'Let's go!'
He ran across the room — a frail-looking chair with spindly, glossy legs spun out of his way as his overcoat caught it. He opened the door, and peered out. A big hallway, wide stairs leading up into the darkness. There was a gleam of light, probably coming from under a door, up on the first floor. He prodded the two detailed men, and they took the stairs in a run. The light increased, as if a door had been opened. A voice called out.
Vorontsyev heard 'Hold it, friend!' No more than that. No shooting, yet. The instruction 'Watch him!' then more footsteps.
The driver had crossed the hallway with its chequered tiles, and was opening the door of a room. His head ducked round the door, then he was back out.
'Nothing,' he called, and set off towards the rear of the house.
A shot from what must be the second floor — but towards the rear of the house. The back stairs, the old servants' stairs probably, which meant the two men had broken in and made for the second floor.
Where was the door to the cellars? For a moment, the size of the house defeated him. Then he realised he should have entered at the back of the house. Only the servants would have needed to enter the cellars — and the door would be in the kitchens. No — ground floor reception rooms here, left and right, that door to the kitchens, butler's pantry — and cellars. He followed the direction taken by the driver.
The body thudded on the lowest stairs, and rolled almost gently on to the tiled floor. Dark overcoat, fair hair, hidden, broken face. One of the two men from the second floor search. Someone had thrown him over. He heard faint shots, and a distant cry.
He was losing impetus, he realised. How many seconds had now passed? He burst through the door at the rear of the staircase, and stumbled down three steps, into the huge, gloomy kitchen. A door at the other end of the room was open — the kitchen was some kind of dining-room as well, it appeared. Scraps of food on a table, washing-up in an old sink. Dirty plates. There was no sign of the driver.
He opened two cupboards before he found the door to the cellars. He should have noticed the light beneath the door. It was on, showing the wooden steps leading down. He hesitated, then stepped on to the topmost stair.
A scuffle of footsteps, a muttered voice, sharp with feverish command. He went down the steps quickly. They twisted halfway, almost doubling back. A man in civilian clothes, but carrying an army rifle, was facing him in front of an open door. There was a narrow corridor behind him, and rows of metal doors. And the atmosphere of a prison where once there had been racks and bins of wine.
He fired before the man had time to challenge him. He had been asleep, was leadenly awakening still, for the alarm sounded only as a muffled buzz down there. He fell against the door, a stupid open-mouthed look on his face.
Vorontsyev was still at the bottom of the steps when he saw the other man, a thick dressing-gown tied with a cord, his greying hair ruffled from sleep. He was opening one of the doors, and there was a gun in his hand.
'Halt, or I fire!' Vorontsyev snapped, and the man's head lifted with a jerk, as if he had not noticed the gunshot that had killed the guard.
Somewhere in the house, two more shots. They seemed to startle the man in the dressing-gown as much as Vorontsyev's order. He had a bunch of heavy keys in his right hand, which he was using to open the door, and the gun was evidently awkward in his left hand. Vorontsyev watched the gun, and then the right hand turned the key in the lock, and the man's body began to disappear into the cell he had opened. Vorontsyev fired twice, but missed.
He ran. The pain in his toes came back. He had forgotten the frostbite, even when he patrolled the street outside during the night. A dull ache he gave none of his attention to. Now these few steps hurt. He cannoned off the wall, opposite the open cell door, and then saw the man in the dressing-gown lying by the wall, the gun waveringly pointed at something inside the cell.
Vorontsyev kicked out at the wrist, and the gun flew up and away. The man turned to look at him, evidently afraid now that his concentration on killing the Englishman had vanished. And the fear turned to pain. There was a dark stain spreading across his shoulder; he must have been hit by a lucky ricochet.
Vorontsyev dragged at the collar of the dressing-gown, and the man winced with pain. Novetlyn, having failed in his attempt to kill Folley, realising that it could only be a break-in to rescue him — somehow the Centre knew about Folley — was now desperate to sink into unconsciousness. His shoulder ached crazily, more than any wound had any right to, and he moaned aloud as he was pulled backwards out of the cell. The image of Folley heaped in a foetal plea on his filthy cot disappeared. As the man who had shot him tried to jerk him to his feet, Novetlyn passed out.
Vorontsyev let the body drop again to the floor. The man had passed out; and more, he'd given up trying. Vorontsyev knew the look. The wound would keep him out of the game. He stepped over the still form, into the cell.
Even though the door of the cell had been open for more than a minute, the stench of urine and body dirt assailed Vorontsyev almost tangibly. In a corner, perhaps ten feet from the door, something was crouched on a narrow cot, a blanket wrapped around it. Vorontsyev could hear the chatter of teeth. Cold or terror — or both.
He felt a lurch of what might have been pity, or disappointment. The man on the cot had evidently been broken. The body suggested it — abject, displayed almost as if it had been physically broken, and poorly reassembled. He had seen men, and women, crouching like this in the Lubyanka — before he went to SID. Since then, he had never visited the prison complex behind the Centre in Dzerzhinsky Street.
'Who is it — who is it?' A querulous voice, speaking English. Yes, he had been broken. No cover now, nothing but a pleading not to be hurt or questioned any more. Vorontsyev crossed to the cot.
The Englishman's shirt was filthy. He had urinated in his trousers more than once. Vorontsyev, in appalled fascination, lifted the thin blanket. The man's feet were bare and white — where they weren't filthy. A white globe of a face looked up at him with an idiot's stare. The fair hair was matted. A hand was held out to him; perhaps in supplication, or to ward off some unknown terror. Vorontsyev swallowed, gagging on the stench.
'I've told you everything!' the voice said, querulous, old, ashamed. The head was already hanging, admitting the failure, prepared to answer more questions.
'I've come to help you,' Vorontsyev said softly.
The head stayed still, but he heard the Englishman mutter, 'He said that.'
Vorontsyev understood. His interrogator; perhaps the man outside the door. He said, 'I shot him. Do you hear me — I shot him. I've come to help you.' Vorontsyev spoke in English, with a heavy accent, which he cursed silently as if it was the only barrier now between them. Folley looked up. His eyes tried to focus.
'Not English,' he said.
'No — I'm a Russian.' Folley cringed. 'But I have come to help!' His voice was earnest. He moved a step nearer, and the Englishman backed against the wall behind the cot, the blanket held under his chin in both hands, as if to protect nakedness; or to comfort, child-like.
Vorontsyev knew he was using the methods of a policeman. He could not be simply human, or humane, towards this man, because he needed information from him. Closing his mouth, breathing shallowly through his nostrils — the stench was vile — he sat on the edge of the cot, and put away the Stechkin. Then he touched the man's leg; the flesh seemed to crawl under the touch.
The Englishman tried to make himself as small on the cot as possible, shrinking from contact. Vorontsyev calculated that the moment was right, then said, 'I have come to take you to safety. It will have to be the United States Consulate, I am afraid, because your government maintains no official presence here — nor is there an SIS unit here, as far as I know.' He spoke conversationally, lightly. All the time his hand patted the Englishman's leg, stroking gently much as he would have done to a dog or a cat, to still its fear.