or else they wouldn't have called me out of my dinner party. Apparently this is a matter of some urgency a stress fracture. Now, please have me escorted to the dressing rooms at once."
The guard nodded, opened the door wider. "Please, come this way. I'll get someone to take you there, Doctor."
A young, scruffy-looking teenage stagehand with a pubic mustache escorted Metcalfe through a series of dark, squalid corridors in the Bolshoi's backstage labyrinth. The stagehand whispered, "We go up three levels and then stage left," and then he spoke not a word; the performance was under way. Metcalfe could hear the orchestra playing Tchaikovsky's music; he recognized a theme from act two of Swan Lake.
Compared to the grandeur of the Bolshoi's public spaces, the backstage was surprisingly grubby. They went past reeking toilets, down creaking low-ceilinged corridors with missing floorboards, around rusting catwalks and ladders. Dancers in costume, their faces caked with makeup, huddled and smoked. As they passed near the stage, Metcalfe heard the haunting strains of the oboe and the harp and the swelling tremolo strings of Tchaikovsky's score, and he recognized the beautiful melody of the act two pas de deux. A shaft of ghostly pale blue light lay across the backstage darkness; Metcalfe stopped and found himself looking directly at the stage and a section of the house.
"Wait," he said, grabbing the stagehand by the shoulder. The teenager looked at him, bewildered that the doctor wanted to catch a glimpse of the performance.
The stage set was magical and glowing: a moonlit lake, a painted backdrop of a lake and surrounding forest, several large prop trees and in the center was Lana. Metcalfe watched, transported.
Lana was Odette, the swan queen, costumed in a close-fitting white tutu that emphasized her tiny waist, fringed with feathers and tulle; her hair was up in a tight chignon, and on it a white feathered headdress. She looked delicate and vulnerable, astonishingly birdlike. She was dancing with Prince Siegfried, while around them spiraled the cygnets, which then spun offstage, leaving just Odette and Siegfried. He gracefully hoisted her, set her down gently, his hands tight around her body; she embraced him, arching her swan neck intimately against his, and Metcalfe felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy. This was a dance, no more; it was her work, her job, the prince merely a coworker.
"All right," Metcalfe said. "Let's go to her dressing room. I'll wait for her there until intermission."
"I'm afraid you really shouldn't be here," came a quiet voice in English with a Russian accent.
Metcalfe turned, surprised could this be the taciturn stagehand? and then saw who was speaking. He recognized the blond hair, the pale gray eyes.
The NKVD man. He stood a few feet away, pointing a pistol.
"Yes, it is you," the NKVD agent said, his voice barely audible. The young stagehand watched in terror. "For a moment I didn't recognize you, but you are nothing if not resourceful. Well, if you've come to watch Miss Baranova perform, you should have purchased a ticket like everyone else. Guests are not permitted backstage. Come with me, please."
Metcalfe smiled. "A gun is useless," he replied, "unless you're willing to fire it. And I doubt you want to fire a gun in the middle of the pas de deux. It will shatter Miss Baranova's concentration and detract from the spectators' enjoyment, will it not?"
The agent nodded, his face impassive. "I'd much rather not have to fire, but given a choice between letting you get away and disrupting the performance ... well, I really have no choice."
"You always have a choice," Metcalfe said, backing away slowly. He felt the weight of his pistol in his breast pocket, but it was not reassuring: by the time he reached for it, the Russian would have squeezed the trigger. Something about the NKVD man's composure told Metcalfe that the Russian would not hesitate to fire.
"Keep your hands at your sides," the Russian commanded.
Metcalfe's eyes shifted to the left, taking in the rigging, the system of pulleys within his reach. High above them a pair of lead sash weights dangled, anchored in place by means of ropes that were tied to iron hooks. He moved his hands behind his back and backed up a few feet as if intimidated by the agent. "Don't shoot," he said, putting a slight quaver in his voice to indicate fear. "Just tell me what you want."
The rope! It was there; he was able to grasp it! Slowly removing his knife from his