— Invasion of the psyche.
— What?
— Bekhterev. The neurologist.
— Bekhterev, the unperson. Don’t say his name so loud.
Kostya whispered. —He taught us a few classes when I was a cadet. At least, I think it was him. Physical energy forces blood to the brain and affects not just thought but autonomic behaviour. We can manipulate that by diverting the energy to other parts of the body, along the nervous systems. Induce pain and suffering in the body and you deplete the energies in the brain. That makes the brain vulnerable to suggestion, and then suggestion changes behaviour.
— Old knowledge.
— Bekhterev proved the science of it.
Arkady rubbed his forehead. —Yes, yes, we do this every day, but we do it here in the cells, not in our homes and to our own whores.
— She’s not a whore.
— She’s—
— She is not a whore, Arkady Dmitrievich. Understand me yet?
Arkady scowled.
So did Kostya. —You say I’m conducting an experiment on her. If you’re arrested first, you tell them that’s what I told you.
— No one’s going to believe that!
— It doesn’t matter what we believe. It’s about stalling for time.
— Stalling death.
— Arkady Dmitrievich, please, I don’t want you harmed by this.
— A little late.
— She remembers you and your house. She’d speak of that right away under interrogation.
Arkady waved a hand. —Kuznets attended that party. He’d cover it up.
— Are you sure?
Arkady said nothing.
Kostya’s sigh shook.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Arkady tried to smile. Tell him I know he was looking for the papers. Tell him. —Tatar, I need to tell you something. I’ve got to leave Moscow for a bit.
Kostya stared at him. —What?
— Temporary transfer. My expertise is needed in a rural station, just outside Sverdlovsk. Yes, I snorted, too. Still, I’ve always wanted to see the Urals.
— What the barrelling fuck? We’ve got agents in Sverdlovsk. It will take you two or three days just to get there.
— And Kuznets wants to borrow my house while I’m gone.
Shit. —Kuznets is just a captain. He’s banishing you. How does a captain banish a major?
— Maybe someone higher’s involved. Maybe it’s a test. And he did promise to look after the cats.
Her papers. Ask about her papers. —Those brutal old toms? I’ve seen them bring down crows. Look, I can give the damned cats their herring. I’ll take care of the house.
— Kuznets wants to throw some parties. He owes some favours, he said. He’s not getting along with his wife, and his children want to use his dacha.
Kostya shut his eyes. Chilled now, he felt his teeth rattle.
Arkady kissed the top of his head. —I’ll keep you safe.
— From Sverdlovsk?
Arkady said nothing.
Ask about the papers. —Arkady Dmitrievich…
— What?
Kostya found he could not speak.
Careful not to jostle Kostya, Arkady stood up. —Get yourself together. Say you slipped on the stairs.
He left the cell door ajar.
In his head, Kostya called Arkady back, called his name over and over. His mouth did not move.
He staggered up and grabbed the desk for balance. The pain told him stories of deep bruises and ugly welts and how they would need many days to heal.
A long time since he last beat me. Long time.
Adapting his walk, he found his way to the wire-caged stairs. Other officers, busy with their tasks, did not notice him.
And if the old man disappears on his way to Sverdlovsk? In Sverdlovsk?
Kostya pretended to stumble and slip and forced himself not to protect his face as he fell. The stairs bashed his right cheekbone. His performance, while awkward, convinced those who heard it and now ran towards him. The other officers blamed the poor lighting on the stairs, then reminded him to fill out the correct accident report forms, because the paperwork had changed. Again. Nodding, Kostya insisted he’d be fine.
— Kostya, we’ve got a problem.
He kept his back to Temerity for the moment as he finished locking the flat door. —Oh?
— Please, listen to — what happened to your face?
— Nothing.
She followed him into the bedroom. —Nothing?
— I fell on the stairs. Narrow stairs, all covered in with cage wire, poorly lit. Easy to slip. If you’re so worried about it, get me a cold compress.
Resenting his tone of command while yet wishing to help, she scowled at him, then complied.
He added a word. —Please.
After a moment, he joined her in the bathroom, wearing only his galife pants and undershirt.
Temerity reminded herself of just how many steps separated the bathroom from the bedroom. Get the revolver, girl. You know how to use it.
Then what?
Movements stiff, Kostya blocked the bathroom doorway and took off his undershirt. She stepped closer to the shower to make room, fascinated, appalled, by the welts on his back and face.
The water ran.
— Kostya, this is far more than a fall. Who did this?
Closing his eyes, he almost escaped the memory of how Arkady had asked him the same question in 1918. He accepted a cold cloth from her and held it to a bruise on his side. —You don’t understand.
— What is there to understand? Someone beat you.
He leaned on the edge of the sink. —It’s nothing.
— Was it Balakirev?
— What?
— Well, that’s who came to visit me yesterday, and he was full of foul threats then. You’re aware he knows I’m not Russian?
Kostya shut his eyes. —Yes.
She pressed a cold cloth to his bruised face, wincing as he flinched. —You’re afraid of him.
— Like hell I am.
— Then walk away.
Kostya stared at her, eyes huge. —Walk away? Think, woman. Arkady Dmitrievich taught me how to survive. To learn that, I needed to learn obedience. Because I had the good luck to meet him and the good sense to obey him, I survived a revolution, civil war, and two famines. Yes, I fear him. I fear him for my own good. And so I obey, for my own good.
Temerity refreshed the compress and once more pressed it to Kostya’s face. —Obedience without thought?
— Yes, without thought. Defiance only causes trouble.
— First thinking about one’s obedience is not defiance.
— It can be. At best, it is false obedience.
— Kostya—
— True obedience works faster. Or does the weight of duty mean nothing to you?
She almost dropped the compress. —Don’t you dare lecture me on duty. I choose to follow my duty, just as I choose everything else in my life.
He laughed. —Choose? You hauled your sweet little privileged British arse all the way to Spain and then Russia, because you chose it?
— Yes.
— Right. The dragon, Zmei Gorynich.
— Don’t change the subject.
— I change nothing, Nadia. I merely show you what else exists to darken the argument. Now, Zmei Gorynich is a fat old beast, yet still very fierce. So you’re sent into battle against him, and you’re told, over and over, do not cut off his head. You’re not told why. Then Zmei Gorynich roars at you, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to cut off his head. So you defy your orders and cut off his head. What happens? Two heads grow back where there was one.