Read Online Brotherhood of the Tomb by Daniel Easterman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel Easterman
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sought
to confuse, to mislead, to pervert one another. In this world, truths became falsehoods, falsehoods truths, until all became a single, consuming lie.
Like a worshipper, rapt by the sight of God’s blood wine-like in a gold chalice, he stared ahead, saying nothing. Chekulayev made a small gesture with his cigarette, a little red gesture that pin-pricked the darkness. There was a footstep in the shadows behind them. Something hard and cold pressed against the nape of Patrick’s neck. He heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol bolt drawn back.
‘I think,’ Chekulayev whispered, as though in belated recognition of the dim sanctity of the place, ‘I think you had better come with us.’
NINE
The house looked like every safe house he had ever visited or lived in: a little shabby, a little damp, a little sad. They took his blindfold off once the car was safe inside the garage. A dull green door led into the house itself. Chekulayev went ahead, saying nothing. Cheap carpets patterned in lilac, flocked wallpaper, damp-stained cornices: a cut-price haven for the morally dispossessed. Safe houses are like railway platforms: not places but moments in time.
There had not yet been time to feel afraid. That, he knew, would come. Ordinarily, Chekulayev would never have dared pick him up and bring him here. There were unwritten rules, and abducting the opposition’s agents on neutral territory was one of the least bendable. The Russian must be worried. Worried about something big.
They followed a dingy wooden staircase to the top of the house, on the third floor. Chekulayev opened a door and preceded Patrick into a small, sparsely-furnished room. A couple of armchairs upholstered in drab green Dralon, a coffee table bearing the ring-marks left by hours of unrelieved boredom, a landscape print that might have represented anywhere from the Urals to the hills of Wicklow.
On the wall facing the door a little lamp burned on a copper bracket. Chekulayev took hold of it and pulled it towards him. A second door opened in the wall. The Russian stood back and ushered Patrick through the opening.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘After you.’
Patrick stepped inside. This was a smaller room, its walls soundproofed, like a radio studio. It held a metal
table, bolted to the floor, and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. A bright bulb was screwed into the dead centre of the ceiling, protected from tampering by stout wire mesh. The floor was uncarpeted. In one corner sat a toilet bowl with a plain wooden seat. A large mirror had been built into one wall. There was nowhere to wash or shave. He turned just in time to see the door close heavily behind him.
Chekulayev shared the interrogation with a woman. Her full name was Natalya Pavlovna Nikitina, and Patrick noticed that Chekulayev, when addressing her, never omitted her patronymic. He guessed her age to be about forty and her rank in the RGB at least that of major. She and Chekulayev took turns through the days and nights that followed, leaving Patrick little time for rest.
Natalya Pavlovna, Patrick assumed, would have cover as a first secretary or assistant attache at the embassy on Orwell Road. She was thin, patient, and given to long silences. Her long black hair was always tied back in a bun, held in place by pins. She dressed plainly and always in black, as though in constant mourning. Her long pale neck gleamed like alabaster.
Patrick thought her anorexic at first, but in time revised his estimate: Natalya Pavlovna was an ascetic.
The pale limbs, the vestigial breasts, the alabaster neck reminded him of a ballerina. But this woman was dedicated to a different dance and moved to a different music. Where Chekulayev feared the lash that would open his skin and bring to light his inwardness, she welcomed its lacerations. Where he was sensual and used deprivation as a threat, she was abstinent and treated the rigours of interrogation as a discipline out of which truth, chastened and
to confuse, to mislead, to pervert one another. In this world, truths became falsehoods, falsehoods truths, until all became a single, consuming lie.
Like a worshipper, rapt by the sight of God’s blood wine-like in a gold chalice, he stared ahead, saying nothing. Chekulayev made a small gesture with his cigarette, a little red gesture that pin-pricked the darkness. There was a footstep in the shadows behind them. Something hard and cold pressed against the nape of Patrick’s neck. He heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol bolt drawn back.
‘I think,’ Chekulayev whispered, as though in belated recognition of the dim sanctity of the place, ‘I think you had better come with us.’
NINE
The house looked like every safe house he had ever visited or lived in: a little shabby, a little damp, a little sad. They took his blindfold off once the car was safe inside the garage. A dull green door led into the house itself. Chekulayev went ahead, saying nothing. Cheap carpets patterned in lilac, flocked wallpaper, damp-stained cornices: a cut-price haven for the morally dispossessed. Safe houses are like railway platforms: not places but moments in time.
There had not yet been time to feel afraid. That, he knew, would come. Ordinarily, Chekulayev would never have dared pick him up and bring him here. There were unwritten rules, and abducting the opposition’s agents on neutral territory was one of the least bendable. The Russian must be worried. Worried about something big.
They followed a dingy wooden staircase to the top of the house, on the third floor. Chekulayev opened a door and preceded Patrick into a small, sparsely-furnished room. A couple of armchairs upholstered in drab green Dralon, a coffee table bearing the ring-marks left by hours of unrelieved boredom, a landscape print that might have represented anywhere from the Urals to the hills of Wicklow.
On the wall facing the door a little lamp burned on a copper bracket. Chekulayev took hold of it and pulled it towards him. A second door opened in the wall. The Russian stood back and ushered Patrick through the opening.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘After you.’
Patrick stepped inside. This was a smaller room, its walls soundproofed, like a radio studio. It held a metal
table, bolted to the floor, and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. A bright bulb was screwed into the dead centre of the ceiling, protected from tampering by stout wire mesh. The floor was uncarpeted. In one corner sat a toilet bowl with a plain wooden seat. A large mirror had been built into one wall. There was nowhere to wash or shave. He turned just in time to see the door close heavily behind him.
Chekulayev shared the interrogation with a woman. Her full name was Natalya Pavlovna Nikitina, and Patrick noticed that Chekulayev, when addressing her, never omitted her patronymic. He guessed her age to be about forty and her rank in the RGB at least that of major. She and Chekulayev took turns through the days and nights that followed, leaving Patrick little time for rest.
Natalya Pavlovna, Patrick assumed, would have cover as a first secretary or assistant attache at the embassy on Orwell Road. She was thin, patient, and given to long silences. Her long black hair was always tied back in a bun, held in place by pins. She dressed plainly and always in black, as though in constant mourning. Her long pale neck gleamed like alabaster.
Patrick thought her anorexic at first, but in time revised his estimate: Natalya Pavlovna was an ascetic.
The pale limbs, the vestigial breasts, the alabaster neck reminded him of a ballerina. But this woman was dedicated to a different dance and moved to a different music. Where Chekulayev feared the lash that would open his skin and bring to light his inwardness, she welcomed its lacerations. Where he was sensual and used deprivation as a threat, she was abstinent and treated the rigours of interrogation as a discipline out of which truth, chastened and
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