Two men sat on finely sculpted wooden chairs, waiting for their leader to speak. Their faces tilted toward him like pale plates.
“Where is she now?”
The shorter man, the same round-bellied Kazakh named Tartov who’d been a passenger in the car that struck Irina Gavrill, replied.
“She and the American gemologist took the stone to be examined at a university,” he said. A wide, sloping nose rose from the flat surroundings of his face. He had dark, violent eyes. “They are both here in Russia—”
“Thanks, Tartov,” Novyck said. Beside him, the reflection of a glass chandelier glittered on the polished tabletop. A few inches from his fingers stood a small photograph of Kate Gavrill in a swimsuit.
“Yes, Excellency,” Tartov replied. His gaze smoldered, even in ordinary conversation. “They went to Kiev and are now heading here, to Moscow. We’ve prepared for her arrival as you instructed.”
Novyck nodded. “And the $50,000 I gave you to open the trust account?” This account would eventually serve as the repository for the Bank of England funds.
“It will be handled by our associates in New York.”
Novyck took a few steps and turned back to them. “Tell them good work on getting the video out of her doctor’s office.” He tapped his left thumbnail with a yellow pencil.
“What about the newspaper articles, excellency?”
Novyck shrugged. “I’m not sure. The events happened many years ago, and were complicated by romantic involvement. Perhaps another lever to control her? Who knows? But her eyes, her eyes are important. Get me sequential still enlargements of the eyes,” he said. “Big. At least three-feet square. Right away.” Tartov scurried to the television, removed the tape, and left the room.
An hour later, three large black-and-white photographs were displayed on the wall. Grainy and abstract in severe enlargement, they might have been sequential images of a planet. On closer inspection, however, each depicted a vastly enlarged human eye making a northward journey in its socket.
Lounging back in his leather chair, Novyck studied the pictures, his left hand cupping his right elbow and his right cupping his chin. He sat apart from his associates, emphasizing the hierarchical gulf between them.
Novyck spoke like a schoolteacher. “Modern science has taken hypnosis to another level,” he said. He stood, sighed and placed his fingertips together, as if the explanation wearied him. “Today, thanks largely to the pioneering work of the American psychiatrist Dr. Herbert Spiegel, we know that eye-roll is the single most telling biomarker of hypnotizability, an indicator almost as certain as freckles are to fair skin. We measure this on a zero-to-five scale based on the amount of visible sclera—or ‘white’—when the subject looks upward. The higher the eye roll, the higher the number. Show me a ‘four,’” he said, “and I’ll show you a candidate for instant trance.”
Andre, the third man in the room, spoke up. “So, Excellency, where would you place this subject?” Andre had full, fleshy lips and inch-high, stiff-bristled black hair that rose in a “V” from his forehead. He possessed the kind of thick, powerful body that hovered near exits at loud Moscow nightclubs.
“If we’re talking about the photo on the right,” Novyck said, “We’re easily looking at a category three, perhaps well beyond. But I’m not surprised. I suspected when I first met her at Lefortovo that she was highly hypnotizable.”
“In the photographs here, she has, in effect, hypnotized herself, either shortly before or during her dive. I don’t believe I’ve seen another image quite like this—focusing on an athlete’s eyes during competition. Remarkable.” He glanced across the room. “Good work, Tartov.”
The small, violent man smiled, and bowed his head like a schoolboy.
Novyck paused, absently rubbing his chin. Again he spoke as if to himself. “Of course, we’d have to conduct further tests to develop a full profile… but there is a distinct possibility that she could be a Grade five. Western therapists like Dr. Spiegel classify those subjects as hypnotic virtuosos.”
“Hypnotic virtuosos?” Andre and Tartov chorused the question.
Novyck’s features lifted in a cold smile. “The most highly hypnotizable subjects, those who can be placed in a deep trance, not necessarily with their acquiescence. The experience is profound and typically includes a global, post-trance amnesia that obliterates the entire hypnotic episode.
