Now Carver knew what the man on the couch was holding.
Zhukovski continued, 'This belt is used by American authorities to restrain violent prisoners but has recently been condemned as a torture device by those feeble-minded liberals at Amnesty International. They object to the total physical incapacity induced by such a massive shock, along with agonizing pain, brain trauma, and even incontinence. For my purposes, those all seem like recommendations.'
Carver looked down at the black band that encircled him. 'Ouch,' he said, drily. 'I'm sure it hurts. But here's something you should know. I have taken a copy of the computer hard drive, just as you anticipated. I have also recorded a full video confession, admitting to my part in the death of the Princess of Wales. You have a starring role. And if I'm not safe and sound tomorrow morning, every major media outlet in the Western world is going to get copies of both.'
Zhukovski frowned, as if genuinely puzzled by such misguided threats. 'And this, you think, will protect you? Please, use your intelligence. How many fake confessions do you suppose have flooded into TV stations and newspapers over the past few days? Every crank in the world wants his moment of glory. As for computer disks and conspiracy theories, there are already hundreds of those. No one will pay any attention. They will simply throw your disk and your video confession into the trash, along with all the rest.
'Okay, we have dealt with that, I think. Now let me introduce you to my staff. They will, I hope, be making your short stay here as uncomfortable as possible. Mr. Kursk, of course, you have met. So now…' Like a lead singer introducing his less-important bandmates, Zhukovski pointed to the emaciated figure with the punky red hair. 'That is Mr. Titov. I must say, you made a very great mess of his face. He has the control for your belt, as you may have noticed.'
The round-faced man with the sullen lips, his nose now hidden behind bandages, came next. 'Mr. Rutsev,' said Zhukovski. 'And finally'-he gestured toward a tough looking, short-cropped man whose crude features had not been improved by being head-butted in a Geneva bar-'Mr. Dimitrov.'
The man gave an ironic bow. Carver nodded back.
'Of course,' Zhukovski continued, 'I have saved the best till last.'
He looked up at the one person Carver had been trying to will away, the lovely figure perched against the arm of Zhukovski's chair, running her shiny crimson fingernails through his hair and sighing with satisfaction as he ran his hand down her bare thigh.
Yuri Zhukovski smiled at Samuel Carver and said, 'I believe you've met my mistress.'
76
He should have been angry. He wished he could be.
Alix looked as though she had been sprayed with money. Her hair had been miraculously restored to a honey blond mane that tumbled around her bare shoulders. Her skin seemed to glow golden brown. Her lips were a liquid red. There were diamonds glittering on her earlobes and in the bangles around her wrists. Her high-heeled black boots clung to her calves as tightly and smoothly as stockings.
The dress she was wearing was little more than a sliver of glittering, semitransparent material, like featherlight chain mail, that hung from her neck and fell to a point between her upper thighs. The firelight sparkled off the shimmering fabric as it stroked her breasts and stomach. It was clear that she had nothing on underneath. When she half-turned to whisper and giggle in Zhukovski's ear, giving a quick, mocking glance in Carver's direction as she bent down, her eyes flicking up and down his body like a lion tamer's whip, he could see that the dress left her back completely bare before flirting with her naked buttocks in a whisper of silver.
So this, at last, was the true Alexandra Petrova, a courtesan, a professional, a valuable possession to be pampered, petted, and then used by her owner exactly as he desired. Carver's throat tightened as he choked on his humiliation. The last pillar of his faith had been kicked away. There was nothing left now. The love that was supposed to redeem him had been revealed to be nothing at all.
Yes, he should have been angry. Fury would at least give him energy. But as he stood before her, stripped of all dignity, the emotion that filled him was forgiveness. Some last vestige of self-delusion forbade him from blaming Alix. It told him that this was not her fault, that the haughty prostitute who stood before him was not the real woman he had loved, but a false identity. He tried to give himself reasons not to believe the evidence of his own eyes and ears. And as he did so, he understood, for the first time in his life, what it meant to give oneself utterly to another human being, to lose one's own identity in theirs.
Be that as it may, he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing him grovel. He pulled back his shoulders, lifted his head, and asked Zhukovski, 'How's the land mine trade? Any more business since Sunday?'
Zhukovski nodded. 'So you worked it out. Now I have a request to make of you.'
He leaned forward in his chair.
'Apologize, please.'
'Oh yeah?' said Carver. 'Why should I do that?'
'You have caused me a great deal of trouble. But we can get to that later. First, I insist that you apologize to Miss Petrova. You forced her to endure your crude attempts at making love. Even worse, you bored her. Now you should say 'sorry.'' He turned his head to look at Alix. 'Don't you agree, my dear?'
'Absolutely,' she said, then closed her eyes and gave a shiver of disgust that made her dress sparkle with every tremor.
Carver looked at her sadly. 'You're better than that,' he said. 'I know you are.'
For a fraction of a second he thought he saw a shadow of remorse-or was it pity?-cloud her eyes. Then she blinked, and when her eyes opened they were stony again, communicating nothing but disdain.
'Make him apologize,' she said. 'I would like that very much.'
Carver did not move.
Zhukovski nodded.
Titov smirked at Carver, then pressed a round white button on the black box in his hands.
The shock made every nerve scream in pain, jerking his body like an epileptic marionette, rocking his head from side to side and ripping an animal howl of pain from his throat.
Titov kept his thumb on the button. One second… two… three.
Unable to maintain his balance or control his limbs, Carver dropped to the floor, his fall barely broken by his tethered hands. He lay there writhing helplessly, his wrists and ankles tugging and scraping against their shackles, drawing blood. He was utterly controlled by the electric commands ripping through his central nervous system. His body was slippery with sweat. His heart was pounding. He was about to black out.
Then, at last, Zhukovski nodded again and Titov lifted his finger from the button. The current stopped flowing and Carver's body flopped into blissful immobility.
Gradually, his pulse slowed. Carver lay immobile on the floor, while his Russian audience compared notes on his involuntary performance, the men jigging about on the couch and hooting with laughter as they mimicked him thrashing about. Then he gathered his breath and slowly, painfully, pulled his knees up behind him, so that he was sitting on his haunches, with his head on the ground, like a peasant prostrate before an emperor. It took him a few more seconds to gather his strength, and more seconds still before he could drag himself half upright and kneeling.
His fall had brought him closer to Zhukovski and Alix. They were only a few feet away now. His eyes were almost level with her breasts. With every breath he was bathed in her heady, spicy scent. His eyes were filled with the silver light dancing across her body. Even now, after everything that had happened, he was overwhelmed by desire, torn apart by longing for her.
'Apologize' said Zhukovski. 'Kiss her feet and beg for forgiveness.'
Carver looked up, searching Alix's eyes for some sign of hope, some recognition that he had not been utterly deceived.
'You don't want this,' he said.
'I do,' she replied. Her voice was steady and cool, leaving no room for doubt.
He barely heard when Zhukvoski repeated the single word 'Apologize,' or noticed when he nodded again to
