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1989 - Moscow,
19th February
The bag
over his face started to dry. Vadim could almost breathe normally
again. Thought he could smell the lingering terror of whatever
poor bastard had worn this before. Sweat, tears, a rank smell
like dried vomit.
Hands
tied behind his back. They made him walk. 'They' were a group
of men that had been with him since he had regained consciousness.
His mind kept working, kept to survival routines. Determine
number of aggressors, angle of attack; learn what he could
about them and their tactics in dealing with him. He smelled
cigarette smoke when they lit up, and could feel their fingers
on the restraint, checking whether he had conjured up some
Spetsnaz magic that would enable him to flee.
He didn't
even know where he was. Or when. No way of keeping time, it
was dark, he could hear them talk, but they were guarded.
The plane could have landed anywhere. The car could have gone
anywhere. They could have marched him anywhere.
Wherever
this place was, it was cold. And they poured water over the
bag, every now and then, just to keep him on his toes. No
real torture. They were just being unpleasant. Vadim didn't
allow any other thought while they were close. Focused his
mind and senses on the present, on every movement, every word.
They were obviously military - Interior Ministry, so, strictly,
comrades.
And smart
and disciplined enough to not give him any clues. Disorientation
was a factor. They wanted to keep him guessing, and that meant
he had to discipline his mind; rationale against chaos. He
remained cold, focused on keeping his body running and not
allowing panic to set in. He'd be tougher than they'd anticipated.
He wasn't Spetsnaz for nothing, and an officer on top.
He could
still feel Dan, though. Could still taste him, feel the echo
on his body. Inside. The burn from the cut was the clearest
sensory input he had, and that was where his mind focused.
Walking,
breathing, listening to the boots of his captors, and his
own steps. Down stairs, a door was opened, he was pushed inside.
The door was closed. Kept him in that room, standing.
Time
passed, an hour, maybe more, reminding him of the random cruelty
in the barracks.
Disorientation.
Dan.
Something
crawled up from inside, something dark and bitter. Wasted
opportunity. They hadn't made it, after all. The stolen time,
the secret emotions, the vows and pledges … had changed
nothing. He just couldn't escape. He'd tried, and it all had
hinged on some fat-ass bureaucrat who had dug out that visit
to London and the suspicious killing. Not that it mattered,
not that he'd do that again, but maybe he had raised his own
profile by meeting the man from the Foreign Office. Maybe
that was the missing link, maybe that had come up in their
search. Maybe he had acted suspicious.
He should
have run away - vanished. He'd been trained to survive hundreds
of miles behind enemy lines. He could have found a way into
Europe, could have found a way into Britain - the coast was
long and ragged, people had even swum the distance. But to
live like a criminal on the run, always hunted, always with
the fear he was wanted for murder, or as a Soviet spy?
There
was KGB in Great Britain. He couldn't meet another Russian
without fearing to be sold. And he wasn't easily mistaken.
Not because of the remaining token fame, but the fact he didn't
really fit in, drew too much attention. They'd recognise him,
and then hunt him down. He just didn't want to live like an
insect scurrying under a rock every time something moved.
Had dared to hope for a clean cut, a new start, honesty and
honour - well, as much honour as he could preserve in all
this.
If he
could only work out where the mistake had been. Had they been
too careless in trying to have a little normality? The Colonel?
And if they'd known - why strike now? Only to make it as painful
as possible? Had something the Baroness had done stirred up
interest and drawn the KGB's baleful attention? It could even
be an inter-agency thing. The KGB didn't like the GRU. A political
manoeuvre, one bureaucrat saying "fuck you" to another.
The usual
doublethink did not apply, did not yield results. He had no
idea why, or how, or when, or what next. He had worked too
long towards this one slim chance, had dared to imagine that
other life, and seeing it now vanish into nothing, there was
no replacement. He'd thrown away the life he'd had, trusting
on Dan to reel him in, pull him in, secure and anchor him.
The rope was severed, and he was hurtling into the void. Disoriented,
aching in too many places, memories.
The door
opened again, and men entered.
The atmosphere
changed at once. No word was spoken, nothing, but Vadim tensed
and felt a punch just below the solar plexus, a vicious, insanely
painful hit. He doubled over, thankful it hadn't been to the
groin, and amused at that thought while his stomach seemed
to want to spill everything he'd not eaten in the last hours,
or day. As if that had been some kind of signal, there were
more punches and kicks, while Vadim collapsed, desperate to
breathe and not vomit, the pain sharp enough to forbid every
memory.
It was
called 'warming up'. Soften the prisoner up for interrogation.
"Don't
be too gentle, the cunt's spetsnaz. They can take a lot."
Pain,
and more pain, but not repetitive, every kind of pain different,
sharp, pounding, tearing, blunt, crushing. Dark red and lightning
coloured, unable to say from where the next impact would come.
Vadim was tensing only to pit the remaining strength of his
muscles against theirs, knowing which side would win, but
focussed on keeping as much of himself intact as possible.
He screamed
with what breath he had left, sobbed, allowed them to hear
the pain - it didn't cause them to stop, but maybe misled
them about his real state. He needed to keep his wits together,
despite the raging pain. Fighting a silent fight to preserve
the core.
Eventually,
it stopped, like they'd lost interest. Random, completely
random. Disorientation. Surprise, and excessive, determined
force. And, above all, cunning. The three principles on which
the might of the Soviet Union was based.
The door
opened again, and hands grabbed him and forced him to stand.
Vadim swayed, feet seemed to have to find a position where
he wouldn't stumble, which took a while as his body's least
concern was balance now. He was coughing, every breath made
his ribs hurt worse, and there seemed nothing he could do
to ease the pain or to not cause pain to flare up. His ears
rang, breath heaving, fighting nausea, swallowing bile.
"Now
that that is settled, I think it's time for the paperwork",
said a man.
Vadim
turned towards the voice. At least nobody he knew. Not the
Colonel. A stranger. KGB? He had no idea who'd deal with his
case.
Somebody
loosened the rope or whatever kept the bag close to his throat,
and pulled it off.
No uniform,
a suit. Dark hair, some grey in it, he estimated the man to
be in his fifties. Bad news. That meant he had plenty of experience.
Eyes the colour of dark amber. A trick of the light.
And the
man was standing too close. Vadim looked away first, to appear
meek and intimidated, and to not provoke the bastard into
believing he wasn't 'warmed up' enough.
"As
you are most likely aware, there are several ways we can proceed
from here, Vadim Petrovich." The man pointed towards
the desk behind him, where an open file rested.
How long
had the man been in the room? Had he really just arrived,
or merely opened and closed the door to mislead him?
Vadim
looked up again, and gave a nod to acknowledge he listened.
He wanted to ask questions, but he knew he wouldn't get any
answers, and by showing them what he wanted to know, he'd
open himself for an attack. Be stone, be wood, be no longer
human. No curiosity, no fear, no worries. No guessing.
"It
is my task to make you sign a full confession. The question
is, how we will arrive at that point." The man gave a
self-ironic smile, as he let the other sentence hang in the
air. Not when, not if. How. "This is meant to tell you
that you are directly responsible for that road. It is your
choice - and you will have time to make a good, solid, tactical
as well as human decision. We'll give you enough time to think
about it."
