Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters
Deathwing8, the "Kiss the Cook" apron was in the wash. The chess players haven't done the laundry yet.
"May I have your jacket, Jackson? I'm freezing." We lounged on white Adirondack chairs on a terrace behind the west wing of the château. The weak sunshine of earlier had long given way to evening shadows and a crescent moon. A chill cut through my basic little black dress. Jackson, better prepared than I for spring in the Czech Republic, wore Armani wool.
Jackson shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to me. His ebullient mood of earlier had gone; he seemed glum now. Fingers laced around a bottled beer, he sprawled back on the wooden chair, basking in the glow of tiki torches.
I huddled gratefully under the warm wool, and sipped from a glass of chardonnay.
Katya had been the one who clued us in that tonight's cozy dinner for four was to be a formal affair. To be fair to Katya, she seemed misinformed as well. Clad in a bustier and a short leather skirt, she sat with her knees drawn to her chin and a brooding expression on her face.
Our host, striding around the terrace in supple leather pants, black turtleneck and a "Kill it and Grill it" barbeque apron, deftly wielded a long handled fork. Steaks sizzled on a Weber grill, potatoes in foil jackets baked under the coals, and a cooler of Bud Light chilled off to one side. Classic rock pulsed from hidden speakers. Despite the Old World flavor faithfully preserved in the château's interiors, Rade, as it turned out, was an avid fan of all things American.
"Tony Soprano." He waved the fork with the grace of an orchestra conductor. "In his home he is king of barbeque grill. Too bad he cannot control his women."
"In the States we try to avoid words like 'control', at least when our women are present," Jackson said. "They tend to take offence."
"Just as I said. You American men are afraid of your women. Perhaps this is why Miss Reisert – Lisa – came out the victor in your recent struggle."
"Perhaps." Jackson refused the bait; he sounded bored. He drained his bottle and Katya uncapped another, handed it to him.
"Tell me please, Lisa, how this happened."
Jackson glanced over at me with the detachment of a curious bystander. I watched the chess players set a big plastic bowl of salad greens and four different bottles of salad dressing out on a wrought iron table with an umbrella top. The blonde men, dressed as nattily as ever, lolled in the background on matching iron chairs. One of them – Peter, I think - reached over and snagged a tortilla chip from a bowl.
"I really don't know how to answer that." I said.
"Try, please." Rade flipped the steaks; brushed them with marinade from a blue Fiestaware bowl.
"I just did the best I could in the circumstances," I said. "I don't really know what else to say. I don't like talking about it.
"Yes, of course. It was not pleasant time for you. However, good came of it. You know now that you are strong, that you can survive. You can do things you never thought you would do. Outwitting Mr. Rippner – this is major accomplishment. Perhaps you do not realize this."
"Go ahead, rub it in," Jackson muttered.
"Mr. Rippner planned his assignment with meticulous care. He planned well, for every contingency, I am sure. He could not plan, however, for your spirit and determination. For your courage. Those are strong American values. Be proud of them."
"Oh stop. You're turning her head."
"Well, here's the thing," I said, suddenly very tired of the polite guest charade. "My values are very simple. I don't believe in bringing pain, misery or death to other people for the sake of profit."
"Profit is basis on which your American economy is founded. Pain, misery and death are facts of ordinary life. The business Mr. Rippner and I conduct is consistent with your traditional American values."
"Assassinating government officials is a traditional American value?"
"Mr. Rippner tells you I carry out assassinations?"
"Mr. Rippner tells me nothing. I don't know why I am here, I don't know what business the two of you have together, and honestly, I don't want to know. I just really, really would like to go home."
"Mr. Rippner obviously thought it wiser to keep you in the dark. I think differently. You will please enlighten our guest as to our business." Rade pointed the barbeque fork at Jackson, who heaved a big sigh.
"Oh, all right. It's not a big deal, Lisa. Obviously, you already know what I do for a living. Vaschenko does much the same thing on a somewhat smaller scale here in this part of the world. I am negotiating a contract between my organization and Vaschenko. He would run all our operations in Eastern Europe. There's always unrest in the Balkans, in the Caucasus regions – Georgia, Abkhazia, other former Russian republics – and that's always good for business. Vaschenko will head up a franchise of my company if we can agree on terms."
Ah. This, then, was the reason for Jackson's sulk. Terms with Rade were not yet settled.
"Setting aside the blatant immorality of all of that for the moment," I said, "Please tell me what any of this has to do with me."
"Rade'll have to answer that one."
"Gladly." The reflection of the tiki torches seemed to dance in his eyes. "You fascinate me, Lisa, as I said to you earlier. It was whim. That is all."
"You had me kidnapped and brought here simply on a whim?"
"I read in your People magazine that movie actress Julia Roberts must have organic milk in her trailer at all times. I would call that whim. Like Miss Roberts, I am in position to make such demands. Mr. Rippner wants my business. He cannot afford to fail - he will meet my demands. Now let us talk no more of business. Steaks are ready. And save room for 'smores. I have Hershey's chocolate bars and marshmallows."
"More wine?" Katya topped off my wine glass.
