“No use for you, Excellency?” He had never thought about it like that.

The Tsar smiled at Pekkala’s confusion. “What is it that you would like, my friend?”

“A boat.”

The Tsar raised his eyebrows. “Well, I think we can manage that. What sort of boat? My yacht, the Standart? Or something bigger? Do you need some sort of military vessel?”

“I need a rowboat, Excellency.”

“A rowboat.”

“Yes.”

“Just an ordinary rowboat?” The Tsar failed to hide his disappointment.

“And some oars, Excellency.”

“Let me guess,” said the Tsar. “You would like two of those.”

Pekkala nodded.

“Is that all you want from me?”

“No, Excellency. I also need a lake to put it in.”

“Ah,” growled the Tsar, “now that’s more like it, Pekkala.”

Two days later, just after the sun had set, Pekkala rowed out into the lake known as the Great Pond, at the southern edge of the Tsarskoye Selo estate. Ilya sat in the back of the boat, a blindfold over her eyes.

It was a cool evening, but not cold. In a month this whole lake would be frozen.

“How much longer do I have to wear this?” Before he could respond, she asked another question. “Where are we going?”

He opened his mouth to reply.

“Is there anyone else in this boat?” she asked. “Why don’t you give me an answer?”

“I will if you’ll let me,” he said. “The answers are ‘not long,’ ‘not telling,’ and ‘no.’”

Ilya sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “What if one of my students sees me? They’ll think I’m being kidnapped.”

“I love you,” said Pekkala. He had meant to save that for later, but it just slipped out on its own.

“What?” she asked, her voice growing suddenly soft.

“You heard me.”

She was silent.

He wondered if he had made a mistake.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said, softly.

“You’re the second person who’s said that to me recently.”

“I love you, too,” she told him.

The bow of the rowboat nudged up against the shore of an island called the Hall, which stood in the middle of the Great Pond. A large pavilion had been built on the island, taking up most of its space, so that the pavilion itself seemed to float upon the water.

Pekkala drew in the oars, droplets falling from the Turk’s head knots which had been laced just forward of the oar grips. Then he helped Ilya out of the boat. She was still wearing the blindfold, but now she no longer complained. Holding her hand, he led her up to the pavilion, under which there was a single table with two chairs. A lantern on the table cast a pool of light around the space, and the backs of the chairs made shadows like the loops of twisted vines.

Once she was seated, he lifted the silver domes which had been placed over their plates. He had made the meal himself-chicken Kiev, its center stuffed with a knot of butter and parsley, mushrooms stirred into a sauce of cream and brandy, string beans no thicker than a sewing needle, and potatoes broiled with rosemary. The Tsarina had contributed a bottle of Grande Dame Veuve Clicquot. Beside the lantern sat a bowl of perfect apples, which they would eat with cheese for their dessert.

The plates had been set in silver rings, raising them just above the level of the table, and the meal kept warm by candles placed beneath.

Now Pekkala removed the candles and the silver rings, so that the plates were resting on the table.

He breathed in, his eyes scanning the place settings to make certain everything was in perfect order. For the past two days, he had been so busy with the details of this meal that he hadn’t had time to get nervous. But now he was very nervous. “You can take off the blindfold now,” he said.

She looked at the meal and then at him and then around her at the pavilion, darkness like velvet curtains all around.

Pekkala watched her anxiously.

“You did not need to go to all this trouble,” she told him.

“Well, I know, but-

“You had me at the first creak of the oars.”

NOW KIROV HELD THE WOODEN APPLE AS HE DROVE, HIS OTHER hand gripping the wheel. “Isn’t it beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Don’t we live in a wonderful time!”

The Vodovenko Sanitarium stood by itself on the top of a windswept hill. Only one road led to and from the towering stone structure. The entire hill was stripped of vegetation and all the land around it had been ploughed.

“Why did they do that?” asked Kirov. “Are they planting crops?”

It was Anton who replied. “They do that so the footsteps of anyone who escapes can be tracked across the ground.”

They arrived at a checkpoint at the base of the hill.

Armed guards inspected their papers, raised the yellow-and-black barrier pole, and allowed them to proceed.

Two steel doors at the entrance to Vodovenko swung open. The Emka rolled into a courtyard.

The walls of the sanitarium seemed to lean out over them. In front of each window, secured by bolts a hand’s length from the wall, large metal plates blocked any view.

Kirov cut the engine.

They had not expected the silence, but it was not the silence of an empty place. Instead, it seemed as if everything contained within that massive building was holding its breath.

At the front desk, an attendant reexamined their documents. He was a wide-faced man with a tangle of red hair and rust-colored freckles constellationed on his cheeks. His nose had been broken and healed crookedly. The attendant pulled out a file and slid it across the counter.

Pekkala saw a photograph of a haunted-looking man stapled at the top left corner, and a name written across the top-Katamidze.

The attendant picked up a phone and ordered the patient to be brought to a secure room.

Pekkala wondered what he meant by secure, in a place which was already a prison.

“You will need to surrender your weapons,” the attendant told them.

Two Tokarevs and the Webley clanked down on the countertop.

The attendant behind the desk looked at the Webley. He glanced at Pekkala but said nothing. The guns were placed in a metal cabinet. Then the attendant walked around to a set of metal doors, slid back a dead bolt, and nodded for them to go through.

Pekkala turned to Anton and Kirov. “Wait here,” he said.

Anton looked relieved.

“I don’t mind coming in,” said Kirov. “I would actually-”

“No,” said Pekkala.

Anton tapped Kirov on the shoulder. “Come on, Junior Man. Let’s go outside and you can smoke that fancy little pipe of yours.”

Kirov glared at him, but did as he was told.

When Pekkala stood on the other side of the armored door, the attendant followed him in and dead-bolted it with a key which he kept on his belt.

With his first step into the corridors of Vodovenko, Pekkala began to sweat. It started with the floors, which were covered with thick gray felt. They drank up the noise of their footsteps and seemed to leach from their bodies even the patient drumming of their hearts. Flooding his senses were the smells of coal tar soap, of food boiled into a pulp, of excrement. Fusing it all together was the distinctive reek of sweat from people living in fear.

The corridors were lined with doors. Duck-egg blue paint clung in layers to the metal. All of them were closed and each had an observation slit, covered with a slide. Beneath the observation slit, like an unsmiling mouth, each door also had a slot for passing through food.

Pekkala stopped. His legs refused to move. Perspiration dripped off his jawline. His breath felt hot as cinders in his throat.

“Are you all right?” asked the attendant.

“I think so,” replied Pekkala.

“You have been here before,” the attendant said. “Here or some place like it. I know the look you people get when you come back.”

The attendant led him to a room two stories underground. It had a low ceiling, barely a handsbreadth above the top of Pekkala’s head. A metal chair stood in the exact center of the room. It was anchored to the concrete floor with L-shaped brackets, through which bolts had been driven into the floor.