Darkness before the Dawn (14 page)

What do I want from her?
Randall asked himself as he moved down the three flights of stairs in the depressing Gemansk Grande Hotel. A good question, but one that he didn’t have an answer to.

He wanted to see the shadow of fear lifted from those remarkable aquamarine eyes. He wanted her smiling up at him
the way she had six years ago with the trust and love that for some masochistic reason he’d destroyed.

He could have told her what had happened. He could have found her in New York and tried to explain. But he’d rebelled against that, had been unwilling to make excuses for himself when she should have taken him on trust, should have known that the decision he’d made had been inevitable. When he’d finally laughed at his own egocentricity and demanded complete faith while offering nothing in return, and when he’d finally accepted the fact that his need for her overshadowed his ego and his overweening pride, it had been too late. She’d been married to her first husband, a useless little wimp. He’d known it wouldn’t last, and he’d bided his time. He waited and waited and waited, and finally his time had come. He had her alone, and yet like some goddamned fool he kept driving her away.

Leopold was waiting in the Fiat, and he whistled as the Gemansk variant of a pretty girl walked by. Once more, Randall felt a clean sweep of relief that Vasili hadn’t died. Enough people were on his conscience already; it was a blessed joy to offload at least one soul.

Leopold looked up and waved at him, his broad mouth creased in a friendly grin. Randall stepped out into the Gemansk sunlight. What did he want from Maggie? What he didn’t deserve and would never own.

Just her body and heart and soul.

Maggie peered out the grimy window into the industrial daylight of Gemansk. The tiny white Fiat roared off into traffic, out of sight.

It was all ridiculously simple. Red Glove Films was listed in the thin, tissuelike phone directory. Maggie stripped off her crumpled suit and high heels and replaced them with an anonymous pair of jeans, an oversize shirt, and her Nikes. She could blend in with anyone, and her clothes wouldn’t interfere if she had to run for it.

She’d be back in the room before Randall returned, and if
he didn’t like the fact that his unwanted partner had bested him, that was too damned bad. She’d gotten too used to relying on herself the last few years—she wasn’t about to start being passive now, particularly with Randall. If she wasn’t very careful, he would swallow her up, leaving her empty and hollow and hopelessly dependent.

No, she was going to make a move herself. And then she’d wait for him with the name of the intermediaries between Red Glove Films and Stoneham Studios, and she’d snap her fingers at his disapproval.

That thought made a broad grin light her face as she let herself out of the hotel room. The delightful fantasy kept her cheerful as she walked straight into the arms of the secret police.

There were times, Maggie thought, when her own idiocy and gullibility amazed her. As if life could be so simple, she mocked herself, searching for a comfortable position in the dark sedan that was carrying her through the city. No comfortable position seemed possible with her wrists handcuffed behind her back. She leaned back against the seat and shut her eyes for a brief moment, ignoring the dark figure beside her.

How could she have been so stupid? The taxi that pulled up in front of her when she left the dubious security of the Gemansk Grande was just a little too convenient, the driver a little too military, his assurance that he knew how to get to the offices of Red Glove Films just a little too pat. They’d traveled three blocks when he’d pulled over and two men had joined them in the taxi, one in the front, one beside her. The man in the front wore a uniform and carried formidable weapons, the man beside her was in plainclothes.

There’d been a brief, nasty battle, one that had ended with the handcuffs on her wrists and a large welt on her captor’s face. And then she was shoved into a corner as the taxi took off down the street.

She listened to the man beside her regain his temper and his breathing, and she spared a brief glance for his profile. There was a wide red welt against his pale, pasty skin, and his small dark eyes looked like raisins in a suet pudding. He took a deep, calming breath and turned to meet her gaze. His wide, almost casual grin was oddly, horrifically familiar in the dank interior of the taxi.

“So rude, Miss Bennett,” he chided. “When all we wanted to do was give you a proper welcome on your return to Gemansk. You left too abruptly six years ago—and we were delighted you saw fit to visit us once more.”

Maggie just stared at him, at the face she knew but had forgotten along the way. “I believe you have the advantage of me,” she said politely. “In more ways than one. Have we met?”

The man beside her laughed in surprise and admiration. “You Americans. Always so brave. My name is Miroslav Wadjowska. I am second commandant of what you call the secret police. Welcome to Gemansk.”

Maggie inclined her head regally. “You’ve been promoted since last we met, Mr. Wadjowska. Six years ago you were a visa clerk.”

He smiled. “Six years ago I was third commandant of the secret police. You and your friend underestimated us—we knew what you were doing back then.”

“Then why did you let us escape?”

A shadow crossed Miroslav’s face. “A mistake, I’ll grant you.”

“Just one? Randall and I got out separately,” she said.

His face darkened further. “Two mistakes. My men were so intent on catching that little traitor Vasili Baskinski that they let you cross the border and escape our reach.”

