Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  As if that’s what defines me.

  The look of pity on the official’s face.

  I’m seething.

  No one stops us as we head out. There is a driver with a sign waiting for us, and Vasily nods at him and hands him my bag. Vasily opens the door to the car, gesturing, and I get in.

  He slides in next to me and says in a low voice, “I will have many words to say to you when we get to hotel.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I’m not waiting for the hotel. “You don’t get to finger me again.”

  The driver gets into the car just as I spit these words out, and he shoots a look into the rearview mirror.

  Vasily touches a panel on the door and the glass partition goes up, separating us from the driver and allowing us a bit of privacy.

  “We do not do this now, Karen,” he says in a menacing tone.

  “Fuck you, Dmitri. Just fuck you.”

  He cusses in Russian, then says, “Now what did I do? I saved your ass back there.”

  “By making that man think that I’m mentally handicapped! Did you see the way he looked at me? As if I was about to pull my pants down and pick my nose or something.” And here I thought Vasily was different. That he cared how I felt. The betrayal feels somehow deeper than usual. Maybe because I’d hoped that Vasily saw me for who I am—the optimized computer—instead of a bunch of broken parts.

  “You were creating a scene,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “I was not!”

  “You were.”

  “Even if I was, I could have handled it.”

  “By what, faking another seizure?”

  My fists clench against my folded arms and I stare out the window. It’s a mistake. There’s so much foreign scenery flying past as we drive down the street that I feel even more uncomfortable and out of place. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with this man.

  Sometimes, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere, and a burst of sadness overrides my fury.

  “I ensured that we got out of there smoothly,” he says. “In the future, you will pay attention and not rattle off about pig orgasms.” He shakes his head and a short, barking laugh erupts from him. “I do not know where that came from.”

  I did. It was because I’d been thinking about sex and my own orgasms. My mind’s been on sex ever since Vasily slid his fingers out from between my legs with the kind of sigh that people made after a particularly delicious dinner. I’d been wondering all about what would happen if I touched Vasily the way he touched me. Would he object or would he allow me to share my germs with him? I’d been turned on and excited about the prospect of continuing to explore with him.

  For the second time in my life, I was contemplating enjoyable sex, and the thought was a titillating one.

  All of that excitement is gone now. He’s betrayed me in the worst way possible. Up until now, he’s treated me like an equal. Like a desirable woman. My guard was down, and when the betrayal came, it was unexpected and felt like a punch in the gut.

  And now I feel less than normal. And I hate it.

  “We shall have dinner before we get you a new computer,” he says grandly. As if the subject is settled. “What would you like to eat?”

  I ignore him. If he’s ashamed of who I am, he can go eat on his own. I want nothing to do with him anymore.

  “Karen?”

  Ignored.

  His hand touches my skirt, brushes against my thigh. It’s an intimate caress. One with germs and transference, and I should be mad that he’s contaminating me, but I’m just hurting, hurting, hurting. “Do you play that you are mad at me now, Karen?” His tone is teasing. Light.

  I continue to ignore him even as we get to the hotel. I feel like crying. Here I thought I was making a friend, someone I could touch openly, someone I could trust. Someone that understood me, despite all his own quirks and foibles.

  He’s betrayed me in the worst way and I sniff back tears. The worst is that I don’t think he even grasps just how he’s hurt me. How could he? He’s normal. I’m the weirdo.

  The car stops in front of the hotel and I ignore everything as we get out. I’m sure the architecture is beautiful and there are fountains and scenery, but all I know is that there are people swarming, and I itch as if there are ants crawling on my skin. I just want to go inside, into a dark, quiet room and hide. Bring out my laptop, sink into my hacking, and forget about the outside world.

  Except . . . I don’t have my hat. Heavy sadness erupts through my body. I should have known when he didn’t want to go back for my hat that he didn’t understand me. I’ve been fooling myself.

  By the time we get up to our room, I’m silently crying.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  VASILY

  I have made her cry. These are real tears, not the ones Elena uses when she wants to manipulate me into doing her bidding, but signs of genuine suffering and hurt. Pain and hurt that I have generated. The desiccated place in my chest turns over slowly and then thumps hard, once and then twice.

  There’s a flow of blood to external extremities, and a tingling erupts all over as if my body was asleep and is just now enduring a painful awakening. The wariness I experienced before when I told myself Naomi was a siren endangering me is a lie. It is myself I should fear. She isn’t changing me, but rather causing me to want to change. For her.

  My fists clench at my sides as we ride up the elevator to the seventh floor, for I would like to console her but I know not how. The bellman moves stiffly down the hallway, no doubt wondering if we are newlyweds having sudden regrets. I doubt he encounters many unhappy couples. We will have to move soon because he will remember us—the mousy brown–haired crying woman with the dour Russian.

  He shoves the room key into the mechanical slot, and the lights flicker to life. With a worried glance to the silent, weeping Naomi, he begins to show us the different spaces in the suite, throwing open the terrace doors. The sudden influx of noise makes her flinch, and at the jerk of my head, the bellman gratefully scuttles out.

  Closing the doors, I draw the curtains so light of the afternoon sun cannot filter in. Perhaps her eyes hurt.

