Spinning
THE ELEVATOR ROSE UP THE CENTER of the Plaza Hotel. Oliver and Tom stood side by side, alone in the elevator. The sounds of the wedding party grew fainter and fainter as they hummed upward. Tom was thinking about Katia and how little he enjoyed leaving her behind, in another room. But at the same time, there were certain moments when brothers had to be alone with each other. Tom was grateful to Oliver for inviting him away. It gave him a strong sense of warmth toward his brother, despite all the strain of the past few months.
And he would be seeing Katia soon enough, he thought excitedly.
The door chimed as the elevator arrived on the fourth floor. The gold-framed doors slid open to reveal a wide, red-carpeted hallway.
The corridor was quiet. “This way,” Oliver said. They got to Oliver’s door. Oliver unlocked it and pushed it open. It was dazzlingly bright inside his room. “I’ve got your favorite,” Oliver said from over at the bar. There were buckets of ice, clean glasses, and rows of bottles, backlit by the bar—Oliver was holding up a bottle of Loch Dhu single-malt scotch. “Want some of this?”
“Sure—thanks,” Tom said, walking over
“Here’s to Katia,” Oliver said, “finding her true love.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Tom said. The brothers nodded, and each sipped their scotch. Oliver grimaced.
“I’m not partial to scotch,” Oliver said. He was waving his hand, welcoming Tom into the suite’s sitting area—there were stuffed red velvet chairs and a glass coffee table. “Sit down, Tom. Let’s have a talk, you and me.”
“So you’re married now,” Oliver said. He had put down his glass. “After two and a half months of romance—”
“Well, just one, actually,” Tom said. He smiled at Oliver.
“You can call it one if you want,” Oliver said, a bit sternly. “If you still want to pretend you were writing your thesis all that time.”
“What? I was writing my thesis, Oliver,” Tom said. He was starting to feel dizzy; the Scotch must be getting to him. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Oliver said. “Nothing at all.”
Tom was wondering where the conversation was going. He couldn’t tell anything from Oliver’s facial expression, and his head was spinning. Could he really be drunk from two sips of scotch?
“Forgiveness is a great thing, isn’t it?” Oliver said expansively. “It’s a gift—something one should never take for granted because it isn’t always given. I mean, what if we didn’t forgive each other, Tom? What would that mean?”
“Um—what?” Now Tom was completely lost.
“Well, what if I decided that there was something you’d done to me that was dishonest? Or unfair? What if that happened?”
Tom didn’t like this line of conversation, he realized. At least, as far as he could tell.
“But that would be okay, too,” Oliver said. He was smiling broadly. “Because unfairness can be fixed, Tom. Injustice can be righted. It’s really the essential step for letting bygones be bygones. Don’t you think?”
Oliver stood up, walked over to Tom, and took the drink easily out of his hand.
“I’m making another toast,” Oliver said. His voice was echoing from somewhere far away—it was like hearing the distant call of an ocean-faring ship, making its way into the far distance.
Tom was trying to get up off the chair, but he couldn’t move. His arms and legs felt like lead—impossibly heavy. His breathing had slowed down. He felt like he’d been drugged.
“To hell with the First Principle,” Oliver said, raising the poisoned glass again. “I trusted that fool Nikolai for far too long. Now I’m doing things my way.”
Tom was starting to black out—the room was getting dimmer, a tunnel in front of him. He could barely feel his leaden, worthless arms being lifted—Oliver was pulling on his sleeves, taking off his jacket. The sensations got dimmer, and he could barely feel the tug as Oliver drew his bow tie away from his neck. As he hovered on the edge of consciousness, he could just barely feel his wedding ring being painfully dragged off his finger—the finger that Katia had lovingly pushed that same ring onto, for the first time, only hours before.
“You just sleep now,” Oliver whispered, leaning close, so that Tom could just barely make it out—it sounded like a faint yell from beyond a distant mountain. “I’ll take over from here.”
