Misha. He could tell from his face that something bad had happened. Very bad.

There was a black Volga waiting at the taxi stand. The driver, Kolya Filippov, known by his coworkers for many years as Filya, smiled broadly, got out of the car, and opened the trunk. They stowed the suitcases, got in the car, and Misha continued the story he’d begun in the airport terminal. He tried not to leave out any important details.

Filya made a quick maneuver by the Sokol subway station—stepped on the gas and dashed across the intersection in front of a big black truck.

“We have a tail,” he commented without looking around. “There’s been an SUV following us since the airport.”

“Contact traffic police to cut them off,” Krotov said. “Did you get a look at the license?”

“Don’t insult me, Sergei Sergeyevich!”

The Volga was already entering the square in front of the Belorussky train station.

“Too bad about Ievlev.” Misha sighed. “He was a good guy. Listen, Seryozha. Do you think this was Gradskaya’s work, too? Could it just be a coincidence? The Tyumen Federal Security guys are saying that Curly mistook the American for someone else. Curly’s got major deals going in America. It’s odd that he let the professor go so easily. He’s still here, no one has tried to touch him. Poor guy, he’s a wreck over Lena.”

“Misha, how’s your English?” Krotov asked.

“I took German in school. Most of my dealings with Barron have been through an interpreter. But he knows more than I thought. You need to get together with him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Filya.” Krotov turned to the driver. “Do you know the fastest way from here to Volokolamsk?”

“I’m on it, Sergei Sergeyevich. The road’s empty now. We’ll be there in an hour. Do you want to contact the guard at the holiday house?”

“No. The guard has probably been bought off already. Does anyone have a gun?”

“I’ve got my pistol on me,” Filya responded.

“Me, too.” Misha nodded. “Listen, Seryozha, where are you planning to take Liza and Vera Fyodorovna?”

“That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” Krotov said through his teeth. “The main thing is that they’re still there. Filya, I think the tail is back!” Krotov noted a cherry-red Toyota behind them.

“Maybe we should call in a support team?” Filya asked.

“Let’s try to handle this ourselves, quickly and quietly. Go out on Tverskaya and head toward Petrovka. You’ll turn off onto Chekhov Street just for a minute. Misha and I will get out there, and then you’ll take the Toyota to Petrovka. Judging from the tails, they know I’m here. The main thing now is that we get there first.”

Krotov reached over the seat for Filya’s radiophone.

“And lend me your gun,” he said, dialing.

Fifteen minutes later, the three occupants of the cherry-red Toyota got worried. The Volga they’d been following had evaporated somewhere after the Mayakovsky station. But they soon heaved a sigh of relief. The Volga was going slowly down Chekhov, probably headed for Petrovka.

At the intersection of the Garden Ring Road and Kalyaevskaya Street, hiding behind two glass and concrete towers, were two prerevolutionary buildings with connecting courtyards. A gray Zhiguli drove into one of the courtyards, barely making a sound. It braked slightly and Krotov and Sichkin got in. Behind the wheel was First Lieutenant Gonchar, whom they knew well. Twenty minutes later, the Zhiguli was racing down the deserted highway to Volokolamsk at top speed.

When they drove up to the tall iron fence around the holiday house, it was a little after two in the morning. They parked the car away from the gates. Gonchar stayed back in the Zhiguli, and Krotov and Sichkin hopped the fence. Skirting the building, they discovered the front door was locked. There was also a door through the kitchen, but it had a padlock on it. Krotov leaned his head back and assessed the rickety fire escape, but right then Misha noticed a small window that had been left slightly open over one section of the dining room.

Vera Fyodorovna slept with one ear open. She woke at the soft, cautious knock on the door, turned on the small sconce over her bed, and looked at the clock. It was 2:40. Maybe I dreamed it? she thought, and she was about to turn off the light when the knock was repeated.

She threw on her robe and tiptoed barefoot to the door.

“Who’s there?” she asked in a whisper.

“Vera Fyodorovna. It’s Seryozha.”

“Seryozha! You’re back! But what’s going on?”

She clicked the lock. Seryozha quickly slipped into the room, followed by Misha Sichkin. They locked the door behind them.

“Vera Fyodorovna, please pack yours and Liza’s things,” he whispered in her ear and walked over to the balcony door, closed the small window, turned the bolt on the upper lock, and pulled the drapes tightly closed.

“Seryozha, what’s happened?” She was already getting the suitcase out of the closet.

“I’ll explain everything later. Right now we have to be quick. Get yourself dressed, and I’ll dress Liza. And Misha will pack the suitcase.”

Liza wasn’t at all surprised when she opened her eyes and discovered her papa pulling her snowsuit on right over her pajamas.

“Papa!” She threw her arms around his neck, closed her eyes again, and murmured, “I’ll just sleep one minute more. I’ll sleep and you carry me. Okay?”

“Yes, Liza. You sleep while I get you dressed.” Sergei pulled woolen socks on her bare feet and immediately fell still.