World Without End (26 page)

"Stephen." Her voice was dry and hoarse. Weak.

Conway placed the box on top of the desk, walked over to her, and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, about to bring her close to him when he saw her wince. It was then that he noticed that her blond hair was tied behind her head, exposing the disfigured ear something she went to great lengths to hide, even from him.

Pasha caught him looking.

"It happened when I was fifteen. When I was living with my father," she said.

"My mother died giving birth to me."

Sharing was very unlike Pasha. Conway moved away from her, sat on the edge of the desk and waited.

"We were living in Donetsk," Pasha said. She placed her hands behind her back and then leaned her back against the wall, only a couple of feet away from him.

"My father owned a very successful jewelry store. We lived well not by American standards, mind you. I'm saying we always had fresh fruit and fresh meat. I didn't know my father was dealing in black-market items.

It was the only way to survive. I didn't know that then. Now, in Russia, everyone deals with the black market. But you already know such things, having studied the language and country while you were in college."

Conway found himself listening intently, not sure where she was going with this, not wanting to interrupt the flow of this rare, private moment.

"A very powerful head of the Mafiya, a vor z zakonye, came to my father's shop and told him to sell the business for some cheap sum of money. My father refused. The vor sent two of his henchmen to the house. A fat, smelly animal named Misha raped me on the kitchen table while my father sat in a chair with a gun pointed at his head.

My father never once tried to move, never cried out for it to stop."

Her voice was devoid of any feeling, as if this story was about some fictional character.

"I didn't blame him for it, or when he looked at me, disgusted. I actually forgave him. That may sound bizarre to you, but this man was my world. I depended on him for my survival."

Pasha's eyes were impossible to read.

"My father still refused to sell the business. Pride," she said, shaking her head.

"The next time Misha came, not only did he fuck me again in front of my father, when he was done, he placed my head on the wood stove and burnt my ear off." The final words came out dry, matter-of-factly.

"That's when I saw it in my father's eyes, that sense of relief," Pasha said.

"He was secretly hoping that they would kill me. I always sensed he blamed me for my mother's death, that he was angry that he had to support me. When I told him I was pregnant, he threw me out of the house. Standing out in the cold, I realized that I was totally alone, that I would have to take care of myself. It is what you would call a defining moment."

What do you say to something like this? Conway asked himself. Sorry?

He decided to say nothing.

"Aren't you going to ask me what happened to the baby?" she asked.

"What matters to me is that you're alive."

"I aborted it. The doctor didn't use sterilized equipment. I had a massive infection and almost died. I can never have kids." Conway heard what sounded like, what, a hint of regret?

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

Pasha looked out the window, her face dim in the light as her eyes searched downtown Austin.

"Misha's here in Austin," she said and looked back at him.

"Misha's the one who left you that package."

"How do you " "I saw him."

"Saw him? How?"

"All the rooms inside our condo have well-concealed surveillance cameras. Only two people have access to them. Myself and Raymond.

I've been watching you from here, in my office. I've had you under surveillance since you left the hospital. And to answer your next question, yes, I'm sure it was Misha. You don't forget someone like him. I know it sounds odd, him involved in this case after all these years, but it was him. Did you talk to Detective Rombardo?"

"He came to the hospital."

"I need to know what you told him."

"I've never met the guy before. I thought he might be connected with Angel Eyes. What do you think I told him?"

"But he told you he was with our group."

"Rombardo was missing some key facts."

"Like what?"

"For one, he thinks Bouchard is alive."

"He is."

"How do you " "I'll get to that later. Tell me more about your meeting with Rombardo."

"Rombardo said a fireman came inside the lab and picked me up off the floor. That was impossible. I was glued to the floor by this thick, rubbery foam the stuff Jonathan King developed. There's no way anyone could have come in and picked me up."

Pasha shook her head and sighed.

"The gray powder."

"What are you talking about?"

"When you were brought in, Rombardo confiscated your clothes and found a gray, powdery substance. He told me about it. I didn't know what it was. But from what you just told me, it must be the residue from the sticky foam. The heat from the fire must have broken the foam down.

Rombardo wasn't lying to you. He didn't know."

"Rombardo hasn't stopped by or called since that day at the hospital."

"That's because he's missing."

Conway felt a cold, hollow knocking inside his chest.

"Rombardo was supposed to report back to me after he saw you at the hospital. He never did," Pasha said.

"The Austin police are looking into his disappearance. Didn't you read today's paper?"

"No."

"Stephen, I need you to tell me what happened that day. All of it."

Conway pinched his temples between his thumb and middle finger and stared at the carpet for a moment. He was bone-tired, his eyes so exhausted they wanted to shut. What he needed was some time to process all of this, some time to sleep.

For the next hour, he explained to Pasha in detail everything that had happened that day. When he was done, she moved next to him and opened up the box top. Her hands moved over the tissue paper and then stopped.

"My guess is that it belongs to Dixon," Conway said.

Her Palm Pilot was clipped to her belt. Pasha removed it with one hand, the other reaching inside the box and coming back with the severed pinkie finger. She pressed the fingertip against the Palm's screen, holding it there for a moment, and then moved it away.

"It's Dixon's finger," Pasha said. She dropped the finger back inside the box.

"Have you viewed the CD?"

"Not yet."

Pasha grabbed the CD and limped her way inside the conference room.

Conway followed. The shades were drawn, the area almost completely black, but Pasha knew her way around. She fed the CD into the computer and then grabbed a remote control and turned on the wall-mounted TV. A light hiss of static on the small speakers as the CD started to play and then, bright and vivid on the flat-screen TV, came the recorded image of Major Dixon screaming.