The silence
invited a question. Oddly, Vadim felt himself slip into the
same kind of irony. Odd, to share that with the man who was
set to break him. And even odder to appear civilized while
he could hardly stand up straight. His lower back hurt. The
quads shook from the effort and the bruising, not to mention
the ribs. Nothing broken, but bruised in too many places.
"Why the beating then?"
"Call
it a rite of initiation", said the interrogator with
a smile. "There is a lot of anger about your treason.
Certain elements would rather not bother with the questioning
and confession and shoot you while you make an escape attempt."
Vadim's
eyes narrowed. He didn't like that irony, nor the way the
man spoke. Too smart, too academic. What had he expected?
A beginner? Dan had tortured him on instinct, used a few effective
tricks of the trade, which eventually worked, on a younger
man, one that had had something to lose. Of course he'd broken,
and he assumed he'd break again. But oddly, he wasn't scared.
Now that the pieces were on the table, and decisions were
made, all that he really had to do was somehow get through
it. It was not the terror of not knowing, not the humiliation
of begging. This was their set of rules, and they'd play the
game according to them. There was nothing he had to do, and
nothing he could do. No alternatives. It was inevitable.
"You've
cost the state dearly. You are a traitor, and you will confess
to it. When we present you to the judge, you will be very
different from what you are now. We will have turned you from
the inside out. These ruffians behind you can't wait to beat
you up again, but that is a very crude method, and you are
physically in prime shape. Wearing you down will take time.
Of course, there are other methods, and it is, admittedly,
a challenge to break a masochist."
Vadim's
jaw muscles tensed. He wasn't quite sure what the man was
playing at. He assumed he was just prodding and checking for
something that betrayed a weakness, a soft spot, to put a
dagger in. Tried to open him up, gauge reactions. Nothing
but probing.
"I've
had time to prepare, and I've seen the evidence. Don't deny
it, we both know you enjoy pain."
What
evidence? Anything in his file? No. The hotel room had been
bugged. That was the only logical explanation. Masochist.
There were too many kinds of pain to answer that question
conclusively. And it was just an insult, casual, and meant
to humiliate.
"Now,
I could use more force than you can withstand, and break through
the physical threshold. But we both know that your mind is
more fragile than your body, and that is where I will get
you. I will break you in ways that you cannot defend against
and will be unable to repair. I will kill the man that lives
inside the flesh. You'll be walking and breathing dead. And
you will never forget what I did to you."
His mind.
Drugs? Fear? What was that method? Dan had focused on his
body, breaking his ability to resist, and compromising his
ability to survive and make it back to his unit. "Why?"
The interrogator
smiled. "This is also about revenge for the damage you
did, but the main reason is to get you to confess. Once you
are ready, there will be the trial, and then we will execute
you. You can choose to end your own suffering at any time.
Just tell me you'll sign, and it will all end."
Treason.
That was punishable by death. "I meant … why are
you telling me this?"
"You
are an intelligent man - well above average, as expected of
course. I am only making sure you are aware of all your options."
Pause. "This is not something the British spy had."
Vadim
tensed, a betraying motion that came from somewhere inside
his body, and reignited the pain, taking his breath for several
long moments. Dan.
The man
looked at him with all the emotion of a piranha. "To
satisfy your curiosity, Daniel McFadyen died on the way to
the British embassy. He was shot by a sniper. Headshot. Instantly
dead. He didn't suffer. Unlike you."
Sniper.
If they'd been able to pick him up from the hotel, they were
perfectly capable to place another ambush. It was likely.
Dan. Dead. Vadim's body filled with cold, heavy metal, sapping
his strength. And he had felt fucking pity for himself while
Dan was dead. His opportunities, his life, when Dan had been
slaughtered. His heart raced and the nausea came back full
force, rolling through him in waves.
I
need to see his body.
He shook
his head, remembered the agonizing wait after the car bomb,
the despair and pain.
I
need to see the body.
The interrogator
was lying. He'd attempt to inflict pain. Attack his mind.
Begin destroying him. And Dan was an obvious angle. If it
hadn't been for the doubt that was creeping under his skin.
It was likely. Possible.
The interrogator
nodded to the men standing at the door. "Bring him to
his cell." He took a few steps back, all the time meeting
his gaze. "Remember, you can end it any time."
*
* * * * * *
1989 - Kabul,
19th February
"Dan,"
the Baroness stood in front of Dan's chair . "What happened,
the KGB took Major Krasnorada? Are you sure?"
He sat
crouched and in pain, a mess, despite having been cleaned
and bandaged up. Some of the injuries had to be stitched,
others were held together with butterfly clips. The worst
was the headache, his forehead bruised and the skin split,
it made it hard to think, while all he could think of anyway
was the sight of Vadim being bundled into the car.
"Aye,
Ma'm, there is no other explanation. Vadim is spetsnaz, and
he admitted to being part of the Interior Ministry. Who else
would have kidnapped him? They were Soviets, their uniforms
just like the troops that had been sent to kill me."
She pulled
a chair closer before taking a pad of writing paper from the
desk, together with her fountain pen. Sitting opposite to
him, she leant forward. Clear eyes narrowed, fully concentrated
on every word he said. "Tell me all that happened, Dan,
from start, to finish. Tell me about last night and this morning,
and tell me all you believe has been of importance since you
met Major Krasnorada. The more I know the better will I be
able to ascertain the situation." She nodded at him,
but Dan glanced warily at her paper and pen, while holding
his aching head. The painkillers hardly touched his sore body.
"Do
not worry," she added, "all that you tell me now
will remain between us. I give you my word that I will help
you, as I promised before. I will help you as much as I can."
Dan thought
he had never seen her face so determined and fierce. "No
one is trying to kill one of mine, Dan, without me retaliating.
Not even the KGB."
And despite
the pain he was in, he sat and talked for hours, telling her
everything, except for the one truth: how it all started.
No one would ever know about a night in Kabul, nine years
ago.
1989 - Moscow,
13th December, ten months later
Again,
the door opened, and the fear came back. Startled like a wild
animal, Vadim didn't resist as the guards took his arms, forced
him against the wall, tied his hands back, and put the sackcloth
over his head. It was so he wouldn't recognize any other prisoners,
he assumed. Always the same. A year or two, or thereabouts,
he didn't know. Keeping track of time was too difficult, it
had felt like an eternity. Often, he was too exhausted to
keep his calendar. Lately, he didn't remember to. Couldn't
remember whether he had marked the day down already or not.
Felt they screwed with the times when the light was on at
the end of the corridor, with the rhythm of what were supposed
to be his meals. No steady rhythm to his sleep, his awakening,
no rhythm his body could remember or hold on to. Didn't know
whether he woke up from something outside disturbing him,
or from the usual five o' clock routine. Had no way of telling.
It felt like there had never been anything else but this in
his life.
They
pushed him down the corridor, back into the room. Not a word
was spoken. Nobody ever spoke a word. There were no signals
from any neighbouring cells. He was alone in that hole, alone.
