Echoes of Red Square: The Day the KGB Came for Me Part 3 – The Interrogation

It was around 8 p.m., and I naïvely thought, this won’t take long. After all, I had been assaulted by a formidable Russian—blood everywhere. Surely, this would be a simple matter to explain.

I was wrong.

The man across the desk was silent at first, his expression unreadable. Then, without preamble, he demanded my passport. My heart sank. Our hosts had insisted we leave them in the hotel safe, fearing we might lose them in Moscow’s chaos. I explained this, suggesting he call the British Consulate for confirmation. But reason had no currency here. He searched me himself, his gloved hands methodical, invasive.

He wasn’t interested in Tatiana, or in the attack. He had me in front of him—that was all that mattered.

Then, with unsettling calm, he opened a small, well-worn phrasebook and began thumbing through the pages. Finally, he found what he wanted.
“How much… do you make?” he asked.
“I’m a coach,” I replied, steadying my voice. “A visitor from Scotland. We’re here touring sports facilities.”
His eyes didn’t flicker. Another page turned.
“How much… do you pay her?”

It took me a moment to register. Tatiana. He was suggesting—no, accusing—me of something foul. As the questioning dragged on, it became horrifyingly clear: the man who attacked us had told the police I was her pimp, and we’d fought over money.

Three hours in, the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and suspicion. Fatigue crept through my bones. I asked to use the restroom, hoping for some means of escape. He nodded, stood, and escorted me there himself. No windows. Just tiled walls and the stale scent of fear.

I splashed water on my face, steadied my breath, and decided to go on the offensive. Back in the room, I met his gaze and said, “You need to either charge me or let me go.”

He froze—then exploded.
“You do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” he roared.
Two uniformed officers burst in as he pressed a button under the desk.

“Come,” one barked.
I followed, asking for a phone call, but they were stone-faced, silent. Down a flight of stairs, through a dim corridor, until one reached for his keys. A heavy metal door swung open—cells.

“You can’t do this,” I protested, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m a tourist.”
A hand pressed firmly between my shoulder blades.
The door shut behind me with the metallic clink of finality.

Inside, the cell was barely larger than a broom closet. I could touch both walls with outstretched arms. I paced, trying to think. A guard passed, and I called out, “I’m innocent! Please, let me go!” My words echoed back, unanswered.

Lying on the narrow cot, exhaustion overtook me, but my mind refused rest. Would the others notice my absence at breakfast? Would they call the Consulate? What if this became a diplomatic scandal? “Scottish coach arrested in Moscow—sex for roubles,” the headlines would read. I shuddered.

Time blurred. Another officer appeared; I asked the time—1:30 a.m. Moments later, keys rattled.
He opened the door and nodded. “You can go now.”

“What about Tatiana?” I demanded.
No response. Just the flick of his head toward the exit.

Outside, it was minus thirty. The night air sliced through me like glass. I had no idea where I was. The streets were empty, silent but for the crunch of snow beneath my boots. I began to run—partly to stay warm, partly to stay sane.

At the crest of a hill, I spotted three soldiers silhouetted against the dim light of a streetlamp. As I approached, they raised their rifles. The metallic click of safety latches echoed through the still air. I slowed, hands raised.

“Good evening,” I stammered in Russian. “Does anyone speak English?”
One stepped forward, his accent thick but clear. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m looking for the student accommodation… the college nearby.”

He nodded, surprisingly calm. “Go straight. Three kilometres. You will see it.”

I thanked them, breath steaming in the icy dark. Then I ran—through the snow, through the fear, through the ghostly silence of a city that didn’t want me.

At last, familiar shapes emerged through the trees—the college, the faint glow of the dormitory lights. I had made it back. It was 3 a.m. I was frozen, bruised, and shaken—but free.

For now.