‘I don’t know what’s in it.’
‘So if it’s rat poison you’d like me to find out first?’
‘Exactly,’ she said.
Lock put the bread back down on the tray.
‘You don’t think about these things,’ Mareta observed with a sneer.
She was right. Lock hadn’t.
She picked the bread back off the tray, tore off a hunk and handed it to Lock. ‘They didn’t bring me here to poison me. But there could be something in it to make us sleep.’
‘So why do you still want me to taste it?’
‘You’ll see.’
Lock took the bread and popped it in his mouth. As he chewed tentatively, it turned sweet in his mouth. He swallowed. Took a tiny sip of orange juice to wash it down. It tasted funky. He poured the rest of the juice into the tray compartment. A gritty residue floated at the bottom. He swirled it round with one finger.
‘They could at least have sprung for some Rohypnol. Least that dissolves.’
He sat on the floor, his head resting against the cold concrete.
‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ Lock asked her, the question designed to kickstart some more conversation and stave off the frustration that he could feel creeping into his bones.
‘You’re not interested.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. I mean, I’m presuming you weren’t
‘You want to know why I cut the head off Anya Versokovich?’
Lock shrugged.
‘I did it because. . she was there.’
Lock was feeling tired, more likely as a result of the hectic week he’d had and the after-effects of repeated adrenalin dumps than anything surging through his bloodstream from the tiny sip of juice. ‘That’s it? That’s your big reason for beheading the Bolshoi’s prima ballerina?’
‘It’s the same reason the Russians gave me.’
‘Gave you for what?’
‘What they did to me. You want me to tell you?’
Lock laid his head back against the wall of the cell and closed his eyes. ‘Sure.’
‘You know of my dead husband?’
‘I know of his reputation.’
‘I was bathing my two children when they came. My son was four. My daughter was three. When the commander of the Russians couldn’t find my husband, he left two of his soldiers in the room with us. He didn’t want anyone to say later that he was there.’
With a grim predictability, Mareta went on. Lock kept his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be looking at her as she finished her story.
‘While one of the soldiers raped me, the other put a knife to my children’s throat. Forced them to watch. When the first man was finished, the other took his turn. Then they tied my hands behind my back and made me watch. They drowned my son first. And then his sister. Afterwards, I was taken downstairs to speak to the commander. My husband had killed Russians, but what had I done? So I asked him, “Why did you do this?” And he told me, “Because you were here.”’
Lock opened his eyes. Mareta’s face was set. Expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed any feeling. His voice broke a little as he spoke. ‘What happened after that?’
‘They left me, but I followed.’
‘You killed them?’
‘Every last one.’
‘So where does it end, Mareta?’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘You know there’s no way out this time.’
‘There’s always a way out,’ she said, staring off into the middle distance.
‘Always?’
‘Death is a way out.’
‘True, but what I don’t understand is how come you were always the only one to make it out before?’
‘It’s simple. The harder someone looks, the less they see.’
More riddles. ‘And what does that mean?’
‘When they look high, I stay low. They look low, I stay high.’
‘You want to try it in English?’
The same wafer of a smile. ‘You’ll work it out.’
Fifty-six
‘Why don’t we just roll a grenade in there, frag the whole lot and let God do the sorting?’ Brand asked.
Stafford rounded on him. ‘Because twelve’s the clinical minimum for Phase One.’
‘So we find one other person,’ Brand countered.
‘And where do you suggest we do that, Colonel? Craigslist?’ Stafford pointed a finger at the blank screen. ‘Take me down there. I’ll talk to them.’
Brand snorted. ‘She doesn’t speak English, and there’s no way Lock’s dumb enough to walk out of there with us waiting for him. Don’t have time to starve them out either.’
‘Then we’ll find some other way.’
Brand shrugged as Stafford marched out of the control room. ‘Can’t wait to see that.’
‘Bring your weapon with you,’ Stafford called back as he strode ahead.
‘Firearms aren’t allowed in the accommodation block,’ Brand reminded him, grabbing his Glock and following him down the corridor.
‘Make an exception.’
‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘They have a knife. You said so yourself.’
‘And what if they get hold of a gun?’
‘It won’t come to that.’
A few minutes later they arrived at the door of Mareta’s cell. Brand stood one side of the door, Stafford on the other.
‘Give me your weapon,’ Stafford said.
Brand unholstered the Glock, pulled back the slide to chamber a round, and handed it, handle first, to Stafford.
‘You’re not going in there, are you?’
‘No,’ said Stafford, taking the Glock and pointing it at his head of security. ‘You are.’
Brand kept cool. ‘You don’t have it in you.’
‘Had it in me when I killed Stokes,’ Stafford said. ‘That was different. Everything was set up for you. All you had to do was pull the trigger.’
The pad of Stafford’s index finger bulged as he applied pressure to the trigger. ‘Which makes it different how?’
Brand raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK.’
‘Look at it this way,’ said Stafford. ‘You were always telling me how Lock was a grandstander and you were the real deal. Now’s your chance to prove it.’
