Disclaimer and Terms of Use for Readers

The following work of fiction contains graphic homosexual interaction, violence and non-consensual sex. With this work of fiction the authors do not condone in any way any form of intolerance and injustice, e.g. racism, sexual harassment, incitement of hatred, religious hatred nor persecution, xenophobia and misogyny. Neither do the authors through this work of fiction promote violence nor make light of such grave matters as genocide, any taking of human life, murder, execution, rape, torture, persecution of sexual orientation.

By accessing this work of fiction you hereby accept and agree that this is a work of fiction and does not reflect in any way the opinions of the authors. The authors do not necessarily endorse the views expressed by the fictional characters.

You must be of legal age to proceed and read. By accessing this work of fiction, you certify that it is legal for you to read such material.

By accessing this work of fiction you hereby indemnify the authors against all claims and actions whatsoever arising from reading the work of fiction.

All characters are fictional. Any similarities with living or deceased people are coincidental. In case of real life events, creative license has been applied. All stories are intellectual property of Marquesate and Vashtan. Copyright © 2006-2008. All rights reserved. Feedback is very much appreciated.

April 1991, Helsinki

Vadim was let through heavy oak panelled doors into the Ambassador's office. They swung silently open to reveal a large room, elegantly furnished. The Baroness sat behind the desk, a barrier of dark, gleaming wood and brass, the epitome of natural authority and understated class. She did not look up when he entered, instead continuing to write with a lacquered fountain pen, until her aide left and the doors closed behind her visitor.

There had been days when Vadim entered a room and everybody looked at him. Not to be acknowledged, now, and then almost ignored. He could feel his heart sink, sink deeper from the not too elevated position it had climbed up to. Felt it was useless, and he shouldn't have come.

Baroness de Vilde glanced up at last to acknowledge her visitor at last, face devoid of any expression and the cool features contrasted with the friendly purple and yellow of a bouquet of flowers in a vase beside her. She studied him in silence, nothing escaped the scrutiny of those acutely intelligent eyes. She had not changed at all since Vadim had last seen her. Grey hair still perfectly coiffed, same pearl necklace, aged but finely manicured hands, similar silk blouse and cashmere suit.

The place made him feel even smaller, and he needed a lot of strength to keep his shoulders square. A conscious decision to stay upright, but his eyes down. He found it hard to look around much. As if he was no longer used to it. As if there was nothing left to see. Did not meet her eyes, but knew she was looking at him. Should be looking up, but found it near impossible.

"Please take a seat, Mr Krasnorada." Indicating the chair in front of her desk. An economic gesture, as polite but curt as the deliberate us of 'Mr'. She had called him 'Major', three months ago, had made a point of courtesy and respect.

Mister. The word didn't sting. It should have. But it had melted away, the rank, whatever title, whatever part of him had taken pride in that. Chastised. Too often. He wanted to turn around and leave, already drained of the strength that he had gathered.

He sat down. It was an order, it was easy to follow orders. Eyes glancing up to meet her gaze, at least touch it before he stared at the polished wood again. Took his hands from the rests of the chair and placed them on his thighs, elbows tight to his torso. He didn't feel at ease in his own body. It appeared too big to fill out. He should have gone out to the sea, should have cast it all off. It was stupid being here. He had nothing to offer. Nothing to bargain with. Didn't have the strength to bargain. Damaged.

She waited a moment, gaze never wavering, before cutting straight to the point. "Why are you here to see me, Mr Krasnorada?" 'Here', an embassy that wasn't her own in an office she had borrowed from her colleague in Finland.

"I need to find Dan", Vadim murmured, then cleared his throat, and repeated, because he wasn't sure it had been audible. "I need to find Daniel McFadyen. I need to speak to him." And give him a proper goodbye, at least. Can't disgrace him, too, of all people. Not like that. He felt the thought cut deep, surprised at the amount of pain that caused. Surprised he could feel that kind of pain now.

The Baroness was watching him while her gaze remained dispassionate. She studied the man, the gestures, each movement and every motion he should have done - and had left aborted.

"I was hoping you would request this." She screwed the cap back onto her fountain pen and placed the exquisite object onto the marbled surface of the desk, placing her hands together on top of it. Her eyes never lost their steadfast gaze. "I am afraid Dan is not in Europe, and while I am privy to his whereabouts, I feel unable to satisfy your request at this stage."

So, that was a no. He could go now.

Vadim felt numb, and a raging pain beneath the surface. Deemed not worthy. And who could fault her for it. He nodded, as if understanding, but he didn't.

"Mr Krasnorada, do you remember the promise I made to you three months ago?" Pausing, she waited patiently.

Promise. Passport. A job. No more freezing, no more running. Getting up to work, and leaving work to go to bed. That was what other peopled did with their lives. He didn't want to live like a dog.

"Yes, I remember." He kept his eyes down. Expected her to say something like 'forget it', and didn't know how to expect and prepare for it. They had played too many games with him. He knew nothing. Could expect nothing. They had kept him on his toes. Don't expect. Let it all happen. At least look at her, he thought, and tried. He was a beggar now, finally hit the last depth on this way down. If she made him beg, he would. There was no pride. He couldn't afford pride.

She nodded once. "It is good that you remember, because my words still stand. However, they are not a promise, but a deal that I have to offer you." She stood up, walked around the desk, unafraid of leaving her barrier of gleaming oak, shiny brass and unshakable authority. Standing close, in front of the chair, a slight figure of an elderly lady, yet exuding natural authority. "Do you understand, Mr Krasnorada? A deal for both parts." Looking at him, waiting.

She was smaller than he had thought. The moment she got up, that moment he wanted to stand. It would be more natural to stand. He looked up, met her gaze now, part surprised, part feeling the walls get closer, not sure if that was a good thing. He didn't expect anything good in a place like this. But then. She hadn't been unkind to him. Hadn't pulled any of the tricks of party or KGB, functionary, nomenclature. Didn't mean she couldn't, the sceptical part of him reiterated. And she prompted him. That was easier than come up with words and thoughts by himself. He could just respond. Nothing to lose, nothing to win.

She knows where Dan is.

Well, something to win, then. It took concentration. "Baroness, …" Whatever you're asking. Whatever you want. Nothing else to bargain with. The truth. Papers. No longer running. Because he had no idea where he would run to. "What is my part of the deal?" Not 'would be'.

Once more the nod and this unending patience. "We need to know if you are still useful." Not 'I', but 'we'. "Three months ago, I would have offered you to work for us, together with Daniel McFadyen. It would have probably been a fairly straightforward process." She paused, before explaining further. "'Us', you must understand, Mr Krasnorada, is right now a non-further explained entity. Let us call the 'we' simply 'I' for the matter of simplicity."

A shift, and she leaned against the desk with her left hand as support. "As it is now, I need to find out for certain whether you will not break under strain, if you can still function, and if you are able to fulfil the tasks that might be given you. Thus, you will be sent to attempt getting through the SAS Selection, where it will be ensured that you will be tested to breaking point - and beyond. Make no mistake, Mr Krasnorada, you will be tested." Her clear eyes rested on him, expressionless. "If you are successful and satisfy the requirements and thus instil the necessary trust, you will be considered for the work that had been proposed for a man with a military background like you, and a leaning towards the renegade." Another pause, she let the words sink.

