Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

The outside shooting stopped, and at least a dozen armed Chekists rushed in, forcing the Uzbeks onto their knees. The man striding in behind them could only be the local Cheka boss, Yakov Peters.

Komarov followed, his eyes ceasing their search only when they finally fell upon Caitlin.

As Peters’s men began taking the Uzbeks away, the wives who tried to follow were roughly prevented from doing so.

“Let them go with their husbands if they wish,” Peters said, staring at Shurateva.

She met his eyes but had obviously been shaken by the events of the last few minutes.

“Why wasn’t the Cheka informed of this meeting?” Peters asked her.

“We did not think it necessary,” Shurateva said quietly.

“You were wrong,” Peters said flatly. “It’s time you accepted that the Zhenotdel cannot function in Turkestan without our protection.”

No one answered him.

Out in the street ten or more bodies were spread-eagled in the dust, each with an attendant woman sobbing, keening, beating her breast.

“And with their protection it becomes meaningless,” Caitlin said bitterly to no one in particular.

An interesting equation, McColl thought, on the drive to Cheka headquarters. Perhaps what Arbatov had meant by his chasm.

Peters conducted the postmortem. Watching him at work was interesting, if only for the way he defied the usual expectations: McColl saw no signs of the man’s legendary ruthlessness; he seemed like an ordinary, overworked copper. Peters listened patiently to Shurateva, only occasionally interrupting with a pointed question or comment. Komarov perched on a windowsill, face impassive, saying nothing.

Rahima’s husband arrived, a handsome Uzbek about ten years older than her. He was clearly frantic with worry and was overjoyed to find her safe. She held his hand as if he were a little boy who needed comforting.

Caitlin at first seemed withdrawn, pale, almost in shock, but gradually the color seeped back into her face, the light to her eyes. Eventually something Shurateva said produced the faintest of smiles—an impoverished relation of the one McColl had seen on her face while the meeting was underway.

He and she were driven back to the hotel by a taciturn Chekist. They walked up the stairs together; then, just when he thought she would disappear into her room without a word, she turned and took his hand.

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” she said softly, “but…”

What was the “but”? McColl wondered as the syllable hung in the air. He tried to read her expression, then gently kissed her on the lips. “For old time’s sake?” he asked.

“For tonight’s sake.”

She led him into her room.

They undressed in the dark, shadows to each other across the room, then lay down side by side on the mattress. McColl lifted himself on one elbow and kissed her again, his hand stroking the underside of her breast. Her arms encircled his neck and pulled them together.

When darkness fell soon aftereight without any sign of the Cheka, Brady convinced the others that delaying their departure until the town was asleep was the sensible thing to do. He was probably right, Piatakov knew, but the extra hours still passed with agonizing slowness.

It was just past midnight when the three men clambered out of their hostel window and dropped onto the bare hillside. All were wearing the native clothes that Brady had bought at the market the previous day.

A half-moon hung in the eastern sky, throwing off just enough light for them to quietly negotiate the steep slope down to the street. There they stopped to listen for any unwelcome sounds, but the road was empty, the silence so complete that Piatakov briefly wondered if he’d lost his hearing. The scrape of Brady’s boot on a stone was reassuring.

They scurried across the street and slowly walked past the summer mosque. The minaret above glinted in the moonlight, but the compound and the alley beside it were shrouded in shadow. “Remember,” Brady whispered, “no shooting, whatever happens.”

They advanced along the alley in single file, the turbaned American leading, left hands keeping contact with the compound wall. The yard ahead was bathed in grey light, and as they approached it, the dog began to growl.

Brady murmured something in English, using the same tone he’d used with Chatterji that afternoon. Piatakov wondered if the Indian was noticing the parallel.

The dog continued growling but didn’t bark. They could all see it now, straining at the end of its tether, waiting to wag its tail. Brady kept murmuring encouragement until he was within reach, then ruffled the back of the neck with one hand and cut the throat with the other. The dog keeled over with hardly a whimper.

The American led the way, tiptoeing along a flagstone passage and into the inner courtyard. There was light in the window of the opposite wall and the whirring sound of an electric fan. After quietly edging around the perimeter, the three of them slowly eased their eyes over the sill of the open window.

Chatterji’s gasp was understandable, Piatakov thought, and fortunately masked by the sound of the fan. Inside the room a young woman was sitting astride the master of the house, the tableau lit by a host of flickering candles. He was moaning with delight as she eased to and fro. Long black hair hung down her naked back, and her small breasts shone with sweat in the yellow light. It was a highly erotic sight, Piatakov thought, until he noticed the expression on the girl’s face, which was cold, indifferent, almost bored. She might have been riding a rocking horse in a nursery, and idly wondering which toy to play with next.

Another short passage led into the house, where the door to the room stood half-open. Brady pulled out his Colt and walked in.

The girl saw him at once; she stopped moving but said nothing. The man asked her something, then opened his eyes. Wider and wider.

“Be very quiet,” Brady said softly, reinforcing the request with a flex of the gun. Piatakov hoped the man understood Russian.

He did. “Who are you?” he half-whispered. When the girl abruptly pulled herself free of his shrinking penis, he grabbed one of her hands in his, as if they needed each other’s protection.

“I’m Ali Baba,” Brady said, “and you must be one of the forty thieves.”

The room was certainly luxurious: the floors thickly carpeted, the walls hung with silk tapestries. Gleaming ornaments sat on several tables.

“I sometimes wonder if our revolution was only a dream,” Brady said conversationally, putting the Colt back under his belt.

“No, no.” The Uzbek pushed the girl aside and sat up, pulling a robe around himself. He was about forty, Piatakov thought, and no stranger to privilege. “You don’t understand,” the man said indignantly. “I am a member of the city soviet.”

Brady and Piatakov both burst out laughing. Chatterji was still staring at the girl, who stood to the side, watching them through expressionless eyes. “Cover yourself,” the Indian told her angrily in English.

She didn’t understand him. Piatakov picked up what looked like a robe and offered it to her. He also felt uncomfortable, both sexually aroused and ashamed to be so. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

“Well, comrade,” Brady said sarcastically, “the party requires another generous contribution.”

“But I am a not a rich man,” the Uzbek said.

Brady’s look around the room was an eloquent rebuttal. “Coins,” he said succinctly, holding the man’s eyes.

The Uzbek had a sudden realization: “You are the men they are searching for!”

“Don’t you mean ‘we?’”

“Yes, of course, we.”

Brady shook his head. Piatakov wondered if the Uzbek was aware of how little life he had left. Not a great loss to the party.