Her superiors had foisted upon her four agents who deeply resented that she was in charge. The GRU had wanted her to turn over the girl to FSB agents because the investigation fell within their purview. This was an internal matter that did not belong in the hands of a foreign intelligence agent. But the Snow Maiden had implored her bosses, told them that she wanted to finish this job. Given her “excellent work” in the metro, they’d stood up for her and had convinced the FSB that they didn’t need to waste a seasoned agent to oversee a babysitting job. Those administrators had finally given in and had allowed her to take Nadia to Sochi—but not without the FSB baggage coming along. No, the Snow Maiden wouldn’t murder these men, although the thought had crossed her mind—four times to be precise. She’d already won the adulation she needed from her superiors, most notably Izotov himself, who’d bragged to his counterpart at the FSB that “no one but the Snow Maiden could have survived that gun battle, and she did!” That was glowing praise and would certainly contribute to her promotion; however, if she could get Nadia to talk, then that would be something. Really something. In her mind, this was not a babysitting job. This was an opportunity to single-handedly locate Igor Kasperov and bring him in.
She traced a finger along the glass. It was hard not to appreciate the irony unfurling before her eyes. Here she was, involved in the darker side of human nature, while outside the city of Sochi lay in all its grand and burgeoning splendor. Electricity was in the air as this place, known by many as the “Russian Riviera,” prepared to host the 2014 Winter Olympic Games. Heavy construction was going on everywhere, even in the lot adjoining Hotel Olesska, where yet another hotel was being erected, one that would be crowded with media personnel once the games began. A ceaseless train of earth-moving dump trucks lumbered daily across Lenina Street, much to the chagrin of some guests—but not them. Their soundproofed room lay on the opposite side of the hotel, in its most private section, where intelligence agents often held political prisoners and others, keeping them far away from Moscow and from soiling the president’s hands.
The FSB and GRU had developed a healthy relationship with the hotel’s staff, and the facility itself, being only four stories and surrounded by large pine trees, made it easy to establish a defensive perimeter. Additionally, the hotel was only a five-minute drive from the train station and just ten minutes from Adler Airport. When agents like the Snow Maiden weren’t attaching battery cables to the genitalia of prisoners, they could visit the nearby water park, sports and entertainment complexes, the Sochi Dolphinarium dolphin park, and the Discovery World Aquarium—not to mention the soaring skyline of the new Olympic park.
The Snow Maiden grinned darkly as she turned away from the window at the sound of Nadia stirring. “Are you hungry?”
Nadia lay across the bed, looking more like a corpse than a pampered rich man’s daughter. They’d given her a change of clothes: a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that made her appear a few years younger. She lifted her head, and finally, after a deep-throated cough, was able to sit up.
A flat-screen television sat atop a dresser behind them. “Would you like to watch TV?” the Snow Maiden asked.
“No.”
“Would you like to tell me where your father is?”
Nadia widened her good eye on the Snow Maiden. “When this is over, I’m going to come back for you. My father has very powerful friends. He’ll make it happen. And when he does, I’m going to do ten times what you’ve done to me.”
“Ten times? That’s impressive. They taught you some math in that fancy college. So, do you think we’re already done? Look at your beautiful fingernails . . . are those gels? And your nice teeth. You had them whitened? So beautiful . . .”
Nadia closed her eyes and sighed in frustration. “I told you. I was on my way to the airport. All I know is I was supposed to get on the plane. I have no idea where the plane was going.”
“It was heading straight into the mountains, where it crashed.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I can get my computer and show you.”
“I don’t care.”
The Snow Maiden dragged a chair over to the bed. She flipped it around and draped her arms over the back. “What’s it like to be you?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Tell me about your life.”
“No.”
The Snow Maiden glanced around the room. “There’s nothing else to do.”
Nadia set her teeth and began to nod. “I see what you’re doing. Get me to talk. Get the whole Stockholm syndrome thing going. Get me comfortable, then I let something slip, huh? You think I’m stupid like the other scumbags you take here?”
“No, you’re very intelligent. I read one of the research papers you did for a class. I wish I knew as much about computers as you do.”
“Yeah, then you wouldn’t be stuck in some shitty government job . . .”
“So you’re going to follow in your father’s footsteps because he made sure you’d have that opportunity.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you miss him?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you were growing up. I assume he was never around, always busy working on the computer viruses. Did he ever forget to pick you up? Did he ever forget a special occasion like your birthday?”
“Why do you care? You trying to work out your own issues by making me feel bad?”
“I’m just asking questions.”
“He was a great father. But then my mother died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You’re trying to be my friend because you think I’ll say something. You’re so obvious. And pathetic. And what’s with the crazy black hair and the boots?”
The Snow Maiden shrugged. “I like them.”
Nadia took a deep breath and turned away. “There’s something wrong with you. Something very wrong.”