Cold. The darkness and numbing silence only torn when they
interrupted his sleep, when they emptied a bucket of water
over him, to wake him and to increase the misery. He spent
days tied down, chained up like a dog, for no other reason
but to make life miserable and not allow a dulling of the
discomfort. Sleep deprivation. Hunger. Cold. He knew the methods,
but they still cut to the bone.
When
they dragged him out for a beating - the cell was too small
for more than two or three men, and hardly offered enough
room to kick a prone figure - he was usually blinded as well.
He found he hungered for a human face, a human voice.
But that
was denied.
Vadim
didn't resist, didn't fight, couldn't, it seemed he was standing
beside himself, with only rudimentary control over that body.
Things happened to him. He didn't care much - it was all cold,
hunger, pain, fear, but even the fear was dulling into a nameless,
leaden dread that felt completely impersonal. Those were not
his emotions. And they were of no consequences.
They
reached the room. Any room. Pushed him inside, somebody kicked
him in the legs, and Vadim collapsed onto his knees, fell
onto his side, and it took focus to try and get upright again.
His sense of balance was fucked. They removed the sackcloth.
The light was too bright. He wasn't used to light any more.
It hurt his eyes. Nothing that didn't hurt.
He felt
a hand touch his neck, and felt grateful for the touch, a
moment of warmth, a moment of non-pain. Felt the warmth of
another body close, and leaned forward, head resting against
what had to be a leg.
"I
think we're almost there", murmured the interrogator.
The only human voice that he heard that was not a memory or
his own voice. Vadim didn't quite believe it, but his memories
and dreams were washed out these days, had lost all colour,
all strength, didn't have anything left. Reality wasn't much
better. The hole had taken all strength, all memories, and
left nothing but the dread. He knew he'd been stripped of
all that, but didn't actually know what 'it' was or signified,
knew it had been important.
The hand
was still there, a surreal touch. Vadim had no idea what it
meant, only that he wanted it to stay. He knew this man had
him brought here, and that he'd been hoping it would be this
man and not the beating, and that he wanted the man to talk
to him, whatever he said, whatever insult, whatever cruelty,
this world had become so small that this man more than filled
it out.
"I
understand it was a long, hard way for you, my friend",
murmured the man, the voice came closer as the man crouched
in front of him, hand still there. Vadim carefully opened
his eyes. The brightness of the lamp was partially blocked
by the body. A small mercy.
Brown
eyes looked into his, concerned, it seemed, and Vadim felt
vague regret at that concern, but didn't know why. Studied
the man's features, the clean shaven cheeks and chin, without
taking anything in. He couldn't concentrate on any thought,
couldn't make sense of anything, felt afloat and removed.
Couldn't hold that gaze.
"I
think you're easily ready to sign the confession now."
Vadim
didn't understand. "What."
"Do
you want to rest? You look tired, my friend. Tired and worn.
All this can end, and you will never be cold, or hungry, or
afraid."
That
would be good, thought Vadim.
"You
only have to sign this. Come, I'll help you." The man
helped him up and steadied him, and helped him walk towards
the desk. There was a thick file on it, and Vadim felt a distant
echo of something good inside. His hands were freed, and he
steadied himself against the desk, as the man gave him a pen.
"Just
sign your full name."
Vadim
took it, saw his hand with the pen shake so hard that the
tip made small noises against the paper. He knew this was
important, but he didn't understand what it had been important
for. If this meant it all would stop, good. No more hole,
no more pain. Sounded like bliss.
He tried
to concentrate, his name was long, and he hadn't used it for
a long time. Not important. He wasn't sure about the spelling.
"Vadim
Petrovich … that's it. Krasnorada", said the man,
and seemed pleased and friendly. "So much hard work.
You'll soon be able to rest." The man took the pen from
his hand and turned him around at the shoulder, again looking
into his eyes. "You're almost there. Aren't you glad?"
Vadim
nodded. "No more …" Faltering. Found words
almost as difficult as thoughts. Wasn't sure what he'd said
aloud and what he had thought, or whether there was, in fact,
any difference.
"No.
No more of any of this." The man smiled at him, kind,
it seemed.
"Good.
I'm very tired." It was easy to feel relief. He remembered
to have missed something, books, people, voices, sleep, food,
but it was all good now. He'd be able to rest, and that was
the one remaining thing he still wanted. He looked into the
man's eyes and felt a strange gratitude for enabling that,
for taking care of him, for the touch.
The man
shuffled the paper into the file and closed it neatly. "Take
him to the new cell. He has to be presentable."
*
* * * * * *
1990 - Dubai,
12th January
"Dan,
I need to talk to you." Baroness de Vilde's voice and
face were grave, and Dan felt a sucker punch to his guts at
the seriousness of her tone.
He nodded,
undoing the zipper of his light jacket. He'd finished the
recce according to his maxim that no protection was as valuable
as the recce beforehand. "Of course, Ma'm. Will you give
me a few minutes?"
"Certainly,"
she nodded, "I shall see you in my private study."
Dan watched
her leave, frozen to the spot. He knew; didn't want to know.
The dread was settling into his bones as if flash-frozen.
Forcing himself to finish undressing, before washing face
and hands in the small bathroom adjacent to his room. He felt
like throwing up as he stood over the sink, hands gripping
the cool porcelain, unable to look into the mirror. That was
it, then. It had to be.
One year,
almost one year later. Eleven months, and they'd fought for
Vadim's release, with the Baroness doing most of the work.
Proposed exchange of political prisoners, covert offers of
bribery - money, advantages, anything they could possibly
offer, but it had either not been enough, or the hatred had
run too deep. The KGB hadn't let go of Vadim, no matter what
the Ambassador and her contacts had tried, and regardless
of the crumbling might of the Soviet Union. The vast empire
was pulling itself apart, torn into pieces by a force from
within its own bowels.
Eleven
months, and the Baroness had given him information about the
Lubyanka, the treatment of prisoners by the Interior Ministry,
to make him understand what was probably being done to Vadim
and what psychological changes that would cause, but he'd
found much of it too painful to read, unable to deal with
the unknown and the helplessness, wishing nothing more than
a chance to fight the grey men that kept their hold on Vadim.
She never ceased to keep Dan updated of anything that was
going on. Progress or not - and mostly the latter.
The Ambassador
had been called away from Afghanistan during those months,
to move to the United Arab Emirates, residing in the embassy
in Dubai, taking Dan and all of her core staff with her.
He had
been doing his job in the air conditioned rooms of embassies
and offices, or outside in the heat. Clinging to his duties,
pushing his fitness, while his mind was unable to cope with
anything but the memory of Vadim. Even jerking off had become
impossible, the oppressiveness of not-knowing too great, and
the pain of hope unbearable - amongst the growing hopelessness.
Almost
a year, and she had done all she could, using contacts, attempting
negotiations, but in the end all efforts were reduced to the
sick feeling in Dan's guts and the fear that this was it:
the worst. The final. The end.
A few
minutes later Dan was knocking at the door of the Baroness'
study. A small affair, this room. Warm wood and polished brass,
the complete opposite to the vast, cold magnificence of her
public office.
She was
looking at him for a moment, with that calm and unwavering
gaze, once he had sat down in front of her desk. When she
spoke, her voice was quiet. "I have received a fax from
my contact in Moscow, it is the copy of an official document."
