pain in his right arm. His hand fell to his side and he tried to reach over to take hold of the gun with his left. At the same time he felt Lukin grab his collar and drag him round the corner to temporary safety. But it would not take long for the Turcomans to advance, and Lukin alone would not be able to hold them off. Osokin tried to raise his pistol, but his arm would not obey. A body threw itself forward, lying stretched out on the ground in front of them, rifle aimed. Lukin fired, but the Turcoman’s tactic had been clever – the shot went above his head. The man on the ground returned fire, but missed, and then two more figures appeared behind him, standing, the barrels of their guns raised.
Osokin heard a volley of gunshots – perhaps four detonations timed to the precise same moment. In the enclosed space, it was impossible to tell the direction that the sound came from, but the two standing Turcomans crumpled; the one already on the ground twitched and lay still, with nowhere further to fall.
Osokin turned to see four of Otrepyev’s squad standing, rifles raised, wisps of smoke idling from the muzzles and twisting around the bayonets. Two of the men charged forward round the bend in the passageway. Osokin heard a scream, quickly strangled to nothing. He watched the soldiers’ shadows as they thrust their bayonets forward. Then they reappeared, rushing past Osokin and Lukin as if they were not there.
‘Can you walk?’ Lukin asked.
Osokin glanced at his arm and put his hand across to feel the wound. It had numbed him, but the bullet had gone through and not broken the bone. He nodded and got to his feet. The two of them ran on in the direction the soldiers had gone.
Soon they reached the end of the corridor – or at least as close to it as they could. Otrepyev’s elite squad blocked the way, and their way was in turn blocked by a heavy wooden door, with iron bands across it. One of the soldiers was bending down close to the lock, while Otrepyev leaned over him intently.
Lukin pushed forward through the men. ‘Let me!’ he shouted.
Otrepyev looked up, and then beckoned to Lukin. ‘Move!’ he snapped at the man beside him. The others parted to allow Lukin through, and Osokin took the opportunity to follow in his wake.
‘This has to be quick,’ growled Otrepyev.
Lukin nodded. ‘Get them back,’ he said.
Otrepyev ordered his men away and soon they were hidden behind a bend. Otrepyev stayed to watch Lukin, and Osokin did likewise. The lieutenant took the short stick of dynamite that his predecessor had been attempting to attach to the lock, and moved it to the other side of the door.
‘The hinges will be weaker,’ he explained. ‘At least you’ve brought the right kit.’
He delved into the bag that the soldier had been using and brought out a handful of wet clay, with which he easily fixed the explosive where he wanted it. He struck a match and the fuse was alight.
‘We’ve got about eight seconds,’ he said, already on the move.
Soon they were with the others. Osokin held his breath. Otrepyev glanced at him and then at Lukin. The words ‘Stay back and let us deal with this’ emerged from his lips an instant before the blast. Even as sound came, Otrepyev’s troops ran forward, and Osokin and Lukin had no choice, for the moment, but to obey.
It was Lukin who moved first, his curiosity evidently as great as Osokin’s. Within seconds they were back at what remained of the door, the top hinge blasted by dynamite, the bottom smashed by a soldier’s boot. The two officers gazed at what lay within.
It was like the inside of one of the cone-shaped chimneys used to manufacture glass; easily fifty paces across and twice as tall, with the curved walls converging almost to a point where one might expect to see a circle of daylight, though none was visible. By Osokin’s estimation, they were still below ground level, but the peak of this strange cellar was surely above it.
The squad had scattered across the room, brutally dealing with the Turcoman warriors they discovered inside. The defenders outnumbered the Russians by at least two to one but seemed no match for Otrepyev’s men, who happily slaughtered them with sword, bayonet and pistol. If the place had merely been some kind of barracks, then the effort