It sounds like the start of a tasteless joke. Two sociopaths, a ladykiller, and a paranoiac walk into a KGB van. No one walks out. Sergei’s too close to me. He’s finally caught on that I’m giving him the silent treatment, but I don’t like his shoulder so close to mine, skittering with anxious noise cloaked in Tchaikovsky. When I look at him, I taste sticky champagne. But today I am less concerned with Sergei’s misguided affection and more with the feeling that I’m a tool selected for a specialized task. Colonel Rostov. He brought us into the truck, though the details are hazy. I don’t entirely remember it happening. No matter, we’re here now. The truck slows, and the tires squeal against cement, echoing as if indoors. Rostov throws open the hatch for us. “Come.” We’re in a circular tunnel, streaked with water stains. Only one guard, the truck driver, marches behind us with his rifle at the ready. The tunnel is dimly lit from overhead, but to either end of the tunnel I can only see darkness.
