At last Gabriel looked at him. “How do we negotiate with these people?”
“We need to find out exactly what they want. They know they’re trapped. They have no choice but to talk to us, so we keep talking to them. You’ve dealt with other hostage situations, so you know the negotiator’s playbook. The rules haven’t changed, just because you’re on the other side of it now. You have to take your wife, your emotions, out of this equation.”
“Could you?”
Moore ’s silence answered the question. Of course he couldn’t.
And neither can I.
THIRTEEN
Mila
Tonight we are going to a party.
The Mother tells us that important people will be there, so we must look our prettiest, and she has given us new clothes for the occasion. I am wearing a black velvet dress with a skirt so tight that I can scarcely walk, and I must pull the hem all the way up to my hips just so I can climb into the van. The other girls slide in beside me in a rustle of silk and satin, and I smell their clashing bouquet of perfumes. We have spent hours with our makeup creams and lipsticks and mascara brushes, and now we sit like masked dolls about to perform in a Kabuki play. Nothing you see is real. Not the eyelashes or the red lips or the blushing cheeks. The van is cold, and we shiver against each other, waiting for Olena to join us.
The American driver yells out the window that we must leave now, or we’ll be late. At last the Mother comes out of the house, tugging Olena after her. Olena angrily shakes off the Mother’s hand and proceeds to walk the rest of the way on her own. She is wearing a long, green silk dress with a high Chinese collar and a side slit that reaches all the way to her thigh. Her black hair swings straight and sleek to her shoulders. I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and I stare at her as she crosses to the van. The drugs have calmed her down as usual, have turned her docile, but they have also made her unsteady, and she sways in her high heels.
“Get in, get in,” the driver orders.
The Mother has to help Olena into the van. Olena slides onto the seat in front of mine and promptly slumps against the window. The Mother slides the door shut and climbs in beside the driver.
“It’s about time,” he says, and we pull away from the house.
I know why we are going to this party; I know what is expected of us. Still, this feels like an escape because it is the first time in weeks that we have been allowed out of the house, and I eagerly press my face to the window as we turn onto a paved road. I see the sign: DEERFIELD ROAD.
For a long time, we drive.
I watch the road signs, reading the names of the towns we are passing through. RESTON and ARLINGTON and WOODBRIDGE. I look at people in other cars, and I wonder if any of them can see the silent plea in my face. If any of them cared. A woman driver in the next lane glances at me, and for an instant our eyes meet. Then she turns her attention back to the road. What did she see, really? Just a redheaded girl in a black dress, going out for a good time. People see what they expect to see. It never occurs to them that terrible things can look pretty.
I begin to catch glimpses of water, a wide ribbon of it, in the distance. When the van finally stops, we are parked at a dock, where a large motor yacht is moored. I did not expect tonight’s party to be on a boat. The other girls are craning their necks to see it, curious about what this enormous yacht looks like inside. And a little afraid, too.
The Mother slides open the van door. “These are important men. You will all smile and be happy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” we murmur.
“Get out.”
As we scramble from the van, I hear Olena say, in a slurred voice, “Fuck yourself, Mother,” but no one else hears her.
Tottering on high heels, shivering in our dresses, we walk single file up the ramp and onto the boat. On the deck, a man stands waiting for us. Just by the way the Mother hurries forward to greet him, I know this man is important. He gives us a cursory glance, and nods in approval. Says in English, to the Mother: “Take them inside and get a few drinks in them. I want them in the mood when our guests arrive.”
“Yes, Mr. Desmond.”
The man’s gaze pauses on Olena, who is swaying unsteadily near the railing. “Is that one going to cause us trouble again?”
“She took the pills. She’ll be quiet.”
“Well, she’d better be. I don’t want her acting up tonight.”
“Go,” the Mother directs us. “Inside.”
We step through the doorway into the cabin, and I am dazzled by my first glimpse. A crystal chandelier sparkles over our heads. I see dark wood paneling, couches of cream-colored suede. A bartender pops open a bottle, and a waiter in a white jacket brings us flutes of champagne.
“Drink,” the Mother says. “Find a place to sit and be happy.”
We each take a flute and spread out around the cabin. Olena sits on the couch beside me, sipping champagne, crossing her long legs so that the top of her thigh peeks out through the slit.
“I’m watching you,” the Mother warns Olena in Russian.
Olena shrugs. “So does everyone else.”
The bartender announces: “They’re here.”
The Mother gives Olena one last threatening look, then retreats through a doorway.
“See how she has to hide her fat face?” Olena says. “No one wants to look at her.”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t get us into trouble.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my darling little Mila, we are already in trouble.”
We hear laughter, and hearty greetings between colleagues. Americans. The cabin door opens and all the girls snap straight and smile as four men walk in. One is the host, Mr. Desmond, who met us on the deck. His three guests are all men, all nicely dressed in suits and ties. Two of them are young and fit, men who walk with the confident grace of athletes. But the third man is older, as old as my grandfather and far heavier, with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair that is giving way to inevitable baldness. The guests gaze around the room, inspecting us with clear interest.
“I see you’ve brought in a few new ones,” the older man says.
“You should come by the house again, Carl. See what we have.” Mr. Desmond gestures toward the bar. “Something to drink, gentlemen?”
“Scotch would be good,” says the older man.
“And what about you, Phil? Richard?”
“Same for me.”
“That champagne will do nicely.”
The boat’s engines are now rumbling. I look out the window and see that we are moving, heading out into the river. At first the men do not join us. Instead they linger near the bar, sipping their drinks, talking only to one another. Olena and I understand English, but the other girls know only a little, and their mechanical smiles soon fade to looks of boredom. The men discuss business. I hear them talk about contracts and bids and road conditions and casualties. Who is vying for which contract and for how much. This is the real reason for the party; business first, then fun. They finish their drinks, and the bartender pours another round. A few final pleasantries before they fuck the whores. I see the glint of wedding rings on the hands of the three guests, and I picture these men making love to their wives in big beds with clean sheets. Wives who have no idea what their husbands do, in other beds, to girls like me.
Even now, the men glance our way, and my hands begin to sweat, anticipating the evening’s ordeal. The older one keeps looking toward Olena.