Paris, France

She woke slowly, her head slightly fuzzy, and tried to remember how much they'd had to drink before he had brought her up to his room. A slow smile spread across her face as she remembered the events of the evening – how she had let him think that he was the one seducing her, whilst it was in fact the other way around. He had caught her eye the moment she had entered the hotel bar, talking on his mobile whilst his eyes moved from person to person. Or more accurately, from female to female. He was on the hunt, and she knew that she would have him that night. There were more handsome men than him in the room, but none had his air of self-possessedness, of natural authority which she found so irresistible. Yes, she had known straight away that she would have him. Men found her beautiful, and she was yet to meet the man who could say no to her. And here they were, in his room, in his bed, to once again prove her point. But why couldn't she remember anything?

She tried to rub her face with her hands, but only her left arm would obey. The other was trapped by something, prevented from moving. She tried again, and there was the clanking sound of metal-on-metal, and then she knew. Her eyes scanned the dark room and she found him by the window. Still fully dressed, he watched the street with focussed intensity. His face was half in shadow; the other half lighted by the street lamps outside. It was raining, she noticed, as the drops sliding down the window drew tear tracks across his cheek.
He spoke without taking his eyes off the street. "You're awake. If you scream, I will put you under again."
The voice, still smooth, still sexy, had acquired a harder edge that had not been there earlier.
"You drugged me?" she asked, only now noticing that her tongue felt woolly and swollen.
He didn't deign to answer, and for the first time fear began to curl around her heart.
"Who are you?"
Once again there was no response; not a flicker on the impassive face.
She tested the handcuff quietly, but there was no give. It held her wrist snugly; there was no way she would get her hand through it. She lay back against the pillow and tried to relax. If she were to get out of this, she would have to use brain rather than brawn. For a few minutes the only sound was the falling rain. He stayed by the window, immovable, not bothered by the silence, and that scared her more than anything else. He was a professional. He had to be.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked into the silence, for the first time allowing her Russian accent to come through strongly.
His head turned fractionally towards her. "Of course, Natalya," he murmured, an almost mocking tone creeping into his voice as he used her real name, not the one she had given him last night.
A shiver ran down her spine. "Then you also know that people will come looking for me."
He considered the words, before turning his face back to the street. "Not soon enough."
It was the casual nature of the statement, more than the words itself, that scared her. She cast about desperately for a way out, for an angle that would shake this imperturbable man. "You don't intend to kill me, otherwise I would be dead already," she reasoned, watching him carefully for a reaction. "So you're planning to hand me over to someone."
He didn't twitch, but she persisted. She had no other choice. "You're doing someone else's dirty work for them." She paused, before adding dismissively, "Funny, last night I didn't get the impression that you took orders from anyone."
His mouth twitched in amusement, but he didn't say anything, and she realised she would have to change tack. Playing on his pride was not going to work, apparently.

She considered everything she had learnt about him the previous night; his quiet charm, the sardonic wit, the intelligence. He had seemed to be the epitome of upper-class English gentry, and his accent hadn't slipped once.
"You're British Intelligence," she hazarded, and even though she got no reaction whatsoever, she knew instinctively that she was right. It was one of her many talents, to spot the Intelligence Officer in a crowd. It was something she could work with.
"We are no longer enemies, daragoj," she purred. "Surely we can come to an arrangement. Whatever they're paying you, I can double."
This time she did get a reaction. "I know. Because you sell intelligence to the highest bidder." There was a hint of disgust in his voice. "You've built yourself quite a tidy nest-egg in that off-shore bank account in the Caymans."
A chill ran through her, but she didn't let it show. "You're offended," she surmised, amused. "I would have thought you would enjoy such duplicity, as long as it wasn't done by your own side. I can tell you many, many things about the FSB."
"I wouldn't be so offended if it were only your own side you sell out," he countered. "The Americans and the French would dearly like to get their hands on you as well. You have caused the deaths of a number of their agents."

She fell silent, perturbed by the fact that he seemed to know absolutely everything about her. Still, it could be worse. The Yanks or the French she could handle. But something nagged at the back of her mind. "Why would the Americans or the French use you to get to me?" she asked, more to herself.
He was quiet for a long time, before he eventually murmured, "They are not the only ones you swindled."
Her fear turned to absolute terror, and she had to force her next words out through a tight throat. "What do you mean?"
He briefly turned his head towards her and contemplated her with dark, unreadable eyes. "You should have known better than to double-cross a Russian mafia boss."

