David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

It was the woman — Heather, he remembered, the one who had hauled him downstairs. He recognized her mainly by the dreadlocks and the eyes. The shapeless raincoat was gone, replaced by a snug-fitting pair of tights and a matched black sweater.

Her eyes flickered down Alexei’s torso. They finally settled on his hands.

“You’re hiding something,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

“I — beg your pardon?” Alexei stumbled a bit, and finally managed to duck his head and sit down — knees together, hands still clasped on his lap. Like a nervous schoolboy , Alexei thought.

Heather smiled, and when she blinked her eyes had left his groin. She met his eye steadily.

“This amnesia game of yours,” she said, “is what I’m talking about.” She lowered her voice, to just above a whisper: “I overheard your talk with Mr. Gibson.”

“Mr. Gibson?”

“Holden.”

“Ah.” Alexei crossed his legs, and reached over with one hand to draw a blanket over his lap.

“Holden can be a prick,” she said, crossing the tiny room so that she stood directly over him. Now her tone went playful. “But you’re used to dealing with pricks, I bet.”

“You meet all kinds,” said Alexei.

“—in your business,” she finished for him.

Now Alexei was quiet. He looked up at Heather with raised eyebrows, and for that instant her face was a mirror, throwing back his whatever-can-you-mean expression with one of her own.

“You can’t remember how you hit your head,” she said finally. “Or so you say. But maybe you remember how you got this.” Her hand fell onto his shoulder, and the long string of scar tissue that went nearly as far as the base of his neck.

“Or the one on your ass,” she said. “Left cheek. Looks like a piece of shrapnel hit you.”

Actually, it had been a knife, and the scar was a lot uglier than the wound that had made it. But Alexei merely sighed, reached up and put his hand on top of hers. “You,” he said, “have been peeking.”

“Not just at your ass,” she said, and reached under her sweater. “I found this in your pants pocket.” She pulled out what looked like an oversized black pen, but Alexei recognized it immediately. He had been in pretty bad shape in the dingy, so he could excuse himself for not noticing — but he was sure they had taken it, along with the Glock and the butterfly knife, before setting him adrift. Alexei grabbed for it, but she stepped away too quickly, and lifted the weapon above her head.

“Give that to me!”

Any chance they give you — take it. Escape is your duty.

He jumped to his feet, the blanket falling away as he did so, and — the old instincts kicking in — he dove at her. She tried to twist out of his way, but he anticipated her action and caught her under an arm. She reached for the door with her free hand, but Alexei spun them both around so that his own body blocked her. In the same move, he reached up with his free hand and twisted Heather’s wrist. She gave a little cry, and the weapon fell to the deck.

“Wow,” she said, gasping for breath. The two of them were locked in a bizarre parody of a tango clinch — he with one arm locked under her arm and around her waist, his other hand holding hers high above their heads.

As they stood panting, Alexei realized with a blush just how close they were.

“What are you?” she murmured. “Russian mafia? KGB?”

“Not these days,” he whispered, before he could think. “No,” he said at volume. “There is no Russian mafia. I’m not KGB.”

She smiled at that. “All right,” she said. “It’s coming back to you.”

Alexei blinked. He heard a noise in his ears, like tinnitus. Like a radio, swooping up a blank stretch on the AM dial.

Some of them will try sex. It is the next thing after comfort, but it is much more difficult to combat.

Ah ha! It was Kolyokov! Alexei remembered now. Old Fyodor Kolyokov, talking in the upper lecture hall while the autumn wind whipped up a new snow from the shipyards. “I will tell you about sex now,” said Kolyokov, who had dimmed the classroom lights and switched on the overhead projector. “There will be a time when you are on your own, in a weakened state — perhaps a prisoner, perhaps simply drunk. Old Kolyokov will not be there to advise you. So you must understand about sex.”

“Hey! I’m talking to you.”

Heather pulled herself away just enough to get her free hand in the space between them, and took him into her sweat-slick palm. Alexei shut his eyes, let her draw a low, grateful moan from him as she worked him harder still. He let her other hand go, and wrapped both his arms around her middle, so that his hands moved up and underneath her sweater, then crept again beneath the elastic of the tights. She didn’t seem to mind — she gave a pleased-sounding little moan — but she squirmed anyway, so that before Alexei knew it, his hands were back outside, and empty. He opened his eyes, to find himself looking directly into hers, and when he moved forward to kiss her, she pulled back too quickly. In the same motion, she released him.

“Lie down,” she commanded.

“All right.” Alexei returned to his bunk — first scooping up the weapon, which he tucked against his wrist. Heather came over and sat on the bunk beside him.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” she said matter-of-factly.

“All right,” said Alexei. “What are you going to do? Torture me?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how forthcoming you are. What’s your name?”

Alexei shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

“Bullshit.”

Alexei looked at her levelly. “Are you having instincts too?” he asked.

“Funny guy,” she sneered. “And you say you’re not KGB anymore.”

“I don’t work for the KGB,” said Alexei. “I’m pretty sure about that.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” she said, and motioned to the weapon in his hand. “What’s that thing?”

Alexei smiled at her. No harm there.

“Would you like me to demonstrate?”

“If you need to.”

“It is called an asp.” With a flick of his wrist, Alexei extended the asp to its full eighteen inches. The black steel ball at the end of it gleamed in the light, and made an ethereal line of reflection as Alexei flicked it back and forth on its steel-spring shaft. “You can buy it at the shopping mall,” he said. “Legal in your country, and pretty dangerous in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.”

Heather nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Now we’ll try again — if you don’t work for the KGB, who do you work for?”

Alexei sighed.

“I am,” he said finally, “between employers.”

“Recently so, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “You’re here for Holden. From Time-Warner, right?”

“Think what you like.” Alexei could feel himself starting to get pissed off. “What the hell do you mean, Time-Warner? The television people?”

“The magazine people.” Heather nodded as she spoke, raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice — as though she were revealing some sinister truth. It only pissed Alexei off more.

“Whatever you say,” he mumbled.

“He’s a real prick, you know.” Heather’s voice dropped, and she leaned toward him as she spoke. Her hand fell casually on his hip, and her forefinger inscribed an arc on the flesh there. “If you’re not here for him — you should be. You should see what he does to people. To little kids .”

“Little kids,” repeated Alexei, and thought about that.

“And — he’s getting worse ,” said Heather. The nail dug in — not quite painfully.

“I’m not in the mood,” he said, and lifted her hand away.