  In the minibar I find vodka, cheap whisky, and bottles of red and white wine. White, I think. She likes colorless liquids.

  She has hardly moved from the middle of the large entry. There is a dining table ahead of her and beyond that the noisy terrace. To the side I spot an alcove near another set of terrace doors. Taking her by the hand, I drag her reluctant body to the cushions and press her down.

  “Here, drink,” I offer, but my gruff statement sounds more like an order than an offering.

  She continues to ignore me instead, wrapping her arms around her waist and beginning to rock. The tears have turned to panic. Her unfamiliar surroundings, the inelegant way I handled immigration, the noise of the crowd at the airport are all taking a toll on her. Soon she is shaking.

  Is she cold? Hurrying to the bedroom, I strip the comforter off and drag it into the alcove. I toss it around her shoulders, but still her shaking does not abate. When soldiers are cold, they huddle together and seek warmth from another. The closeness provides not only heat but also comfort. I slide under the comforter and pull Naomi into my arms.

  Through the layers of down, the cotton of my shirt, the wool of my suit coat, the violent trembling of her body continues. This close, I can see her head and neck tensely move back and forth in repeated, hectic motion. The uncontrollable nature of her shaking is so markedly different than the seizure she faked in front of Aleksei that I know I will never be fooled again. But then I do not want to see her out of control like this in the future.

  “Naomi, I am sorry. I should not have said what I did. You must know I think you are the most intelligent individual I know of. I have searched the world for you.” I tell her about my long search for the Emperor. The money I have spent and the places I’ve been. Rio was one of my last hopes. I talk on and on until her shuddering recedes. Moving to kneel next to the
sofa, I try to apologize. “Your . . .” I grapple for the medical term, unsure if it is autism or Asperger’s, but it is some social problem. “Your condition means nothing to me. You are just Naomi. Brilliant and—”

  “Flawed?” she chokes out.

  I am making this worse with my ineptness, my ignorance. “Nyet. Perfect. It is I who am flawed.” She snorts in disgust as if my words are meaningless tripe. I try again. “We are all flawed, and it is displayed in different ways. I am sorry I was careless with my words, and I will do better in the future. I was worried,” I admit. “I have guns in my case and did not want a scene.”

  “Guns?” She sits up, smoothing her hair back.

  “Yes, guns and a few other things such as additional passports. Generally we are not searched coming in through immigrations. It’s a stamp and a nod of the head. I’m not certain what was so different today,” I muse.

  “You should have told me. I could have faked a seizure or something,” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, I made a mistake.” I make no comment on whether this would have drawn more attention rather than less, because she is calmed now.

  “Obviously.” She threads her hair behind her ears, not even recognizing my big gesture. I never admit to mistakes. That indicates a weakness and I am not weak. Yet . . . here I am on my knees. I shove to my feet.

  “Let us eat and then we shall go and buy you a computer.”

  “What’s on the menu?” She begins opening drawers, emptying the paper and pens and pamphlets onto the desktop surfaces and then putting them in piles, first according to color and then according to materials and then in descending order. Unhappy with all of her sorting, she places them back in the drawer. “Well?” She turns back to me as if the episode had never happened. “Food?”

  I blink. If it is nothing to her, then it is nothing to me. At least her tears are gone. “We order what we want. Tell me and it will come.”

  “Anything?” she asks suspiciously. I nod. Her finger taps against her lower lip as she thinks. I stare at it, wanting to run my tongue along those rosy lips and then delve inside. “I’d like avocados and linguine. No meat.”

  I place an order for our food—pasta for her, seafood for me.

  “Was it my words, Naomi?” I cannot let it go as she has. I want to know how to avoid triggering her in the future.

  She does not answer me at first but instead rearranges her pens again and again. Patiently I sit because I understand she needs a moment to compose herself and gather her thoughts.

  “It wasn’t just the words. I thought we could be . . . friends, but you treated me like I was stupid. Why didn’t you just confide in me? I could have helped.”

  “I am sorry and I was wrong. I ask your forgiveness. As for taking you in my confidence, as you can see by Aleksei’s perfidy that I cannot trust anyone, not even those in my own organization. I will do what I can to ensure you have every piece of information or equipment you need to accomplish my task but no, do not ask me to trust you. I cannot.”

  She frowns but begins to think. Naomi is a rational being. She will come to the same conclusion as I.

  “But I have not betrayed you,” she argues. “And I don’t have any reason to.”

  I can only gape at her. “You are my captive. You have already lied to me at least once.”

  “When?” she challenges insolently.

  “Your memory is so short, then? When you run your computer program and say that you do not have the results but for Rome. When you fake your seizure. When you—”

  She raises a hand to cut me off. “Right, but that was when I thought you might kill me or something. I don’t think you’ll do that anymore. And I’m not really your captive. I mean, you plan to let me go when you get your little picture, right?”

  Thomas would shit himself to hear her call the Caravaggio a little picture, but I like it, for this whole debacle is conducted in pursuit of canvas and oil.

  “Once I retrieve the Madonna, I will reward you handsomely, and the plane will take you wherever it is you need to go.”

