He measured her again, then his hands moved to her shoulder blades and rounded her back. Nadia tried to keep her breathing under control. She’d had zero physical contact for two years. Well, not quite. But interrogations didn’t count. He measured her again, then looped the tape around her chest, careful not to touch her breasts.
‘Breathe in fully, please.’
She complied.
‘Now tilt back your head as far as you can.’ He measured an oval space around her, encompassing her chest, her shoulders, and the back of her head. She wondered what exactly he was measuring her for.
He dropped to one knee and measured her hips, then got up and put the measuring tape away. His eyes grew serious. Foreplay over, evidently.
‘Can you hold your breath for ninety seconds?’
She nodded.
‘I have to be sure. Lives will depend on it. Take three deep breaths.’
Bransk turned around.
Everyone stared at her. She did as instructed.
After the third in-breath, Sergei cupped his left hand behind her head, and pressed his right palm over her mouth. His finger and thumb sealed her nose. He glanced at his watch.
Bransk moved closer, made eye contact with her for the first time. Oddly, they were eyes you could trust. And in those eyes she sensed a promise, that he would let no harm come to her. She heard the commandos’ rifles shift in his direction. Nobody in this room was stupid; everyone highly trained. She wouldn’t have even made it to the window.
Sergei spoke, this time to Bransk. ‘Someone has taken command of a submarine. Mine. Ukrainian militia, so they say, though most in the Crimea are pretty happy to be part of the Motherland again. Nevertheless, the sub is in the Barents Sea, north of Murmansk. The sea state is not good, even though it’s technically the height of summer. I need a diver, a very slim one. Somebody who can enter my submarine via a torpedo tube with a 550-millimetre diameter, one which can be opened from the outside.’ He checked his watch.
Katya spoke. ‘You want her to enter without scuba gear? What if the torpedo room is flooded?’
‘It will be.’
Nadia was counting. Thirty seconds. So far, no problem. She thought about the torpedo tube. A smooth steel coffin. She’d fit easily enough. Moving around would be another matter.
‘Blow the sub up,’ Katya said. ‘Or storm it from the main hatch.’
Nadia knew about submarines from her former training with Kadinsky. But Katya? Since when did she know anything about subs? Was Bransk teaching her? In any case, the men standing here now would have already considered both options, and they were probably still on the table as last resorts. Russia rarely met terrorist demands.
Sergei continued. ‘There are twelve nuclear warheads aboard. We need to account for every one of them.’
Forty-five seconds. Her stomach muscles contracted of their own accord. The urge to inhale tugged at her. She swallowed twice, and the urge went away. A trick she’d learned from her father. But it wouldn’t last long.
Sergei continued. ‘These terrorists – they made ridiculous demands – hand back Sebastopol, withdraw from true Ukraine, bla bla bla. But we have reason to believe they – whoever they really are – are there to steal a warhead.’
One minute. Thirty seconds left. His hands were a vice. The gnawing in her lungs resumed. She’d done ninety seconds with her father numerous times, but she was out of practice. It hadn’t seemed relevant in her cell. Katya’s face appeared in front of her, worried.
‘This isn’t a game,’ Katya said to Sergei, her voice like acid.
‘On the contrary, it is a very real game, with very high stakes. But I don’t give people a task unless I know they can execute it.’
Ten seconds more. Her fists tightened, she blinked hard.
‘For instance,’ Sergei said, ‘things can go wrong. You may have less time than you need. Or you may have more time than you want.’
Ninety seconds. He didn’t release her.
Her eyes watered. Her hands shot to his wrists, but they were iron, his black eyes on hers, large, searching, but also willing her to continue. Like her father.
‘Let her go!’ Katya shouted.
Nadia’s body trembled. She tried not to squirm or claw at his hands, or even knee him in the balls. But the gnawing feeling in her gut and lungs lashed at her in furious waves.
‘I need to see how people react under pressure, how they face the unexpected.’
Nadia understood. A test. She dropped her hands, stared back at him. Her body continued to tremble. Her vision grew blotchy, and the spasms in her diaphragm decreased. Her ears started to ring. She knew what came next.
Bransk spoke, his voice a distant boom above the ringing. ‘You’ve made your point. So has she.’
Sergei released her. She dropped into a crouch on the floor, gasping, coughing, sucking in air, Katya’s arms around her.
The colonel spoke. ‘We leave now. There’s a transport plane waiting.’
Nadia wiped her mouth. ‘I need a coffee with sugar.’
A silver hip flask appeared next to her, in the same hand that had almost asphyxiated her. She took it. Coffee, sugar, and something else.
Katya shouted at the colonel. ‘And if we refuse?’
The female lieutenant produced a clutch of papers. ‘She is wanted on three counts of crimes against the state. However, if she does this for her country, she is free.’
Nadia got up, addressed the colonel. Now was the time. She didn’t want to be kept by Bransk, or even Katya. She craved independence. ‘I want recompense. Fifty thousand US dollars equivalent – I haven’t been keeping up with the exchange rates.’
‘Done,’ said the colonel.
I should have asked for more.
Sergei gave her a smile. ‘Now, we really do have to go.’
She handed back the hip flask. ‘How deep is the sub?’
‘Forty-two metres.’
A deep dive after two years in solitary. But she would manage. ‘Your divers better be good,’ she said.
He didn’t answer, and besides, she already guessed they’d be the best.
As it turned out, Sergei was going to be one of the divers. Unorthodox by any military standards, let alone Russian ones, but she sensed this man was a maverick. He must have delivered good results in the past, or else his wings would have been clipped by now.
The inside of the old Antonov AN140 military transport plane was noisy, uncomfortable and cold. The loud thrum of the twin propellers muffled all communication. At least she’d been given a parka coat and a warm Ushanka fur hat with earmuffs. The bench was hard, the hull khaki-painted metal covered with elastic webbing. It meant there was always something to grab on to.
The diving equipment lying on the heavily scuffed aluminium deck was well used but also well maintained. She inspected it, shouting one or two questions above the din at Sergei when she wasn’t absolutely sure about something.
Four other divers sat in the aircraft hold, wetsuits under their coats, neoprene dive hoods up. None of them spoke. No jokes, no banter, no engagement with her. They each carried a blue and grey plastic assault rifle, which she presumed would work when wet, though not necessarily