---------------------------------------------------
My hope, based on my conversation with Jackson earlier that day, had been for a swift and successful conclusion to whatever pact with the devil Jackson and Rade were signing off on, but our patio party conversation shot that little burst of optimism right out of the sky. Following dessert (we did indeed roast marshmallows over the Weber), I wanted nothing more than to retire to my room upstairs to write in peaceful solitude.
It would be a long time, however, before I found that peaceful solitude. That night Rade Vaschenko took us to another of his clubs, and my life suddenly switched into fast forward.
I have mostly just fragments of memory of my visit to that club. When I cast my mind back, I remember massive fiery torches casting a medieval glow and narrow spiral steps leading to cave-like alcoves overlooking the dance floor. I see men in shiny suits and assorted facial jewelry and women wearing heavy eyeliner, leather and latex. I remember a band backlit with blue covering Billy Idol's "White Wedding" in Russian and the lead singer's butt length hair swirling around his naked torso like flames.
I see clearly again a tray laden with crystal glasses and slotted spoons, and then flames and a toxic green glow. I remember the taste of bitter Czech absinthe and the brief, clear-headed feeling of exhilaration that followed.
My final memories of that nameless club eclipse those earlier impressions, though. Peter and Aleksei entered our alcove supporting a man I thought was drunk. Rade, who had been reclining on a plush love seat beside me, rose with cat-like grace and approached them. As they talked, the man began to struggle. Peter and Aleksei held onto him. When the man's fear turned to panic, I knew it wasn't drink that brought him nearly to his knees. I recognized a fellow captive. And I watched helplessly as the blonde men hauled him away.
Rade returned to our table to tell us he was cutting our evening short.
"I am sorry." he said. "For me, business and pleasure are always side by side. You, Mr. Rippner, may remain here with Katya for as long as you wish. A taxi will return you to my home at your leisure. I will take Lisa with me."
A protest rose to my lips, but I couldn't seem to get it out. My brain and my mouth weren't working well together just then.
"Take Lisa where?" Jackson, until now supremely mellow on a cloud of absinthe, surfaced suddenly.
"It is private business matter, Mr. Rippner. It does not concern the negotiations you and I have entered into. I can assure you that you will hardly miss her. You will not be cold or lonely tonight. Katya will keep you company. She will keep you warm. Lisa goes with me."
"Rade-" Katya looked startled, then broke into rapid, angry Russian.
"Entertain Mr. Rippner, Katya," he interrupted smoothly. "It is what you do best. Lisa goes with me."
I remember vividly the smirk on Jackson's face and the resigned look on Katya's. I've often wondered what my own face reflected just then.
-----------------------------------------
"I wish now for you to tell me, Lisa, in detail of your previous confrontation with Mr. Rippner."
We were in the Hummer, racing down a freeway. Enveloped in a chardonnay and absinthe haze complicated by a mostly empty stomach (I'd eaten very little at Rade's bizarre patio party), all I wanted to do now was sleep.
"I don't wish to."
"But I do. And Lisa, it is best if you do as I say."
Something in that terrible, calm voice broke through my haze and frightened me very badly. And so, I recounted, factually and without emotion, every moment of that terrible night. I began with my arrival at the airport and ended with the ambulance taking Jackson away.
"We thought he was dead."
"The ambulance attendants were his people. They worked for him. They took him to hospital under false name. But a pen, Lisa? A writing pen? You attacked Mr. Rippner with a pen?" Until now, he had listened to my recitation without comment, without reaction. Now he laughed heartily.
"Yes. A writing pen. But I want to know how you know these things. About that night. About me."
He shrugged. "In my world, knowledge is power. I have my sources; I pay them well. The man in the club tonight. This upset you."
"Of course it did."
"Why 'of course'? You do not know the circumstances. The man worked for me. He betrayed me. There are consequences and he knew this when he made decision to break faith. He knew, as they say, 'rules of engagement'. I am soldier." Rade laughed again. "I am General, not Sergeant. I have rank. But it is war nonetheless. I live in violent world. If I do not kill, then I am killed. This is my job. I do it well."
We were off the freeway now. We crossed a concrete bridge, over a narrow trickle of inky water, into an industrial area. Brick buildings – warehouses, by the sight of them - lined the narrow streets. Rade drove into a fenced concrete yard and stopped the Hummer beneath a loading dock lit by a mesh-enclosed light just under the roof.
"Step out," he said. "And come with me."
Much of what I saw inside that warehouse, I do not wish to remember. What I will record here is that Rade took me to a place of evil, where a man was held against his will, secured with ropes to a swivel office chair. He was, of course, the man from earlier, from the club.
Terrible things had been done to him; terrible things were done to him while I was there.
"Why did you bring me here?" I remember whispering to Rade.
"So you will know who I am."
Rade went to the man. I tried to concentrate on breathing. The smell of sweat and fear brought bile up into my throat and I fought to keep from retching. I inched backward towards the huge metal doors, intent on escaping from this place of pain. Peter and Aleksei positioned themselves between the doors and me.
I have a very clear memory of what happened next, of Rade Vaschenko touching his victim's face, speaking to him as if he was bestowing a benediction. Then he beckoned to Peter and Aleksei; they joined him.
For a few horrible moments, I stood there paralyzed, unable to think or act. Then the man began to scream.
I turned and ran from the building.