corner of his eye he saw the two heavies grab Zoya and march her naked out of the apartment. Ilya followed.
As the minutes went by, the pain changed from sharp agony to deep, dull ache, and Volodya’s breathing began to return to normal.
Motion eventually returned to his limbs, and he dragged himself upright. He made it to the phone and dialled his father’s number, hoping the old man had not yet left for work. He was relieved to hear his father’s voice. ‘They’ve arrested Zoya,’ he said.
‘Fucking bastards,’ Grigori said. ‘Who was it?’
‘It was Ilya.’
‘What?’
‘Make some calls,’ Volodya said. ‘See if you can find out what the fuck is going on. I have to wash off the blood.’
‘What blood?’
Volodya hung up.
It was only a couple of steps to the bathroom. He dropped his bloodstained robe and got into the shower. The warm water brought some relief to his bruised body. Ilya was mean but not strong, and he had not broken any bones.
Volodya turned off the water. He looked in the bathroom mirror. His face was covered with cuts and bruises.
He did not bother to dry himself. With considerable effort, he got dressed in his Red Army uniform. He wanted the symbol of authority.
His father arrived as he was trying to tie the laces of his boots. ‘What the fucking hell happened here?’ Grigori roared.
Volodya said: ‘They were looking for a fight, and I was foolish enough to give them one.’
His father was unsympathetic at first. ‘I’d have expected you to know better.’
‘They insisted on taking her away naked.’
‘Fucking creeps.’
‘Did you find out anything?’
‘Not yet. I talked to a couple of people. No one knows anything.’ Grigori looked worried. ‘Either someone has made a really stupid mistake . . . or for some reason they’re very sure of themselves.’
‘Drive me to my office. Lemitov is going to be mad as hell. He won’t let them get away with this. If they are allowed to do it to me, they’ll do it to all of Red Army Intelligence.’
Grigori’s car and driver were waiting outside. They drove to the Khodynka airfield. Grigori stayed in the car while Volodya limped into Red Army Intelligence headquarters. He went straight to the office of his boss, Colonel Lemitov.
He tapped on the door, walked in, and said: ‘The fucking secret police have arrested my wife.’
‘I know,’ said Lemitov.
‘You know?’
‘I okayed it.’
Volodya’s jaw dropped. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Sit down.’
‘What is going on?’
‘Sit down and shut up, and I’ll tell you.’
Volodya eased himself painfully into a chair.
Lemitov said: ‘We have to have a nuclear bomb, and fast. At the moment, Stalin is playing it tough with the Americans, because we’re fairly sure they don’t have a big enough arsenal of nuclear weapons to wipe us out. But they’re building a stockpile, and at some point they will use them – unless we are in a position to retaliate.’
This made no sense. ‘My wife can’t design the bomb while the secret police are punching her in the face. This is insane.’
‘Shut the fuck up. Our problem is that there are several possible designs. The Americans took five years to figure out which would work. We don’t have that much time. We have to steal their research.’
‘We’ll still need Russian physicists to copy the design – and for that they have to be in their laboratories, not locked in the basement of the Lubyanka.’
‘You know a man called Wilhelm Frunze.’
‘I was at school with him. The Berlin Boys’ Academy.’
‘He gave us valuable information about British nuclear research. Then he moved to the States, where he worked on the nuclear bomb project. The Washington staff of the NKVD contacted him, scared him by their incompetence, and fucked up the relationship. We need to win him back.’
‘What has all this got to do with me?’
