It had seemed a good idea at the time.

Not now.

A thin-bladed knife glittered in Zimyanin's long, strong fingers, held point upward.

"Not coward, wife."

"I beseech you, husband."

He nodded. "I have had many men — and women — beg to me." His eyes were gazing into some far-off time and place. Anya Zimyanin was more terrified than she had ever believed possible, knowing with an utter certainty that he was going to kill her.

"Anything?" she whispered, throat dry.

He paused. "What?"

"Anything."

"I don't hear you, Comrade Sister Anya. Say it again."

"Anything, Comrade Brother Gregori. I'll do anything if you don't cut me."

"I've been offered a lot of things, wife. But I've never been offered anything. Let's stand a while and think about that."

The dusk gathered strength outside their windows. Inside the apartment the husband and wife stood, six feet apart, time crawling past them. Zimyanin was calmer now, completely in control of himself and his surging tide of anger. He was certain now that he wouldn't butcher the large, ungainly woman in front of him.

Anya felt the tension slipping away and her breathing began to return to normal. But her husband checked it once more when he took a half step toward her and spoke.

"Anything?" She nodded cautiously, fearful that her neck might snap if she moved too vigorously.

"Good. My men will call here if there's any news of our three visitors, so we have plenty of time. You and I have all the time in the world, my dear Anya. We can make a start now."

"A start, husband?"

Gregori Zimyanin smiled at her, very patiently. "Go into the kitchen, Anya. Put a large pan of water on to boil. Bring me the potato peeler, the roll of strong cord, your best darning needles, the short scissors with the serrated edge. I have my own knife."

"Then?" Tears bunched at the corners of her eyes.

"Then you may come in here. Remove all of your clothes." He paused. "And kneel down just in front of me. And then we shall begin."

For Anya Zimyanin, the night was both long and memorable.

For Ryan Cawdor, the night was both busy and memorable. After their razor-edged escape from the museum, their flight had taken the companions around the rear of one of the single-story industrial units only a couple of blocks away. With the wails of sirens already ripping at the air, Ryan hadn't hesitated in setting his shoulder to the bolted door, springing the lock and knocking it back on rusting hinges.

It had only taken moments for all three of them to slip inside, wedging the door closed again. There, in the cold, damp darkness, they waited until they were sure the search had passed them by.

"Move at around one in the morning. Lift the tools and then..."

"And the flag."

"Sure, Rick. And the flag. If we can get away with it. Return here. They'll be looking for us to make a clean break. Might not search this close. Best plan I got. Then a couple of days later we lift a wag and head out for the gateway. You fix the door, Rick, and we all make the jump. How's that sound to you two? Good?"

"Better than good, lover," Krysty agreed. "If it works it sounds miraculous. If it doesn't, we all get to buy the farm together."

Rick fell asleep quickly, lying on one side, curled up like a young child, arms wrapped around himself. The streetlights outside the building came on with the night, and they cast a feeble glow through the cobwebbed glass. Krysty stood looking down at the slumbering man.

"Gaia! He's so ill, Ryan."

"I know it. Can you feel how bad he is?"

She knelt and touched him very softly on the forehead, her long gray fur coat sweeping the floor.

Krysty looked up at Ryan. "I think the shadow is closing in fast," she said quietly.

Rick stirred in his sleep, swallowing hard. His lips moved, but neither Ryan nor Krysty could make out any words.

"Soon?" Ryan asked.

She straightened, shaking her head. "Depends on what 'soon' means, lover. If you mean in the next hour... or if you mean in the next week or so."

"Let's take the next week or so."

She nodded. "Think so. Could be his sickness might go into remission again. But it looks to me like he's near the wire."

"If he loses the race before we get the door of the gateway fixed..." He didn't need to complete the sentence.

"Then we get to live what's left here in Moscow. I know that. So we best get those tools tonight and try and make sure Rick's fit enough for the journey back."

"And the flag," Ryan added.

"Oh yeah." Krysty smiled. "And the flag."

Rick had a kind of fit around midnight. He began to moan loudly, until Ryan found a length of cotton rag and jammed it between his jaws to silence him. This time they'd been able to distinguish words. Sentences. Rick had been babbling about his parents who had lived in the ville of New York, on what had been known as the Lower East Side.

"Jack can't bring home the beef and Naomi hates the street gangs. Fears all fears. The subway and Central Park, mugging and dark places and being alone among millions, and shadows and sudden noises. Rats and roaches and Republicans. Porn houses and there goes the neighborhood. Serial butchers and men who pulled out..."

That was when Ryan finally shut him up, fearful that his echoing screams would penetrate into the dark ville beyond.

But Rick wasn't done.

His body suddenly flexed and tensed, his legs jerking spasmodically, heels beating a rattling tattoo on the concrete floor.

"Hold him!" Ryan called. "Fireblast! Keep him quiet, Krysty!"

Despite Ryan's great strength and the freezie's exhausted frailty, the man was still proving too much of a handful. His arms thrashed, catching Ryan a glancing blow on the side of the face, making his teeth ring. Another punch hit him on the upper arm, numbing the muscle.

Rick's eyes were wide open, seeming to float in blood-filled pits, staring up sightlessly at the damp-stained ceiling. He kept rolling his head, trying to dislodge the gag. Bubbling, muffled screams tried to burst from his throat.

Ryan clung to him, keeping him pinned, coughing as their struggle kicked up clouds of acrid dust. Krysty stood for a moment, looking down at the two thrashing, tangled figures, trying to work out how best to help Ryan.

"What can?.." she began.

"Put him out," Ryan panted. "Quick. Out!"

Krysty didn't hesitate. She balanced on her left foot and swung back the right, kicking with a careful aim and considered force at the freezie. The toe of her dark blue leather boot hit him just behind the ear with a soft, dull thud.

He immediately went limp, allowing Ryan to roll away from him. "Thanks." He eased the unconscious freezie onto his right side and removed the hunk of cotton from his mouth so that the man wouldn't choke. "Hope you haven't chilled him, lover."

"Little poke with my toe? He'll be fine. Well, I don't suppose he'll be fine." She bent down and began to run her hands along Rick's arms and legs, probing at the layers of sinew that coursed beneath his pale skin. Krysty shook her head as she straightened. "Tone's real bad. Seems like the muscles are plain giving up. I can feel fluttering under... kind of like everything going into spasm. Bad."

Rick blinked and his eyes twitched open. He looked from face to face, unfocused. A thin trickle of blood dripped out of a corner of his mouth. He blinked again.

"Oh, hi guys," he said. "What happened?" His fingers explored the lump behind his ear. "Ow! Did I fall?"

"I kicked you in the head," Krysty told him. "You went jolt-wild. Couldn't hold you, and you were making a lot of noise."