by Saul Herzog
He shook his head. That wasn’t the message he should have been sending. It made it look like he was afraid.
He couldn’t hear the president’s words, a news commentator was speaking over it in Russian, and he turned up the volume.
The president was giving the usual spiel about bringing the perpetrators to justice, and then, in the middle of his speech, he stopped talking and received a message.
The footage cut to security camera footage from outside the embassy, moments before the bombing took place. Lance watched as the camera tightened in on a man who was killing embassy security guards.
It was him.
His eyes went immediately to the bartender, the only other person in the bar. He was watching the television.
Lance drew a gun, pointed it at him, and said, “I’m going to need you to stay very calm.”
58
Medvedev sat in his office and called for his secretary. He was pleased with himself. The meeting had gone off without a hitch. The generals were all suitably impressed. The president had just called from his estate at Novo-Ogaryovo and invited him to come out for a personal tête-à-tête. He foresaw some major increases in power and influence in his future. Even Liu Ying had fallen into line. He’d been ordered directly by the top brass in Beijing to suck it up and not raise so much as a peep about his daughter’s kidnapping. Medvedev had seen to it that the child was returned unharmed, more or less, and that was the end of the matter.
He’d won.
His risk had paid off.
America was on her knees, and in a single stroke, he’d changed the geopolitical landscape of the entire planet.
It was a new beginning. The myth that America was the sole superpower and that Russia had declined to the second tier was over. He’d delivered on his promise to the president, and it was time to collect his reward.
Svetlana opened the door. She was such a pretty girl, a child really, and so timid. She remained at the door, afraid to venture further.
“You called, sir,” she said quietly in her mouse voice.
“Come in, Svetlana, come in,” Medvedev said.
He knew she was afraid of him. He liked that. It was, in fact, his favorite thing about her. He liked watching the fear on her face. He could almost feel the rapid thumping of her little heart when he looked at her. It aroused him.
She entered and shut the door behind her, keeping her back to it.
So close to the door, he thought, as if it gave her some sort of protection.
“How is the new apartment?” he said.
She looked at the floor. She was embarrassed. For a time, he’d watched her at her parents’ home. They lived in a working-class neighborhood, a forty-minute train ride away. He’d enjoyed watching her there for a time. He’d enjoyed controlling her from a distance.
But the time had come for his control to become a little bit more, how to put it, hands-on.
He thought of it as part of his therapy.
Medvedev was a man who was under no illusions.
He was well aware of his deficiencies. He’d read the medical textbooks on Maternal Deprivation Syndrome. He knew he had mental abnormalities that would haunt him forever, follow him into the deepest recesses of his soul, corrupt every natural instinct.
He knew he was a monster.
A child needed more than watery gruel to become a person, more than a steel cot. If there was no mother figure, no caregiver to latch onto emotionally, a baby’s development was perverted so severely, it lacked the empathy that could be taken for granted even in puppies or similar animals.
There’d been a slew of research following the collapse of the Ceausescu regime in Romania, and Medvedev devoured all of it. He invited American specialists and researchers to come and speak to him about it.
It wasn’t so much that he wanted to be like other people.
He was what he was. A scorpion did not wish to become a butterfly.
It was more of a morbid curiosity.
The apartment he’d purchased for Svetlana was not cheap. It was in one of the more expensive neighborhoods in the city, and Medvedev himself owned several penthouses in the area.
“The apartment is good,” she said timidly.
He’d made no effort to hide his cameras. The cameras in the shower and above her bed were so large they were impossible to miss.
He liked that she knew she was being watched. It gave his voyeurism, he thought, an intimacy, a mutuality, that hidden cameras would have lacked.
Svetlana was a toy to him, something to be played with.
Soon after she moved in, he started calling her at all hours and giving her instructions. Do this. Wear that.
He would send her humiliating costumes, embarrassing toys, and told her what to do.
It was taking a toll. She’d tried to run away once, but his guards caught her at the train station. He also learned, from her internet searches, that she was considering suicide.
He left her in no doubt that if anything were to happen to her, if she disappeared or hurt herself in any way, every member of her family would suffer so horribly they’d curse her with their dying breaths.
She was looking at him now the way someone might look at a lizard in a vivarium.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you wouldn’t mind going down to the imagery room and picking up a package for me.”
She nodded and was out of the office before the last words had left his mouth.
He poured himself some vodka while he waited. When she returned, she was holding a sealed pouch containing his photos. As she handed it to him, he reached out and touched her hand. She recoiled as if shocked by a thousand volts. She moved so fast it startled both of them, and he knocked over his vodka.
Without thinking, he swung his arm and backhanded her across the face. He hit her so hard her feet left the ground as she fell backward.
“Bitch,” he snarled, mopping up the drink before it wet his documents.
He poured himself some more vodka and knocked back the shot. Svetlana remained on the ground, unmoving.
