“Eventually, perhaps.” Karpov grabbed him by his tie. “That will be entirely up to you.”
“I understand,” Dakaev said. “I want immunity.”
“Immunity? I’ll give you immunity.” Karpov slammed the barrel of the pistol against the side of his head.
Dakaev reeled sideways, bouncing off a terrified silovik paralyzed in his chair. Karpov bent over Dakaev, who lay huddled half against the wall.
“You’ll tell me everything you know about your work and your contacts-names, places, dates, every fucking thing, no matter how minute-then I’ll decide what to do with you.”
He hauled Dakaev to his feet. “The rest of you, get back to whatever the hell you were doing.”
Out on the floor he encountered absolute silence. Everyone stood like wooden soldiers, unmoving, afraid even to take a breath. Colonel Lemtov would not meet his eyes as he took the bleeding Dakaev over to the bank of elevators.
They went down, past the basement, into the bowels of the building where the holding cells had been hewn out of the naked rock. It was cold and damp. The guards wore greatcoats and fur hats with fur earflaps, as if it were the dead of winter. When anyone spoke, his breath formed clouds in front of his face.
Karpov took Dakaev to the last cell on the left. It contained a metal chair bolted to the raw concrete floor, an industrial-size stainless-steel sink, a toilet made of the same material, and a board projecting from one wall on which was a thin mattress. There was a large drain situated beneath the chair.
“Tools of the trade,” Karpov said as he pushed Dakaev into the chair. “I admit to being a little rusty, but I’m sure that won’t make a difference to you.”
“All this melodrama is unnecessary,” Dakaev said. “I have no allegiance, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Karpov began to run the water in the sink. “On the other hand, a self-confessed man of no allegiance can hardly be trusted to tell the truth willingly.”
“But I-”
Karpov shoved the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth. “Listen to me, my agnostic friend. A man without allegiance to something or someone isn’t worth the beating heart inside him. Before I hear your confession, I will have to teach you the value of allegiance. When you leave here-unless you do so feet-first-you will be a loyal member of FSB-2. Never again will people like Dimitri Maslov be able to tempt you. You will be incorruptible.”
Karpov kicked his prisoner out of the chair onto his hands and knees. Grabbing him by his collar, he bent him over the sink, which was now filled with ice-cold water.
“Now we begin,” he said. And shoved Dakaev’s head under the water.
Soraya watched Arkadin dancing with Moira, presumably to make her jealous. They were in one of Puerto Peñasco’s all-night cantinas, filled with shift workers coming and going from the nearby maquiladoras. A sad ranchera was bawling from a jukebox, luridly lit up like someone’s bad idea of the UFO in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Soraya, nursing a black coffee, watched Arkadin’s hips moving as if they were filled with mercury. The man could dance! Then she pulled out her PDA and studied the texts from Peter Marks. The last one contained instructions on how to lure Arkadin to Tineghir. How did Peter come up with this intel?
She had hidden her shock at seeing Moira behind her professional facade. The moment she had climbed aboard the yacht she’d felt the floor fall out from under her. The game had changed so radically that she had to play catch-up, and fast. Which was why she had hung on each word of the conversation between Moira and Arkadin not only for content but also for tonal nuance, any clue as to why Moira was actually here. What did she want from Arkadin? Surely the deal Moira was making with him was as bogus as her own.
Outside, the night was very dark, without moonlight. Because of the cloud cover, only a wan halo of stars toward the crown of the sky was visible. Inside, the cantina stank of beer and body odor. The room was raucous with a desperation tinged by hopelessness and despair. She felt surrounded by people for whom tomorrow didn’t exist.
She wished that she and Moira could talk to each other, if only for the briefest moment, but under Arkadin’s eye that was impossible. Even going to the ladies’ room at the same time would doubtless arouse his suspicion. She didn’t know Moira’s cell number, so texting her was out. There remained only a verbal conversation laced with coded messages. If they were on parallel paths, or even by chance the same one, it was essential they not get in each other’s way.
Arkadin and Moira were dripping sweat when they returned to the table. Arkadin ordered beers for them, and another coffee for Soraya. Whatever might happen tomorrow, he was clearly enjoying being with the two women tonight.
“Moira,” Soraya said, “do you know anything about the Middle East, or is your expertise strictly in the Americas?”
“Mexico, Colombia, Bolivia, and to some extent Brazil are my territories.”
“And you work alone?”
“I have a company, but right now I’m on special assignment to Berengária Moreno.” Moira gestured with her chin. “And you?”
“My own company, though there’s a conglomerate that’s looking for a hostile takeover.”
“Multinational?”
“Strictly American.”
Moira nodded. “Import-export, you said?”
Soraya stirred some sugar into her coffee. “That’s right.”
“You might be able to use my, ah, expertise against hostile bidders.”
“Thank you, but no.” Soraya sipped her coffee, then put the cup back in its saucer. “I have my own, ah, enforcers.”
“What do you call a thought in a woman’s head?” Arkadin leaned forward, looking from one to the other. “A tourist!” He laughed so hard he almost choked on his beer. Then, noting their somber expressions, “Shit, lighten up, ladies, we’re here to have fun, not talk business.”
Moira looked at him for a moment. “What do you get when you cross a Russian with a Vietnamese? A car thief that can’t drive.”
Soraya laughed. “Now we’re having fun.”
Arkadin smiled. “Have any more?”
“Let’s see.” Moira drummed her fingers on the table. “How about this? Two Russians and a Mexican are in a car. Who’s driving? The police.”
Arkadin laughed and shook his finger at Moira. “Where do you pick up these jokes?”
“In prison,” Moira said. “Roberto Corellos loves making Russians the butt of jokes.”
“Time to switch to tequila,” Arkadin said, signaling the waiter. “Bring a bottle,” he said to the young woman who came over. “Something fine. A reposado or añejo.”
Instead of another ranchera, the jukebox began to play “Twenty-four Hours from Tulsa.” Gene Pitney’s high twang rang out over the laughter and shouts of the drunken patrons. But morning was coming, and with it a change in the clientele. As the night owls slowly staggered out, the night-shift people from the maquiladora drifted in, heads aching, tails dragging. There were fewer of them, as well, most of them stumbling home to fall into bed without taking off their clothes.
Before the tequila got to the table, Arkadin had grabbed Moira’s hand and was swinging her onto the dance floor, which for the first time all night was larger than a postage stamp. He held her close while they swayed to the Burt Bacharach melody.
“You’re something of a smart-ass,” he said, smiling like a shark.
“It didn’t come easy,” she said.
He laughed. “I can only imagine.”
“Don’t bother.”
Arkadin swung her around. “You’re wasting your time in South America. You should come to work for me.”
“Before I set up Corellos’s murder?”
“Let that be your last assignment.” He stuck his nose into the side of her neck and inhaled deeply. “How are you going to do it?”
“I thought you said no business.”