“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.”
“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.
Kobin’s eyes lit up like a five-year-old watching a magic show. “It’s this monster-sized pastry filled with melted cheese and butter, then they float an egg inside. It’s a heart attack waiting to happen but so damned good.”
Fisher snickered. “More valuable intelligence from the smuggler.”