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Chapters (86)
  1. Foreword
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. Afterword

“Missing,” he said again. “Can you imagine? Seventy years have passed. There’s no way those men are missing. Two million of them? Where are they? If that’s not optimism, I don’t know what is.”

“You can talk and talk,” Laurel said, “but it doesn’t change the fact you’ll never beat us in a war.”

He laughed again. “The point I’m making, my dear, is that we don’t care whether we can beat you in a war. The war killed 27 million of us. Stalin killed another thirty million all by himself. Needlessly. Just for the hell of it.”

Laurel didn’t know what to say to that. The numbers were true enough, depending on which historian you asked.

She finally saw what Timokhin was saying. Stalin killed more Russians than Hitler.

“Who won that war?” Timokhin said.

Laurel said nothing.

“Come now. You’re the expert. You tell me, who won the Second World War?”

“I know what you’re saying,” Laurel said.

“Hitler died alone in a bunker. Mussolini was executed by firing squad. Winston Churchill was voted out by a landslide. It was one of the biggest election defeats in British history. Think about that, my dear. His party lost almost two hundred seats.”

Laurel looked at him, the excited walrus of a man with his slimy face.

“Roosevelt died in 1945,” Timokhin said.

“I get it,” Laurel said. “They were all gone by 1945. All of them but Stalin. Stalin remained in power. He won.”

Timokhin nodded. “He won,” he said. “Thank you.”

Laurel had stopped listening.

“The people I work for,” Timokhin went on, “that’s how they think. They don’t want to win the way Churchill and Roosevelt won. That kind of victory is hollow to them. It’s meaningless. It does nothing for them.”

Laurel was barely registering the words.

“No,” Timokhin said. “The people I work for, they want to win the way Stalin won.”

She felt like she was losing her mind. She could focus on only one thing. That ventilation shaft. She kept it in her mind, its location, its shape, everything, so that she would remember when the lights were out.

“She was pregnant, you know?” Timokhin said.

Laurel looked at him. “What did you say?”

“That’s how this works,” he said. “I tell you things and you tell me things.”

“Who was pregnant?” she said again.

Timokhin laughed and turned off the lights. He was gone.

And Laurel was left, in her delirium, wondering if she’d heard the words at all or only imagined them.

61

Roth’s neighborhood was an expensive enclave for diplomats and senior government officials. Tatyana felt very conspicuous driving around it in her cheap, white rental car. Every house had private security and she expected at any moment to be pulled over.