Vadim's eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed, to hide the shock. Soldier. SAS. Mother and father and bastard brother of spetsnaz. He felt curiosity, a touch of the mystique. Tested. Useful. The words impacted on his mind, and he could feel responses build inside him, responses that had nothing to do with the leaden tiredness that bound every muscle in place as if to mock the thing he had been. Impossible. Work for the Brits, in a military capacity. That was the closest he had ever got to treason.

You are no longer KGB. Vympel. Spetsnaz. One big, gigantic waste of time and money and effort now. His jaw muscles tensed as he bit down on the bitterness. If he passed the test, he could do things he was good at. Things that didn't require much more than what he could do. Had done for ages. Had been good at.

The Baroness' voice cut through his thoughts. "I might need another man who is able to act as alpha wolf without backup from the pack. This is why, Mr Krasnorada, I want you to truly understand what your side of the deal will be and I want you to ask questions if you do not believe you understand." Silence, she waited, looking at him, allowing the time and pause to speak.

Soldier. Return to being a soldier. Whom was he kidding? He could never be a civilian. And never again serve the Soviet Union. The bleeding, dismembered corpse that was something else now, something he didn't understand. He had served the Russian people. They required him no longer.

He wanted to make one reservation. Never against his own people. But they wouldn't be that stupid. He nodded. "You need to understand, I was … part of the Interior Ministry. We were under their command."

"I know." No need for explanation. No 'I read your file', no nothing. Two simple words. "And you need to understand that especially this, which could now be construed as your weakness, will be tested. Interrogation, confinement. Let alone physical fitness. Those men will be out for your blood. You are forty-one, the ones you are competing against might be twenty years younger. Even if you successfully pass the physical tests, your mental stability will have to be examined. Again and again, and they will be out to break you." Another pause, never a change in inflexion and tone.

Forty-one? He did the numbers. Correct. He was mildly astonished. Somehow, life had just gone on without him. He remembered the Colonel, hard as rock, the fucking bastard, what, mid-forties? Back when he had been captain, and later major. Long ago. Compete. The word made his face twitch. Ridiculous. The odds were ridiculous. He was almost used up, how much could there be left? Only to fail again? Ridicule and hostility and …

"If you are deemed useful, my part of the deal is a passport, British citizenship, and the chance to meet and possibly work with Dan McFadyen. If you are not successful, I will personally ensure that you gain a permanent permit to stay in the UK and permission to work, but no passport. You will have a job, a place to live, and you will never again have any contact with anything or anyone military." Silence, allowing him time to truly grasp what she was saying between the lines.

But she had said one crucial thing. Work with Dan. Get a chance to maybe tell him. Talk. The one unfinished business he had to take care off. He'd jump through hoops and do absolutely anything to accept the consequences of what he'd done. He owed Dan at least the truth. Nevermind a quarter million pounds.

"Do you understand what I am offering you, Mr Krasnorada?"

He groaned and closed his eyes. Could feel that protective layer slip away. There was always the bullet. Always the way out. A life. Or Dan. Civilian, or soldier. Dan. Dan still was. Dan could do it with his fucked knees, and fucked hand. How difficult could it be? Might not be the strongest, or the fastest of the lot, but he'd actually seen combat. Survived on his guts.

Break you. He kept his lips pressed together. Interrogation. Stress. He didn't want to face that. He didn't want to break and cry like a lost child. Didn't … your mind's fucking you again, Vadim, he thought. Nothing has happened yet. It's an offer - you try, and are rewarded either way. That is the most generous deal anybody has ever offered you. He nodded, silently, then inhaled. "I will have time to prepare for the test, yes?" Running, diet, weight lifting, push-ups. Part of him already adjusted. Knew what he would have to do to succeed, work on a plan. The last complex thought had been how to get her to meet him.

"Yes, of course." Somehow her voice seemed to soften a little. "This is not a punishment, Mr Krasnorada, this is a deal. A deal as fair as I can make it, for both of us." Her hand moved slowly along the marbled surface of the desk before returning to her lap.

"Four weeks to train at the Royal Marines training centre, then on towards the SAS training camp in Hereford for the first part of selection. If you succeed, you will go on to two further stages, and after that … it remains to be seen."

Royal Marines. SAS. If they even had an inkling of an idea what he was - had been - they'd rip him apart. He was glad that he didn't have to stand. Four weeks. He could trust his body to get back into shape, enough so he would have a fighting chance. Just a chance to not be exposed as a fool. He nodded. Always another way. There was no better option. There was no option at all if he ever wanted to have a life again.

She took a breath, her smooth flow of words was stalled for a moment. "It is not my place to interfere with affairs that are not mine." She looked at him with increased intensity, "but I feel it necessary to ensure that a friend close to me is not going to be hurt unnecessarily any more. I assume you are able to ascertain what I am saying? I might understand your motives, the reasons behind your actions, and realise that it seemed at the time the only option, but I want you to understand in return the effect it had on this friend of mine. Do you agree that you require to know?"

Her English appeared to grow more complex, and he was almost guessing what she was saying. He had to understand how much he had hurt Dan? Now comes the punishment part, he thought. He looked at her, tried to meet that gaze again. It's enough, too much already, he thought. He had no words to justify it, no words to apologise, or explain. Futile, even thinking about it. Those were facts. He had run away.

Honoured to meet the man who Dan loves.

No honour now. "Yes, I ... require to know", he said.

She straightened and nodded. There was a long pause, a silence fit for a barrage of words, but she did nothing of that ilk, just looked at him.

"He loves you and always will, but he is too broken right now to see it." She began to move away from the desk. "If you do pass the tests, then make him see."

She turned and continued to walk out of the room where the aide was waiting.

Vadim took that with an unmoved face. Too broken right now to see it. It was the worst blow, somehow, and with that, he was dismissed.

Bitchslapped and dismissed. Left with a scrap of hope. Mercy.

He could feel his chest burn like from a long, exhausting swim, the one discipline he had loved and had never been fast enough for. Exhausted. His shoulders ran out of strength, and he leaned forward to cover his face in his hands. Closed his eyes, hoped there was nobody to see this, then again, cameras had already taken everything else from him.

After some time, he came up, inhaling sharply, deeply, like a man who had just escaped drowning. Stood, wanted to run and had no strength left to do it. He'd made a decision, he'd follow through with it. As much as it scared him.

Dan. You deserve more. The feeling of obligation was bad, a bad thing to carry around. Nothing that gave him strength, only limited what he could inflict on what self-respect he had left. Maybe he could tell Dan why, at least that. What Moscow had achieved that Kabul had never managed.

Ridiculous that there should be a knock on the panelled doors, but there was, and they opened slowly, long after Vadim had stood back up. "Sir?" it was the aide, perfectly mannered, "there are two gentlemen to escort you."

Two gentlemen, indeed. Two men in uniform, and green berets. Royal Marines, at least not Military Police.

She had to have known that he was going to accept the deal. She had to have had faith in him.

* * * * * * *

Vadim was being escorted out of the room. Few words exchanged, no necessity to indulge in pleasantries. The two Marines were taking him straight from the office towards the front of the building, where a vehicle was waiting.

Vadim was ushered inside the car, taken to the airport and onto the next flight to Britain, the necessary papers already waiting in the aircraft.

