There were times when Alexander Molokov blurred the lines between work and pleasure. Work was getting a particularly stubborn resistance fighter to give up the names of her friends. Pleasure was breaking her mentally beyond recognition and letting her go free, separate from anyone she knew or loved, to see how long she could survive. (Incidentally, she stepped off the roof of a rather tall building four months later.) Work was executing agents who betrayed their country. Pleasure was doing so with great precision and grace.
Work was speaking to Florence Vassey, making sure she knew (and would tell Anatoly) what was at stake if Anatoly did not return to the Soviet Union. Pleasure was fucking with the bitch's head in the process.
"Miss Vassey," he said politely, standing as Florence entered his suite. She looked jumpy, like she expected him to pull a gun on her, or knock her out and take her to Russia. Of course, hearing from him now, when she and Anatoly were vacationing in Brighton... it was bound to unsettle her. And that was, of course, part of the reason he'd contacted her now. He smiled slowly, a rather emotionless smile – there was a predatory glint in his eyes, though. "Please, have a seat."
"I don't think I will," she said, her clipped British accent irritating him, grating on his nerves. It was worse than the American's accent – at least de Courcey drew his words out, made them smoother. Florence's voice was sharp, all angles, nothing like the beauty and lyrical feeling of Russian, even her native Hungarian. Molokov smiled wider.
"I simply wish to talk, Miss Vassey," he assured her. "Please." He motioned to a pair of chairs. She eyed him warily.
"I told Anatoly I was coming here," she said. "If anything happens to me--"
"He will inform the proper authorities," Molokov finished. "Yes, this is good. Now, if you please?" He motioned to the chairs again, and Florence sat, tense and stiff, perched on the edge of the chair and ready to flee at a second's notice. "Would you like a drink?" he offered, still smiling. "I will taste it first if you would prefer."
"I..." she hesitated, uncertain, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose. If you try it."
He nodded, pouring two glasses of vodka on ice, taking a small sip from one glass before offering it to her. She took it, taking pains not to let her hand touch his. He sat in the chair opposite hers and sipped his vodka for a moment before speaking. "We wish for Anatoly to return to the Soviet Union," he said. Up front and straightforward – that was how to get her into a dialogue.
"No," she snapped. "And if you think I'm going to help you, you're sadly mistaken, Mr. Molokov."
"Please, hear my case," he said soothingly. Florence narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. "His wife and children are having certain... difficulties without him. His parents as well, his siblings..."
"Difficulties?" Florence laughed, disbelieving. "You mean you're making things hard for them so Anatoly will come back out of guilt."
Molokov spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I do not think it is the way to convince him," he said simply. "But those above me do not agree. No, I think there is a better way of convincing him."
"You think I'll help you?" she asked, then shook her head. She seemed to remember she had a drink, and took a rather large sip. "No. I don't think this meeting is going to accomplish anything but frustrate you and piss me off, so if you don't mind..."
She started to stand. "Sit!" Molokov snapped. Florence seemed shocked enough by this that she froze. Molokov took a deep breath, got himself under control again, and resumed his unnerving smile. "Please, you will want to consider this more carefully, I think."
"Fine," she said reluctantly, and sat again, taking another sip of vodka. Molokov's sat nearly untouched on the side table next to his chair. "I'll listen. And then I'll tell you no and leave."
"Very well, if you wish to do so, I will not stop you." He steepled his fingers, eyes never looking away from her face. "I think you will want to consider, however... as of now, the only crime Anatoly has committed is defection. Easily pardonable, for the most part. He will likely be confined to his own neighborhood should he return, but he will be free."
"That's a pretty interesting definition of 'free'," Florence said, glaring at him as if she were trying to make him burst into flames from her sheer hatred.
"Perhaps, yes," Molokov conceded, "but it is far more free than, say, a prison camp in Siberia."
Florence stared at him for a moment, catching the faint threat in his words, as he intended. "What do you mean?" she asked finally. Molokov smirked.
"If there were evidence found of other crimes," he said, almost carelessly, "then it would be difficult to let him live free. If, say, he was giving the British government Russian secrets..." He trailed off meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. She would not misunderstand, he hoped. She was an intelligent woman.