“What makes you say that?”
“How can you do this kind of work?”
“I enjoy it. I bet you would, too.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re just some government employee who had a terrible life. You’re like some woman who wants to be a man with a big gun. That’s all you are. You’re nothing.”
“You don’t sound afraid anymore.”
Nadia balled her hands into fists. “I’m not.”
“The cuffs hurt. I’ll leave them off if you’re a good girl, but if you—”
Nadia launched herself off the bed and came at the Snow Maiden with her right fist held high above her head.
The Snow Maiden pushed back off the chair, even as Nadia’s fist came down. The girl missed, and the Snow Maiden followed with a right hook to the girl’s jaw and a left jab to her chest, knocking her squarely onto the bed.
In the next heartbeat, she straddled the girl, pinned her wrists to the bed and leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “Is this what you want? More pain?”
“Let me go.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s right behind you.”
The Snow Maiden grinned, then suddenly released the girl and tapped on Nadia’s temple. “I think your father is right here, and he’s driving you crazy.”
“Why do you want him so badly?”
That woke the Snow Maiden’s grin. “I wish I knew.”
“Well, it’s pretty clear he fucked over the government. He wouldn’t tell me exactly how. He just said go to the airport. I begged him, pleaded with him. I never heard his voice sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Scared.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then the Snow Maiden blurted out, “I don’t want to kill you.”
Nadia flashed an ugly grin. “I’m okay with that.”
“I’ll confess: I hate you and people like you. And obviously, I can’t kill you unless I’m sure you have nothing to give me.”
“We’re going around in circles here,” Nadia said. “You don’t believe me, so you’ll keep asking the same questions over and over. And then I’ll get so tired of hearing them that I’ll begin telling you what you want to hear. But that’s not the truth. I don’t know where he is.”
“Do you know where Joline is?”
Nadia’s head drew back, and her mouth began to fall open in shock.
“I know where she is.”
Suddenly, the door opened behind them and two of the Snow Maiden’s men ushered in Joline Bossert, a twenty-one-year-old CSCS student with blond hair, narrow cheeks, and limbs seemingly too large for her fragile Swiss torso. She had earrings running up the sides of both ears, along with a pierced brow partially hidden behind her trendy blue glasses. She’d been stripped down to her beige bra and white panties.
She was Nadia’s best friend from college. They were, according to Joline, inseparable.
The second Joline caught sight of Nadia. She spoke rapidly in Italian, since she was a native of Lugano: “Oh my God, Nadia, what’s happening? Are you okay? What’re they doing to us? Why are we here? They . . . they . . . just grabbed me right out of the apartment!”
The Snow Maiden put her finger to Nadia’s lips and sang, “I think you know where your father is . . .” She rose off the bed.
Behind her, Nadia bolted up and screamed, “You leave her alone!”
The Snow Maiden whirled and raised her voice: “First, before we begin this little reunion, I’d like to discuss a few details. This room has been modified just for us. It doesn’t matter how loud you are. You could scream at the very top of your lungs and no one, not room service, not the old lady down the hall who is chain-smoking, not anyone will hear you . . . or her . . .” The Snow Maiden tipped her head toward Joline. “Now, she’s going to die in front of you if you don’t tell me where your father is. If you really don’t know, well, I’m sorry, she’s going to die anyway, then.”
In the Snow Maiden’s right pocket sat an assisted-opening folder, which she removed and thumbed open. The blade swung into place with enough spring action to catch Nadia’s attention.
“I’ve cut a lot of people with this blade,” the Snow Maiden said. “So it might be a little dull.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know!”
The Snow Maiden shrugged and touched the Bluetooth headset at her ear. “Call the front desk,” she ordered one of her men. “Tell them we’ll be needing the third room in an hour or so. Tell them we’re very sorry about the mess.”
Nadia began screaming as the door opened and another man rushed to the bed and cuffed Nadia’s wrists and ankles. Then he propped her up on the bed so she had a spectacular view of the show.
“You can close your eyes,” the Snow Maiden told Nadia. “But sometimes that’s worse, because as you listen to her scream, your imagination can conjure up something even more horrible than what I’m doing to her. Then again, you haven’t seen the things I’ve seen, and I have a very vivid imagination. Now tell me . . . where’s Daddy?”
“Nadia, please tell her!” cried Joline. “I don’t want to die! Please . . .”
The Snow Maiden traced Joline’s lips with the blade. “Are you listening to her, Nadia? I’m sure we don’t need to discuss the rules of this game.”
Nadia was already sobbing and barely able to speak. “I . . . I told you. I don’t know where he is. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”
“And you have no ideas? No guesses?”
“He could be anywhere. Maybe one of the summer homes! Maybe he’s gone to Florida with his girlfriend. I don’t know!”
“I understand.”
