They sat her down at the kitchen table. A cup of hot, black tea in front of her. She had no idea what they expected of her. And they seemed to be arguing: the man still somewhat deferential to rank, the woman on the verge of exploding at him. A flurry of Russian in rising volume went back and forth. Then the woman put her hands in the air, fists clenched in exasperation, and yelled, “Fuck it, you dumb fuckin’ Ivan, you’re doing this all wrong!”
And she had yelled it in English.
Méret put out a hand and touched her arm.
“I speak English,” she said simply.
It seemed to be the one thing the major needed. She turned to the lieutenant, uttered a softly spoken instruction, and he left the room. Then she sat down opposite Méret.
“I’m Larissa Tosca, major, NKVD. And my German ain’t so hot.”
“And you learnt your English in America.”
“How ever did you guess? Listen. If we can work without an interpreter, it’ll be good. Gregor’s a guy. He thinks like a guy. He sees this as an . . . an interrogation.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Well . . . yeah. But later. Later. What would you like . . . right now?”
Méret could not remember when anyone had last asked her a question with so much choice built into it.
“Right now?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have hot water?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’d like a bath, clean clothes, and a meal.”
“In that order?”