Capture Me(39)
“Eat. Now,” I order again when she puts down her glass, and she obeys, her straight white teeth sinking into the sandwich with unconcealed eagerness.
Despite her obvious hunger, she eats slowly, thoroughly chewing each bite. It’s a smart move; she doesn’t want to get sick from eating too much too fast.
“So,” I say when she’s eaten about a quarter of her meal, “what’s your real name?”
She pauses mid-bite and puts down her sandwich. “Yulia.” Her eyes hold mine without blinking.
“Don’t lie to me.” I unlink my hands and lean forward. “A spy wouldn’t use her real name.”
“I didn’t say it’s Yulia Tzakova.” She picks up the sandwich again and consumes another bite before explaining, “Yulia is a common name in Russia and Ukraine, and it happens to be my birth name. It’s the Russian version of Julia.”
“Ah.” That makes sense, and I’m inclined to believe her. It’s always easier to stick close to your real identity when going undercover. “So, Yulia, what is your real last name then?”
“My last name doesn’t matter.” Her soft lips twist. “The girl it belonged to no longer exists.”
“Then there’s no harm in telling me what it is, is there?” Despite myself, I’m intrigued. Whether it matters or not, I want to know her last name.
I want to know everything about her.
She shrugs and bites into her sandwich again. I can tell she has no intention of answering me.
My teeth grind together, but I remind myself to be patient. The Russians hadn’t been able to get anything useful out of her in two months, so I certainly can’t expect to crack her in the first hour. Priority number one is having her eat and regain her strength. Answers will come later. I’ll get them out of her, one way or another.
For now, I mentally go through the information Buschekov emailed me on her. There isn’t much that they were able to uncover. All she’s admitted is that she’s twenty-two, not twenty-four as listed in her fake passport, and she was born in Donetsk, one of the embattled areas in eastern Ukraine. The Ukrainian government refused to claim her as one of their own, so the organization she works for must be private or strictly off the books. Her degree in English Language and International Relations from Moscow State University is apparently real; there is a record of Yulia Tzakova graduating from there two years ago, and Buschekov was able to track down professors and classmates who verified that she did, in fact, attend classes.#p#分页标题#e#
Did the Ukrainians recruit her at the university, or did they plant her there? It’s not out of the question that she’s been working for them since her teens. Agents rarely get recruited that young, but it does happen.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask when she’s nearly done with her sandwich. Her pale cheeks have a bit of color in them now, and she looks less shaky. “Spying for Ukraine, that is?”
Instead of answering, Yulia takes a sip of water, puts down her glass, and looks straight at me. “May I use the restroom, please?”
My hands tighten on the table. “Yes—when you answer my question.”
She doesn’t blink. “I’ve been doing it for a while,” she says evenly. “Now, may I please pee in the toilet? Or should I do it here?”
The rage smoldering within me flares brighter, and I give in to it. In an instant, I’m next to her, grabbing her by her hair and yanking her to her feet. She cries out in pain, her hands clutching at my wrist, but I don’t give her a chance to start fighting. In less than two seconds, I have her folded over the table, her arm twisted behind her back and her face pressed against the table surface. The plate with the remnants of the sandwich slides off the table, shattering on the floor, but I don’t give a fuck.
She’s going to learn an important lesson right now.
“Say that again.” I lean over her, trapping her naked body underneath me. I can hear her fast, shallow breathing, feel the curve of her ass pressing into my crotch, and my cock hardens as dark sexual images invade my mind. In this position, all I need to do is open my fly, and I’ll be inside her.
The temptation is almost unbearable.
“Since I was eleven.” Her voice is thin, muffled against the table. “I’ve been doing it since I was eleven.”
Eleven? Stunned, I release her and step back. What kind of agency recruits a child?
Before I can digest her revelation, she scoots off the table and faces me. “Please, Lucas.” Her face is pale again, her lips trembling. “I really need to go to the restroom.”