With one long crackle, the soldier strikes his match.
I unravel the floor plan above me in my mind. That last train would have been coming from the north—from the direction of Kutuzovsky Prospekt. I’m afraid to touch the walls—the claustrophobic smell of the tunnels alone is enough to ward me off—but I’ll check at the next station to see if I’m off course. I head north, keeping to the shadows.
I’m almost to the next station when I see the headlights, swinging suddenly around a curve.
I check the tunnel alongside me for alcoves. It’s tight—really tight. I’m not sure there’s enough room for me, even if I flatten myself against the wall. The headlights wash over me. I shove off the tunnel wall, hard as I can, and go flying across the tracks in front of the train, into the other lane.
The breaks scream, too late, as the train careens across where I just stood. It skids to a stop over my shoulder. I’ve been seen. My heart hammers in my chest. I start running, as fast as I can in my bulky gear.
“Attention. Attention.” Loudspeakers crackle to life, flooding the tunnel with a booming voice. “Unauthorized personnel spotted on the tracks between stations 18 and 19.”
I keep running. Red lights flick on and off through the tunnel, timed with a low foghorn blast. A stitch twists the side of my gut. All the layers of sweaters are trapping my body heat, and I’m awash in fresh sweat. Please, please, let the next station be Kutuzovsky.
Finally I reach the platform of Station Number 18. I launch myself at the platform’s edge, just barely hooking my elbows on the lip, and swing my legs until I can roll safely onto the concrete platform. A bank of propaganda posters stare down at me from the far wall: a smith with his hammer slung over his shoulder, standing proud as sunrays erupt at his back. Smiling farmers, peasants with arms full of wheat. A woman snarling at me with one finger pressed to her lips: DON’T TELL!
“Hey! You!”
I don’t stop to look. I leap toward the door and slam it shut behind me. One breath, I just need to catch one breath. I don’t have powers like Valentin’s or Rostov’s to turn these soldiers away from me. I can’t predict their behavior or hear their thoughts from afar, like Larissa or Misha and Ivan. I can’t rely on my powers to get out of this. I can only rely on myself.
The stairs split into two. I take the left, then they split again. I’m touching the railing at intervals, trying to keep the gold and red building in my mind, hoping I’m picking the right path. I see it in flickers and gasps. Granite hallway, giant mural of Lenin. Please, be the right way. Enough Party officials live there. Surely they have their own entrance to the secret Metro line.
Boots thunder in the distance, drawing closer as I climb. I reach the final door and burst through the other side to the ornate main lobby, Vladimir Lenin’s mosaic beaming down at me, then slam the door shut on the approaching guards. Quickly, quickly, poshli. I jump into the elevator and sweep my hand across all the buttons, all eight floors.
My breath wheezes through tight lungs. The doors open and close on empty floors, each one another wild-goose chase for my pursuers. Finally I reach the fifth floor. Only a few more steps until freedom, until I can get the answers I need. The possibilities I’ve worked so hard for. Nervous energy crackles along my skin as I unlock Apartment 512.
CHAPTER 18
I OPEN THE DOOR to find Natalya Gruzova pointing a revolver at me.
“Oh, God,” she gasps, as the door opens fully. “It’s you.” She lowers the gun, but not all the way. “Come in. Quickly.”
The door clicks shut behind me. “You know who I am?” I ask.
She beckons me across the parlor, into the kitchen. A bottle of vodka and at least five filthy glasses crowd her breakfast table. She holds up the vodka bottle, one eyebrow up as a question mark. I shake my head. She shrugs and takes a swig. “He said this might happen. Please, sit.”
I slide onto the bench. Nothing feels out of place in the table’s memories, the bench, the glasses. There are only echoes of this tornado madwoman, storming in and out of the kitchen, drinking, smoking, pushing around her uneaten dinner as her nerves overwhelm her.
“Why are they looking for us?” I ask.
She sits down opposite me with a sloppy sandwich of melted cheese and fish. “You think I have answers for you? We are all pawns.” Her hands quake as she tears off a corner of the bread. Something’s wrong with her thoughts; too much anxiety pulses through her hand to the table to me. Is this the scrubber’s work, or the work of paranoia, eating away all sense?
“I know what they offered you,” I say. She reaches for the revolver again. “No—please. I want the same thing. I’m not going to turn you in. You can…”