And she didn't misunderstand, judging by the shocked expression on her face, and the way she downed the rest of her vodka. She didn't protest, didn't say that they wouldn't do that, couldn't do that, because she knew just as well as Molokov did that they would and they could, if so inclined. "It would simply be a matter of dispatching agents to bring him back," Molokov continued. "Of course, they probably would have orders to kill if they could not retrieve him without undue effort... and there are some that far too greatly enjoy killing deserters."
"So... what, you want me to convince him to go back?" Florence still sounded angry, but there was real fear running underneath it. He could practically taste it, and that made him hungry for more.
"I wish you would, yet I know you will not," Molokov said with a deep (and put-on) sigh. "But they told me to inform you of the situation." A lie, as they merely asked him to ascertain what state of mind Anatoly was in, but a minor detail. He swirled the vodka in his glass, but didn't drink. "Of course, I could perhaps convince them to try other avenues first, if given the proper... motivation." He smiled meaningfully, and took a well-calculated sip of his vodka. Florence's expression froze, and Molokov held his breath for a moment, waiting to see if he had played his cards correctly.
"Motivation," she echoed, flatly, and Molokov simply continued smiling. She looked away, down, at the ice melting in her glass, at anything but him. Finally, looking out the window, she spoke again. "And if given this... 'motivation'," she spat the word, "what would you do?"
"I would tell my superiors that the best course of action would be to come at him from a different angle," he said with a shrug. "I cannot guarentee that they will listen, but there is a good chance that they will, given how well I know dear Tolya."
He could see the muscles in her jaw tighten, hearing the familiar name she probably used come from his lips, and he fought back a smirk. She was silent for a long while, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. Angry, fearful, and resigned. "What do you want me to do?"
Molokov smiled widely – a genuine smile, and that was possibly the most frightening expression he had. He'd played his cards right. Business and pleasure intersecting, his favorite thing in the world.
He stood without a word and held his hand out to Florence. She paused, her expression carefully closed-off, then slipped her hand into his, letting him help her to her feet and lead her to the bedroom. Molokov knew how to make people vulnerable, knew how to worm his way inside their heads. He murmured to her as he fucked her, about her father, about how he must have suffered, about how Anatoly would suffer, about how it would be her fault. Every thrust was punctuated by words – most with a ring of truth, because that was always the best way to hurt someone – until there were tears streaming down her cheeks as he spent himself in her.
He didn't need to rest afterwards, preferring to clothe himself immediately. Florence moved to grab her blouse, but Molokov stopped her. "Wait," he commanded, and she did, looking down at her hands, her posture betraying her deep desire to simply disappear. After he finished dressing, Molokov stood, staring at her naked body, so exposed, her obvious discomfort heightened by the fact that he was covered. Molokov smiled again. "It was a pleasure speaking to you, Miss Vassey."
She took it as a signal that she could dress, and he didn't stop her as she did, her movements precise and smooth, not too fast. Even now, she didn't want to betray fear, discomfort, a desire to forget that this happened. He could respect that, in his way. It made it all the more fun to play with her. She didn't speak until she was dressed and standing at the door of the suite. "You'll advise them to try avenues other than... false crimes?" she asked faintly, emotionlessly, and stared at his chest rather than his face. Her eyes were haunted, and that sent a thrill down Molokov's spine.
"I will indeed," he said calmly, as if they'd done nothing but talk. "Thank you for hearing my case, Miss Vassey. I will see you in Bangkok." No emotion betrayed, though the stiffening of her shoulders told him that she hadn't expected that. "I will, of course, be there. Other avenues, you see." Florence said nothing, closing the door behind her perhaps a bit harder than necessary. Molokov smirked in a satisfied way, and poured himself a brandy. She wouldn't actively persuade Anatoly to return, perhaps, but she wouldn't fight for him to stay nearly as hard as she would have otherwise. She would be haunted by thoughts of what would happen to him if he stayed with her, as well as by the memory of her betrayal here today.
Molokov toasted himself. He'd done his job well indeed.