‘Except me, eh?’ Jazz gave a snort of self-derision. ‘What about your third, er, “volunteer”? Another traitor?’
Khuv nodded: ‘Perhaps she was, yes, but we can’t be sure.’
‘She?’ Jazz found it hard to believe. ‘Are you telling me you actually sent a woman through there?’
‘I am telling you exactly that,’ Khuv answered, ‘And a very beautiful woman at that. A great pity. Her name was or is Zek Foener. Zek is short for Zekintha. Her father was an East German, her mother a Greek. In her time she had been the most proficient esper of them all but . . . something happened. We can’t be certain what changed her, but she lost her talent – or so she said. And she kept saying it for all of the six years she spent in a mental institution, where she was troublesome to a fault. Then she spent two more years in a forced labour camp in Siberia, where espers kept an eye on her. They swore that she was still a telepath, and she as vehemently denied it. All very annoying and a terrible waste. She had been a brilliant telepath; now she was a dissident, refused to conform, demanded the right to emigrate to Greece. In short, she had become a problem in far too many ways. So-‘
‘You got rid of her!’ Jazz’s tone was scornful.
Khuv ignored the acid in the other’s eyes. ‘We told her: “Go through the Gate, use your telepathy to tell us what it’s like on the other side – for we’ve people here who will hear you, be sure – and if you’re successful and after you’ve done all of these things to our satisfaction, then we’ll bring you back.”‘
Jazz stared coldly at Khuv, said: ‘But you didn’t know how to bring her back!’
Again Khuv’s shrug. ‘No, but she didn’t know that,’ he said.
‘So we are talking about murder after all,’ Jazz nodded. ‘Well, if you’d do that to one of your own, I can’t see how I can expect any better. You people are … hell, you’re shit!’
Vyotsky grunted a warning, or a challenge, came forward with his huge hands reaching. Khuv laid a hand on his arm, stopped him. ‘My patience is also used up, Karl. But what does it matter? Save your energy. Anyway, we’re all through here. Believe me, I’m just as sick of Mr Simmons as you are, but I still want him to go through the Gate in one piece.’
They went to the door; Khuv knocked and it was opened for them; but on the point of leaving, suddenly the KGB Major said: ‘Ah, but I had almost forgotten! By all means show Michael your dirty pictures, Karl. If we are shit, then by all means let’s behave like shit!’
Khuv went out through the door, disappeared without looking back. Vyotsky turned and looked at Jazz, grinned, and produced a small manila envelope from his pocket. ‘Remember your friends at the logging camp? The Kirescus? As soon as we caught you your friends in the West tipped them off. We’d had our suspicions about them for some time, and we were watching them when they made a run for it. I can’t imagine where they thought they could run to! Anna Kirescu will go to a forced labour camp, and the boy Kaspar to an orphanage. Yuri put up a fight and had to be shot – fatally, naturally. That leaves only two of them.’
‘Kazimir and his daughter, Tassi? What about them?’ Jazz stood up. He could almost feel himself leaning in Vyotsky’s direction. God, how he wanted the bully!
‘Why, we have them, of course! There are so many things they can tell us. About their contacts here in Russia, and in the old country. But since they’re a bit unsophisticated, our methods for extracting information needn’t be so devious. We can allow ourselves to be more . . . direct? Do you follow me?’
Jazz took a short pace forward. His emotions and temper were on the boil. He knew that if he took another step he’d have to go all the way, hurl himself at Vyotsky. Which was probably what the KGB thug hoped he’d do. ‘An old man and a girl?’ he grated the words out. ‘Are you saying you’d torture them?’