Dan stared
at her face, not at the paper in her hands. He couldn't bear
it. The cold fist in his stomach was twisting his guts because
he knew deep down what the document said, had always known
it. All she did now was verifying what he had refused to accept.
Too late. He'd run out of time, reality was right there, in
her hands.
She gently
pushed the fax towards him, across her desk. "I believe
you can read it. It is in Cyrillic."
Dan shook
his head, refused to take the paper. "Please, no."
Defeated, he had no choice. Putting up a façade of
bravado? Not any more. "Do you know what it says?"
She nodded,
folding her hands on top of the edge of the paper, which hung
limply over the desk. "Yes, my contact supplied a summary
in English."
"What
does it say." The words tasted of death and ashes in
Dan's mouth.
She inhaled,
no more than a minor pause, before she inclined her head in
a measured nod that told him she understood, and would take
on the task. Placing the reading spectacles that hung on a
gold chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, she
pulled another piece of paper close and began to read.
"Vadim
Petrovich Krasnorada has been sentenced to death for the crime
of High Treason to the Soviet Union. He has signed the confession
of having delivered sensitive information to a British subject
and member of the British Special Forces, whilst in the employ
and confidence of the Soviet Army. Vadim Petrovich Krasnorada
will be executed at 0500 hrs on February 7th 1990."
She put
one hand over the paper, palm down, and took the specs off
her nose, looking at Dan. Her voice never wavered, but it
was low and soft. "I am sorry, Dan."
"This
is not true." Dan's own voice had lost all inflexion.
She leant
forward, gently, as if talking to a disturbed child, without
sounding patronising. "Dan, it is true. It is
official. He will be executed."
"No."
Dan shook his head, jumped out of the chair, which wobbled
precariously. "It is not true that he was a traitor.
The confession is a lie!" Pacing away from the desk,
then back again, hands behind his back in fists, felt as if
they were bound, wrists crossed. "He never told me anything,
and neither did I. Never!" Spinning around to face her
once more, agitated. "Do you understand, Ma'm? It is
a lie, he never betrayed his country." Closer, until
his thighs hit the edge of her desk and the fax went tumbling
to the floor.
She didn't
flinch, silently looking up and into his face, steadfast.
"Do
you believe me, Ma'm? Do you believe that the confession is
a lie?"
"Yes."
She nodded once, calmly. "Yes, I do believe you, I have
no doubt." Her voice was firm, the softness gone, yet
the warmth still lingered. "A confession under torture
is not permissible in court." She, too, stood up, hardly
reaching the height of Dan's shoulders. "But, Dan, the
Soviet Union is not Britain, and the KGB is not Scotland Yard.
The Soviet state is a crumbling empire, torn and ravaged,
unsure of itself and frightened to the core. A false confession
extracted by the KGB is the least of its bothers."
"But
they can't do this! What about your connections, the bribes,
politics, diplomacy, promises from the West?" He was
desperate, and he knew it. Knew, too, that it was hopeless
and knew the answer before he heard it from her mouth.
"They
can do it, Dan, and they will."
Pain
clenched his heart in a vice grip, squeezing until blood rushed
in his ears, drowning everything but the need to rage and
scream, wreak havoc on what came into his hands, smell blood
and taste destruction.
"No!
It cannot be, they can't do this!" Shaking his head violently.
"I cannot let go. If I did, Vadim would die twice. I
can't let go, Ma'm. Not yet. Not as long as he is still alive."
His eyes wild, fists slamming onto her desks, towering over
her, but she never flinched. "I was taught to never leave
a comrade behind!" Dan opened his mouth wide as if to
scream obscenities, the only way to let out the anger and
anguish, and … suddenly deflated. Nothing. No sound.
Shoulders sagging, he lowered his gaze.
"I
know." Dan's voice was once more ashen. The burning rage
had died, flames suffocated by that pain for which he had
no name. A vacuum inside of him, sucking him dry of all his
strength and energy, expended throughout the last year, fighting
for Vadim's survival.
"I
know, Ma'm." Repeated, Dan stood, rejected.
She didn't
say anything for a long time, until she stepped away from
the desk and came to stand in front of Dan.
"If
there is anything I can do for you," her cool, elegant
hand found its way to his shoulder. Resting there for a moment,
"anything at all, Dan, please tell me."
No, there
was nothing, and he shook his head. Nothing at all anymore,
it was over. Nothing he could do nor say, nor … his head
came suddenly up, looking at her, unblinking.
"Yes,
there is. Ma'm, there is one last thing I need to do."
His face expressionless. "Can you get me the address
of Vadim's ex-wife? I tried to verify the address he gave
me, but she appears to have moved."
Her brows
raised merely a fraction, but she did not query his request.
"I will."
"Thank
you, Ma'm." He turned, hands once more in fists behind
his back, leaving the room.
*
* * * * * *
1990 - Moscow,
9th January
"Do
you understand what I am saying, Vadim Petrovich Krasnorada?"
He stood
there, looked at the judge's face, knew the guards were there
to punish him for any seeming disrespect. The interrogator
was there, too, sat close, like an attorney, maybe to make
sure he didn't make a mistake. Vadim looked at the man, who
gave him one of those reassuring smiles. Vadim looked at the
judge again. "Forgive me. I am …"
I'm not
here. I'm beside myself. I have no idea what you are saying,
but I'm trying so hard. His face twitched, and he looked straight
ahead at the man. The judge. Show respect.
"You
are …?"
"I
am sorry, Sir."
The judge
stabbed the paper with a long bony finger. "You signed
this confession?"
"Yes,
I did."
"So
you did disgrace yourself with a British subject?"
British
subject. A man. A silhouette in the darkness of a cave. Breath
misting, joining.
"I
repeat the question: "Did you or did you not disgrace
yourself with a British subject?"
Vadim
looked up again, felt his hands twitch, tension coming up
from his chest as he stared wide-eyed at the man in front
of him, suddenly saw the interrogator stand and lean towards
him. "Vadim. Don't worry, you'll be safe. I know it's
hard, but we have to get through this."
"Is
there anything wrong with him, comrade Konstantinov?"
The interrogator
shook his head. "Despite comrade Krasnorada's many failings,
he's still Afghantsy. They often bring … certain conditions
with them when they return."
"But
he is fit to stand trial?"
"Certainly.
It is a temporary, if recurring condition."
"Well
then. Did you understand my question?"
"He's
asking whether you disgraced yourself with Daniel Ewan McFadyen
while serving in Afghanistan", said the interrogator
to help him.
Daniel
Ewan McFadyen. I didn't know he had a second name, Vadim
thought, and felt his shoulders tense, his body shaken from
something inside, something powerful, like an earthquake.
Dark eyes. Huffed laughter. That man's body close to his,
moving, holding him, reaching inside, opening him up and making
him whole.
"I
… I did not."
"What
did you just say?" The judge leaned forward, there was
an alarmed flutter of unrest in the court room. The interrogator
looked at Vadim with all the intensity of some of their talks,
suddenly awake and sharp.
"I
did not disgrace myself with that man." Every word felt
like it had to be pushed out.
"You're
saying you didn't have … a physical relationship with
that man?"
"I
did."
"You
are contradicting yourself", said the interrogator near
his ear. "That is not appreciated."
