Titov.
As he endured that second electric whipping, it seemed to Carver that it was a voice other than his that screamed so loudly, another body that flopped and twisted so spastically. When the current stopped and he opened his eyes, he saw he was lying right at Alix's feet. He did not need to get to his knees again. Once the power to move had returned, he could wriggle forward on his stomach, his pulse still racing, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, the sweat dripping from his body. He could stretch his neck so that his lips kissed the shining black leather as he whispered, 'I'm sorry.' But whether he was apologizing to her, or simply to himself he really couldn't tell.
Alix gave a flick of her foot, kicking his face away from her. Carver lay motionless, facedown on the rug, the gross physicality of his naked body a stark contrast to the intricate delicacy of the rug's swirling, intersecting patterns.
Then she said a few words in Russian to Zhukovski. The Russian got off his chair, settled on his haunches, and grabbed Carver's face, lifting it so that the two men were looking into each other's eyes.
'Let me translate,' said Zhukovski. 'Alexandra says you disgust her. She says she wishes to leave the room before the sight of you makes her physically sick.'
He paused for a moment as Alix turned on a four-inch heel and stalked from the room.
'Take a good look, Mr Carver. You will never see her again.'
'I won't be missing much,' he croaked. His mouth was parchment-dry, his throat scarred by the force of his screams.
Zhukovski let go of his head, which flopped back down on the carpet. 'Come now, you don't really mean that. Even now, after she has reduced you to this pitiful state, you would crawl after her if you could, begging her to take you back.'
Carver didn't reply. He was too busy trying to get back up on his feet. Paying painstaking attention to every movement, he made his way from his belly to his knees. He put one foot flat on the floor, then the other. He drew himself up until he was standing to attention in front of Zhukovski, who had returned to his chair and was watching the spectacle with amused interest. Carver swayed slightly, grinding his teeth as he struggled for his balance and his dignity. His cuffed hands were held down in front of him, pathetically preserving his modesty.
Zhukovski gave three slow, deliberate claps.
'Congratulations,' he said. 'That was done like a true soldier. But my point remains. The woman has destroyed you. You fought my best man, Kursk, to a standstill. You overcame three of his subordinates-look at the mess you made of Titov here. You killed Trench and most of his men. But Alexandra brought you to your knees.'
Still Carver said nothing. It was taking all his concentration just to remain upright. Zhukovski watched his striving, then spoke a few words to Titov, who at once picked up an ornately carved wooden chair, heavily decorated with gold leaf, and placed it behind Carver.
'Sit down,' said Zhukovski. 'Relax. I would be interested to hear your side of the story.'
He issued another order to Titov, who walked around to Zhukovski's chair and handed his master the small black box.
Carver found himself staring at the omnipotent white button. Zhukovski caught his eye. Carver's guts tightened as his system flooded with cortisol, the stress hormone, the anticipator of pain and bringer of fear. He swallowed hard. His armpits prickled.
Zhukovski smiled, then pressed the button, holding it for a single second, just enough to power another jolt through Carver's body that picked him right off the chair, yelping like a wounded dog, and set him back down again with an impact that almost sent him toppling backward to the floor. Titov gave a gleeful cackle of delight and directed a sharp volley of Russian profanities in Carver's direction. Zhukovski nodded contentedly.
'Well, we've established that this keeps you under control,' he said. 'We can talk alone, just the two of us.'
His men were dismissed with a wave of Zhukovski's hand. On his way from the room, Titov stopped by Carver's chair, looked at him for a second, and smacked a right-handed haymaker into the side of Carver's face.
The punch wasn't as powerful as it might have been. Titov had to hit downward to reach his seated target and Carver was able to twist his head, deflecting some of the impact. So he was stunned, rather than knocked out cold; his jawbone was cracked, not shattered. But the pain was just as bad. As Titov left the room, happily rubbing his bruised knuckles, Carver twisted and rotated his head, trying to clear his brain. His mouth was filled with blood from his shredded cheek and battered gums. His tongue gingerly probed his teeth. A couple of molars felt as loose as baby teeth.
Suddenly, without any warning, his body shook with a tremor that seized him from head to toe-an unwanted reminder of his earlier convulsions, like the aftershock that follows an earthquake.
'Titov has never had much self-control,' mused Zhukovski, ignoring Carver as he squirmed and shivered. 'So far as he is concerned, that is just an opening skirmish. He will want a lot more satisfaction before his score is settled. And I agree with him. I too have not finished with you. I want you to understand about Alexandra, that you never meant anything to her at all. So let me tell you about the real woman, not your fantasy lover.'
He got up from his chair and moved to a sideboard on which bottles and glasses were arrayed. There he poured himself a glass of vodka, neat, and returned to his chair.
'It was my wife, Olga, who discovered her, you know, at a Komsomol gathering. She was just a slip of a girl from the provinces-Kirov, if I recall…'
'Not Kirov,' said Carver. 'It was…' He frowned. He knew where Alix had lived as a child. The name was on the tip of his tongue. But for the life of him he couldn't recall it.
Zhukovski shrugged indifferently. 'I do not really care where it was. What was obvious from the moment Olga brought her to my attention was that this was a girl of astonishing capacities. Her eyes were crazy, of course…'
'She told me,' said Carver. That much he did remember.
'Her teeth too. Did she tell you that? We had to fix those. But the rest was all Alexandra.'
He put his vodka on a side table to the right of his chair, taking the time to compose his thoughts.
'It was her hunger that struck me most,' Zhukovski continued. 'She was hungry for a better life, hungry for experience, and, yes, hungry for sex. Every atom of that girl was female, yet she had a masculine desire for sexual conquest. There was no form of pleasure she would not explore. And then, as the duckling turned into a swan and for the first time in her life she became aware of her powers of attraction, she acquired a hunger for power. Perhaps she wished for revenge on all the boys who had spurned and mocked her, who can say? But she used her power over men like an empress. Some girls had to be persuaded, even forced, to put their bodies at the service of the motherland. Not Alexandra. She gloried in it.'
'What did she do afterward, when the wall came down?' Carver asked. He was starting to gather his senses now, the pain of his electrocution was fading, his body was back under control. He could sit still in his chair without twitching like an impatient schoolboy.
'You see,' Zhukovski said with a smile, nodding in satisfaction that he had been proved right, 'you could not resist. You still want to know everything about her. Well, I will tell you. I left the committee for State security-what you would call the KGB-preferring to pursue my interests in private enterprise. Alexandra came with me.'
'You were her pimp?'
'Is that what she told you? I will have words with her about that. No, I kept her for my own use. As I have already told you, she is my mistress.'
'So why would you send your little pet on a suicide mission to Paris?'
'Because it was not a suicide mission. My orders to Wake were clear. His chosen assassin had to die. That was you, of course. I could not trust a man I did not know. But I had no intention of losing two of my most valued people. It was the English who decided to kill them as well.'
Carver grimaced. 'But Alix… why send her?'
Zhukovski shrugged. 'Because she was bored. She had started complaining that she had nothing to do all day except shop, eat lunch, and go to beauty salons. I told her that every other woman in Russia would kill to have her life. But she was not convinced. She said she wanted to work in my organization…'
'And you believed her?'
'I believed that she was bored. And I knew that a woman who feels like that will soon cause trouble. She gets drunk in public, or she screws her tennis coach. So I thought, okay, this is a simple job. All she has to do is sit on a