'Diplomatic baggage', one way to allow a stateless former Soviet Army Spetsnaz officer without passport nor affiliation to enter the United Kingdom.

Once in the plane, Vadim kept watching his hands, head bowed, elbows on his thighs, hands loosely folded. The sounds and smells of the aircraft. Different from the Hinds, of course, nothing quite like the beloved 'hunchback', the closest approximation of man's dream to cross a magical horse with a flying carpet, and tool of deliverance in the wastelands. And of revenge.

Vadim kept his breath steady, remembered the Hinds over Afghanistan, remembered the paras, comrades getting ready to cut lines of support, take out convoys of the enemy out in the wilderness. Remembered himself clutching a rifle, ready to fight. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat. Now that all decisions were made, he could rest. Sometimes he thought he had never needed rest. Ten years ago, he had hardly ever slept. A different man.

He loves you and always will, but he is too broken right now to see it.

No. He couldn't think about it. That hurt, that hurt badly, and it didn't make any sense right now. Nothing of it did. It seemed paradox, and he had dropped out of philosophy classes because he found it hard to battle problems that had no solution. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and willed himself to relax. And sleep.

The plane eventually landed near Lympstone, South Devon, the Commando Training Centre. To Vadim a place like any other, and the first camp he'd ever been to in Britain. Once an enemy, and now?

He was taken out, made to wait while papers were sorted in the guard room, an armed guard standing beside him. It seemed to take a suspiciously short while, as if they had known he was going to arrive. Then a different man appeared, a new face amongst unknown ones, gesturing to the guard to get back to his position.

"Mr Krasnorada, follow me to the medical centre for your initial check-up. We have been waiting for you."

There. He'd said it. They had known. Seemed the lady had had more faith than she had let on.

Vadim watched, then turned to look who was following, didn't think they would. But used to having handlers around him. He nodded to the man, following. Couldn't help studying the place, lines of sight, state of the buildings, uniforms, gear. Took in all the information, felt how his brain returned to processing all the data, mulling it through and storing it away at the same time.

His name sounded strange spoken in English, he kept thinking that. He'd always feel strange, never at home. Never again at home. She had arranged all this, and it seemed like a processing line, people that would work on him, many against him, probably most, and in the end … maybe Dan.

The only thing of this strange country that he knew apart from the language.

He was treated with a pronounced disinterest that appeared studied. Lack of curiosity, just British laxity or deliberate attitude? He was being glanced at by some young recruits that were passing as they marched in a straight line, getting drilled into perfect tin soldiers.

The Provo Sergeant was taking him past the NAAFI shop to a bungalow towards the East of the camp, a plaque announcing it housed the medical centre. Letting him inside, he spoke a few quiet words with a nurse, who looked fresh and far too young in her starched uniform. She nodded, left the room, to return a moment later with the announcement that the Medical Officer in charge was ready to see the newcomer, and that he requested to see him alone.

The Provost raised his brows but refrained from questioning the superior's decision. Officer was Officer, commissioned by the Crown. He gestured for Vadim to step into the examination room. "You will be given your clothes later."

Vadim glanced at the Provost, not sure about protocol, assumed it was strange or different, then nodded. Clothes. That should mean sports kit.

The room itself was as uninspiring as any medical centre's room could ever be. White. Plastic chair, table. Steel instruments, grey linoleum floor and partially tiled walls, the rest painted in the obligatory MoD magnolia white. Skeleton, charts and medical books on a wooden shelf in a corner. A desk, a chair in front, and a thin, grey-haired man in his early fifties behind it. Glancing up over rimless spectacles. One hand on a very thick file on his desk, the other indicating the plastic chair.

Vadim's eyes slipped off the tiles, didn't like tiles, and knew too many reasons why. Quick glance over the other man, then his eyes rested for a moment on the file. Now, that would be his. Where on earth could they even find that much medical information about him?

"I am Dr Williams. Please sit down."

He sat down, answered that gaze, then looked again at the file. How much could they know? How much was there to know? "Yes sir." Sir, not comrade. Oh, the protocol. Wrong country. Wrong army.

"First things first. How much English do you understand, do you need me to speak slowly?"

"I'm competent. Weak on slang." Vadim was a little surprised they even considered that. Speak slowly. A strange notion.

The doctor nodded. "I need to check a few facts. Your name is Vadim Petrovich Krasnorada? Tell me your service history in the Soviet Army, your rank, number and deployments, to the best of your memory." He opened the file.

Vadim confirmed his identity, told the short story; military and athletic career, both one, two ways to serve, officer academy and then, later, a full move away from sports and into the military. He stalled for a moment before he said the word Vympel, kept his eyes down when he said Interior Ministry. Nothing he should be saying, nothing he was a part of anymore. Deployments, missions, duties. Kill the Afghan president. Prepare the country for the invasion. Behind enemy lines, as if the fucking enemy knew its own lines or as if those were actually lines and not a jumble of improvised bullshit. Rattled down the deployments, Afghanistan was one haze of heat, hard to remember it all, he did remember meeting Dan, remembered the need and the rare encounters. Forced his mind back. Debriefed his life. Some model soldier's life. What medals he got and why. That one was easy. He remembered the official praise and paraphrased it. Valour. Above and beyond. How he'd climbed the ranks. Insanely high ranks in spetsnaz. Major.

He listened to himself and thought he should be proud, confident. Long list of achievements. Disgraced and kicked out of a crumbling place, with barely his body intact. No alternatives, no options, no way out. He thought he'd give it all to still have Katya and the children. Still have Dan. He fell silent, all that felt meaningless, children's games, pompous titles and strange adventures in a wild and strange dream land.

The Medical Officer was listening attentively, sometimes ticking an item off on the file, then turning a page, listening once more, occasionally writing in the margins and making notes, adding and verifying. Finally, when Vadim finished, he looked back up, nodding.

"Well, Major Krasnorada, you have had a most distinguished military career." The doctor gave respect where respect was due, even though it could only last a moment. Major was once, now nevermore.

"As you can see, we have a fairly substantial file on you. Our agencies have been busy and understandably so." He spoke distinctly, easy to follow. "Rest assured, some of what is in this file is entirely confidential and only accessible to me or another Medical Officer should you be transferred. We are under the Oath of Hippocrates, as you might now. Thus some of the information I have access to and, consequently, questions that I will ask later will remain between you and me in my capacity as Medical Officer in charge of your health." He pointed to a separate file, secured in an opened folder.

Vadim didn't trust the oath. Everything committed to paper was a potential trap. As long as ranks and authorities were involved, a potentially deadly trap. And the thing that sat on the desk in front of the medical officer looked like a whole field of landmines. The bridges behind him had long since burnt, and before him: this. His eyes trailed to the separate file, the one that might be even more dangerous. He had no idea how they could have amassed so much information. It seemed unlikely that the Ministry had given them all this. But if they had, he was as naked as he could possibly be. He nodded, confirming he had understood. Hoped it looked like acceptance. Nothing he could do about it, but it struck him in all the wrong ways.

"I need to verify occurrences after you were taken and charged by the KGB. You must understand that while the physical examination will bring much to light, we need to assure ourselves of your mental stability." The doctor paused, turning another page in the file. Another page, for Vadim, another life, and the end of everything he had known.