Vadim
looked at the judge. It didn't matter. The sentence was set,
and there was no use fighting, but that lie, that couldn't
remain in the room. "I did … have sex with that
man. But it was not … a disgrace."
"Linguistics",
huffed the judge, and went on with proceedings.
Dan McFadyen.
He'd hated to be called Daniel. He'd tell all these men here
to fuck off and leave them in peace. Vadim felt a small smile
tug at the corner of his lips. I never had that brand of courage.
I wish I had. I just have to get through this, and then it's
over.
He answered
"yes I did", whenever the judge looked at him. The
confession was long, exhaustive. Rape, murder, collaboration,
sabotage, weapons trafficking to rebels, conspiracy, whatever.
High treason, yes, that, on top. Nothing touched him anymore.
He couldn't focus, and it was of no importance. That one thing
had been, but it just slipped away.
The sentence
was as expected, and they brought him away, to the cell, not
the hole. They didn't wake him from his sleep, and the beatings
had stopped, too. There were voices on the corridor, but Vadim
found it too hard to focus on any of the words. It wasn't
about him.
*
* * * * * *
1990 - Hungary,
27th January
Dan got
out of the taxi, thankful for the small mercy that almost
everyone seemed to speak at least some words of English. He
could get along well in a few major European languages, fluently
in Russian, even in Pushtu and Arabic, but he'd never learned
Hungarian and sure as hell had no incentive to do so.
It was
strange to see the country in sunshine, Dan felt the weather
should have been dreary grey with blankets of dirty snow,
but this January had turned out to be a freak month in Budapest.
How apt. Still cold, though, growing rapidly colder now that
the sun was setting. Both hands in his jeans pockets, he pulled
his shoulders up to his ears, not used to winter anymore.
After active service in Afghanistan he'd been working for
the Baroness in a country that burnt with heat. Focussed on
nothing but Vadim's survival, and now … this. It would
be over. No more future, no more fight nor focus.
He looked
at a piece of paper, checked the address before putting it
back into his pocket, feeling the familiar smoothness of the
lapis lazuli beads against his fingers, warmed by his body.
Dan lifted his head with a deep breath into the crispy air
and stepped into the magnificent building with its fading
beauty, that served as the training complex. The entrance
was deserted, whoever was meant to be manning the desk nowhere
to be seen, thus he walked unhindered around the corner and
found himself in front of a double door. One of them stood
open, allowing the view into a large rectangular room with
golden brown wooden floor, shining with polish, and several
tall windows all along the wall, mirroring the inside against
the falling darkness. Dan stepped inside, saw two slender
white-clad figures with fencing masks work miracles of elegance
and deadly skill into the air. One of them could only be her.
Another
beep sound from the electric system, the green light lit up
on the box at the floor they were both connected to, as Katya's
epee impacted, and both fencers straightened and took a step
back. Taking off the masks one-handed, they faced each other
on the piste and both lowered their blades, masks tugged
under the arm. Then shook hands with the bare hand. "Good
one." Rubbing the inside of her elbow, where he had scored
a point.
She disconnected
the electric system and put the epee down. She was dying to
get out of that heavy white jacket, damp with sweat. Pulled
the glove off first and stuffed it into the mask, set both
down on the bench and pulled the zipper down to her chest
to take the cable off. She spied a movement near the entrance,
Szandor noticed her glance and turned as well, wiping his
face with a towel.
Dan stood
near the entrance, tension residing in his stomach. He feared
his request was asking too much, but he had to try it. Less
than two weeks now. Ten days, and seven hours, to be precise.
He could probably make out the minutes, if he checked his
watch. When the mask came off the female, recognition hit
him immediately. He'd seen the photo, the wife, the children.
He'd been right, it was her. Hands still in his pockets, he
crossed the room with measured steps.
To Katya,
he looked like a tourist. "This is not open to the public",
she said in English. "But I am sure you can see the 18th
century stucco if you find the caretaker and pay for his tea."
Szandor
looked at the tourist as he stepped closer, and she could
just see that Szandor would give him the full guided tour
just because of his looks. Dark handsome strangers with an
interest in his hometown, and Szandor was in love. Like Szandor
was in love at the drop of a hat. They had shared a fencing
career, and they had shared Vadim. The basis for a life-long
friendship.
Dan swallowed
hard, then shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not here
for the stucco." He glanced over at the man, wary. They
were both carrying weapons, but he could take them down. No
threat, not against a killer.
He took
the right hand out of the pocket, but the left one remained.
He'd found it best with civilians to hide the scarred hand
for a while. Often the one in his face was too much, causing
at least some morbid curiosity, but he didn't expect this
one to bother. Acknowledging the man with a glance, he came
closer, stopped in safe distance, looked at the woman again.
Yes. No doubt. It was her.
His only
chance.
"I
believe I am looking for you. Katya …" didn't know
what name she might have taken on now. Had she kept the old
one or assumed another? "Krasnorada?" Even speaking
the name out loud hurt. Hurt so deep inside, it made him shudder.
She kept
looking at him, then a glance at her training partner. "Thanks
for the play, Szandor." In English, cool enough to work
as a bucket of ice water even after an excellent bout.
She waited
till the Hungarian had left, and kept looking at the man.
"Somehow I do not believe you are a reporter writing
about the Olympics at Montreal, and you do not look like you
want to take private lessons. Or do you?"
Not the
way he favoured that leg, an imbalance or an old injury.
Dan shook
his head at her question. "You are correct and I am neither."
No, woman, I am the man who came here to beg. "I came
here …" faltered, took another breath, wondered
if that horror inside would quieten eventually, "I came
here to ask you a favour."
He felt
the lapis lazuli beads against the fingers of his left hand,
while the other brushed a strand of hair out of his face.
"I am Dan McFadyen." He missed his knife, cursed
airport security and lack of diplomatic baggage. Its comforting
presence no longer near his wrist. Bare. Naked to a truth
and its consequences. "I am your ex-husband's lover."
She took
a step back, as fluid as was to be expected. Only sign of
shock was the way the blood left her flushed face in an instant.
"You
are the one they caught him with?" They had said it was
an enemy. That name sounded American, or English. "The
trap they set for him?"
Eyes
narrowed. She reached for the epee again, which, even blunt,
was still a piece of steel. People had died when it slipped
past the mask and went through the throat.
Dan watched
her reaction, the expression of shock, the narrowing of eyes,
the signs of anger. And more. She had no chance, but he could
see she would try. Formidably so.
She-wolf.
Lioness.
"Aye."
His arm hung loose at his side, the other had never left the
pocket. "I am that man." What else to say? To beg,
already? He would.
She stared
at him, face pale with anger, eyes dark blue, blond hair tied
back still for the fencing. "You can be proud then, to
have destroyed a man I thought was indestructible." Teeth
bared, another step back. "You found the one weakness
that he had, and cut his throat with it. Good work. And tell
the CIA or whoever you are working for, that I am disgusted
by the way you did this."
Dan flinched
visibly. Her words more deadly than the epee could have been.
Felt like a dog, crouching in the dirt, head down, tail between
the legs, enduring the kicking and beating. "I understand,"
he did, hated her for it, "but you don't. No CIA,
no MI5, no ulterior motive."