And there it was; the thing she feared most in this world. She shuddered. But things didn't add up – why would a British Intelligence officer, who seemed so repulsed by her actions, be doing the dirty work of the Russian Mafia?
"You're not going to hand me over to them, are you?" she asked hopefully, but he turned his head away and didn't answer.
"You can't!" she beseeched. "Do you know what Asimov does to his victims?! He poisons them, and watches them die in absolute agony. Please, you can't be willing to allow that."
He remained quiet, but the shoulders, so resolutely erect until now, sagged a little. When at last he responded, it was not what she wanted to hear. "It's nothing personal," he said, and she imagined she heard regret in his voice.
"Oh God, no," she began, but his attention was no longer on her. "I beg you-"
"Quiet," he ordered, and she reflexively obeyed.
His head was cocked to the side, and after a few seconds she heard it too – the sound of a car driving slowly down the street.

A mobile rang, and only now she noticed that he'd been holding it in his hand the whole time. He lifted it slowly to his ear, his eyes never leaving the street below.
"Yes," he said, and she thought his voice sounded strained.
"Dobryj vyechyer, Harry," a familiar voice boomed, loud enough for her to hear, and she began to shiver. She hated and feared that voice. "I am in front of the hotel."
"I see you," the man called Harry responded. "I remind you that you are surrounded by French Intelligence, Asimov. If you try to cross me, you will not survive this night."
Asimov's laugh echoed through the room. "Harry, Harry. Always so distrustful, eh? I knew if anyone could find the elusive Natalya, it would be you. There is no reason for me to cross you – all I want is the woman. So show her to me."
Time seemed to stand still. He didn't move at first, and she wondered whether he had changed his mind, but then he turned and strode towards her. Immediately she realised that she might have a chance – he wasn't young anymore and her reflexes were still pretty fast. She tensed herself, ready to spring at him the moment he unlocked the handcuff. But he was no fool. As soon as he reached her he grabbed her free arm and pinned it to the mattress with his knee, before retrieving something from his pocket. She waited for the click of the key in the lock, for the handcuff to spring free, but nothing happened. Instead she felt a prick in the fold of her arm, and she jerked her head towards it to see him empty a syringe into her vein. By the time she began to struggle, it was all over. To her horror she noticed that there were a number of other puncture marks next to the latest one.
"What have you done?!" she cried, panic raising her voice to a shriek.
The handcuff sprung loose and he swiftly twisted both hands behind her back and cuffed her wrists together.
"I see no need why you should suffer. It'll alleviate the pain and hasten your death," he said, and she stared at him, speechless.
"You're insane. If you want to spare me the pain, don't hand me over to that monster."
He looked at her, and she saw beads of sweat pearl on his upper lip. Close up she could read him better; could see the desperation behind his eyes. Without a word he hauled her to the window and positioned her in front of it.

She stood there numbly as whatever he had injected her with coursed happily through her veins and rendered her pliable to his wishes. She watched through a haze as he lifted the mobile back to his ear.
"First floor, fifth window from the left."
When she looked down into the street again, she saw a big hulk of a man stand next to a black SUV. He lifted night vision goggles to his face and pointed them in her direction, and she smiled woozily. It had stopped raining. The Hulk nodded to someone in the car and Asimov's voice came through again.
"Excellent, Harry. I am pleased-"
The voice from the man beside her cut him off brusquely. "Your turn," he demanded, and she could feel the tension radiate from him.
Asimov tutted. "So impatient…"
The Hulk opened one of the back doors and dragged a small figure out. It stumbled and the big man hauled it upright roughly, and next to her the man called Harry inhaled sharply. The person's hands were bound with cable ties and there was a flour sack over the head.
"Remove the sack," she heard Asimov order, and watched in fascination as the Hulk pulled it off to reveal a dark-haired woman.
Harry swallowed, and just for a second his face turned impossibly tender, and she understood why he was doing this.
She couldn't contain her curiosity. "Who is she?"
The man called Harry took a deep breath, then murmured almost wonderingly, "Her name is Ruth."

tbc