“And Randall?”

“Another error, and this one, I must confess, was mine. Any normal man would have been unable to move after the interrogation he got. My men are known for their efficiency, and most people, if they survived at all, wouldn’t have been conscious for days. Your friend is just a bit inhuman.”

Maggie thought back to Randall’s enigmatic face and managed a grin. “He can be.”

“You aren’t wise to remind us of failures, Miss Bennett. It will only make us more determined not to fail again.”

She sighed. “My dear Mr. Wadjowska, what ever gave you the impression that I was wise? Anyone with any claim to
wisdom wouldn’t have walked into this little trap. Especially since you were kind enough to warn us by sending my old purse along.”

He grinned, showing blackened teeth. “It was stupid of you,” he agreed. “But no matter how clever you’d been, we would have caught you. The reappearance of your purse was a minor touch to frighten you into making just such a foolish move. We were planning to visit your hotel room the moment your friend and Vasili’s brother returned.”

“Friend? Vasili’s brother?” Maggie questioned innocently.

Miroslav Wadjowska reached over with deceptive ease and slapped her across the face. He was left-handed, and his knuckles slammed into her left cheekbone with stinging force. She blinked for a moment as involuntary tears of pain filled her eyes, but she forced her face into impassivity.

“You’ve been watched since your arrival. We saw Leopold meet you at the airport, though we did lose you somewhere between the airport and the city. We know that Leopold has followed in his brother’s traitorous footsteps. We know that the two of them have gone off somewhere.”

“You don’t know where?” Maggie read the frustration beneath his bragging tone. “I thought you didn’t plan to make mistakes this time.”

Another slap, this one more forceful, and her lip was cut against her teeth. “It is only a very small mistake,” he said softly. “And they will come after you, I have no doubt of that at all. Carter already gave us Vasili to save your life. I doubt he will hesitate a second time.”

“Maybe,” she said. “It depends on what you want from him.”

“The same that I want from you. We want to know what you are doing here and what you want with Red Glove Films.”

Maggie shrugged and tasted the blood on her lips. “We’re here on vacation. We fell in love in Gemansk six years ago, and we suddenly got sentimental to see it again and recapture the old magic.” She eyed Miroslav’s hand warily, wanting to
prepare herself for the next blow. His fingers twitched, but he made no move.

“And what did Red Glove Films have to do with it? They’ve only been in existence for less than a year—surely they weren’t part of your sentimental journey?”

“I heard they had great pornography. Our love life has gotten a little stale lately, and”—the slap shut her mouth for a moment, but only for a moment, as her eyes met his with undaunted courage—“and I thought Randall might like to see some Eastern European sex.”

The last blow had hurt Miroslav, and he leaned back, rubbing his wrist. “I think, Miss Bennett, that I personally will indulge your interest in Eastern European sex. Or certain unpleasant variations of it. Now tell me your real interest in Red Glove Films.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an actress, and I thought I might get my big break in Gemansk.” She steeled herself for another blow, but this time it failed to come. Her face felt raw and swollen and stung with pain, but she was damned if she was going to cower before the bully beside her.

Miroslav Wadjowska smiled as he leaned back against the seat. “You will get your big break in Gemansk, Miss Bennett. That I will promise you.” He spoke to the driver in his native language, one that was incomprehensible to Maggie. The driver and his companion laughed, and Maggie felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. “Relax,” he said to her, and his lips were thick and pink and wet. “You have at least an hour before I can devote my full attention to you.”

She looked at him out of calm, emotionless eyes. Randall had been tortured and Randall had survived, had even managed to escape. If she couldn’t manage such a feat, if she turned out not to be the superwoman her family had taunted her with, at least she would take it with dignity.

She did her best to keep all her senses alert as they made their way through the twisting, unkempt streets of Gemansk. The stolid gray building looked vaguely familiar to Maggie as they drove into the underground parking garage, which
looked like a dungeon. The hands that pushed her out of the car and through the subterranean passages were rough, but she forced herself to endure the indignities with an expressionless face worthy of Randall at his most distant. She’d keep that thought in mind, she told herself: no matter what they did to her, she’d let her face be blank and uncaring. Like Randall’s.

Miroslav left her in a corner room. There were windows set high in the walls, beyond her reach, and nothing but a spindly chair and a table in the room. In a sudden, unexpected gesture, he unfastened her handcuffs and stuffed them into his pocket. His hand gently brushed her face. It was a small, squat hand with short fingers and dirty fingernails, and it caressed her bruised and swollen face.

“Such a shame to have to bruise you,” he murmured, licking his thick pink lips. “I want you to think about it, Miss Bennett. I can bruise you in many worse places if you don’t cooperate. And I will find out what I want to know sooner or later. There is no need for you to be a heroine. No one expects it of you.”

Maggie considered him for a moment. “I expect it of myself,” she said finally in a light, determined voice.