“Get up,” he said, pushing himself out of his chair and up onto his feet.
He walked over and crouched down to check her. She was unconscious. He checked her pulse. That was okay.
He tapped her cheeks, and when she failed to wake up, he went to his desk and picked up the bottle of vodka. Then he pinched her mouth open by the cheeks and began pouring the liquid into her mouth.
She immediately began coughing.
Medvedev smiled. “Drink,” he said, as she coughed and struggled to get up.
She managed to get to her feet and instinctively backed away from him until she was against the door.
Medvedev went back to his desk, and Svetlana opened the door.
“Did I say you could leave,” he said.
He could see her heart sink as she realized he was going to prolong the encounter. The terror on her face was palpable as she let the door shut behind her.
“Come,” he said. “Pour me some more vodka, you dozy slut.”
She came forward and poured him a drink. He looked at her, her cheek flush from the smack he’d given her, her eye beginning to swell, and handed her the glass.
“You drink it,” he said.
She shook her head, but she knew it wasn’t an offer.
“Go on,” he said. “Drink.”
She picked up the glass and downed the shot in a single go.
“Good,” he said. “Again.”
She looked at him.
“Go on,” he said.
She downed the shot again, and another, and another. He didn’t let her stop until she was throwing up in his wastepaper basket, retching like a teenager after her first night at a party.
When she was done, she was so drunk she could barely walk.
“Now clean that up,” he said to her.
She stumbled as she bent down, then picked up the trash can and left. Outside, he heard her knocking something over as she pas
sed her desk.
He chuckled as he opened the envelope. It contained black and white surveillance photos, blown up on eight-by-twelve-inch sheets.
The first was of Levi Roth, his wrists in cuffs, being escorted into the back of a federal police vehicle.
Medvedev poured himself some of the vodka and flicked through the rest of the images.
The next two were of the sluts, Tatyana Aleksandrova and Laurel Everlane, bound like a pair of piglets, lying on a concrete floor.
He heard Svetlana back outside and smiled to himself as he pushed the button again, calling her back into his office.
59
Tatyana woke with her head against a concrete floor. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. She tried to move, but her ankles and wrists were restrained. The room was humid, pitch black, but she could hear labored breathing close to her face.
“Hello?” she whispered.
“Tatyana?” she heard. It was Laurel’s voice.
“Laurel? Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” Laurel said. “We’ve been unconscious. He drugged us.”
“I remember being in the car,” Tatyana said. “He pulled over and resuscitated us. Then knocked us out with something else.”
“How long were you awake?”
“Not long,” Tatyana said, “but I heard him speak Russian. He swore and muttered to himself while he drove.”
“We could be anywhere,” Laurel said.
“Anywhere within driving distance.”
Tatyana heard Laurel struggling against the restraints. There was a sound of kicking, Laurel’s feet scuffing the concrete floor, and then she stopped.
“We’re fucked,” Laurel said.
“We’ll get out of this,” Tatyana said.
“They beat us in Moscow. They beat us in Beijing. Before this guy kidnapped us, we were being arrested by order of the president.”
“This isn’t over,” Tatyana said.
“Where’s Roth?” Laurel said. “Where’s Lance? They could both be dead for all we know.”
Tatyana said nothing. Laurel was upset, but Tatyana wasn’t exactly having the best day of her life, either.
There followed an uncomfortable silence, and neither of them said anything for some time.
It was Laurel who finally broke the silence.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Tatyana turned in her direction. She couldn’t see her, but she knew she was close.
“For what?”
“I’ve been giving you a hard time since you got here.”
Tatyana said nothing.
“I know you’ve risked everything to help us,” Laurel said. “I do trust you, for what that’s worth.”
“It’s all right,” Tatyana said.
“You were right,” Laurel said.
“About what?”
“It was Lance. I was jealous.”
“That’s okay,” Tatyana said.
“I just,” Laurel said, but didn’t finish her sentence. “I’ve been distracted,” she said.
“There’s a lot going on.”
“Whoever’s behind this,” Laurel said, “they’re kicking our asses.”
“We’re down,” Tatyana said, “but we’re not out.”
They heard a sound outside the door, and both became silent. The clinking of a key in a lock, the sound of a deadbolt, and then the door swung open.
There was light in the hallway, and against it stood an enormous man. He remained still, looking down at them, making sure they were both in the same place he’d left them. He was holding a bat, and he patted it against the palm of a hand that was closer in size to a catcher’s mitt than anything Tatyana had ever seen before.
Instinctively, Tatyana and Laurel both began squirming against their restraints.
“What have we got here?” the man said in Russian.
“We work for the federal government,” Laurel said, “and unless you release us…”.
“Federal government?” the man scoffed. “You two sluts are so far up Levi Roth’s ass that without him, no one can even confirm that you exist.”
“What do you mean, without him?” Laurel said.
