–Radical hunger striker Krasimir Dulka is in critical condition,– Tatjana quoted Aleksandrov's update the following morning. –It is unlikely he will make it through the night.–
–Well, at least now we know,– said Dragomir. He seemed to be in the deepest of melancholies after the news of Krasimir, and did not speak much.
–You can't trust the vloggers, or the journalists.– Rouben muttered darkly. –It's all paranoia. All nonsense. How do we know that it's true? It's probably governmental propaganda to make us feel afraid.–
–I don't understand you nowadays, Rouben,– said Cyril. –You're always going around, muttering, condemning those who document the Revolution, and calling people traitors...–
–You make me sound crazy,– laughed Rouben. His laugh was ragged and hoarse.
For a moment there was silence around them. They listened to the other rebels, going about their business, cooking, making music, singing. It all seemed so happy, so far removed from their current situation...
–Oh, cheer up!– said Rouben after a while. –We'll have him out in no time! All we need is to capture the prison!–
–You make it sound so easy.
–I'm sure it can be accomplished! You have to fight fire with fire!– And Rouben appeared picked up his paper plate, making to walk off.
Dragomir shook his head. –When will we hear from Aleksandrov again?–
–Who the devil is Aleksandrov?
–A journalist,– said Tatjana, adding hastily, –but a nice journalist, an independent one. Don't worry. We haven't let him in.–
–I hope you never do. Journalists are a threat to the Revolution, instruments of the State and its allies...– And he turned on his heel and left, to get some breakfast.
What followed was a long day of the same hardship, made darker by the news of Krasimir's condition. Inside him everyone felt something changing on account of this dark news. When night fell, Tajana and Dragomir spent a sleepless night keeping watch on the barricade, Tatjana barely awake, Dragomir anxiously waiting for Aleksandrov.
Just when he thought he would never materialise, a policeman made his way along the dark street.
–Halt,– said he. –Who goes there?–
The policeman said, –Aleksandr Aleksandrov.
Dragomir nudged Tatjana. –Aleksandrov's here,– he told her, and then crawled down, pistol in hand.
–How is Krasimir?– he asked.
–He is all right,– said Aleksandrov. –He will last.–
–Then why did you say he wouldn't?– asked Tatjana, frowning.
–I never said that.
–You did. On Facebook.
–Oh, yeah, well, that's what I meant,– Aleksandrov said. –Kids: I mean comrades: please let me in, I do believe the police are right behind me.–
–Why did you bring them here?– asked Dragomir incredulously, –and what are they after you for?–
–What I wrote on Facebook,– said Aleksandrov. –It was top secret information. A friend notified me that I had to run, and so I came here. First place I thought of. But hurry, comrades,– he added, with a degree of urgency, –I must hide.–
If this made either guard suspicious, it mattered not, for they let him in immediately.
Aleksandrov thanked them when he was on the Rebels' side of the barricade, and then stretched. –You are tired?– asked Tatjana.
Both guards exchanged glances. –We'll take you to the sleeping area,– said Dragomir, –but by morning you must be gone. We cant have journalists here.–
–Why do you obey him? I thought you were Anarchists. I thought that implied that nobody gives orders.
–Oh, yeah, well, it was a good idea. You could be traitors.– Tatjana looked once again at Dragomir.
–Not that we think you're a traitor,– added Dragomir.
They sat him down and offered him food. Dragomir went to find him a plate, and Tatjana started the cooker. –Do you reckon there's something up with him?– he asked her.
–Probably just tired.
Dragomir was not convinced. He handed her the plate, and went to talk to Aleksandrov, whose back was facing him.
He neared him. He raised his voice. –Aleksandrov...
The policeman was holding a walkie-talkie, and was talking into it. He had lifted up his visor, and Dragomir saw, to his horror...
This man was not Aleksandrov.
–Raise the alarm!– he shouted, seizing the unknown man, his helmet falling off him, revealing a face far too youthful and Nordic to be Aleksandrov's. –We've been duped!–