Disturbed. The word Manke had used. Mental stability. Vadim didn't feel strong, knew he was much worse for wear, worse than in Afghanistan. There, at least, he had been part of something. Belonged. Lead. Had something to work for. His family. Dan. Home. The rush to fight, to kill, to survive, get drunk, get laid. All of this was gone now, and he didn't even have the strength to miss it.

You probably thought your training was bad, he could hear the KGB officer say. They were only testing the machine, then. But I will understand how the parts work. And putting it back together is not, repeat, not a factor in this. Do you understand?

Vadim nodded again, but his mouth was dry. That was it. He felt like a bag of disassembled parts. Pieces of something more complex, more fragile and less reliable than an AK-47, scattered around in the dirt, and in pitch darkness.

"Tell me, what was done to you during imprisonment. Physical and mental interrogation techniques? Mode of incarceration?" The doctor adjusted his glasses, the look on his face neutral. "I am not here to force you through a trauma, remembering. I am here because I need to know."

The complete terror and despair defied words. Impossible. Vadim wanted to get up and walk out. Knew that that was a common response. Shame, fear.

"At first, they warmed me up." Preliminary beatings.

"I was beaten by a group of men." And kicked. Punched. Face, groin, ribs. Concrete floor, cold and wet. Tied up.

"They were instructed to be hard on me."

Break the spetsnaz. Those dogs can take pain.

"First session. Build rapport with the prisoner. Ask him whether he's uncomfortable. Establish the rules." He could feel everything drain from his voice, his face was cold.

"I was told I would be charged with treason and told to sign a confession. It was untrue, and I didn't. Treason means execution." He inhaled. "Then they became unpleasant. Started to play … mindgames. Told me they could make it easy, or not. All my decision. They would walk out with the confession, no other option." He looked at his hands and could see they had become fists.

"Humiliation, they tried to break my pride." And they did, eventually.

"The man knew me well. Knew too much. Used it all. I … was then put under strain, sensory deprivation, sleep deprivation, interrupted by beatings. I was disoriented. I was cold." He paused, then understood the doctor might not know what all this meant, what the procedure was. "That was in the Lubyanka. That's the KGB prison in Moscow. They told me I wouldn't be kept with other prisoners." Because I would enjoy that too much. The shower, the knife fights.

"I vanished in a hole. Nothing in there, just managed to lie down. Couldn't hear or see a thing. I don't know how long that lasted. Solitary confinement. I was talking to myself a lot." Singing. Remembering. Speaking to dead people, dead soldiers, dead family members, people that never existed. Going insane, knowing it, feeling concentration slip away. Remembering Afghanistan. Dan. Remembering everything, every kiss, every bite, every glint from a blade. Using up his mind, using up the memories, sucking them dry to not die of thirst, until they were pale. Until I thought I could no longer remember what sun on skin tasted like. Everything was darkness and concrete, including my body and soul.

"I think my ribs healed in that time." Purely mechanical tensing of muscles, thoughts of having to be able to move, maybe fight, when they came. If they came. The fear they had forgotten him. The only acknowledgement from outside was the food. Not a word. No way to measure time. Lost track of time every time he tried.

"I have no idea when I signed, but I did." Vadim swallowed. "That was the hard part. I was transferred out of the Lubyanka. The trial was complicated."

He was fairly sure he hadn't collaborated, but had had a carnal relationship with a man called Dan. Hard to remember his smell or what it felt like. Had been asked about dishonourable conduct. Had denied it. Had been asked whether he had had sex with a man. Had admitted that. Nothing dishonourable about it. He was pretty sure he had remained adamant about that. Nothing shameful whatsoever.

"They told me I'd get executed for treason." And the relief. The sheer, sweet, blissful relief. He had been so grateful.

"I had a visitor. My father. It wasn't easy." How old the man had become, how easily he cried, how he had tried to keep the accusations away, but they were in every movement. Treason. KGB cleaning out house. How things had gotten so much worse, things happened in Moscow, bad things, inflation, nobody knew what was happening, treason, the KGB had mocked him for bringing up a degenerate that took it up the ass from an enemy. Vadim could picture that, but all his father had said was whether the KGB had told him the truth. Yes, they had. Those were facts. His father couldn't understand that, but touched his hands and cried. Execution was pretty soon.

And the fairytale. Brave effort, so useless, so human. At least Dan had survived. Told his father he wouldn't suffer, and it was true. Dying was easy, living was hard. Reduced the old man to tears again, felt embarrassed because he knew the bastards were watching, eager for blood. Told his father to go home. Washed, shaved, then waited for execution.

He should have died in Afghanistan. What point was there to come back. Tin coffins were a much cleaner option. Better men than he had died. He was sure the KGB shared that sentiment.

"They brought me into a tiled room, made to kneel in the centre. The doctor was so drunk he could hardly stand." And I only hoped he'd be sober enough to be able to tell death from life, that was his only job. The official was there, looking disdainful, like he considered it all to be a complete waste of his time.

"I was waiting and had my hands tied, and then he …"

pulled an envelope out of his pocket and opened it, unfolded a piece of paper. While I was sweating like an animal and felt my body panic. Thought I would throw up. Leaving this life like that, throwing up. He stepped close, the paper in his hand, and dropped it in front of me, stepped back, looked at me. I bent down and read what was written. Execution aborted. Weeks ago. A retrial for lack of evidence.

"… told me there was a retrial. I was brought back."

Only then threw up in my cell.

"Mock execution. It didn't make sense to do that. It was about how much they despised me."

Not facing death like a spetsnaz. He wished he could have, but he was just an animal scared of death. One life, nothing after that. He just couldn't believe there was anything, any sense, rhyme or reason.

He swallowed, looked at the doctor. "They kept me in solitary prior to the trial. Told me it wouldn't make a difference. I believed them. I wanted it to be over."

Over and done with, with no memories left to keep him sane.

He hadn't been able to follow most of the re-trial's proceedings. Too complicated, too convoluted, he was too tired and exhausted after being brought in. People were shouting and interrupting each other, and he was answering questions. Often, he couldn't remember. Just simply couldn't remember.

Yes, he was a degenerate. But not a traitor. He could remember moments when he had wondered whether he could leave and go away and be something else, but the Russian people. They deserved better. They deserved his love and loyalty and service. He thought he said as much while being questioned by the judge. Lots of noise from the onlookers at that. He was accused of manipulation. Nothing manipulative about it. He had long ago stopped doing things for orders and superiors. Knew the only good thing about Russia were her people. Stuck to it. Last bit to cling to. Owed himself that much. The only thing left in his weakened mind.

Next thing he knew, two years sentence for dishonourable conduct and what amounted to corruption. Wasteful management of resources. They made him responsible for every rifle that failed to show up between being brought in to Afghanistan, and being pulled out. How ironic. They had made those two accusations stick. On top of deviant sexual behaviour.

So, back to prison, dishonourable discharge, no pension, no bonuses, his military career wiped out, no rank. A disgraced former henchman. He knew the real criminals in prison would like that a lot.

The transport got diverted, they drove a long time, first by car, then train to St Petersburg, then car again, and he never arrived in prison. Instead, he was made to step out in the snow, and told to walk to that gas station.

Too much open space around him. It was cold.

But he didn't argue.

