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marionette whose strings had been cut; as though the head had been holding up the body instead of the other way round. The head itself remained momentarily
in situ
, given a slight upward momentum by the impact and spinning frantically in the air, repeatedly showing and hiding the gaping red cross-section of its hewn neck. Osokin felt a splatter of blood across his face, and then another.
    But the impact had done little to slow the blade’s progress. As the soldier’s head continued to turn in the air, behind it Otrepyev had launched himself off the ground, his feet out in front of him, as if aiming a drop kick at the prisoner. But instead the impact was just to one side of the captive’s head, to the wood of the chair itself.
    The blade was level with Otrepyev’s own head as his feet made contact with the wood. It was a race between the two of them. If the blade were to be the victor it would fulfil its design – there could be no doubt that all of this was planned – and sever the prisoner’s head. The chair back received the full force of Otrepyev’s lunge. The room was filled with a screeching, tearing sound as the chair’s legs ripped away from the nails and bolts that fixed it to the platform beneath.
    The prisoner gazed at the blade, now only inches from him, and then seemed to look upwards as the chair finally began to tip back under the force of Otrepyev’s assault. For a few moments, the blade continued to make ground, closing faster on the prisoner’s neck than the falling chair could move him away. But then he began to fall quicker, down as well as back, and the blade finally skimmed over him, just missing, or perhaps just catching, the ball of his chin.
    The chair and the prisoner and Otrepyev and the spinning, severed head all continued to fall, each matching the others’ speed in response to the same gravitational force. There was a loud crash – nothing compared with the blasts that Osokin had heard earlier in the day – as the two men and the chair hit the ground. At the same instant the head landed and, still revolving, began to roll eagerly towards Osokin’s feet, coming finally to rest just in front of them, its dead eyes gazing upwards. It had been only seconds since the blade’s release.
    Over by the lever, Otrepyev’s men had dealt with the last remaining Turcomans and were already wiping their bayonets clean. Otrepyev himself was pressed against the floor, aware that the swinging blade was still loose. Osokin could see it returning already, level with his eyes and hurtling towards him. He stood his ground. It had missed him before, and would follow the same path back. He felt his hair ripple as the blade flew over his head and relished his bravery, or at least the power of his intellect to overcome his native fear. It swung past again, on its way down.
    ‘Deal with it!’ shouted Otrepyev from his position on the floor.
    Two soldiers approached warily, knowing full well what the blade had done to their comrade. They kept to the side of its path, jabbing at it with their rifles and each time taking a little of its momentum. When it had slowed enough, one of them felt sufficiently brave to grab at it, but he couldn’t keep hold. The other man was knocked to the floor, but the blade had lost its power to kill. Soon they had it under control and let it come to rest at its natural position, just above where the chair had been, at the height of the prisoner’s neck.
    Otrepyev pulled himself to his feet and dusted down his greatcoat.
    ‘Get him up,’ he snapped.
    Two more of his men ran forward and grabbed the chair, dragging it across the chamber, away from the dangling blade. Then they began to tip it back upright, the prisoner still bound to it as tightly as ever.
    Osokin stepped closer, keen to see the man who had been the focus of so much effort, both on the part of Otrepyev to get at him and, it seemed evident, on the part of the Turcomans to ensure that he was not taken alive. The