No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

Serge’s massage was interrupted by a call from Moscow, and he was in a foul mood. The Prime Minister was thinking aloud about another test run of Thor's Hammer though he was vague about when. Vagueness was unlike him. The conversation left Malroff wondering if the wily ex-KGB man was just probing for information. His stress levels shot up. No matter what part of his body the masseuse worked on the result was the same. Nothing. He sent her on her way and swallowed a handful of aspirin.

  His attempts to call Ilya and Ivan were unsuccessful and went straight to voicemail. Their phones were probably off, and the last information he had put them in Paris. Serge dispatched two of his former colleagues, now freelancers, to locate the wayward brothers. He hated having his future at the mercy of those low rent mercenaries, but he needed immediate action.

  Malroff showered in alternating hot and cold water, dried himself and was about to get dressed. When he heard a knock at the door he realized he had been in the shower longer than planned. If she was on time that would be Anya. He slid into a hotel robe and answered.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Malroff, am I early?”

  “Come in.” He was no more brusque than usual, but Anya was put off by his attire. Serge had been known to randomly demand sex from employees and she didn’t want to share in that experience.

  “Come in. I don’t have all afternoon.” Serge sensed her reluctance and a thought was planted in his head. One not previously there and he may have acted on it immediately, but his headache returned. Had he thought his situation through more clearly it would also have obvious that she was his best hope of freeing himself from Ilya and Ivan.

  “Wait here. I had a massage and was about to get dressed.” Serge headed into the bathroom.

  As Malroff was dressing, she poured vodka on the rocks for herself drinking half the peppery liquor straight away. She refilled her glass and dropped a wedge of lime in for good measure.

  Anya felt a little better with the strong liquor in her system. She relaxed a bit and asked, “May I fix you a drink, Mr. Malroff?”

  “Krug,” he growled.

  Finding a bottle of the fine champagne already opened she filled a crystal flute which she left on the table. She was returning to the living room when Malroff reappeared. She was relieved to see that he was wearing trousers and an open collared shirt.

  “So where is my wine?”

  “Excuse me. I am sorry.” Anya cursed herself for groveling so quickly for this military school goon. She had two master’s degrees and a Ph.D. after all.

  “Sit.” He picked up the champagne flute and gestured toward her in a haphazard kind of toast. They both took a sip of their beverages and sat down opposite one another on velvet upholstered couches.

  “I need to know of the status of your work with the code sent by the Rusikov brothers.”

  “I have made much progress but a lot remains to be done.”

  “This tells me precisely nothing.” Serge’s nostrils flared with anger.

  “Let me be more clear.”

  “Please,” he interrupted sarcastically.

  “I understand the program and how it works.”

  “Then you can reproduce the event?” he interrupted again.

  “Not fully. The Rusikovs built a very sophisticated routine that acts like a combination trigger and password. It also controls certain critical steps of the process.”

  “This means what?” He asked the question even though he already knew the answer.

  “I have identified the places where the password is required. It is the password itself that I am still working on.”

  “Why is that any more difficult than the rest of it?”

  “Because the brothers used it like a lock and key. You have to reload the trigger code every time and to do so you must have the passwords. When it was used on May 6 the code automatically destroyed itself. The clean copy I have has no trace of the passwords.”

  “I ask again, Dr. Kovich. What is the problem?” Serge gulped down his champagne.

  “I can’t reproduce a password when I have no idea what its source was.”

  “I do not understand what you are saying.”

  “Most passwords are letters or numbers or combinations of them, but it is possible to derive a digital code from almost anything. It could be in any language or alphabet, numbers or symbols, or even hieroglyphics.”

  “So what is your problem? Can’t you write a program that tests all of those possibilities?” Serge was not a stupid man and realized that what he was asking for was virtually impossible and her answer fueled his anger.

  “I am trying to do that, but without a specific direction to pursue the task is highly complex. Even if I were successful I don’t know how long the program would have to run to come up with a solution.” She was beginning to confuse herself with her own doubletalk.

  “Then don’t let me keep you. Get out of here and back to work.” He spat his words out as he gestured harshly toward the door.

  Anya didn’t waste time disagreeing with him. She rose quickly and headed to the door only to be intercepted by a wild eyed Serge Malroff who slammed her up against the wall. Her back hurt and the air had been forced from her lungs.

  Serge put his hands on her breasts and pushed so hard that it was almost impossible for her to breath. She began to gasp and, for whatever reason, that seemed to excite the man. He pressed his entire body against hers and drove her harder against the wall. With his face directly in front of hers he spat out, “You have one week, Dr. Kovich. One week to get me what I need. Do you understand?”

  The woman gasped but was unable to get enough air in her lungs to respond. She merely issued a choking cough.

  “I repeat, do you understand?”

  Anya choked once more as she tried to answer. Serge removed his hands from her chest giving her momentary relief, but then he put one large hand at her throat and began to choke her again. This time she was sure he would kill her. As her head started to spin she realized from his movements that strangling her was exciting to him in a completely disgusting way. “Please God”, she begged, “don’t let this be my last recollection of life!”

  Somewhere and somehow her prayer was answered. Just as she began to black out Serge released her and let her fall to the floor.

  “Remember, doctor, you have one week!” With that the lunatic stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Anya sucked in as much air as she could in hopes of regaining her senses. Luck was with her and in minutes she was in the elevator headed to the ground floor. Her clothes were wrinkled and she was still dizzy, but otherwise she had survived. Grateful to her God she walked slowly and carefully from the hotel and got into a cab. Retrieving her cell phone from a pocket she dialed a number from memory. Her new friend picked up on the first ring.

  “Jean-Robert Trieste,” the soft, pleasant voice answered.

  “I need help.”

  She listened for a moment then gave instructions to the cab driver. Perhaps this would be Anya Kovich’s lucky day.

  15.