He sighed, and his fingers caught the tender flesh of her bruised cheek and twisted it sharply. “You will learn,” he said, “and soon.” And he left her alone in the little room.

At least it wasn’t dark. With a weary sigh, she sank down into the spindly chair and surveyed her hands. Rock steady, she noticed with pride, despite the abraded wrists. She could just imagine the state of her face. Her mouth stung, her head ached, and her palms were sweating. Try as she might to deny it, she was terrified.

She gave herself a good five minutes to sit and feel sorry for herself. Then she tried the door, made certain he’d locked it, and hefted the table and carried it over to the corner beneath the windows. She set the chair on top of it and climbed up with a deft silence that pleased her enough to add to her
courage. She could reach the small, rectangular windows, but they were locked.

The glass was smoked, and there was no way she could tell what was on the other side. Possibly armed guards, or one of the main streets of Gemansk, or just an empty field. And even if she could manage to break it, was there any guarantee that her strong, almost-six-foot-tall body would be able to squeeze through the narrow opening?

She had no other choice but to try. Sooner or later, Miroslav was going to come back, and with her luck he wouldn’t come alone. Being beaten was something she could face; being tortured was less appealing; but being gang-raped was downright unacceptable. She was going to get out of that room or die trying.

She looked back around the barren room. The spindly chair that just barely held her weight would most likely crumble if she used it to break the window, and then she’d have no way of reaching the aperture. The best she could do was slip off one of her Nikes and use it as protection for her fist.

Damn! Why hadn’t she added karate to all the other forms of physical fitness she’d practiced during the past two years? Her body was perfectly fit, lean and strong, but it was not experienced in breaking bricks, two-by-fours, or smoked-glass windows. She slammed her sneaker-covered hand against the glass, then swallowed the moan of pain as it bounced back off. The force of it nearly threw her off the chair.

Didn’t it have something to do with concentration? Sending your mind through the barrier ahead of your fist, or something like that? But how could she concentrate when her face was throbbing, her fist was likely broken, and the sound of footsteps and voices passing through the corridor outside her prison brought panic closer and closer?

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep, steadying breath. She flexed her aching hand within the dubious protection of the shoe, then sighed, accepting the inevitable. She slipped the shoe back onto her foot, formed a fist, and slammed it against the smoked glass.

It shattered around her hand. Maggie stared at it with amazement that almost overrode the pain in her fist. Slowly, carefully she picked the shards of glass out of the way and undid the lock. There were cuts on her hand, long scratches, but they looked worse than they were. They’d stop bleeding shortly, she knew, and they wouldn’t leave a trail of blood for the secret police to follow. She opened the broken window and stuck her head out.

It was a parking lot, full of dusty black sedans. And in the far corner, there was one blessedly white Fiat with two figures conferring in the front seat.

She was halfway out the window before Randall and Leopold saw her, and her curses at their obtuseness helped her gloss over the pain in her hand. By the time they reached her, her hips had stuck in the narrow opening. The two of them grabbed her arms and hauled her out with more force than care.

She fell against Randall, her face landing against his chest, and she let out a small moan of pain—a moan he didn’t hear beneath the steady curses he was heaping on her head as he half-dragged, half-carried her back to the Fiat.

“You may be a stupid idiot,” he was saying as he bundled her into the backseat, cramming her in with their piled suitcases, “but at least you’re a capable one. God knows how we would have gotten to you in that damned place. You’re just lucky Leopold had someone watching the hotel, or God knows when we would have found you.”

“You didn’t find me,” she snapped, her voice a little hazy with pain. “I got out myself.”

The car was dark in the gathering dusk as Leopold zoomed out of the parking lot and into the Gemansk twilight. It was too dark for Randall to see her battered face, too dark for her to do anything about the cuts on her hand. She leaned back in the corner, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. Jet lag and stress were taking their toll.

“Yes, you did,” he agreed doubtfully. “Where the hell did you think you were going?”

“To Red Glove Films.”

“Where do you think we were?”

“It would have made life a lot easier if you’d just taken me along,” she said wearily. “No, maybe it wouldn’t. They might have gotten all three of us.”

“You may be gullible enough to have fallen into their trap,” Randall said with just enough smugness to pull her out of her lassitude of pain and exhaustion, “but I’m not likely to make the same mistake.”

“Wanna bet?” Maggie snapped. “Do you know who picked me up? It was Miroslav Wadjowska. The same man you wanted me to sleep with in return for phony passports. And do you know who he works for? And who he worked for six years ago? The secret police, damn you. This whole thing has been a trap.”

“Maggie.” His hands reached out for her, but she slapped them away, wincing at the pain in her fist.

“Get your hands off me. I can take care of myself,” she said. “I have before, and I will again.”

“Shut up.” He pulled her into his arms and held her against his strong body as Leopold navigated the streets of Gemansk with speed and skill. She didn’t even bother to struggle.