The Medical Officer had sat throughout and listened with patience. Not a single interruption. Nothing except neutrality. Calm, steady, making notes and moving paper with faint rustling noises. He waited a long while in silence until he finally nodded. "I have information about the re-trial in the confidential file."

The sordid details and accusations. Russia was no longer ruled by the KGB, but run by corruption. The doctor's hand rested on the additional folder. "You were let out close to the Finnish border on 24th December 1990. Three months ago. I have information on your whereabouts in Sweden and we were able to verify the details."

Vadim nodded. He wondered whether Manke knew, whether they had called him. And the Russian teacher. And everybody else he had spoken to. Good, swift, clean work. Took only a few phone calls, but still.

The Officer closed the main file, pulled the confidential one on top. "You are an extraordinary case for the British Forces, but you will be treated the same way as everyone else. Consider yourself a new recruit regarding the examinations." He gestured to an adjacent door. "Go and take a shower, you will find everything necessary there. Leave your clothing and return."

Vadim nodded again, vaguely relieved it hadn't been that bad, up to now at least. Recruit. That meant physical examination. Well. Yes. He didn't look forward to it, but he'd been there before. More than once. Nothing in the man's face or eyes or posture spoke of disgust. Not even compassion. Vadim wasn't sure which of the two would have been worse.

The doctor pointed to a glass vessel. "Make sure to hand a urine sample in before the shower." With that Vadim was dismissed for now, and the Officer stood up to gather the instruments to be ready when he returned.

Been a while since Vadim had pissed into a glass vial. Paused for a moment, wondered about the stuff that had been injected into his body, all the nice cocktails, from the 'vitamins' during his first career to the entirely self-inflicted stuff he'd used to bulk up, and then the stuff that was supposed to be 'medicine' but that made him dizzy and blurred his speech. Well, that last bit had clearly not been recreational.

He stripped, stepped into the shower, shower gel, hot water, plenty of it. Couldn't quite relax or enjoy this, but kept the thoughts away. Towelled himself down. Was aware of the scars on his back that would stand out in white against the reddening skin. Did the man speak Russian?

Did it matter? He found a razor and shaved. His hair was too long, he felt dishevelled, hoped for the buzzcut, hoped to get them to shave it even shorter than what he'd seen so far. Hair too short to grab him by. Long hair is for bitches. He remembered laughing at that, once. Towelled his feet, stepped into a pair of flip-flops, and left everything on a pile. The clothes he'd worn in Sweden, the towel. Left the shower again, felt the cooler air hit his skin. Fresh.

The Officer looked up from sorting his instruments. Surprise clearly written across his face at the sight of the stark naked man. Caught himself, gestured for Vadim to come closer to the examination table and to sit down on it.

"You're certainly efficient." He remarked dryly, seemed he'd never encountered anyone before who hadn't come back out with the towel or at least a hand covering their genitals.

Vadim didn't understand at first, but when he did, he lowered his gaze. A life in sports and communal showers. Now that he mentioned it, it was embarrassing that he didn't feel embarrassed. Everything was so complicated. First gaffe.

"I'm going through the usual tests. Lung function, reaction speed, ears, nose, throat check. The dentist will take care of the teeth later. Blood for tests including STDs and HIV and other infectious diseases. An assortment of jabs, genital and rectal examination, and in addition a tissue sample for substance tests." He waited for Vadim to sit down.

Vadim went over the list in his head. His lungs were first class. Capacity far above average. Reaction speed solid, never any trouble with his senses. The teeth were alright apart from two splintered molars from a few fights. Two crowns kept them together. HIV. That AIDS thing. He'd never much thought about it, he knew Dan had, but that stuff happened to other people. And it was more likely when he did things that he usually didn't. Swallow. Take it. He didn't. And Dan was clean, mostly for lack of opportunity and maybe brazen balls to take what he wanted from anybody else. Or did he? He assumed there were no other encounters. But what did he actually know? Substances. Well. He might actually find out what the KGB had injected. Something to soften him up.

"First, I want to check the scars and epidermis."

Vadim nodded. His skin. Too tender, too scarred, and too easy to burn. The whole story written on his surface. The torture, the cutting - and why did he never consider the scars part of the torture? - the dust that had settled in the old sunburns and scarred him more subtly. Afghanistan had hated him, and that feeling was entirely mutual.

The Officer began the examination. Making notes on a clip board. Checking out the round scar in the hollow of Vadim's throat, then worked his way along the body. Noting down the numerous sun burns that had gone more than skin deep. His expression never changed, his professional efficiency never wavered. It was obvious that he had been on active service, seen the battlefield and dealt with injuries that no civilian could imagine. He started to check out the back, and even though Vadim could not see it, there was no change in his mien. Working his fingers along some of the pronounced ridges of the cutting on the lower back. The touches felt neutral, and Vadim only briefly tensed when the man touched the word on his back.

"I am not too happy with several of the scars. The tissue has hardened and cracked in places, I can see they are quite old and partially neglected. That needs to get sorted first of all." The Officer turned to the desk and made a note on another pad, before looking at Vadim. "While you are in camp, the nurse will apply a salve every morning after breakfast. Be in the medical centre at 0730 hrs. You should continue with the treatment indefinitely, whenever you can." Reaching for the stethoscope, "I appreciate that some places are difficult to reach, perhaps you will find someone to assist."

Vadim did raise an eyebrow, finding with a hint of surprise that irony had survived the KGB cellar, and bit back a comment to the end of that being a terrific pickup line. 'Want to oil my scars? I've got a nice one right down there. The doctor said I need help'. He shook his head and pushed the thought aside. He'd make do. Always had. "Yes, sir." Nice and simple order, one ritual, one fixed point established.

"Good." The Officer nodded, made another note and pushed his hand into Vadim's muscles, pulling skin taut between fingers and working his way in this manner up the arms, across the shoulders, down pectorals and abdomen. "Muscle atrophy, but beginning to recover." A couple more notes, before fixing the stethoscope to his ears. "I will hand a diet plan to the Mess chef. You require an abundance of protein and additional vitamins. The wastage had been fairly substantial, but the last few weeks seem to have put some substance back. Five meals a day, at least. I will see that it is timetabled into your schedule."

Vadim had known that, but the word sounded bad, spoken aloud. Atrophy. He had withered away. Deeply narcissistic personality, Konstantinov had said. He was mute, merely nodded. Back to eating like there was no tomorrow. Eggs, meat, lots of good stuff, just to keep the machine running, the harder he worked, the more fuel he needed to stuff down. Beef jerky. Some people swore by it. Nuts.

Placing the cool metal onto Vadim's chest, the doctor looked down at the stethoscope. "Breathe deeply." Thoroughly checking out lung function and ending this part of the examination with a satisfied nod. "Very good." The note in the file was short, no need for further examination. Another instrument from the table and then he stepped close, looking at Vadim's face. "Eyes right ahead." Working through an examination of eyes, nose, ears and throat. He took his time, but was immensely efficient.

"Time for the blood tests."

Vadim offered his left arm. "That vein likes rolling." A nightmare with a nervous nurse. One of the afghankas had nearly suffered a nervous breakdown after five attempts to pin that vein.

