Through the small window, a bleached light began to glow. The sunrise, after the longest night of his life, brought fresh hope, but that feeling faltered at the sound of a key turning in the door. Tied to a chair, he could only turn his head to see who was coming for him next. Bales walked in.
‘I’ve brought you some breakfast,’ he said in a jovial kind of way that made it seem like he hadn’t noticed Aleks’ bruised and battered state.
Aleks said nothing, watching Bales with a mix of loathing and apprehension as he walked towards him across the small room.
‘I got you porridge. I hope you like porridge.’ Bales dragged a chair in front of Aleks and sat down, ladling a spoonful and holding it to Aleks’ mouth. ‘Here. Eat.’
Aleks turned his head away, flinching at the pain triggered by the movement. ‘I don’t want any,’ he mumbled through lips sticky with blood. It wasn’t true; he did want it, having not eaten for around twelve hours — or maybe more, he had no way of knowing — but the thought of chewing and swallowing made him nauseated. Also, he didn’t know what kind of trickery Bales was trying to pull, and he needed to be on his guard.
‘Come now,’ Bales said, lowering the spoon. ‘You need to eat.’ He held the spoon up again, closer to Aleks’ mouth.
Again Aleks turned away. ‘Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?’ he said.
Bales put the spoon and bowl down on the floor. When he sat straight again, his face was grave. ‘You’ve done a bad thing, Aleks. But I understand why you did it. You’re a proud man. You’re a man who wants to do what he thinks is right. This time, however, you made a mistake.’ He leaned towards Aleks, who stiffened. ‘But people make mistakes, and I’m willing to overlook this one if you help me set it right again.’ He sat back, lips spreading into a broad grin as if they were the best of friends sharing a joke together.
As much as Aleks felt wary of Bales’ newfound friendliness, a part of him crying out for relief latched on to this sudden goodwill, believing it without hesitation. It was going to be hard to keep that part of him suppressed for long. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Bales chuckled, spreading his affability on thick. ‘You gave me Sean,’ he said, looking down at Aleks’ blood-soaked shirt, ‘albeit with a little persuasion, and I’m grateful for that, really I am. But I need you to do one more thing. The trap is set, and now I need you to get him to walk into it.’
Guilt joined the throbbing nausea in Aleks’ stomach. He had tried so hard to resist the never-ending torrent of blows, but he was just too old to stand up to that kind of treatment forever. After all, Sean was a journalist, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, so he should expect to get on the wrong side of people — and in this case, the wrong side of the wrong people. He was young and fit; he should be able to fend for himself. That was the thought that helped ease Aleks’ conscience as much now as it had done when he’d given up Sean’s phone number. That part of him crying out for relief had won over, leaving him powerless to resist it. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he whispered, swallowing his shame deep down.
Bales’ grin spread even wider.
The taxi, as they all did, smelled funny. It was a strange blend of cinnamon and cigarettes, and Sean did his best not to heave as its driver negotiated the back roads of Korolyov at frightening velocity. His stomach could normally handle the pace, but today his nerves wouldn’t allow it.
‘Here will do,’ he said, clutching his seatbelt, and the driver stopped. He paid the fare and got out, surveying his surroundings as the old Trabant took off, tyres chirping. It was a deserted street, damp with early morning rain, and as he walked along it he stretched out the aches left by a night in his pop tent. As miraculously small as it folded up, the miracle only went so far: it wasn’t the most spacious of sleeping environments. Still, it was better than sleeping in a hedge, and he wasn’t going to be staying in any hotels for a while.
It was strange being back on the street again, homeless. As a journalist in his field he knew a certain level of dedication was required of him, but it always made him feel like a small country mouse in a very large city when everything he owned was slung over his shoulder, including the place he laid his head at night. The bag he carried — which went with him everywhere — contained the ideal journalist’s survival guide inventory — at least it would have done if such a thing as the journalist’s survival guide existed. Perhaps I should write one, he thought to himself as he trudged on.
In with his tent was a penknife, custom built into the base of a torch to make carrying it through customs easier; his phones; three Kendal mint cakes; a notepad and several pens; a global phrase guide; and a few other knick-knacks. He also had a stun gun — but this was no ordinary stun gun. He’d picked it up in a camping store in east Sormovsky a few years ago; it was disguised as a travel radio that slipped easily into a pocket. It packed a hell of a wallop, depleting its entire battery charge in five blasts. It may only be five blasts, the man who sold it to him had said, but one is enough to get the message across. The shopkeeper had demonstrated it on a goat tied up behind the counter, which made a noise Sean would never forget. But still he bought the stun gun, which even played FM and AM band radio.
This constant chatter in Sean’s head served as it always did to stop him turning on his heel and running away. He found distracting himself before a big interview, a stakeout or potential capture and torture as he might be experiencing today, a necessary device to keep his head in the game. But as he drew closer to the RFSA building, he could distract himself no longer: he needed to be prepared. As he crossed the road he fumbled around in his bag, retrieved the radio-shaped stun gun and pocketed it. He expected to be searched and hoped it would go unnoticed.
A familiar buzzing fizzed through his leg, and he withdrew his phone. It was Aleks’ number. ‘Hello?’
The voice that answered was not the same as before: it was Aleks himself. ‘Hello, Sean, it’s Aleks.’
‘Aleks! Are you alright? Where are you?’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Look, I need you to do me a favour.’
‘Sure, anything.’
‘I —’ Aleks sounded nervous. ‘I need you to give yourself up. Bales will kill me if you don’t.’
Sean slowed, his heart and mind racing. ‘Okay…’
‘Listen carefully to what I’m about to say and do exactly as I tell you,’ Aleks said.
Sean wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and grabbed his pad and pen from his bag.
‘Come to the RFSA office,’ Aleks said in a slow and deliberate voice. ‘Be here in thirty. Bring your phone, too. You’ll be met by some guards. Don’t try to fight them — it’s no use. Bales just wants what belongs to him back. Oh, and meet them at the main entrance.’
Sean scribbled as fast as he could.
‘I don’t want to end up like Lev’s cat…’ Aleks said. He stuttered a nervous laugh.
‘Okay,’ Sean said, reading the transcript over. ‘I’ll be there soon.’
‘He’s not here…’ Sally whispered, not believing what she was seeing.
Chris unclipped his helmet, and Sally did the same. Pushing himself into Soyuz, Chris negotiated the cramped vehicle and returned with a confused look on his face. ‘The airlock bolt would be open if he’d left Soyuz. He can’t close it again from the outside. But it’s still completely sealed. He’s — vanished.’