I’ve been drugged, Tom realized, lying on the floor of Oliver’s room. Oliver must have slipped something in my drink. His head was spinning painfully. Oliver had left. Tom realized that his clothes were gone—he was in his underwear.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Tom tried to move. If he could get to the phone, Tom thought desperately, he could call Agent Rodriguez, who was still down in the Empire Ballroom, with his backup men—and with his CIA transceiver. If he could call and alert Rodriguez, Tom thought, he could dispatch him up to the seventh floor.
But he couldn’t.
As terribly certain as he was that he knew exactly where Oliver was going—and what he was planning to do—he couldn’t move an inch.
Family
KATIA WAS STILL WEARING HER wedding gown. Her shoes were off—after all the dancing, she had to take them off—and she walked slowly back and forth on the soft carpeting of suite 712 at the Plaza Hotel—the honeymoon suite. She had darkened the lamps so that only the evening light from the windows shone in. From up here on the seventh floor, the sunset was still fresh and bright. Katia was breathing a bit restlessly—she knew Tom would finish his drink with Oliver and return any moment.
Standing there, she allowed herself a moment to utterly relax. For the first time in who knew how long, she was finally safe. If not permanently safe, at least safe for a while. She had a family now—the new, American family she and Tom would start together. Had started.
The wind from the windows blew Katia’s veil around her face. At that moment, as the wind rustled against her, Katia heard a clattering sound from behind her that she recognized: the sound of Tom’s key in the door of the hotel suite. Make that the sound of her husband’s key in the door.
“Tom,” she whispered as he came toward her. His bow tie, she saw, had come loose—it hung down on either side of his throat. He hadn’t spoken at all.
“Tom?” Katia saw her husband’s eyes glittering at her, reflecting the bright sunset, as he came toward her. “Tom, what—”
But he grabbed her arms and lunged forward suddenly, driving his mouth into hers. It was startling—there was a ferocity to the kiss that reminded her of what it had been like at the beginning. Back then, Tom had kissed her so urgently, and now it was that same feeling of desperation. Almost as if they’d never even been together like this before. As if they’d never even kissed before.
And then he was pushing her backward as he kissed her again and again, nearly gasping for breath as he propelled her toward the bedroom.
And he still hadn’t said a word.
1983
It was the worst possible conclusion to the tragic events that began for her that bright, innocent day in the Waverly bookstore
OLIVER
Finally. A goddamn man. For the first time in my life, I feel like a man. Not some sickly boy who needs his brother to save him. Not some castrated juvenile waiting for his precious kiss on the cheek, but a man. A man who knew what he wanted and took it. Took what was rightfully mine. Took what has always been mine.
Standing in the shower, singing Bach arias to myself as the hot spray came down, I was still marveling at what I had done. Of what I’d had the courage to do.
I set a goal for myself and I obtained it. It is that beautifully simple. I obtained the woman of my dreams. I have taken her just as any other man in any other culture but this sickly, overly politicized one would have. It was our first time, in her bridal bed—and I even had the ring to prove that she was rightfully mine.
And it was worth the wait. Every minute of last night was worth the wait. But I’ll neve
r wait again, Katia. You know that now, I’m sure. Whoever said patience was a virtue must have never had an ounce of pleasure or satisfaction in their lives. They must have been young and sickly like I once was. Waiting for the pain to pass. Waiting for the cure to come. Waiting for everyone else to solve their problems.
I’ve honestly never felt so free and so clear in my intentions. Back then, when I got sick… that was when my weakness began. Falling down in the lunchroom, the math teacher running over… I can barely remember it now.
Because standing here reaching for the shower knobs, shutting off the spray so I can return to bed, I know my time of weakness has ended now. I’ve finally grown strong again—and I’m taking what is rightfully mine. And I must say… the last night, and this whole morning, have felt awfully…
Satisfying.
Wedding Night
KATIA LAY BACK ON THE ENORMOUS white linen bed in the honeymoon suite. She stared at the shadows on the ceiling as the busy Grand Army Plaza traffic flowed past, honking, out the window.
She could hear Tom in the bathroom, showering and singing to himself. It sounded like her husband was nearly done. She smiled lazily, stretching out on the bed. It meant he was coming back.
