Capture Me(32)

“I’m sure he does.” Esguerra looks distracted, so I decide it’s as good a time as any to bring up the Yulia situation.

“By the way,” I say, keeping my tone casual, “I’m having Yulia Tzakova brought here from Moscow.”

Esguerra stops and stares at me. “The interpreter who betrayed us to the Ukrainians? Why?”

“I want to personally interrogate her,” I explain, draping the towel around my neck. “I don’t trust the Russians to do a thorough job.”

Esguerra narrows his eyes, his prosthetic eerily lifelike. “Is it because you fucked her that night in Moscow? Is that what this is about?”

A wave of anger makes my jaw tighten. “She fucked me over. Literally.” That much I’m comfortable admitting. “So yeah, I want to get my hands on the little bitch. But I also think she might have some useful info for us.”

Or at least I’m hoping she does, so I can justify this insane obsession with her.

Esguerra studies me for a second, then nods. “In that case, go for it.” We resume walking, and he asks, “Did you already negotiate this with the Russians?”

I nod. “Initially, they tried to say they’d only deal with Sokolov, but I convinced them it wouldn’t be wise to get on your bad side. Buschekov saw the light when I reminded him of the recent troubles at Al-Quadar.”

“Good.” Esguerra looks grimly pleased. In the world of illegal arms dealing, reputation is everything, and the fact that the Russians backed down bodes well for our relationships with clients and suppliers.

“Yes, it’s helpful,” I say before adding, “She’ll be arriving here tomorrow.”#p#分页标题#e#

Esguerra’s eyebrows lift. “Where are you going to keep her?” he asks. It’s a measure of his trust in me that he doesn’t question my initiative. Ever since I saved his life in Thailand, he’s been giving me tremendous leeway.

“In my quarters,” I say. “I’ll be interrogating her there.”

He grins, and I know he understands. “All right. Enjoy.”

“Oh, I will,” I say darkly. “You can bet on it.”

I’m literally counting down the hours until Yulia is on the plane. I considered flying to Moscow myself to get her, but after some deliberation, I decided to send Thomas, a former Navy pilot, and a few other men I trust. It would’ve looked strange if I’d gone; as Esguerra’s second-in-command, I’m needed on the estate, not handling minor tasks like spy retrieval.

“If there’s any trouble, notify me immediately,” I told Thomas, though I’m confident there won’t be.

In less than twenty-four hours, Yulia Tzakova will be here.

She’ll be my prisoner, and nobody will save her from me.





15





Yulia



The heavy metal door at the end of the hallway clangs, and I jerk awake, conditioned to respond to that noise as if to an electric shock.

They’re coming for me again.

I begin to shake—yet another conditioned response. As much as I want to remain strong, they’re getting to me, breaking me down piece by piece. Every grueling interrogation, every humiliation great and small, every day that blends into night as I sit there without food and sleep—it all adds up, destroying my willpower bit by tiny bit. And I know they’re only getting started. Buschekov implied as much the last time he had me in that mirrored room.

Trying to control my breathing, I sit up on my cot, pulling a thin, dirty blanket around myself. Outside, it might be May, but in this prison, it’s still winter. The chill here is everlasting. It permeates the gray stone walls and rusted metal bars, seeps in through the cracks in the floor and ceiling. There are no windows anywhere, so the sun never warms these rooms. I reside in fluorescent grayness, the cold walls around me pressing closer each day.

Footsteps.

Hearing them, I slide my sock-covered feet into my boots. My socks are dirty, as is the jumpsuit I’m wearing. I haven’t had a shower in three weeks, and I undoubtedly stink to high heaven. It’s one of those small humiliations designed to make one feel less than human.

“Yulechka...” A familiar singsong voice makes me shake even more. Igor is the guard I hate most, the one with the grabbiest hands and the nastiest-smelling breath. Even with the cameras everywhere, he manages to find opportunities to touch me and hurt me.

“Yulechka,” he repeats, approaching my cell, and I see the glee in his beady brown eyes. He’s using the most familiar form of my name, one that would normally be an endearment spoken by parents and other family members. On his thick lips, it sounds dirty and perverted, like he’s a pedophile talking to a child.