He watched his blood fill the plastic tubes, colour coded, thought it looked fairly dark, what a stark red in this place, hand was a lose fist, kept alternating pressing and releasing it. He looked into the man's face, wondered about his emotions, maybe conclusions, found himself wondering about somebody again. Shouldn't. That file held enough information to destroy him. Make him or destroy him. And despite the evidence, he could trust nobody. If this man decided he wasn't fit to go through this, it would all be over. He needed to succeed, but it was not in his hands. Control issues. Another term of the KGB. They had skinned his mind and shown him what lay underneath. Nothing of that had been particularly pretty. Kept silent, but did wonder. Wondered about why a man would join the army as a medic. To kill, yes, but to mend? Why?

One tube was filled after the other, carefully labelled and placed into a stacking holder. Calling the nurse from another room, the Officer handed the vials over without a word, since she already had her instructions. Some of the tests would take a few days, but no reason not to start the training straight away.

Then reaction tests, the small hammer came down every time on the perfect point, and this note, too, remained short, and so was the brief nod. "Good." The medic's glance fell onto Vadim's feet, taking each in turn between his hands and checking ankle bone, heel, instep and each joint. Glancing up over his spectacles while pushing his thumb into the ball of the foot, bones moving beneath. "Do you ever experience pain when walking?" Those feet were obviously worn, but something seemed to have caught his attention.

Vadim wanted to draw in his toes; thought of the other examination, just a few months that he nearly lost some bits and pieces there. Losing toes fucks up the ability to run. Even so, they looked everything but pretty. Just what too much walking in combat boots, the whole para business, the mountains and then everything else had done to his feet. "After about sixty kilometres or so", he murmured. "Depends on the terrain."

That did draw a reaction, a short, immensely dry laugh. "Forty miles? Most soldiers half your age wish they could say that."

"Russia is a big country. Plenty of walking." Oh, he had loved his forced marches. Vadim smirked, oddly pleased to have drawn a reaction.

Another quick note, then reaching for the box with rubber gloves. "Stand up and cough when I tell you." Waiting for Vadim to comply while the glove was pushed onto his right hand.

Vadim stood, looked straight at the wall opposite. Nothing personal, just a touch from a rubber glove. Like the touch from the stethoscope disk. He coughed, obediently. The hint of irony grew in his mind. Now, bend over. Just glad his antics had never lead to any injuries there - but they had to know that about him, the fact he had sex with men. Had had. Been a while.

The Officer was as thorough in checking the genitals as with anything else. "Good." Examination done, another note. Nothing abnormal. "Turn around and bend over. Try to relax." No inflexion in his voice, it seemed to make no difference to him if he knew that a man had had anal sex or if he wasn't aware. What difference did it make? To all intents and purposes, each of the recruits he had examined could have had a penis inside the rectum. Or a finger, or fist, or a foreign object. He'd been a subscriber of "The Lancet" for too many years to be surprised by anything.

Spreading lube onto his fingers while Vadim turned, he didn't show even the mildest interest in any of this. Bodies were bodies. He treated them all alike. Movements economical but smooth, the intrusion efficient. Checking the prostate and colon, pausing for a moment while pushing the other hand onto the abdomen. Pressure points meeting inside and out. "I need a tissue sample." Explaining what he was doing came automatic by now. Had found it helped the examination.

Vadim still closed his eyes. If anything, it was unpleasant, but he still relaxed. He could do that, that was easy. Could feel both hands move and prod, pressure, the man was strong. Tissue sample. Whatever. Just the fact the man knew what he did, had done, the fact he knew about it and there was no denying, no smoke screen, no marriage in his papers to protect him, to make that thing unlikely. He could feel his stomach tense, breath halted while this was going on.

Movements behind Vadim, but the finger did not leave the rectum. "There will be a short pain, try not to get startled." Wouldn't do to have the examinee jump all of a sudden. Cool steel taking the place of the finger, an almost seamless exchange, and the sensation of moderate stretching.

Heat in Vadim's face. He actually blushed. Oh fuck. He wasn't eighteen anymore. He had seen conscripts faint when they carried their blood samples to the next stage in the mustering. Perfectly human, perfectly normal. He was capable of more responses than he had thought he would be.

"One moment." The doctor's voice again. A few seconds before the sample was taken, a swift snip, too negligible to cause bleeding. Another second and the instrument slid out as well. "Done."

That was that. So easy, just a job like many others. Sample labelled and enclosed in a tube, ready for the nurse. "You can get dressed. A pile of clothes is on the chair in the corner." The glove taken off, thrown away, then water and soap, washing hands. "Come and sit back down when you're dressed. I want to have a word with you before you see the dentist."

Vadim breathed again, stayed turned away to give his skin the chance to unflush. Shouldn't have flustered him so much. He didn't want to show that it had affected him like this. Got dressed in the sports kit that lay there, neatly folded, it fitted, of course, and he wondered what that 'word' would entail. But if he had failed, there was no reason to send him on to the dentist. Everything was about repairing the damage, and assessing how much was left. How much of a special forces soldier remained.

Vadim felt his scalp crawl but refrained from scratching or rubbing it. Gathered himself, forced himself to focus, be awake and responsive. Sat down and looked at the man.

The Officer nodded at him, a hand on the now closed file. "It looks good so far. Obviously the results of the blood tests are not available yet, but I am satisfied with the state of your body. Remarkable for the amount of abuse it has taken." He paused, "I will recommend that the training is started straight away. You will struggle more with regaining endurance than strength, but the basis is there."

Moving both folders to the side, confidential and official, then folding his hands. "Do you have any questions?"

Vadim inhaled deeply, deeper than he had dared to breathe for a long time. He looked at the folders, then back to the man. Had, absurdly, begun to trust him, maybe. He didn't expect anything cruel from him, anything volatile, and that meant there was something that he could feel. Liked the doctor in his businesslike way. Always good to have professionals around. He thought about the question, assumed it was more than formality.

How realistic is it? Realistic enough for them to give him a shot. His age. He remembered the major, back before they had stormed that house. That man would be absolutely lethal at fifty or sixty. "No, sir. It was perfectly clear."

"Good, then I will only give you one word of advice, before you're dismissed." The Officer stalled, hand moving on top of the folder, "since I have obviously read your confidential file," hand moved to the specs, took them off and rubbed over his eyes. "I am aware that this advice is most probably superfluous, but I give it to you anyway. Your homosexuality is confidential right now. Keep it that way."

Her Majesty's Armed Forces. Exempt from the Sexual Offences Act, no decriminalisation of homosexuality. Illegal. Unwanted. Court, trial and Administrative Discharge.

The doctor nodded, "As I am sure you will."

Vadim inhaled again, kept the breath inside his chest. Fucking model soldier, apart from that one flaw.

"You are a smart man, well above average. But what you fail to understand is that you have been victimized. The masseur."

Vadim glanced up to meet the KGB officer's eye. They had dug deep, and they knew about it. After all the other unpleasant surprises, they couldn't have harmed the old man. Couldn't. He wanted to ask whether the man was alive or free or both, but he couldn't betray that much interest. It would harm them both.

"We assume you were plied with what you mistook as affection." Konstantinov folded his hands. "He probably told you you were something special. These predators can wear many masks. But that strategy would work best with your deeply narcissistic personality."

The voice wavered between 'you are to blame for a fair part of that' and 'you poor bastard' and neither sounded genuine. Vadim tensed, could feel the words slip under his skin like parasites. Predator. Special. A poisonous mix of truth and lies. How could it matter anyway. More than twenty years ago. In a world where people were more interested in his weight, height, body fat and his best times of the week, one person had actually touched him. Plied with affection. What an ugly way to speak about desire and trust.

"Understandably, you would fall victim to a man like that - one who abuses his position of trust to satisfy his appalling urges." Konstantinov shook his head. "The most disgusting thing is what he did to your mind. No doubt telling you this twisted thing was completely acceptable. Understandable, again. That is the way the human mind protects itself. We assume that we had control over an incident and blame ourselves if it was an adverse experience. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that is was not negative at all. In the words of the famous German philosopher: What doesn't kill us …"

Makes us stronger.

The KGB officer smiled. "You fell victim to a paedophile, the lowliest form of sexual predator. We can only guess how many boys he abused. But we can study the consequences very well on you. You have become a predator as well, seeking your pleasure in the pain and weakness of others. It's his fault. He taught you these things. And you were too weak to not follow his example. This will stop. "

Makes us stronger.

Plied with affection. All lies. Everybody lied. One to torture him, the other to fuck him without resistance. All lies, all subterfuge and manipulation, and the thing he'd had with Dan as dead as the obsession. Vadim looked to the side, felt raw and pained inside, felt dirty and used and brainwashed and didn't know what he felt. Or could even feel. If he could only have been the man Katya deserved.

He swallowed hard, could feel his mind shift, as intense as a hallucination. He blinked and looked at the doctor. "I … didn't plan to … engage in any kind of … that behaviour."

The Officer looked up, surprise in his face. "I don't understand?" Placing the specs back onto the bridge of his nose. "Surely one's sexuality is not a matter of 'planning'."

Vadim closed his eyes. The things he couldn't do. And the things he could. The KGB officer had believed it was something he had learnt. Been trained to respond to. Been deluded into believing that was okay.

"It's always a decision", Vadim said, voice without any depth. "I can decide to leave it." Mind over matter. It had been a while since he had felt any real desire. It had gone stale and sour like blood in a corpse. "That means, I haven't …" Oh fuck, did he have to tell him that? "Engaged in any … homosexual activity in the recent past."

"A decision?" The Officer pondered the statement, a slight nod and definite interest. "In a way, perhaps, but leaving one's nature? It will find ways to make itself known. A medical fact, and facts is what I am interested in." Silence, the hand wandered back on top of the files. "I studied your file. I know what you were accused of and with whom." Pause, "it is none of my business if you have or if you have not engaged in active or passive homosexual activities. You are not a member of the British Forces and never will be. Your sexuality is yours, as long as you keep it private."

You are a predator, just like the man who poisoned you. We will not place you in general custody with the others. Chances are you will enjoy it too much. And you can be sure that you will never again be in any position of authority or trust with any Soviet citizen or soldier. We can only guess what you did to your male child. Why your token wife left you.

Vadim felt the pain constrict his throat. "It's a decision", he repeated. "That means … I am … under control." Unlike Kabul. Unlike whole fucking Afghanistan. Unlike every day and night in the fucking Soviet Army, getting high on combat and adrenaline and the occasional rape. Until that stopped. Dan. "Nothing to worry about, Sir. I have … learnt the lesson." I'd rather shoot myself in the head than touch anybody here.

"I am not worried." Calmly, scrutinising, the doctor seemed to see more than his words let on. Paused once more until he added as an afterthought, "and your decision is wise, as long as you are under control." Another studying look, and then the dismissal. "The dentist is waiting, and the barber. You will meet your PT instructor after lunch in the Mess." Dismissed. The nurse was already waiting.

Vadim nodded and got up. Felt he owed a salute, but he was no soldier, just a hopeful piece of flotsam that had somehow found its way here. Not even that. A Soviet army salute was not appropriate either. He could feel sweat under his arms, hoped he hadn't appeared like a nervous wreck. He only hoped he could forget the interrogation one day. The pit of darkness in his soul, and that of Konstantinov. "Thank you, Sir."

The nurse took Vadim to the dentist, who did checkups and some work on a few instances of cavities, proof of the neglect. Then the barber, shaving the hair in a No 2 all over. A few millimetres, giving the perfect buzz. Then the Provo Sergeant again, waiting for him after the nurse had given Vadim a protein shake and some vitamin pills.

Vadim felt already tired, exhausted after all the examinations. Remembered, took in as much as he could, grateful for the privacy and grateful that he wasn't alone, and grateful his head was clean and shaved again. He did exactly what was asked, took the protein, the pills, eager to comply to the rules that were set down. Life became simpler again, the jumble in front of him gradually turned into stark lines without shading. Knew he'd fall into a routine and that was the way out, the way to salvation.

The Provo took him along the edge of the parade square towards the Sgts and WOs Mess and its half dozen rooms that were used as transit accommodation. The room was small and narrow, but luxury compared to a cell. A window at the far end, along the right wall a bed, and a partition that separated a wash basin from the rest. Along the left side some shelves and a built-in wardrobe. There was bed linen folded on the bed, waiting to be put on, and a couple of towels, stacked beside the basin. A can of shaving foam, a pack of razors, toothbrush and paste, a fresh bar of soap and a bottle of shower gel. Not much more a man could need.

Vadim was told that lunch was in five minutes downstairs in the Mess, before the key to the room was handed to him. The Provo accompanied him back downstairs, towards a large room with a lot of silver ornaments, medals, display cases, pictures of former glory and paintings of victories and defeat. And a line of NCOs to be fed.

Vadim queued up with them to get his food, which looked much better than standard fare in the Soviet Army and positively delicious to what had kept him alive, yet didn't smell as good as the cold marinated fresh salmon that Manke had decided he had to try. He sat down near his minder, concentrating on eating slowly, thoroughly, filling up his stomach and getting calories down. Watching the place from the corners of his eyes.

Several people were glancing at him while talking, but none addressed him directly. Lunch was uneventful, the Provo remained mostly quiet, it seemed Vadim was a non-entity as long as he hadn't proven himself yet in something. Perhaps in time.

Soon after lunch Vadim was taken to the gym, where the Provo knocked on the door of an office, then gestured him inside before leaving. Time to meet the PT instructor.

The man who walked up to Vadim stood with legs braced, arms crossed in front of his chest and grinned. A packet of solid muscle, strength and stamina. Condensed in about 5'5", reaching to no more than Vadim's shoulder.

"Right," The PT instructor grinned broadly, "I'm Smudge and I'll beast your Russian arse." Teeth gleaming in that toothy grin. "Best get started."

Vadim met the man's eyes at the promise. Beast my ass, he echoed inside. Just one of many. Wasn't much of a challenge these days, anyway. Swallowed that moment of bitterness again. Victimised. Too easy to let people trample all over him. Just don't resist. Don't even twitch. He'd come a long way.

He straightened, drawing from his height, kept his face even. No smile, no scowl, nothing. Wouldn't admit he believed the man could make him throw up all that food before dark. Fumbled around to find the bravado he had stored away somewhere in his mind. "You are welcome to try." Didn't feel it, didn't believe it, but he knew this species of soldier came without pity or compassion.