It had been a strange, intense experience, she thought. Very unlike what she had come to expect from Tom. Maybe she felt this way because it was her wedding night? It reminded her of her first night with Tom—there was no other way to put it.
The shower spray ceased abruptly. And then, still staring at the dark ceiling, she heard something else. A tapping noise. No, it was a knocking on the door to the suite.
Katia frowned in irritation. She was sure that she and Tom had hung the Do Not Disturb signs on the doorknobs. Hadn’t they?
The knocking continued, getting louder and more frantic by the minute.
“Katia!”
Oliver? Katia thought, confused. What does he want? Could he have picked a more inappropriate moment to stop by?
“Katia! Can you hear me? Answer me!”
In that moment she could hear the voice more clearly—and she suddenly recognized it.
“Katia, darling—it’s me! Open the door!”
Tom’s voice. Her husband’s voice.
From outside the suite, coming from the corridor.
What—?
Suddenly Katia was wide awake. She sat up in bed.
The banging on the door continued, louder. “Katia! Open the goddamn door, Katia!” Tom’s voice rang out. It was unquestionably Tom’s voice. But if Tom was out there… then who was…
No.
A wave of anguish scraped across her insides as she understood it all in this seemingly frozen moment. She understood what she had just done—it was the worst possible conclusion to the tragic events that began for her that bright, innocent day in the Waverly bookstore. The act she’d performed with Oliver, on her wedding night; what she had done to Tom, to herself, to his brother, to her marriage. She felt betrayed and violated, but more than that, she felt like she had failed. Not just that she had failed Tom, for confusing him with his brother so obviously and so disastrously, but that she’d betrayed herself, that she’d let Oliver make a mockery of the love she professed to have always had for Tom.
We’ve all been betrayed. Disgustingly, unthinkably betrayed.
With a tremendous crash, the suite’s gold-framed double doors burst open, their locks shattered. Splinters of wood sprayed onto the carpet. Katia flinched, pulling the bedclothes more tightly around her.
Suddenly Agent Rodriguez and four of his CIA backup men rushed into the room, their guns drawn. They were responding to a call Tom had placed when he finally came to.
“Tom!” Katia called out, stricken. And finally she could see him.
Tom came rushing into the room. The moment he saw her, his face changed—he stumbled to her, looking her over frantically. “Are—are you all right, Katia?” he stammered, reaching for her.
“Oh, Tom—” Katia clutched him, the bedclothes crushed between them. She began to cry. “Tom—”
“Shhh. It’s all right.” Tom held her. She didn’t even know how he could touch her. She barely wanted to be inside her own body.
The CIA agents advanced toward the bathroom. “Oliver!” Agent Rodriguez called out. “Are you in there? We want you to slowly open the door! Don’t make any sudden movements.”
No answer. Looking over Tom’s shoulder, blinking away her tears, Katia could see the bright thread of yellow light around the bathroom door. Come out, she wanted to howl. Come out, you disgusting pathetic coward.
Without warning, the bathroom door burst open. Oliver rolled through it at tremendous speed. The agents were caught unawares.
“Look out!” Katia yelled at Agent Rodriguez. Tom flinched.
Rodriguez heard her. Just in time. He jerked his head to one side—and Oliver’s foot whistled past his skull, missing him by inches. The momentum carried Agent Rodriguez backward, his shoulder colliding with the soft carpet.
If that blow had connected… Katia thought, horrified.
The next agent wasn’t so lucky. He stepped forward, raising his gun and pointing it at Oliver’s face. Katia had a moment to register as Oliver grabbed the hand that held the gun, pulling it forward. With his other elbow he jabbed at the agent’s stomach while kicking him in the head. With a sickening crack, the agent was propelled into the air; he spun backward and landed with a loud thump near the foot of the bed, unconscious.
