“Come in. Come in, my dear. So glad you could make it.” He hurried her into the room, grasped her shaking hand and pulled her towards the window. “A fine view of the back of the Liverpool Insurance Company. I’m sure you agree, my little Maria, it is one we can do without.” He snapped the window blind down abruptly, leaving the room lit only by a small ugly bedside lamp. “A drink? I took the liberty of bringing a fine ’36 Dom Perignon. The chilling facilities here are, I’m afraid, rather inadequate, but the bottle was cold when I got here and I have left it in the basin in cold water. Shall we?”
The Countess nodded with resignation as she lowered herself onto the large metal postered bed. Voronov removed the champagne flutes from his briefcase, made a big show of popping the cork and poured out two glasses.
An hour later he sat up in the bed, puffing happily on a large Corona cigar. It had been a pleasurable experience. Not, as was usually the case, completely up to expectations, but certainly worthwhile. A B or maybe even a B plus. Of course, she was not a willing participant, but that could cut both ways in the lovemaking experience. With a willing party there was pleasure but no challenge – with a partner such as the Countess there was the challenge of provoking a real response. For all his ugliness and violence, he knew he was a skilled lover who was quite capable of making a woman, even the most beautiful woman, forget his absence of physical charms and be taken to the heights of ecstasy. He had, as they said in this benighted country, pulled out all the stops and the Countess had not avoided receiving pleasure from him, hard though she had tried to. She was certainly relaxed enough to have dozed off by his side. Her nose twitched rather charmingly as she adjusted her position in her sleep. The bed sheet slipped to reveal what he considered the perfect breast – not too long, not too small, a handful for a big-handed man like himself. He pulled the sheet further back and admired her. Considering all she’d been through, she was in remarkably good shape. He felt the signs of reviving capability below. Their arrangement, as far as he was concerned, did not preclude repeat performances. Replacing his cigar in the ashtray, he reached out for that perfect handful. They could discuss the other matter later.
*
“It is surprising how easily one could get used to the screams in this place,” mumbled Andrei as he sat in his own faeces, finishing the bowl of thin gruel which would be his only meal of the day. Something had happened to Andrei in the past four weeks, something had snapped. Not so difficult to understand really. He had been in the Lubianka for nine months, although if asked he would not be able to say how long. In the desperate, cold gloom of Moscow’s notorious prison, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years all melted indistinguishably into each other. There were events, of course, to punctuate the time – mealtimes, although the paltry tasteless rations provided rarely made these red letter moments. Far more memorable were the beatings, the interrogations, the threats and the carrying out of threats, the screams and, of course, the blood. However, the thing that had snapped in Andrei made him almost impervious to all of these events. He was ill, emaciated, swimming in his own waste, freezing or boiling depending on the season and he was going to die soon. He had accepted this and now lived in a state of irrational, gibbering cheerfulness.
Karol had given up trying to talk to Andrei. Whatever happened, he was determined to keep his mind to the end. Rising stiffly to his feet, he summoned up all his reserves of strength and began banging loudly on the door. “For Christ’s sake, someone come and clear up in here. Andrei’s shit himself again. Please, someone.” The effort of banging and shouting completely drained him and he fell back down on the thin straw mattress in his corner of the cell. After a while he could hear heavy steps, then the door clanked open. The guard was short and built like a small tank. He had crossed eyes, but Karol couldn’t see them in the dark of the cell. The guard leaned over and punched Karol on the back of his neck.
“What the fuck is your problem, you Polish pig? Smells like roses in here, doesn’t it, Andrei?”
Andrei nodded enthusiastically.