“Back in the Sixties,” he continued, “the American CIA documented the phenomenon in a mind control project they called MK Ultra. It’s quite possible Miss Gavrill’s psychiatrist knew of this research. It caused quite a scandal at the time. They even made a film about it with Frank Sinatra.”
A sudden growl from Vandal briefly distracted him. Novyck owned several attack-trained mastiffs. Except for his favorite, the Alpha male, the dogs were kenneled when not on guard duty. Novyck crossed the room to a small refrigerator, opened a drawer and threw the beast a chunk of meat. Calmed, Vandal placed the morsel between his paws and began to gnaw.
Still standing, Novyck went on, “As with most virtuosos—if, indeed, she is one—Miss Gavrill’s hypnotizability is not something that has been projected upon her by a therapist. It exists within her. The therapist merely taps into this naturally occurring capacity. With the virtuoso, it happens very, very easily. For us, it is a gift.”
Novyck lifted the photograph from the table, peering closely at its subject.
“Miss Gavrill is the key to all our plans,” he said. He spoke the words softly, but with great intensity. “We have the stone, of course, but only she can deliver the ultimate verification needed to legally claim the rest of the Romanov fortune. Miss Gavrill must be alive to appear physically at the bank and undergo DNA testing. And she must seem willing.”
Andre’s forehead knotted in concentration, drawing the prow of his hair closer to his eyebrows. “You mentioned a profile?”
“Yes, we’d have to test Miss Gavrill directly to develop one for her. The true virtuoso is capable of intense focus, with a rigid personality core and a trusting nature to the point of naiveté. Her actions—and reactions—are more driven by her heart than her head. In Miss Gavrill’s case, her long training in economics—a highly disciplined science—tends to offset this trait.
“The analytical strand at the center of her psyche may erect an internal barrier we will need to overcome. If so, I am confident it will only provide a momentary obstacle. Besides, there are always other ways to bend a will, if need be. We will see.”
Novyck drew a hand along his lean jaw. “One last thing,” he said. “For some reason, perhaps because of their larger reservoirs of fantasy and association, some virtuosos exhibit tendencies toward multiple personality. Some are actually clinically mentally ill.”
Andre chewed his voluptuous lower lip. “Could this have implications for our project?”
“Good question. A virtuoso with a strong alter ego can sometimes be controlled through that alter. In other words, if you can split the alter off, you can actually put the alter into the trance. The result can be far more control over the main personality.”
Novyck strutted before the table in a small circle. “All this takes a master hypnotist, of course,” he said. “But then, I am a master hypnotist.
Chapter 41
Simon Blake shook his head, but still felt groggy. The room’s green curtains hung in tiered scallops that made him think of pools swirling at the bottom of a waterfall. Accommodations at the Imperial Hotel tended to shrink in size as they rose in elevation. His larger, lower floor room, on the other hand, boasted high ceilings, antique furniture and polished wooden floors. For Blake, however, jet lag and too much brandy effectively nullified the luxuriousness of his surroundings.
After his bitter exchange with Kate the night before, Blake had repaired to the ornate ground floor bar, a glass-enclosed conservatory populated by lush, leafy plants. Bu
t even twenty-year-old Courvoisier failed to assuage his gloom.
Like a competing suitor, Novyck stood between them. Kate seemed to trust the Russian more than she trusted him. Blake sighed and punched a fist into the pillow. He was tired of being drained by their relationship. He always seemed to be circling her, and she always seemed to be backing away. He was running out of patience—and energy.
He threw off the covers and crossed the room.
Standing in the window, Blake squeezed his eyes against the morning sun. Below, shoppers bustled along Tverskaya Ulitsa, the first street in Moscow to have electric lights. Originally a processional route for the tsars, the thoroughfare had been widened by Stalin in the 1930s and now housed the city’s most fashionable emporia.
A favorite spot was Yeliseev’s Food Hall—Gastronome No. 1 under the Communists.
Blake shaved and took the stairs down for coffee and breakfast. By the time he reached the chilly dining room he was alert.