Cut
his throat. Destroyed. Disgusted. Would Vadim hate him?
"I
have known Vadim since 1980." Dan realised it would make
no difference, except for making it worse, but the truth was
not a whore and could not be bought.
"My
ex-husband was deployed in Afghanistan in that year."
As if that alone made it impossible. "I cannot see in
what other capacity you could have met. He did possess sensitive
operational information. You imply it was a personal matter,
which is highly unlikely. Do you follow me?"
Nothing
but the truth, and how he wished that truth would prostitute
itself: elusive, brutal, beloved and hated. "I was his
enemy and he was mine, aye." His gaze dropped once to
her hand on the hilt, then back to her eyes, unwavering. "There
was hatred, but it changed. I'd tell you I was sorry if I
were, but I'm not. Not for anything throughout the last ten
years."
She shook
her head, pressed her lips together, and refused to say anymore.
A hint of pain showing. Then, voice cold: "He had a brilliant
career in front of him. Granted, now that it all changed and
was squandered away … He could be a powerful man now,
and you exposed him to the world. I don't believe for a moment
he committed treason, but they do, and they will kill him
for it, just as a signal." A deep, calm breath. "I
know he had his 'bitches' in the army. I am not stupid, and
women talk."
Every
word a slap, each sentence a knife cutting deeper than his
own blade had ever cut Vadim. Then the last word. That …
misunderstanding. Not of who was who and who did what but
of what they had. "Bitch? You think I am his bitch?"
Not 'was', no, not yet. Refusing to accept the inevitable
before it was time in ten days and … six hours.
She took
another half-step away and was within fencing distance. "I
don't believe for a moment you were anything else. Anybody
else would not have destroyed him like you did."
Dan looked
at her, square on, did not flinch. He could kill her, right
now. Epee or not, but he only shook his head. "It doesn't
matter what you think. Whatever." He didn't believe she
could hurt him any more than this. "Will you do me a
favour? He does not know if I am alive. They had KGB killers
… spetsnaz set on me." Why would she care. Why indeed.
Her gaze
did not change. "What kind of favour?" Jaw muscles
tightened.
"To
get a secret message to him. Via his father." Asking,
too much, but he had to ask. His jaws worked while he stalled,
touching the beads in his pocket. Fierce pride of survival.
"To let him know before he dies that I nailed the fuckers.
To tell him that I love him." Would she understand the
importance? And what good would the message do?
Love.
Death. He should have owned Vadim's death; should have slit
with a blade or pulled the trigger back in Kabul.
She blinked,
opened her lips to say something, then, frowning, moved to
the side, leaving the piste, the epee still in her
hand. As if to mull over what he had said.
"You
believe I am still in touch with Pyotr? After his son has
broken my arm?" She looked up, pulling the zipper of
the jacket fully down, fiddled around with the d-strap that
held the jacket, and pulled it off, revealing a white plastic
chest protector on top of a white t-shirt. Took off the plastron
that only protected her left shoulder and side, then the protector
and wrapped everything into a thick roll.
"Aye.
I do believe that you are." Dan stood still but his eyes
followed her every movement. "After all, you got out
of Russia just in time." His gaze had gained an edge,
but his voice remained the same.
"'Just
in time'. That is one way of putting it." She slipped
into a light sweater. "Pyotr is heartbroken. His only
son. The mother is dead. And Vadim … convicted of these
things. I imagine the KGB talked to him as well. Can you imagine
what that means to an old man? Do you have a family, Mr McFadyen?
Can you even for a moment imagine what you did to us?"
Dan's
brows rose. Attack, fire, near-defeat, not even a counter
attack. "What I did? Do you believe that Vadim
fell victim to me?" But then she thinks you are
his 'bitch'.
Too resigned
to fight the notion, but the mere thought that what he felt
- this motherfucking love that would not stop - was nothing
but a 'butch' and his 'bitch', that thought was cutting deeper
with every minute.
"In
a manner of speaking." She pulled the sweater down, reached
for loose dark training trousers and pulled them over the
white shoes, sock and britches she still wore. "Intentions
are one thing, the outcome something else entirely."
She glanced up. "But maybe you want to tell me about
your intentions?" She stuffed the kit and weapon into
a long bag and zipped it up.
His intentions.
Dan looked at his hand, the right one. If only he knew. To
tell Vadim, to try and let him know, to … hurt him in
the process? To make waiting for death even more painful?
He shook his head, said nothing.
"Or
maybe tell me about Vadim in Afghanistan. He didn't speak
about it. He said he didn't want to scare me." A smile,
measured. "I am not easily scared."
"You
want to know what Vadim was like in Afghanistan? What he did?"
Dan looked up, studying her. What an insane notion. What was
he going to tell her? 'I met your ex-husband that night he
raped me. I wasn't impressed.' Or, 'I saw him splatter children's
brains over the dead bodies of their mothers, he is a good
sniper.' Or perhaps, 'he begged for a soldier's death after
I tortured him and he broke down, sobbing. He begged, because
of you, his wife, you and your children. His family.'
Or, perhaps,
about the man he then became? The man who had cried at his
hospital bed and with whom he had almost shared a life like
lovers?
"No,"
Dan shook his head once more, eyes narrowed for a moment.
What a fucked-up situation. Perhaps he had been wrong all
along, perhaps he should just fuck off and never return and
forget about the whole thing. Perhaps it was an insane wish
to tell Vadim he was alive and he loved him; had fought for
him, would forever fight, if only he could. "If he did
not tell you about the war himself, then I would betray him
if I told you." He stood his ground, yet he would beg.
Beg like Vadim had, ten years ago.
"Your
intentions, then?"
"My
intentions? For him to know before he dies that I love him,
always will, and that I am alive and will continue to fight
for him as long as there is anything to fight for. I would
do anything," Dan's dark eyes became more intense, "anything
at all for him."
For he
is all I have. My home, my life, my sanity. Without him, I
merely function, kept in check by a dangerous job and a woman's
authority. Duties. Nothing beyond duties. No life, just existing,
but you wouldn't understand how empty I am inside.
Her eyes
grew speculative, thoughtful, and she remained silent for
long moments. "I would much prefer to continue this conversation
somewhere else. Besides, I need a shower."
Dan nodded.
What else? He'd follow her like a dog on a leash, hoping for
a scrap of mercy.
They
left the training room and she led him outside, crossed the
old-fashioned courtyard, and headed up narrow stairs. This
part of the building was currently under repair, everything
covered with thick plastic foil to prevent snow or rain from
creeping in. She stepped into a corridor that smelt of paint,
and opened a door.
Dan followed,
walking behind her in silence, both hands in his pockets.
Beggars couldn't be choosers, he'd follow her anywhere as
long as he had a reason to hope she might accept his plea.
The entrance
was painted white, narrow, too many shoes, fencing shoes for
teenagers in a pile. She picked up a small bunch of letters,
then lowered her bag as if this was much more important, looked
at him and proceeded into a small living room that had a view
on the other side of the court, where she fenced.
"Do
you have tea or coffee?" She went into the kitchen to
stuff the fencing gear into the washing machine, added detergent,
and started a programme.
"Coffee."
