The alarm was silent, a red light flashing insistently.
Demikhov knew what it meant. And where.
With great reluctance he pressed the button that would summon Director Simonov.
Even in the near darkness, the cell gleamed wetly.
"Is this his blood?" said Simonov.
"We don't know sir, we're doing a sweep now." The guard studiously avoided looking into the cell, "But, you know what he was."
Simonov understood. This wasn't the White Swan, with it's murderers, child-rapists and colourful tattooed Bratva, but Chernyi Vorot, the Black Gate, established by the NKVD to dispose of their insoluble problems.
The radio crackled. Guards had found footsteps starting almost thirty feet from the ramparts and leading directly to the outer perimeter fence.
They continued unbroken on the other side, the fence untouched. Unclimbed.
Aleksi Nahkimov was heading east, to the Urals.
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