The Snow Maiden ran the knife along Joline’s cheek, drawing a fine line of blood. Joline began wrenching violently against the agents holding her while Nadia wailed for the Snow Maiden to stop.
At the same time, one of the Snow Maiden’s men was forced to pin Nadia back to the bed and hold her while the Snow Maiden chose her second incision on Nadia’s opposite cheek.
It was hard to describe what she felt while working on the girl. There was something special as the incisions deepened and the blood began to pool. This was a young woman who had never been broken. She, like Nadia, had always been flawless, always sitting on shelves like pieces of pottery to be admired by passersby for their overt beauty—that was to say, beauty on the surface only.
But to the Snow Maiden, young ladies like this were more beautiful when they were damaged, more beautiful as they tried to piece themselves back together. The Japanese had a word for it: kintsukuroi—the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and accepting that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.
Joline would be sacrificed so that Nadia could be broken. Young Nadia would wear those golden scars, and she might finally glimpse the real world, a world unaltered by her father.
After a while the begging and gasping and pleading turned into a deep hum, and the Snow Maiden focused on her blade and the power she wielded with her mind. Each drop of blood came with a promise that when it was over, Nadia would be free of her father’s grasp, free to become a real woman in a cruel and merciless world.
When the Snow Maiden was finished, her men hauled the body away, leaving her and Nadia alone once more. The Snow Maiden drifted back to the window, opened it, and took in a deep breath of the freezing air.
Nadia had pulled her knees into her chest and was still sobbing. The Snow Maiden returned to the bed. “All right, I believe you. You don’t know where your father is.”
“Why did you have to kill her?”
“To make you strong. To make you more like me.”
Nadia glanced up and cried, “Oh my God. More like you? You’re insane!”
After the barest of nods, the Snow Maiden rose and started toward the door. Before she grabbed the handle, she turned back and said, “While I’m gone, I want you to close your eyes and watch me cut her again. I want you to dream about it. I want you to let it get deep inside until it’s beautiful. Will you do that for me?”
Nadia just looked at her incredulously.
The Snow Maiden averted her gaze and left. Two of her men entered the room after her as relief. She started across the hall to the next room, where she’d wash up, then head down to the sauna. As she reached out for the next doorknob, she realized her hand was trembling.
16
AS they lumbered into Paladin’s control room, Fisher winced over Grim’s heated gaze and crossed directly back to the armory with Briggs.
While Fisher stowed his weapons, Briggs took a seat and began to break down his rifle, preparing it to be cleaned. This was an important, meticulous, and quasi-religious task for operators such as themselves. Deposits like gunpowder residue and dust could clog the complex mechanisms of a rifle or handgun’s action, trigger, and hammer so that they’d fail to perform their full motions as designed. Failures to load or eject a round could mean the difference between life and death. Consequently, Briggs began his work with well-practiced efficiency. Without looking up, he said, “You really bring out the best in Grim.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“I could see her point.”
“Look, Yenin worked for Tom Reed. He was locked out of Voron.”
“Maybe he had more intel on Voron’s operations.”
“I doubt he knows more than Kestrel.”
“And you thought it was more important to teach Kestrel a lesson.”
“He’s the more valuable asset.”
Briggs made a face. “What criteria are you using to reach that conclusion?”
“Well, Mr. Prosecutor, I’m using the cold, hard facts.”
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“If you say so.”
Fisher leaned toward the man. “You know, I was going to tell you what a great shot that was on the bag. Then the kill shot at the end—both of ’em right through the walls.”
“You change your mind?”
Fisher hesitated. “No. Nice work.”
Briggs glanced up from the table, his expression softening, if only a little. “Sam, I know in your eyes I’ve got a long way to go. You think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth because I went to private schools and my father’s a professor at Georgetown—”
“And you went to West Point.”
“Yeah. But I worked for everything I have. And I don’t take anything for granted. I hold myself to a higher standard.”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Point is, if I question one of your calls, it’s because I’m doing my job. We need to play all the angles every time we go out there.”
“I appreciate that. You keep me honest, but in the end, it’s always my call.”
“I understand.”
“You know I can’t do this forever.”
Briggs feigned a shocked look. “But they told us we were going to live forever.”
“They lied.”
“Bastards.”
“You could run this show one day.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“We’ll see.”
A shuffle came from the hatch.
“Well, what do we got here? Two contaminated knuckleheads playing with guns.”
Fisher glanced to the doorway where Kobin stood, sipping on a mug of something, probably coffee he wished were spiked with vodka.
“They left the cage open again?” Fisher asked.
“I picked the lock. But don’t worry. I don’t plan on running away ’cause the coffee’s so fucking great here. So, I hear we might be going to Sochi?”
“That’s classified.”
“Okay, but if you never tasted khachapuri, then you can’t leave without going to Natasha’s. It’s an outdoor café.”
“What the hell is khach—whatever the heck you said?” asked Briggs.