by Niles Kovach
"Take off your clothes," said Misha.
"What?" I was horrified.
"You must wear these." He pointed to the aqua skirt and accessories. "Take off your clothes."
I was standing before him now, and began to shake again. I took off my jeans.
"The sweater. Hurry up," he said.
I complied.
He stood, produced his knife and walked behind me as I stood shaking in my underwear. He tugged at my panties, cutting out the tag at the back. He stood in front of me again, reached behind me and slipped his fingers under the bottom elastic of my bra. He was looking for another tag, but it was too much for me. I broke down with a sob and pulled away.
“Scheisse!" He pulled me back by the arm, searched again roughly for the tag, found it and cut it. "She is useless," he said to Vasily as he released me. "She will never survive. Look at her." Then he shouted at me, "Stop it!"
He was frightful. I shivered and sobbed. Louis handed me a checkered sweatshirt that matched the aqua skirt. I put it on quickly, anxious to put anything I could between me and all that venom.
Misha pointed at Vasily. "You must fix it," he said. "She cannot face Achim that way. He will know everything in five minutes."
Vasily crossed the room to where I stood half-dressed and miserable, put his arm around my shoulder and led me to the sofa where we sat down together.
"Alex," he said gently, "Please, listen to me."
My heart poured out gratitude with my tears. But my adoring look disturbed him. He looked away, then at Misha. I could not help but follow his eyes to Misha's grim, uncompromising face. When Vasily turned back to me, his expression had hardened; it was no longer gentle. I felt isolated again, but made more of an effort to control the tears.
"Understand," said Vasily, "that the operation comes first. Many lives depend on it, including ours, and you will not be allowed to jeopardize it."
I nodded. I understood.
"You are necessary to the operation because Ill Wind is not going to accept the icon from anyone else. We are not sure they will accept it from you. Their deal is with Grayson. If there is a variation, it must be logical."
He shifted uncomfortably. He spoke again without looking at me. He looked at my hands, in his hands. "There are always at least two ways to proceed in any situation. In this case, you can hand over the icon at once, be questioned briefly or not at all, and then shot, or you can hand over only part of the icon, and be questioned at length."
Here was new information. I began to listen carefully. The word "shot" was especially illuminating, and I wondered how many other revelations lurked in Vasily's next words. I lost the tears in a rush of fear.
"There are arguments for and against both plans," he said.
Mind if I add some of my own arguments? May I please state my druthers concerning the prospects of being shot? And could I have a precise definition of "questioned?"
I was about to get that definition.
"It has been agreed that you should take only a part of the icon. It is a better plan operationally."
At this, Misha gave an exasperated sigh.
"It is," insisted Vasily.
"Yes, yes, sure," said Misha with his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"It is better operationally and it will give you a better chance of survival," Vasily told me.
"So what does 'questioned at length' mean?" I asked.
Vasily's brow wrinkled, shading his colorless eyes.
"You said if I brought them only part of the icon, I would be questioned at length. What does that mean?"
"We are assuming that Ill Wind and their suppliers are as sick of this as we are," he said. "With part of the icon and you, Ill Wind should be able to negotiate for the detonators, on the understanding that they will learn from you where the rest of it is. They will question you about this."
He paused, looked at me, then lowered his eyes. "They will hurt you." He stood and walked over to the window. "The longer you do not tell them, the better your chances of survival, but the more they will hurt you."
"But with your sexual problem," interrupted Misha, "I say you will not last two minutes."
"I do not have a sexual problem," I said.
"You do."
"Virginity is not a problem."
"Yours is."
"That's nonsense
"It's reality, little girl. When you meet Achim, you will find out. He will check you the way I did. He will discover where you are weakest, and he will tear you to pieces." He threw up his hands in disgust and walked away. "This is impossible," he said. "It will not work."
"It will work," said Vasily.
"How?"
"She must control her fear," said Vasily.
"And," said Louis, "she must not be a virgin."
Misha paused and looked at me.
God, no. Don't look at me that way. You're thinking too much.
"Choose," he said.
Here was an area where I was not lacking in conviction. I might compromise with murder, but never with sex. It was impossible. I would die first. I began to feel virtuous again. I was on firm ground here; I knew what was right and I would not deviate.