Two more agents moved forward, wary of Oliver’s deadly kicks. But Oliver was too quick for them again. The first agent fired his gun—the shot was deafeningly loud in the close confines of the room—and the bullet smashed into the striped wallpaper next to the bathroom door. Clouds of plaster dust billowed out as Oliver performed a knifing karate blow that sent that agent’s gun clattering across the floor. Without slowing, Oliver reached to his other side, intuitively knowing where to hit without looking. He knocked the other agent’s gun from his hand with the same deadly maneuver—pulling the wrist, elbowing the stomach, kicking upward. This time Katia could hear the grisly crack as Oliver’s bare foot smashed into the agent’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward.
“Stop him!” Agent Rodriguez shouted. He recovered quickly, rising to his feet. “Come on—neutralize him!”
Katia watched Oliver spin through the air again—he was a dark blur, silhouetted against the bright bathroom light. The two agents fell loudly to the floor—she could hear them cry out in pain.
Oliver, Katia thought miserably. Oliver, my friend. How could you?
Tom was holding her more tightly now. But she was too numb to feel his arms. She felt like she was drowning. Drowning in shame and pure revulsion. She just wasn’t sure who disgusted her more, Oliver or herself.
“Stand down, Moore!” Agent Rodriguez said. “That’s a direct order! There’s no way out of here.”
But Oliver seemed to know otherwise. He leapt to one side and sprinted for the broken doors that led out of the suite.
The agents had no chance of catching him—Rodriguez was still fumbling with his transceiver as Oliver escaped the room.
In the light from the corridor, Katia could see the haunting expression—the mixture of hatred and frustrated love—on Oliver’s face.
Then he was gone, but Katia was certain that they hadn’t seen the last of him.
Tom held her tightly as she cried, as if he wanted nothing more in the world than to comfort her, knowing deep down that nothing ever really could.
Ninety Seconds
OLIVER HAD NINETY SECONDS TO GET out of the hotel. If he could do that, he was home free. It wasn’t going to be difficult: he didn’t seem to have set off any alarms.
He hit the subbasement. Opening a door marked No Admittance, he ran through a dark cement tunnel and into a small, barely lit room. There were several steel lockers—yanking one open, Oliver fished out a drab blue pair of janitor’s overalls with the Plaza’s insignia stenciled on the breast pock
et.
With thirty seconds left to go, he wheeled around and spotted the aluminum ladder bolted to the room’s wall. There was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar pinned up next to it… and, in the ceiling, a trapdoor.
Smiling, Oliver pulled on the overalls, tossing the sodden towel away. Climbing the ladder, he banged his fist upward against the trapdoor—and heard a rusty creak as it gave. Another few shoves and the trapdoor swung open, its two halves crashing into cement on either side of the door’s frame. Oliver saw the night sky and smelled cool fresh air.
He climbed the ladder onto the sidewalk, finding himself in a shadowed, fenced-off area just off Fifty-ninth Street. Passersby walked along a few feet away, but none seemed to pay him any mind. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, zipping up the overalls as he began to creep away toward the street. He was still barefoot, but nobody seemed to notice.
From his position in the shadows, Oliver turned his head and looked up at the bright flank of the Plaza Hotel. He could see its cast-iron pediments, shadows against the darkening sky. Counting up to the seventh floor, Oliver found Katia and Tom’s window—it was brightly lit, and he caught a glimpse of wild shadows up there—no doubt Rodriguez and his agents trying belatedly to secure the room.
“Too late,” Oliver whispered, gazing up at the room. “You missed me, Rodriguez.”
“But I did not miss you, my friend.”
Oliver jumped. The familiar voice had come from an inch behind his left ear. It was completely unexpected. At the same moment he felt a viselike grip around his upper arm.
Oliver turned his head. Nikolai stood right beside him, his red hair blown by the wind from Central Park. Boris, the gray-suited agent who Oliver had injured a month before, was also there, holding Oliver’s arm. Boris leered at Oliver.
Oliver slumped. He was smart enough to realize that he was cornered. Whatever surveillance he had done, however he had pulled it off, Nikolai had planned this one well. Oliver had no doubt that there were more Organization agents hidden around the edges of the hotel, just waiting to stop him from running away.
Before Gaia Page 14