J.F. Kirwan - 37 Hours

London’s busiest airport had been a nightmare. Luckily Katya had thought ahead and brought dark sunglasses Nadia could barely see through, and an iPod with serious noise-cancelling headphones, blaring out the latest Russian clubbing anthems. Nadia didn’t crave dancing or nightlife. No excitement, thank you. Just an open field, or mountains. To lie down somewhere – anywhere – and watch the sky. To feel the naked sun, wind and rain on her face.

But she needed to know. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked, nodding forwards.

‘Bransk,’ Katya answered, a sparkle in her eyes.

Nadia hoped her sister hadn’t sacrificed too much. ‘Is he…a good man?’

Katya’s face hardened. ‘Men are what men are.’

Nadia dropped it, and stared out the window during the descent into Moscow, wondering if she and Katya could finally have some normality. But as they passed through the cloud layer, the world below was grey and full of shadows, and Cheng Yi’s last words came back to her, when he had talked of the client.

‘ He is blind, but can see. Water and air are the same to him. He will find you in the darkness. You will not hear him when he comes for you .’

She felt a shiver and reached for Katya’s hand. A thought struck her, something she’d not considered until now. That maybe she’d been kept hidden away in solitary for her own protection. Who would have – or even could have – done that? There was only one person.

Jake.

***

They hung around the baggage carousel in Sheremetyevo airport, but their luggage never arrived. An official walked up to Bransk, flashed a badge, and invited them all into an office with mirrored windows, then left them there. A minute later a group of armed military entered, a straight-backed colonel with a peaked military cap, three gold stars and two red bars on the sleeve of his olive green uniform. He was blond-haired with glacier-blue eyes, and had a boyish face, his cheeks soft and slightly flushed. He looked too young to be a colonel. He was flanked by a striking female lieutenant, a green-eyed brunette whose beauty rivalled Katya’s, and three fully armed commandos.

Nadia didn’t wish to be incarcerated again. The idea of launching a chair at the mirrored glass, diving through it and making her escape flickered through her mind. But how far would she get? She moved behind Bransk, then noticed the sixth member of the group: a man in a grey polo-neck sweater, black leather pants and matching full-length leather coat. On one sleeve was a military insignia: three gold stars and two gold bars. Naval captain. He carried a fur Ushanka hat in his hand, goat-black like his hair, a Soviet-style red star on it.

She wasn’t sure, but didn’t think that was regulation. He had an air of casual authority, as if he was the leader of this meeting. He took a measured look at Bransk, an appreciative and lingering glance at Katya, as any man would. Then his eyes locked on to Nadia, and didn’t budge.

‘Mr Bransk,’ said the young-looking colonel. ‘We have a situation.’

‘Just Bransk.’

It was the first time she’d heard Bransk speak. Talk about a tombstone voice. Yet she couldn’t figure him out – businessman with a diplomatic passport, and the military being almost deferential to him. Questions for Katya later.

The colonel nodded towards Nadia. ‘Is she fit for duty?’

‘What kind of duty?’ Bransk answered.

‘Wait just a minute,’ Nadia began.

But the colonel ignored her, addressing Bransk. ‘As I said, we have a situation requiring…specialised work.’

The naval captain walked around Bransk and stood close to Nadia. He looked her up and down, especially her shoulders. Then he spoke, his voice like smooth Scotch, no rocks.

‘I must touch you,’ he said to her, as if they were alone.

She laughed, incredulously. ‘We haven’t even been introduced.’

He smiled, and any indignation she felt at his directness evaporated. She felt Katya’s eyes on her, though Bransk still faced the colonel.

‘Captain Sergei Petrovich Romanov. Submarine Commander, at your service.’ He made a short bow, still not taking his eyes from hers. He pulled out a measuring tape, made a large loop, then passed it over her head to her shoulders. He measured their girth, then frowned. He released the tape.

‘Lift your arms straight up, please.’

He measured her again, then his hands moved to her shoulder blades and rounded her back. Nadia tried to keep her breathing under control. She’d had zero physical contact for two years. Well, not quite. But interrogations didn’t count. He measured her again, then looped the tape around her chest, careful not to touch her breasts.

‘Breathe in fully, please.’

She complied.

‘Now tilt back your head as far as you can.’ He measured an oval space around her, encompassing her chest, her shoulders, and the back of her head. She wondered what exactly he was measuring her for.

He dropped to one knee and measured her hips, then got up and put the measuring tape away. His eyes grew serious. Foreplay over, evidently.

‘Can you hold your breath for ninety seconds?’

She nodded.

‘I have to be sure. Lives will depend on it. Take three deep breaths.’

Bransk turned around.

Everyone stared at her. She did as instructed.

After the third in-breath, Sergei cupped his left hand behind her head, and pressed his right palm over her mouth. His finger and thumb sealed her nose. He glanced at his watch.

Bransk moved closer, made eye contact with her for the first time. Oddly, they were eyes you could trust. And in those eyes she sensed a promise, that he would let no harm come to her. She heard the commandos’ rifles shift in his direction. Nobody in this room was stupid; everyone highly trained. She wouldn’t have even made it to the window.

Sergei spoke, this time to Bransk. ‘Someone has taken command of a submarine. Mine. Ukrainian militia, so they say, though most in the Crimea are pretty happy to be part of the Motherland again. Nevertheless, the sub is in the Barents Sea, north of Murmansk. The sea state is not good, even though it’s technically the height of summer. I need a diver, a very slim one. Somebody who can enter my submarine via a torpedo tube with a 550-millimetre diameter, one which can be opened from the outside.’ He checked his watch.

Katya spoke. ‘You want her to enter without scuba gear? What if the torpedo room is flooded?’

‘It will be.’

Nadia was counting. Thirty seconds. So far, no problem. She thought about the torpedo tube. A smooth steel coffin. She’d fit easily enough. Moving around would be another matter.

‘Blow the sub up,’ Katya said. ‘Or storm it from the main hatch.’

Nadia knew about submarines from her former training with Kadinsky. But Katya? Since when did she know anything about subs? Was Bransk teaching her? In any case, the men standing here now would have already considered both options, and they were probably still on the table as last resorts. Russia rarely met terrorist demands.

Sergei continued. ‘There are twelve nuclear warheads aboard. We need to account for every one of them.’

Forty-five seconds. Her stomach muscles contracted of their own accord. The urge to inhale tugged at her. She swallowed twice, and the urge went away. A trick she’d learned from her father. But it wouldn’t last long.

Sergei continued. ‘These terrorists – they made ridiculous demands – hand back Sebastopol, withdraw from true Ukraine, bla bla bla. But we have reason to believe they – whoever they really are – are there to steal a warhead.’

One minute. Thirty seconds left. His hands were a vice. The gnawing in her lungs resumed. She’d done ninety seconds with her father numerous times, but she was out of practice. It hadn’t seemed relevant in her cell. Katya’s face appeared in front of her, worried.