Thin turquoise curtains screened the windows, and linen-covered tables were scattered over the dark carpet. The room’s blue-tinted light reminded him of Adrienne and her cool, elegant manner. In the entire time he’d known her, they’d never quarreled. With Kate, on the other hand, he seemed to be in a perpetual war zone. He dug a fork into the tablecloth, pressing the instrument hard against its own prongs. Should he just get out of here? He thought about buying a ticket back to the U.S., then as quickly dropped the idea.
The real cause of his intense argument with Kate, Blake knew, was mutual attraction. All the thrashing about came from colliding chemistry. Natural forces pulled them toward each other, but the two of them, modern adults, each struggling to retain his or her intellectual and emotional independence, pushed back.
Absently, Blake thought about the fact that he and Kate could still have a child, no longer a realistic possibility with Adrienne.
He chided himself at his own Darwinian notions. He should be helping Kate, not complicating her life even more. Suddenly, desperately, Blake wanted to make amends, to take her in his arms or simply talk to her.
He decided on a peace offering. He signaled the waiter and ordered a tray with coffee, fruit and warm breads. When the man returned, in addition to the food, the tray held a small vase of fresh flowers. Perfect. She would melt. He paid his chit, picked up the tray and headed toward the elevator.
“Sir, excuse me, sir.” The hotel clerk called out as he passed the front desk. “You have an urgent call from a Mr. Jacob Massad in New York.”
Blake half-stumbled, almost spilling the tray.
“Uh, I can’t take his call right now. If he rings again, tell him that I’ve left for the day.”
Making his way to Kate’s room—he’d had to ask the clerk for the number, he’d been so angry he hadn’t gotten it the night before—Blake’s thoughts raced ahead. How had Massad learned they were in Russia? And where they were staying? And what would he tell Massad when they talked as, sooner rather than later, they must? Had Massad learned about the fake stone? If so, he must have guessed they’d go to Russia. Or he could have discerned their whereabouts in other ways. Massad’s sources of information were usually reliable, even if they occasionally skirted legality.
Blake reached Kate’s room and pressed the buzzer. No answer. He pressed again, harder. Still nothing. Exasperated, Blake hammered with his fist until his hand throbbed. Silence. He put the tray down, rode the elevator back to the main floor, and strode briskly to the front desk.
“Has Miss Gavrill left the hotel?”
“Not that we know, sir.”
“Has she left any messages? She doesn’t appear to be in her room.”
“No, we haven’t heard from Miss Gavrill, Mr. Blake. Could she be in another part of the hotel? Perhaps she is having breakfast and you missed her on the elevator?”
Blake turned and half-trotted to the dining room, scanning the surroundings for a closely clipped ebony head.
He returned to the desk and asked for the manager.
“Perhaps I can help you, Mr. Blake?” A small, dark man stepped from an alcove behind the desk. “Alexander Martine, assistant manager. I was on duty and booked you in last night. If I may say so, sir, I believe there was some, ah, tension between yourself and Miss Gavrill.” He placed both hands together and lifted his lips in a practiced smile. “It is a beautiful morning. Perhaps the young lady is out taking a walk.”
Blake gritted his teeth at the man’s officiousness. A bureaucratic remnant from the previous political system, he told himself. “I want you to accompany me to her room,” he said brusquely. “And I want you to bring a key.”
Martine bowed. “Of course, Mr. Blake. At once.”
Minutes later, the door swung open on Kate’s room. Empty. Blake rapidly covered the space to the closet. Neither Kate nor any of her belongings remained.
On the other side of the room, Mr. Martine slid his fingers along the underside of an open window. Directly opposite, the window in the building next to the hotel was also open. “These windows are always locked, Mr. Blake. Unless, of course, a guest specifically requests they be opened for fresh air.” A tiny, it’s-all-a-lover’s-quarrel smirk danced at the corners of his mouth. “Forgive me, but was there a reason Miss Gavrill might wish to leave without your knowledge?”
