“Looks like shit, right? Don’t worry. It’s not. It is a healthy, if perhaps somewhat rancid, thick broth rich in carbohydrates and proteins. You’ll be a healthy man if you survive.”
Kolokov held the jar in front of George’s face. The liquid in it was a murky brown with small pieces of something languidly floating in it.
“We will hold you down for half an hour so the food will be absorbed and can’t be vomited. Then we will remove the tube. Then you get another chance to talk. And if you don’t, we repeat the feeding for as many days as it takes and, according to my father, who went for ten days before falling into a coma, it is more painful each time the pipe goes down the raw passages. I’ve always wanted to see what my father suffered. I may finally be getting my chance. And if you die, we still have your two friends to feed. I would like to be extremely wealthy, rich from diamonds, but I’ll gladly accept the alternate option of torture and, who knows, I may get both.”
Kolokov held the tubing and a funnel in one hand and the bottle in the other. The Spaniard crossed his arms. George knew which option he wanted.
In the company of madmen, one’s best refuge is to go mad oneself.
“Well?” asked the Russian.
There was no doubt what Vladimir Kolokov wanted. George was not about to grant it to him, even if it meant death. George was shaking now. He could not help it. He was shaking too much to speak but he did make a gesture with his head that left no doubt of his response.
He shook his head no and tilted it back. Kolokov looked disappointed.
Oxana Balakona stood near a wall in the North Station of the Kiev Railroad Station. In her right hand was a small suitcase, plain, faux leather, black. People hurried past her-more than 170,000 passengers came through the station every day-but she was not unnoticed.
Oxana was a model-a beautiful, thin, dark model in demand as a mannequin for sultry clothes, a sly smile on her red lips.
Women glanced at her. Most men, even the old ones who only harbored the memory of a libido, stared at Oxana as they moved by.
Train arrivals and departures were announced by a calm baritone voice. Children cried and whined.
Oxana was aware of the attention she brought, but at the moment it was of no interest to her. In fact, her looks were a threat to the reason she was here.
She checked the large, modern, metal clock at the second level of the open area.
The woman was late.
And then Christiana Verovona appeared, as unimpressive as Oxana was striking. Christiana was about Oxana’s age, no more than twenty-five, but she looked at least ten years older. Oxana had a fair description and an old photograph of the woman, but that was not how she recognized her.
Christiana Verovona was carrying a suitcase exactly like the one in Oxana’s hand.
No time to waste. Oxana hurried through the crowd on the polished gray-on-charcoal colored floor toward the bizarre lobby display next to which the other woman stood. The display was encircled by a knee-high polished stone wall topped by a low fence of clear plastic tethered to low posts. In the center of the circle were four fifteen-foot-high palm trees whose trunks were made of see-through plastic and whose fronds at the top were bright green plastic.
The beautiful woman under the palm trees saw Christiana coming now. Christiana had simply been told that someone would appear by the palm trees, place a duplicate suitcase next to hers, take Christiana’s suitcase, and walk away.
Christiana, who had come from Moscow, was not totally without the virtue of good looks, but they had been squandered. It made no difference to Oxana who made the exchange, saying only, “Have a nice trip back to Moscow.”
“Yes,” said Christiana.
And then the woman who had taken Christiana’s suitcase was gone. Christiana looked up at the clock. She would have to hurry. The new suitcase was about as heavy as the one she had exchanged. She picked it up and hurried toward the long, high-ceilinged, broad walkway that led to the trains.
Christiana had only a flicker of hope that she would succeed. Not that anything had gone wrong or appeared as if it might go wrong. She told herself, as she hurried through the crowd of jostling people going in both directions, that all would be fine. Georgi had told her that it would be fine and she wanted to believe him, wanted to deliver the suitcase, be handed the money, more money than she had ever made in a year. Then she wanted to go to her room and lie down and sleep curled up facing the wall.
She held out her ticket showing it to anyone who wore a uniform. Finding the right train was easy, but her car was far down the track. The train was making loud noises as if it were about to leave without her. She held the handle of the suitcase with two hands now and tried to run. The suitcase bounced against her knees, drumming as she walked.
Christiana was in no shape for running.
Money. Think of the money. She would put all of it away. Well, almost all of it. She would go off somewhere for a while and give up the drugs. Georgi would not try to stop her. He really didn’t need her anymore, which was good.
She saw a conductor still far down the train looking toward her.
She thought of the beautiful dark woman with whom she had switched bags. Was she doing it for the money? She must be. If Christiana looked like her, she wouldn’t be running down a train platform with a suitcase assaulting her. What if it came open? It could. Christiana had not packed it.
Almost there.
She had given up the vodka. It hadn’t been so bad. She still had the heroin and the pills. One step at a time. All she needed was a little time away.
The conductor was motioning for her to hurry. She tried.
And then she thought about Alaya. She did not mean to, did not want to. Alaya was gone. Christiana did not know where. Georgi had convinced her that he could not afford to raise a child. She was a prostitute, a prostitute who, with the help of a smile and well-applied makeup, could still bring in a reasonable price. And so she had handed over Alaya after being told the infant was headed for the home of a rich candy importer. Georgi had kept all the money. Christiana had not wanted any.
Christiana showed the conductor her ticket.
“Compartment four,” he said.
She climbed up the steps and into the train car pulling the suitcase behind her. It was painfully heavy now. The muscles in each arm were knotted and aching.
Georgi was definitely not bad, not a pimp like so many of the others. He had linked her up with businessmen, some from Moscow, some from as far as Argentina, and quite a few from China. He did not care about the tips they left her. And most of them were kind. She did her best to please. Georgi was more interested in gambling and business deals than sex. She was now, and for months had been, companionship, nothing more. The few dollars she brought in were meaningless.
All the seats on both sides of the aisle were full. The train lurched forward. She tried to hold the suitcase high, failed, and apologized when she grazed the shoulder of a dark, fat man with a thin, trim beard. She found the compartment, slid the door open, pushed the lock, and stood for a few seconds catching her breath. Christiana put the suitcase on the seat and looked around. The train rattled forward, heading back to Moscow.
Georgi would be at the station to meet her. Everything would be fine.
A knock.
“Yes?” she asked.
“The door is locked,” came the voice of a man, an almost musical tenor.
“Yes,” she said.
“This is my compartment,” said the man through the door.
The train was picking up speed now, rumbling through the station and the train yard.
“No,” she said. “You are mistaken. I have the whole compartment.”
“This is car seven, compartment four?”
“Yes,” she said.
“That is what my ticket says. You can take a look. We will have to ask the conductor for an explanation.”