Smudge grinned, oblivious to any signs of discomfort in that Russian giant. He didn't do 'subtle' and couldn't read between lines. What-you-see-is-what-you-get and what Vadim would get was intensive PT of gigantic proportions. To Smudge's mind, anyway.

"I will try. Trust me, mate." He laughed, appeared to be constantly on the move, without even moving. More energy than a rubber ball. Smudge pointed to the long track bottoms. "Did they give you shorts? If not, happy to go for a gentle jog in those?"

Vadim's eyes flickered over the man's body, the constant motion had a way to make him restless, and next to the man he felt - and probably looked - like a plodding juggernaut. He checked the laces on his shoes, and the laces that kept the track bottoms in place, then nodded. "Perfectly happy, Sir."

Gentle jog, my arse. Five miles for a starter. But slowly, and Smudge would run each and every one together with Vadim, and he'd do each and every exercise as well. Fair was fair.

Right after the food Vadim felt more like resting, truth be told. But what he felt meant absolutely nothing, and the sooner he got back into the habit, the better. Setting himself into motion again, he found a steady pace, one that felt familiar, but had to slow down further when he could feel his pulse shoot up, and cursed under his breath. This would be hard work, much worse than he had thought. Steady was all he managed, he had no idea what his body could do or would do, and that made him insecure. His body the only thing he had always really known, and now it felt like a log of brittle wood.

After the run, he was drenched in sweat, felt sick and weak, but it was a start. Part of him felt good, right on top of the discomfort. A good long time when his mind had been completely empty, after he had shed the initial worries. No fears, no second thoughts, and most of all, no echoes and no memories. And the bliss of a hot shower. He made his bed half-asleep, had no idea whether the Brits did it just like the Soviet army, hadn't done this himself for a long time, last time on some exercise. He didn't remember, and the memory didn't sneak up on him. He dropped into the comfort of starchy sheets, and a proper mattress and slept without dreaming.

* * * * * * *

The next morning was the first of a series of perfectly regulated days. Not a single minute without schedule, and most of that spent with his PT Instructor, who had been seconded to one-to-one physical training. Smudge was a human rubber ball and bundle of good nature, nothing that could shift his humour, not a thing that seemed to annoy him. Always that grin and never out of breath.

The morning started at 0630 hrs, shower, washing, ablutions and shaving, then down to breakfast in the Mess at 0700 hrs. A selection of the good old cholesterol laden British fry-up, sausages, bacon, mountains of eggs, toasts and fried bread, with steel canisters filed to the brim with baked beans, grilled tomatoes, heaps of mushrooms and hash browns. Porridge to go with it and several cereals, coffee, tea, milk in abundance. He'd need it.

Then a trip to the Medical Centre where the nurse was waiting, applying the medication to his scars. The Medical Officer glanced in, nodded and vanished and by 0745 hrs Vadim had to be back in the gym where Smudge was already waiting, boxing a few rounds on one of the sand bags. The day started with a one and a half mile run, pushed to complete under eleven minutes, then swimming, something that Vadim's PT Instructor did not indulge in, just watching him do the leaps. Not once did Smudge blink at the sight of the scars across the back. They didn't make sense to him, except for the one: that man had been tortured and survived the ordeal.

At 0900 hrs it was time to dry up and get dressed, ready for general PT. It consisted of a couple of hours of stretching, machines, weights, jumping and circle training. Smudge accompanied Vadim all the way. At 1100 hrs the cooling down session began, consisting of climbing up ropes, hanging from others, getting from one to another and finally jumping over hurdles and and then more stretching. By 1200 hrs it was time for lunch.

Shower in the gym beforehand, then back into sports gear that consisted of polo shirt which he had to wear when in the Mess, since collarless clothing was not allowed. His sports kit had been chosen well, black and unobtrusive with the best trainers that were currently on the market. Seemed the MoD, or MI5, or … whoever else was responsible for this - if anyone at all - had not spared the expense.

1300 hrs brought sixty minutes of calm and the chance to catch a few winks, before it all started again at 1400 hrs, with several rounds of boxing sand bags and sparring in the ring. Smudge had the greatest fun, it seemed, to try and get one over the giant Russian, laughing when getting hit, and dancing around like a small monkey on steroids and adrenaline. 1500 hrs time for another round of PT, this time gentler, stretching exercises that built up to another go at the weights, when at 1600 hrs it was time for the run. Smudge started without additional load, five miles at first, then building the next day to a fuller bergan and ending the week with thirty pounds of gear in his bergan and on a ten mile speed march.

It was at the end of the week. Vadim woke up suddenly, thought he must have been screaming because his throat felt raw, that had to have been what woke him up, his own scream, and he wanted to curl up and die, a desire more wretched than throwing up in training. Not quite there, but PT was a pain, a constant pain that was building up. Just didn't have that kind of stamina anymore. Smudge seemed to know exactly how far he could push him, and always got him to do more, stretch further. He wanted to, was desperate to succeed, but it hurt like a bitch. Like he had been given the wrong kind of tool to do it with. The flesh was all wrong, and the mind knew and remembered it wasn't that hard, really.

The room suffocated him, he got rid of the blanket, wet with sweat. No surprise, but even the mattress was sweaty and it smelled bad, the kind of unhealthy sweat that was panic, not exertion.

Vadim sat up, brought his feet down, rubbed his face. Shit. His mind raced around, frantic, his breath tried to catch up, heart pounded like a raccoon trapped in a trashcan. He stood and wiped the sweat off, stared into the darkness. He could move in here. Nobody would beat him.

Liar, his mind whispered. You can never know when that door opens and they come for you. The Brits don't do that. You can never know whether you are dreaming or awake. You can never know when you are safe. You are never safe.

He shook his head. Paranoia. Mind out of control, the fear out of control. He knew it and it still affected him, still made him scared. Light. The room was under control. The room inside wasn't. Fuck you, Vadim, sober up. Fucking don't freak. You are fine. You haven't been better in two years.

As long as they allow you to …

He shook his head again, got dressed, fiddled with the laces, sports kit. He'd do some running. Aching muscles, whatever, just get out of here.

You know about the Hippocratic oath? I am responsible for your health, and you can talk to me.

The file. The secrets. The debriefing. Shit. But maybe that man could help. He left the room, headed for the doctor's quarters. Of course he knew where the man was. He'd done his recce, part of him had stored the information, and it just came back. Knocked on the man's door. It was four in the morning. But he needed help.

Dr Williams had been asleep in his quarters in the Officer's Mess. Enjoying the spacious room and the peace and quiet, away from social demands of an ambitious lady ex-wife. The first knock shook him out of his slumber, the second one made him rise, voice rough with sleep, searching for his spectacles. "One moment, please." He knew that no one would dare wake him if they did not have a very valid reason. Found specs and dressing gown, he wrapped himself in the dark blue terry cloth garment and walked to the door, unlocking it.

If he was surprised at the man who stood in the doorframe, he did not show it, not even at 4 AM. "Good morning." A friendly, sleepy smile.

Vadim returned that smile, felt sorry, suddenly, already felt better, wanted to turn round and leave and let the poor man sleep. Kidding himself.

"I am sorry", he said, focusing on speaking English and not Russian, but he was sure he had screamed in Russian. Of course. The KGB's native language.