Dixon is nude, leaning back in the kind of surgical chair found in a dentist's office. His legs are bound to the stirrups by leather straps; his arms are fastened to the chair's pale blue armrests and his hands dangle off the end, his fingers wriggling as if searching for the key that will unlock him from this nightmare. His boyish, haggard body is bathed in a spotlight so intense it makes his skin glow white.

From somewhere in the dungeon of gray walls comes the sound of heels clicking across the floor. Dixon wants to lift his head but can't; two leather straps one fastened across his forehead, the other around his neck have his head pinned against the headrest.

A small metal can with a stainless steel tray moves into the frame and is placed near Dixon's left hand. He tries to turn his head and can't, and then he struggles to free himself and can't because he is trapped.

His wild, frightened eyes are only able to see the shadows of the predators moving across the ceiling.

The camera lens pulls back, stops. Standing slightly behind Dixon's chair is a man dressed in black pants and a white tank top undershirt that swells with a hard, wide belly. The man's hands are thick and meaty with fingers like sausages, his brown forearms popping with veins and covered with coarse black hair. His face is out of view. He reaches out of the camera's lens and then starts plunking down surgical instruments on top of the can's stainless-steel table.

Clink, a scalpel.

Clink, a vial of clear fluid.

Clink, a meat cleaver.

Dixon can't see the tray or the instruments, but he can hear the clink-clink sound, and his imagination goes into overdrive. He has an idea what is coming. His eyes clamp shut and he starts sobbing, his thin, boyish body convulsing.

The man finishes plunking down the instruments and turns his body toward Dixon, his face still out of view. His left arm looks like a telephone pole; a panther and a dragon have been tattooed on the meat of his upper bicep.

"Dixon." The torturer's voice is Russian, deep, with a wheeze.

"That," Pasha said, "is Misha. I'd recognize that voice anywhere. And the tattoo. He's a veteran of the Gulag."

"Open your eyes and look at me," Misha says. His English is remarkable.

Dixon's eyes shoot wide open, as if God Himself has spoken.

"I told you what would happen if you lied to me, yes?"

"I haven't lied to you." Dixon's voice sounds like the rattle of china about to break.

"I've answered every question you had about the suit, about the cloaking technology, about Steve Conway " "Yes, I know you were being honest about Mr. Conway. How do I know this? I saw the hurt in your eyes. Don't blame yourself, Dix. Conway is a professional liar by trade. He uses people and throws them away like toilet paper."

Dixon closes his eyes again and clenches his teeth and mumbles something under his breath.

"Please," Misha says.

"Share."

"I hope he rots in hell." The words came out seething.

"He will. But to get there, he'll have to pass through me first,"

Misha says.

"Back to business: I have questions that need answers. You're tired, I'll give you a practice one to get you in the mood. What hand do you write with?"

"My right."

"Good. See, that was easy. Now for the second question. As you know, the wrist-mounted computer on the suit engages the cloaking technology.

The computer is asking for a key or a password. Without the password, the suit won't work."

"I already gave it to you."

"It doesn't work. The new version of the software you told us to download into the combat suit, it was encrypted."

Dixon's mouth opens, shuts, and opens again, as if swallowing words.

"But I didn't encrypt it. It must have been Randy. He booted us off the servers and when you brought him into the lab he must have encrypted the software. Find Randy and ask him. He'll know the code."

A long pause follows. Then Misha leans forward and grabs Dixon's left hand and pins it against the steel tray. Dixon tries to move his hand away and can't. It's pinned against the tray, wiggling, like a fish impaled on a spear.

"I swear to God I didn't encrypt the software, I don't know anything about it!" Dixon screams.

"If I had it I would give it to you, please oh dear Jesus, please, you've got to believe me!"

Misha's other hand, his right, grabs the meat cleaver. Dixon is staring at the ceiling, eyes wide in terror. His mouth is working but no sound comes out.

The Russian's fingers tighten around the cleaver's handle, the muscles in his forearms flexing, he is raising the cleaver slowly, up past Dixon's eyes, Dixon is shaking his head, no, please no.

"Last time, Dix: What is the decryption key?"

"Please. Please. I'm begging you. Please listen to NO!"

The cleaver comes down, who mp and chops off Dixon's pinkie finger.

Blood sprays against Misha's white tank top. Dixon's eyes bulge and then roll back up to the ceiling, his body convulsing against the straps, spittle flying out of his mouth as he roars with pain.

"What is the decryption key?" Misha screams, rising the cleaver again.

The cleaver came down again and Conway jerked his head away from the screen. Behind him came the sound of the cleaver striking against the metal, who mp followed by a fresh roar of pain.

"Don't worry, Dix, I won't let you bleed to death. Now just hold still why I seal those stumps for you with my blowtorch," Misha says.

Pasha shut the monitor off. The screen went dark and with the shades drawn the conference room plunged back into darkness. She stared at the screen, her face as remote and cold as a stone soldier overlooking a field of graves. In the silence Conway could still hear Dixon's screaming, could still see the terror in his eyes.

Conway couldn't stand still; it was like his whole body was vibrating.

He started pacing.

Pasha said, "How did you manage to encrypt the software?"

"I didn't. It had to have been Randy."

"So you don't know the decryption code."

"I know the one Dixon does."

"Which appears to be incorrect."

"My guess is that when they had Randy bring the server back online, they made him finish the software download. That must have been when he changed the decryption key."

"You said Randy told you something inside the lab."

"I remember Randy saying the word mittens."

"Maybe that's the decryption code."

"Or maybe Randy was delirious." Conway thought back to that moment. It was still hazy. The more he tried to concentrate, the hazier it got.

The events of that day were hiding, being stubborn, refusing to come out and show themselves.