Her voice sounded small. —Wait.
The man she’d flipped whirled round, ready to strike her across the face; the driver steered with one hand and grabbed his colleague’s arm with the other. —Don’t bruise the pastry.
A pause, a snort, a lowered hand: the man faced front.
Temerity worked to crack the idiom. Pastry? Like crumpet? Desirable young female?
The driver caught Temerity’s eye in the rear-view mirror. —No need to cry, girl. Just cooperate, and nothing bad will happen to you or your family.
She said nothing.
Eyes back on the road, the driver continued. —You love your papa, don’t you?
Play along. —Yes.
— You don’t want to be the reason why he gets arrested.
Temerity made her eyes wide and spoke on a dry whisper. —No.
— Then don’t fight. Just keep quiet, and your family will be fine. Everything will be fine.
She memorized street signs, memorized the address of the house where they stopped: an older home, set back from the street, the front yard a thriving garden of flowers and shrubs.
The men discussed the risks of taking the cuffs off the pastry now versus the risks of a neighbour noticing two men leading a restrained woman to the house. The car doors opened, and the scents of flowers, turned soil, and sharp resin seemed to promise beauty and peace. The man she’d flipped reached into the back seat, wrenched Temerity around, unlocked the cuffs, and hauled her out of the car. Her hands tingled; her arms ached.
The front door of the house opened, and a man welcomed them. He stood about six feet tall, his body broad, muscular once, now turning to fat. Bald on top with greying hair over his ears, a heavy greying moustache, and black eyebrows, he wore dark trousers and an open-necked white shirt. —Come in, come in.
A large cat rested on an upper windowsill and stared down at them all.
Once inside, the host grasped Temerity’s left forearm and ran his fingers over the mark of the cuff. Then he glared at the two men. —I thought I made myself clear: no samples, and no rough play. I want them as calm as possible.
The man Temerity had flipped answered. —With respect, Arkady Dmitrievich, she fought back.
— This little one?
The driver smirked. —Yes, she flipped him onto his back and would have chopped into his neck if I hadn’t saved his arse.
The other man glared. —Shut up! It’s not like she could have killed me.
— Yes, she could have. One good blow. Or did you miss that class?
— I didn’t miss anything. I fight better than you any day.
The driver mimed drinking. —Only when you find some guts in a bottle.
Rolling his eyes, Arkady strengthened his grip on Temerity’s forearm and hauled her to a large dining table, this table covered with a cloth, bottles, glasses, many plates of food, and several bunches of cut flowers. He spoke with solicitous respect. —What can I get you to drink?
She glanced around the room, struggling to understand the meaning of this house, these men, the table, and the smaller batch of bottles to one side.
Arkady picked up one of the flower bunches. —I cut these myself. Pretty, aren’t they?
Temerity accepted the flowers in her free hand, almost dropped them, held them to her nose. —Lovely.
He let go of her arm.
The other two men blocked access to the porch, and the back windows offered a view of another beautiful garden. A breeze played with her hair, as from an open door or window just out of sight.
Arkady gave her a glass of red wine, then raised his own in a toast. —To the beauty of women.
Steady the Buffs. She took a sip: sweet and heavy with a tainted finish, just salty enough to make her want to drink more and so get rid of that taste.
Smiling, she placed the glass on the table. —Oh, it’s too strong for me. You see, I don’t drink. My father wouldn’t approve.
— Would your father approve of you insulting your host?
— I…
— Drink it, please. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make sure your evening is pleasant.
She backed away, and sunlight glinted off her watch. Arkady grabbed her left wrist again, peered at the watch face, at the brand name: English. He threw her wrist down as though shaking off repulsive debris and craned his head to look at the other two men. —How old is she?
The men glanced at each other, shrugged.
— You’re to check their papers! Eighteen’s the cutoff. Give me the handbag. I’ll do it myself.
His back to the other men, Arkady faced Temerity as he scanned the British passport and travel papers for one Margaret Bush.
He stared at her.
Feeling the breeze on her face, she stared back.
Arkady dropped the papers and passport into the handbag, snapped it shut, and let it dangle on his forearm. —Let’s not waste good wine. Drink.
Temerity kept still.
Outside, dogs barked.
Arkady took a step towards her. —Drink it. Last chance.
— No.
— Stepanov, get in here.
Temerity ran towards the source of the breeze and collided with another man. Short and slender, with a snub nose and receding hairline, Yury Stepanov seemed half-lost in the poor tailoring of his NKVD uniform. As Temerity staggered back from him, the two men who’d seized her on the street dragged her to an overstuffed armchair and forced her to sit. Dust rose. The man she’d flipped spat in her face. Metal clinked glass, and Arkady, still balancing the handbag on his forearm, looked tired.
Yury stepped in front of him, holding a needle and loaded syringe. He’d pursed his lips into an odd pout, one that Temerity recognized from photos of another man. Knowing or not, Yury Stepanov imitated the new NKVD chief, Nikolai Yezhov.
Yury studied the scene, surprised by how much this pastry struggled. Did she not know she was overpowered? —Keep her still. Now, hold her hand out to me. I said keep her still. Why can’t we just force them to drink?
Arkady peered over Yury’s shoulder. —Because they might vomit. Not too much. She’s small. We don’t want to kill her. She’s still swollen from the handcuffs, so you should get a good vein. No, not like that. Wait, what the hell are you doing?
Yury almost shoved the needle at Arkady, then thought better of it. —With respect, Comrade Major, I’ll ask you to do it.
His boot soles tapped hard as he strode off.
Muttering an insult, Arkady tugged the handbag onto his shoulder, read the label on the bottle, held the syringe to the light, and flicked his thumbnail at the glass a few times to burst bubbles. He depressed the plunger; a drop of liquid emerged at the needle’s tip.
Temerity writhed. —Wait!
— For what?
Temerity could not answer him.
Without easing their grip, the other two men moved to give Arkady room. Arkady knelt beside Temerity, something Yury had not thought to do, and so wielded his delicate weapon with stability and balance. He leaned in close to her ear, as if to kiss her.
She froze.
Arkady nodded. —That’s better. Now, not a sound.
He injected a vein on the top of her right hand, the prick and burn signalling defeat. Still, as much in anger as fear, she did scream.
It guttered out.
The flat was quiet except for the music from the radio, and Kostya smiled, unaware he did so. Then he cried out and got to his feet. He thought he might vomit, not because of the morphine, which no longer bothered him that way, but because of a sudden cold and desperate anxiety.