  The image of my dacha, far outside the city center, surrounded by nothing but pines and snow, emerges. Slowly, as if testing the words, I share, “I have a small cabin north of Moscow near Lake Ladoga. It is primitive, but quiet. There is no one near for miles. Perhaps you would like it there.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “A place that is isolated, away from people? Quiet? Sign me up. I’ll need satellite. And packaged delivery. I like to order stuff online.”

  My response is delayed by the image of Naomi on my rural property. There is only a small dacha presently, as I told her, but I could build something grander, something better suited to her. “Yes, there is a helipad. Deliveries can be made to St. Petersburg and the helicopter can deliver to you daily.” It would be expensive, but if I had the Bratva under my control, the cost would be manageable. And the thought of letting her go, away from me, is not one I wish to entertain. Some things—some people—are worth all costs. I am fearing that she might be one of them.

  “Perfect. I can work with that.” She taps her hands. “See, we could make a perfect team. I’ll manage all your money, too. I’ve got really good at hiding it. The Swiss banks are still good and Caymans as well but these days you can even put a lot of it in the United States. Hedge-fund managers are really greedy and accept wire transfers from anywhere. Also I’ve gotten quite a few tech startups to take suitcases full of cash in exchange for stocks that they already own or in their new company. When they go public you just trade your new stocks.”

  She goes on explaining all the ways she can turn my dirty money into oligarch wealth. Her words make me realize how shortsighted I have been. I did not need a little picture, as she calls it, to consolidate power. Only Naomi. With her scale, I could wield influence and power over anyone—both my adversaries and allies alike. It is not just financial problems she could bring to me but information—secrets. But I would have to trust her. Her power could render me prey once again. I would be a pawn—a mere tool—in her arsenal.

  “It is a good plan,” I acknowledge. “And you could do more than secure the wealth of the brotherhood. You could help me bring everyone in line by ferreting out their secrets. But I would look at you and wonder when you would betray me like Judas. It is not you only that I do not trust. I don’t trust anyone. Do not take it personally,” I add when I turn to her scowling face.

  “Of course it is personal. You have insulted my integrity,” she argues. “Even Aspies’ feelings get hurt. Actually I get pissed off, not hurt, because being hurt doesn’t really make sense but being angry does.”

  She continues in this vein throughout lunch and then in the cab to the electronics store. “Aspies have feelings. I don’t want to be called creepy or unfeeling. Also, I’m not a liar. Okay, I’ve lied a few times, but that was out of self-protection. You should admire my self-reliance. It’s a good character trait. Also weird. Don’t call me weird. Don’t call me weird, creepy, a retard. Or stupid.”

  She’s still detailing all the ways in which she’s been insulted in the past when we are back at the hotel with her computer. Of course, she doesn’t acknowledge that. Instead she’s pretending it’s merely a list of traits or descriptions that would piss her off. It makes me ache for her as she hides her hurt behind rationalizations. And I would like to find all these other people and shoot them. Of course, I would need to start with myself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NAOMI

  It’s three a.m. in Italy. I can’t sleep. I showered and went to bed like Vasily advised, since our next day would be a busy one. But this new place is making me fretful, and the loss of my cap is eating at me, so I get up and grab the new computer to poke around while sitting in bed. I install software. I hack into my old laptop and send it a keylogger so I can see if anyone uses it. Then, I dig around on the deep web for a bit, uncovering more bits of information that Vasily might find interesting. If we’re going to be a team, I need to do my part.


  So first, I work on appropriating some additional funds for him. It’s not so difficult. I immediately flush all of Hudson’s funds into Vasily’s accounts. Even though Vasily has taken care to disguise his personal information, everything is available on the Internet if you know where to look. I simply start by looking up Russians born at approximately this date, and reference backward. I’ve actually been running queries on Vasily for days now, memorizing information as it pops up. He’s changed last names, but his first is the same, which makes things easy.

  I really should talk to him about hiding his tracks online. I locate his birthdate and domestic passport number with a few advanced searches, and from there, I’ve got him. Once I find his personal details, I also find what false names he has his accounts under. It’s no problem hacking into both with a simple password-testing program—I really need to talk to Vasily about password encryptions too, it seems. Then I start skimming the blockchain where all the Bitcoin—digital currency—exchanges are recorded. It is difficult to move millions of dollars in Bitcoins, but it is easy to siphon small amounts when an exchange occurs. Do this often enough and the small amounts become big amounts. The scripts I’ve run skim small amounts every millisecond. By the time someone figures out what I’m doing, I’m gone.

  Then, I look up information on the purchaser of Vasily’s Madonna. I remember the name, even though I’ve wiped his transaction information from the site. He is Emile Royer-Menard, and he is known in the underbelly of Europe as a procurer of unusual things. I find that he’s in Italy under an assumed name and throws a lot of hedonistic parties, which are described in lurid detail on a master-slave forum. This is something I’ve never researched before and I’m fascinated by it, spending hours following threads about submissive lifestyles until Vasily appears in the doorway. He’s staring at me. Or rather, staring at my body. He adjusts himself and then steps into the room.