Part IV
Chapter 42
Cold, unfinished floorboards scuffed Kate’s bare feet. The edge of the cushionless seat dug into the backs of her knees. Telephone cord looped high on her waist and wound tightly around her wrists, pinning her torso to the chair. Kate still wore the cotton pajamas she’d had on at the hotel. But her cheeks were swollen and bruised. Dried blood crusted her lips. Her nostrils recoiled at a heavy medicinal scent—the remnants of whatever had drugged her.
Hinges squealed as the door opened and a slight man with darting blue eyes walked quickly toward her. Earlier, he’d slapped her hard, at least half a dozen times. Now, however, the man carried a small steel bowl in one hand and a large spoon in the other.
“I’ve brought you something to e-eat,” he said. His words jittered out in uneven cadence. She pulled her head back. He forced the thick wooden spoon and its hot contents—a thick porridge—between her clamped lips. He twisted the spoon roughly in her mouth, then yanked it out.
“We k-know who you are,” he said. Again, the words fluttered nervously from his lips. “W-we w-want the s-stone and the egg.”
Kate’s toned muscles strained against their restraints. She’d spent a lifetime dominating her physical space. Now, in a matter of hours, that confident sense of control had been torn away. She’d never known such apprehension. She summoned a last sputter of courage.
“Then you also know that the egg is in New York.”
He struck her full across the face with an open hand. The sound rang in the small room like a shot. “Don’t lie to m-me,” he said. “Not if you hope to get out of here a-a-alive. You will t-tell us the exact location of the gem and its c-container.”
“You fool.” Anger leapfrogged fear. “The stone is a fake. And the Faberge isn’t even in this country.”
He hit her again, harder this time, then strode to the other side of the room. He glared back at her. “Then I s-suppose we r-really don’t n-n-need you, do we?” He paused, his chest heaving in anger. “D-do you know… d-do you r-realize w-who you’re dealing with?”
“How would I know? Why should I care?” She spat rose-colored saliva on the floor.
He returned in quick steps, then reached down to cup her jaw. He tilted her head back and looked boldly into her eyes.
“You are a b-beautiful w-woman, K-katya Gavrill. It would be… a pi-p-pity to deny the world such a f-flower.” He wheeled and departed.
Kate’s strength ebbed. Her chin touched her chest as the enormity of her predicament washed over her. In just a week the Bank of England deadline would expire a
nd with it the largest portion of her birthright would be lost. Her grandmother had been murdered. By all accounts, her mother had been murdered. Now she was being held prisoner by Russian mobsters who knew her birth name. Was she next?
* * *
Kate stared across the room. Her carelessly packed suitcase and garment bag stood in the corner. They’d cleverly emptied her hotel room. Clearly, they wanted Simon to think she’d left in a huff with no intention of returning—he’d be less likely to follow. She’d had no indication they were seeking ransom. So who would look for her?
Behind her, Kate heard the doorknob turning. Then a rattling against the lock and the wrenching sound of metal screws being yanked from wood. Finally, a loud concussion as the door collapsed on the floor.
Kate braced herself for her captor’s violent assault. Cold sweat washed her cheeks.
Instead, she saw Imre Novyck, wearing a long, flowing black cloak, and a purple priest’s collar. Novyck made a complete circle around her chair and stood before her. His right hand clutched her jailer by the collar—his hands now bound behind him.
Novyck roughly pushed the man to the floor, kicking him in the ribs as he went down. He then turned to Kate and began loosening her bonds.
“I regret, my dear, that you had to endure this.” His dark eyes filled with concern. “Are you injured?”
“I think I’m okay,” she replied, rubbing her wrists and jaw. “Thank God you found me. I didn’t realize you were out of prison—I was planning to visit Lefortovo. How did you know where I was?”
“This one,” Novyck paused, again kicking the man in the stomach, “was not very wise about who he talked to. We learned of your location from some of my, uh, former associates at the prison.”
Novyck motioned to two other men, both wearing tailored, dark blue suits. They picked up her bags and returned to drag away her jailer.
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