He was looking around, took in the shoes. Vadim's children.
Strange, so difficult to imagine that woman and his lover.
Still standing, she hadn't asked him to sit and he felt unwanted,
unwelcome and uncomfortable in her home.
She went
through the motions to take the coffee machine from a cupboard,
wiped it down quickly, added coffee powder from a glass jug,
water from the tap, switched the button, then looked at him
again, quizzically. "Please, have a seat." Either
remembering her manners, or hospitality. "I need that
shower." She headed off down the corridor, in an afterthought
took the letters with her. Locked the door and a few moments
later, the sound of water.
Dan sat
down at the table, awkward, tense. Wondered what in the flat
spoke of Vadim, if anything at all. Needed a cigarette badly,
craving the nicotine just to function, but he couldn't bear
asking her for permission to smoke. He looked around the kitchen
without touching anything, listening to the gurgle of the
coffee machine and the ticking of the clock. Every tick, every
movement of the hand, every second was bringing Vadim closer
to the end. He hadn't known that pain could be so intense,
and it was growing by the day.
When
she returned he sat in exactly the same way as before. Stiff,
upright, back straight.
She came
out when the coffee machine was gurgling steam, face reddened,
hair pulled up and fastened with a metal comb. She didn't
meet his gaze when she stepped into the kitchen, instead headed
straight for the coffee machine again. "Milk? Sugar?"
Her voice seemed much more husky now, and she was distracted,
the sharp focus had been drained.
"Sugar,"
Dan looked up, watched her, studied every motion, "three
spoonfuls, if possible."
She looked
like she might have cried in the privacy of the shower. She
put the hands on the work surface, straightened her arms,
head lowered. "I could make you pay for this." Her
voice still vibrating with something. Her lips pressed together
for a long moment. "I guess I will."
Make
you pay for this. Her words hit his core. What had he
expected? To smile and ask and be met with understanding or,
at the worst, to beg on his knees? Pay. He would. However
much she wanted. Money? "I don't understand."
"I
failed to get pregnant. My clock is ticking, but I want another
child. The last one." She took two mugs with one hand,
the ceramic clicking together as her hand shook. She pressed
her teeth shut and set the mugs down hard. Needed a minute
as if trying to remember where the sugar was. Stared into
the open cupboard for a long moment. "The letter from
my gynaecologist. The insemination failed. I am not pregnant."
She found the sugar in another glass jar, unscrewed the lid,
measured three spoons, forcing herself back to precision as
she poured the coffee into one mug, stirred for him and set
the mug down in front of him, now looking into his face. "That
is the only thing I want. A child."
Dan automatically
reached for the mug, didn't see it, just stared at her, tried
to make sense, failed. Nothing made sense, nothing except
the time moving - unstoppable - towards the end.
"What
does that have to do with me?" He looked at her straight
on, face mere inches away.
Her own
face was nearly without expression, maybe a hint of anger.
"You are a man. I believe children happen when a sperm
fuses with an egg." She stayed exactly there, did not
move closer, did not pull away. "You seem healthy enough,
and being a homosexual does not make you infertile."
Her eyes held a challenge, and now she moved away, like a
fencer having scored a point. "Szandor is a friend, but
he is out of the question."
The penny
dropped slowly for Dan, far too slowly. "You can't be
serious." Impossible to believe, he must have misheard
her. His scarred hand curled around the mug. "You can't
… you can't want that."
She gently
shook her head, then sighed. "You think." She moved
back to the coffee machine, her precision back, face thoughtful.
"Vadim is Anoushka's father. I don't think he ever wanted
to, not truly. I think he was trying to fool himself, but
Vadim isn't easily fooled. And I am even less likely to be
fooled. I saw him with Szandor, one night, and I knew then
what he was. But at the same time, I was trying to end my
career with a flash, not a whimper."
She took
the mug with both hands and raised it. "He needed all
the protection he could get in his position. If I had been
around, they wouldn't have caught him. He must have grown
careless."
"Not
careless," Dan muttered, they hadn't been, but how could
he be so sure. "Just …" Just what. What, Dan?
India, the hospital, the safe house and then the hotel. The
KGB could have had an easy game. That last night. He couldn't
bear remembering. Too painful.
Dan's
hands twitched, the coffee disturbed in the mug. "Vadim
has two children. He showed me a picture." Of you, a
girl and a boy. I remember, the baths, the lapis lazuli, the
water, the touches and the smiles. The sex, always that, lust,
but more than that. Much more.
"Yes.
But Nikolai looks a lot like the man we shared for a while.
A pilot that was shot down in Afghanistan before I could leave
Vadim for him. I was naïve." She shook her head.
"We were partners in crime, Vadim and I."
Dan's
mouth opened, shut again. Vadim not the boy's father? Partners
in crime? They shared a pilot? "Fuck, you're fucking
sick." Murmured, too quiet for her to have heard all
of his words. Was there anything she wouldn't do? Not that
… that thing she had talked about before. Impossible.
He raised
his hand to wipe across his face, coffee forgotten. She resented
him, he'd expected that. She accused him, and he hadn't counted
on how much that hurt.
"Will
you do it? Will you talk to his father?" He looked up
once more, straight into her eyes. He was selfish, and he
knew it.
"Yes.
I will break Pyotr's heart." She looked at him.
"What
do you want from me in return." Dan understood at last,
no matter how impossible it was. "How do you want me
to pay." Cold. Business. Like the coffee cooling
in his mug, untouched. One thing he thought he needed to know,
'did you ever love Vadim?' but what did it matter. The question
remained buried in silence.
She shrugged.
"I understand you will not find a female body particularly
worthy of attention." A thin smile. "I share nothing
with Vadim, after all. I don't flatter myself on being able
to make somebody like you react. I think that would embarrass
us both, on top of the awkwardness."
Dan's
hand around the mug tensed, scars and tendons creating freakish
patterns. "Spell it out." Refused to put the two
things together. "Spell out what the fuck you want!"
No. Just
no, it was impossible, even though he understood perfectly
well. What difference would this be, to a night, ten years
ago in Kabul. "What price do you want me to pay. Say
it."
Her brow
darkened. "You understood me. I know what you want, and
you know what I want and I need it now, it is the perfect
time for conception, I cannot wait. Can you function with
a woman or not?"
"You
want me to be your whore." No question, a statement.
"Your fucking bargain, deal, blackmail or what the fuck
ever, is to fuck yourself on your ex-husband's lover to add
to your collection of soldiers' kids." He had to put
the impossible into words. Fucking Krasnoradas and their aptitude
for 'Nothing'.
His hand
tensed so hard, the mug spun out of his grip, spilling across
the table. "You fucking bitch!"
She crossed
the distance as swiftly as she'd ever been and backhanded
him, seething with rage. "Don't you dare! It was you
who ruined him. Don't you forget that." Her eyes ablaze.
"My children are none of your business. At least I gave
Vadim more than death."
His face
stung, first reaction to defend, attack and kill. He
shook, brimming with rage, fists clenched, fighting his own
instincts. A killer, not allowed to kill. Those words, more
painful than the rape, but perhaps it was the price he had
to pay for the torture.
An eye
for an eye. A life for guilt and pain for loss.
"Seems
you are trying to make your children my business."
He jumped off the chair, stood, shoved his hand into the pocket,
fingers gripping the beads in anguish. Couldn't do it, couldn't
bear it. Was that what ten years had been reduced to? Destruction,
death and fucked-up, painful, sickening love.
She looked
at him, unafraid. He was strong enough to break her, angry
enough to do it, but maybe being the wife of a spetsnaz officer
had prepared her for it.
"One
more thing: Are you healthy?"
"What?"
Dark eyes glaring, he couldn't find the words. Nothing but
mockery, anger, impotent rage. "If you mean if I've got
the fucking 'faggot disease' no I haven't got it!"
"Good.
That means we have a deal."
Couldn't
do it. Had to do it.
Vadim.
"I
fucking hate you." His hand came back out of his pocket,
clumsy with anger, and the string of prayer beads cluttered
to the floor, scattering across the kitchen.
The faint
clatter distracted her, and she looked at the beads. Lips
opened in clear surprise and there was realisation in her
eyes. He had spoken the truth. The same beads, probably the
same stall on a market in Kabul. Her gaze flickered to the
drawer that held hers, in the living room. Back to the man,
a question in her eyes, some of the harshness drained. He
had destroyed Vadim, but there had been a day when Vadim had
given him those. Vadim who didn't think much of such tokens.
Dan balked
at her reaction, fuck, the beads. Watched her eyes, followed
her gaze. Fuck the bitch. Too late, the words she'd said would
never leave him. He turned his head when she moved past him
to the bedroom, didn't follow at first. Walked over to the
beads instead, carefully picked them up, stashed them in his
inner jacket pocket this time. Couldn't bear to have anything
of Vadim's anywhere near this … thing. Crime scene. That's
what it felt like.
The heavy
curtains were drawn, the bed a large, low futon, black sheets
and covers, the room held very little else, two matching nightstands,
an alarm clock, a bookshelf. She had dropped the bathrobe,
her body lean and muscular, toned, not exactly boyish, soft
and rounded in the right places, but hiding her strength underneath.
She stood at the foot of the bed, facing him, naked, only
her hair done up.
Dan left
the jacket draped over a chair in the kitchen, followed her,
forced to accept the deal. He hated her more that moment than
he had ever hated Vadim. Ten years ago his body had been raped.
Today it was his mind.
"I
want you to give me your word. I don't know if I am even fertile,
impossible to guarantee success. Give me your word that this
is my part of the bargain and that it completes the deal.
In return you will talk to Vadim's father and you will find
a way to deliver a message from me." He took his jumper
off, dumped it on the floor, unbuttoned his shirt. Eyes narrowed.
"I
will ask you for a sample tomorrow", she said. "That
increases the chances. But yes, that's it. All the fine print."
She watched him undress, assessing the chest, remaining just
as calm as she'd been most of the time. "I will deliver
the message, tomorrow."
Dan pushed
the shirt off his shoulders, let it drop on top of the jumper.
Revealing a scar that was round, neat, precise, perfectly
on top of the left shoulder, and the 'V', cut into clear lines
of scars on his left biceps. Scarred face and hand had already
been visible, but not the line of dead ragged flesh that peeked
on top of the waistband of his jeans. "A sample. Where.
Your surgery?"
No sign
of any emotion on his face, yet inside raged hatred, pure,
cold, and focussed. He had to function. Refusing to assess
right now how much this was hurting him, how much terror this
truly was. This. This thing. He had come to beg for
mercy, was being used in return. What had he expected? Dan,
you fool.
"What
if you are successful."
She made
room for him, stepped to the side, keeping her eyes unfocused
for a moment. "If this works, you will have no obligations,
just like any donor. You will forget about this, and I will
not demand anything more. On your side, you will have no rights.
You will not make contact and if you do, I have ways to make
you pay and claim you forced me."
"Forget
it?" You fucking bitch. Callous, cold, and just like
Vadim had been, all those years ago. The man you had been
married to. Brains splattered on mothers - using a desperate
man as a tool. Fuck you. Fuck you to hell and back, and may
you rot in all eternity. "Keep your threats. If you are
successful I will not have anything to do with anything that
is yours. Ever. You understand me? I will never see you again.
For your own safety."
Not a
muscle moved in his face while he undid the belt and buttons.
Dan bent down to loosen the laces of his boots, stepped out
of them and left them beside the growing pile. The trousers
pushed down, then kicked on top. Stood naked, commando as
usual, the ugly mess of scars across his abdomen in stark
contrast to his dark skin. All over his body the signs of
injuries. On arms, wrist, thighs, back, chest. Some faint,
all worn. A body used up by a life on the line.
"I
understand." She nodded curtly, accepting the rules,
like the decision of a referee.
"I
won't touch you." He walked over to the bed.
Ironic.
The last woman he'd fucked was a pink-clad big-breasted giggling
bimbo in London.
"You
don't have to." All she needed was a physiological reaction.
She did look at that body, though, maybe remembering the scars
Vadim had carried when he came back to Moscow to heal up.
Maybe wondered about Dan and Vadim together. How the dark
skin matched Vadim's near permanent sunburn. She shook her
head, and went to the bathroom, to prepare with Vaseline.
Gave him time to prepare as well. As businesslike as in a
brothel.
Dan didn't
look at her when she left, wouldn't look at anything at all.
Lay down on the futon, on his back. No way he could close
his eyes, his life had taught him that blindness equated to
vulnerability, and he stared at the ceiling, open-eyed. He
didn't want to sully his memories of Vadim, but couldn't get
a reaction. Shit. This was business, a deal he should be easily
able to fulfil. Had had women before, dozens of them, had
fucked himself through the first thirty-one years of his life.
Took
his cock in a violent, painful grip, self-punishing and so
full of fucking hatred for that bitch, he wanted nothing but
kill. Kill. That was it. Death, destruction, memories of skin,
cut; face, beaten; body, kicked. Caves and mountains, skies
and fires. Dirty hovels in Kabul, a fuck close to a patrol.
Violence and aggression, sweat and blood, blades and boots,
fists and teeth. None of the other images. No love, no laughter,
no tenderness and no kissing.
Dan was
stroking himself, images racing before the inner canvas of
his blindly staring eyes. Getting hard, as was required.
She returned,
slid onto the bed, a lithe form, moving on top of him, supporting
her weight with legs that were all sleek rounded muscle, knees
open, not even touching his sides. She seemed almost thoughtful
as she took his cock into her hand, pumped it just to slick
it up as well, deciding to go right for the target, no more
discussion, no tenderness, hardly acknowledging the other
in her bed. It was not required. Lowering herself, legs strong
enough for complete control, eyes cast down as her body accepted
him, jaw muscles tensing again, focus, concentration, pure
brazenness to follow through with this. Tight, obviously trained,
powerful in this position, then moving, curving her back and
pushing against him, slow, intense, moving into a practised
rhythm with every motion firmly in control.
He hated
her. Fucking hated every fibre of her. Wanted to kill her
again when she took his cock out of his own hand, as if it
belonged to her. Her tool. Dan never acknowledged that body
on top of his, stared at the ceiling, grabbed handfuls of
cotton sheeting, clenching the fabric | 