“Oh, haven’t you heard? You weren’t the only two arrested. Roth is in an orange jumpsuit as we speak.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s true. Arrested on the president’s orders. For treason.”
“Bullshit,” Tatyana spat.
“Oh,” the man said, directing his attention to Tatyana, “She speaks. And you’d know all about treason, wouldn’t you, you treacherous little whore.”
“They’re going to come for us,” Laurel said. “They’re going to find you, and they’re going kill you.”
The man laughed. “They’re done with you,” he said. “I did them a favor, taking you.”
The man came over to Tatyana and prodded at her with his foot. “I’m going to have some fun with you, my darling,” he said.
She struggled so hard against her restraints that her wrists began to bleed, but there was zero give.
“You’re going to learn first hand the price of betraying the Motherland.”
“You’re the one betraying the Motherland,” Tatyana said.
The man bent down and grabbed her at the waist. She struggled against him, kicking and squirming as he slung her over his shoulder as easily as if she was a sack of flour.
“Where are you taking her?” Laurel cried as he carried Tatyana out to the corridor, locking the door behind him.
Tatyana struggled furiously, but it was no good. The man was a bear. He brought her down a dimly lit corridor, past a few doors similar to the one he’d just locked, and into another room.
“The boss wants you back alive,” the man said, “but he didn’t specify in what condition.”
He slung her off his shoulder and threw her into the room, lobbing her like a stevedore unloading a cargo. She hit the concrete so hard she almost lost consciousness. He came in after her and picked her right back up. There was a wooden chair by the wall, and he propped her up on it.
He caught her mouth in his fist and forced her to look at him. In the dim light, she could only make out the outlines of his face, and then he spat.
Tatyana convulsed in revulsion.
He drew his hand back and smacked her hard on the jaw. His palm was like a leather bat. Her head jerked so forcefully the chair toppled over, and she fell to the ground.
He kicked her then, again and again. She doubled over in pain, and he spat on her again.
Rage filled her. It coursed through every cell in her body, every synapse in her brain. She wanted to kill this man, and in her searing anger, swung her legs around his feet and tried to trip him up. She managed to get him off balance slightly, but he was so big she couldn’t bring him down. He stumbled and came down with his foot on her neck.
For a brief second, she thought he was going to press down with his full weight. She was certain he wanted to. But instead, he stepped on her chest, putting his weight there, pressing down, heavier and heavier, until she heard the unmistakable sound of a rib breaking.
She thought she was going to die.
She heaved and gasped for air.
She screamed in pain, but no sound came from her.
“Stupid bitch,” he said, wrapping his fist in her hair and pulling her back into the chair.
He then tied her wrists to the back of the chair and her ankles to the two front legs.
“You’re not going anywhere until I’m done with you,” he said.
“Go fuck yourself,” she spat.
“I’m going to put you through living hell, my dear. By the time I’m done with you, you’re not going to remember how to spell your name.”
He took something from his pocket, and Tatyana realized it was the same taser he’d used before. She knew that machine packed a punch. He began unspooling the darts, and when he was done, he caught the barbs in her skin, attaching them to
her inner thighs, her breasts, and her neck.
He took a few steps back to admire his handy work.
“You sick fuck,” she spat, and then he pulled the trigger.
Pain flooded through her body in a surge so overpowering, she lost complete control of her body. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t breathe. Her jaw clenched so tightly she was in danger of breaking teeth.
She didn’t know what was happening, and when it stopped, she didn’t know how long it had lasted. She scarcely knew where she was. All she knew was that the man was still there, still looking down at her, a strange, gleeful look on his face.
She tried to collapse off the chair, but the ties kept her in place.
“How did you like that?” he said.
Her vision was blurry, and when she looked down at her body, she saw she’d soiled herself.
The man smiled. He liked that. And then he pulled the trigger again.
60
Laurel struggled to get to her feet but couldn’t. She screamed in the direction of the door but knew no one could hear her.
She pulled against the ties at her wrists but couldn’t break them.
When she heard Tatyana’s muffled screams through the door, she knew she had to do something. She rolled across the ground until she reached the wall, then, using the wall for support, managed to get to her feet. The room was still pitch black, but she knew where the door was, and if there was a light switch, it was likely to be close to it.
Moving carefully along the wall, using it as support so that she didn’t lose balance, she made her way first to the corner of the room, and then to the door.
From there, using her tethered hands, she was able to reach around on the wall until she found the switch. She didn’t try it immediately. She was too scared it wouldn’t work.
Then she heard Tatyana screaming again and without thinking, flipped it.
There was a flicker as the old fluorescent tubes heated up, and then the room was flooded with bright, white light. It was blinding. Laurel had to shut her eyes against it and could only open them after they’d had time to adjust.
When she could finally look, she saw what appeared to be a basement, with high-voltage lights hanging by chains from the concrete ceiling. Above the lights was a plethora of disused ventilation equipment, a cooling system, and even water pipes attached to sprinklers.