"No," I said.
"You must. Choose."
"I will not participate in any way. I'll die first. I will take the first option."
"You picked a fine time to develop a backbone, girl," said Misha.
I felt his contempt keenly, but not keenly enough to compromise my principles. I stood firm.
"Alex," said Louis. "This is not something to die for."
"There have been many sainted martyrs who died for it."
"You are no saint," said Misha.
"Your life and many others are at stake, Alex," said Louis. "Think of that. God will understand."
"We say that a lot, don't we?" I said. I looked at Louis. "Is that how you live with yourself?"
Louis answered with a glare, an unforgotten glare that has remained between us, separating and binding us at the same time, like a hyphen.
"Enough!" said Misha. "Alex, I will not allow you to jeopardize this operation, nor will I permit you to commit suicide over this trifle."
"Trifle!"
"Yes, trifle. Compared to what is at stake it is a minor point. You cannot face Achim as a virgin. Choose one of us now or I will choose for you."
"No."
Misha looked to his left. I saw Vasily shake his head out of the corner of my eye, but I could not look at him. There was a very sharp exchange of words between them in Polish. Misha's vehemence bordered on rage, frightening me so that I looked at Vasily involuntarily. His gaze was locked with Misha's in a silent battle of wills, his face set in that expression I later came to know so well: total intransigence.
Misha looked away first, disgusted. "We will use chance," he said. "Do you have any playing cards?"
I would not answer him. The look he gave me sent a shudder through me.
"I saw some in the kitchen," said Louis. He retrieved a pinochle deck from the utensil drawer where I kept it and gave it to Misha.
Misha shuffled the cards and put them on the coffee table before me. "Cut them," he said.
"No."
Another freezing stare. "High card," he said finally. "Louis?"
Louis took the top card. It was a jack. He smiled and gave me a significant look, evidently not knowing it was a low card in a pinochle deck. Louis' jocularity can be deceptive; his true nature is often vengeful and he forgets nothing. The merest remark can lie buried in him, fertilizing his fury until it grows into a monstrous plant bearing fetid fruit. I know this too well.
Vasily took the next card. It was a king. I breathed a little easier. If it must happen, at least it would be with my love. It began to seem not so bad, compared to the alternatives. I calculated the probabilities. With eight aces available out of forty-six remaining cards, the chance of disaster was less than twenty-five percent. Misha took the next card.
It was the ace of diamonds.
; "One more time," said Misha. "You choose, or we go by the cards."
Something inside me was screaming "Say Vasily, Come On Say It!" but I was paralyzed. I was entrenched in my "cause," and having chosen, could not go back. That would be admitting defeat. I could not admit defeat, no matter how much I wanted to.
Vasily told me later how hurt he was. He said it would have hurt more to force me, from my stupid stand though. But I think if it had worked out that way, I would have relented, and it would have been better for me. People who say they have no regrets amaze me. Have they never done something that hurt everyone and helped no one? Have they never been so sure they were right that they went to the wrong lengths to prove it? Or am I the only one who makes bad decisions when I am ignorant, scared, and confused? Good can come of evil by the grace of God, and eventually it did even in this instance, but at the time, my ordeal was merely a shabby little drama that disgusted us all.
Vasily and Louis waited in the Mercedes outside.
"I do not understand how an intelligent girl can be so stupid," said Misha.
I suppose he was trying to put me at ease.
"I will do my best," he said, "but I am not gentle. It will help if you do not fight me."
I did not fight. There was no point. Neither did I cooperate. He was right. He was not gentle. I don't think there is anything gentle in him. Even the meticulous manners his aristocratic family took such pains to teach him do no more than muffle his natural abrasiveness. He is a stinging nettle in bloom: beautiful to look at but uncomfortable to brush up against.
Though I found out differently later that night, I thought at the time that it was the worst pain I would ever bear. I maintained my composure, though, and when instructed, dressed myself calmly in the short blue skirt and checkered shirt that was to be my outfit for the evening. It made me look as I felt.
"Was that something to die for?" asked Misha.
"No." I hated to admit it.
"Was it worth hurting others for?"
"No." I whispered as my tears started again.
"There are many forms of selfishness, Alexandra Feodorovna," he said. "You and Vasily are perfect for each other.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE