If nothing else, Bethany mused silently, there are much more uncomfortable ways to be tied up. Over the course of her participation in the Game, she had been bound in every way imaginable, from the silk-scarf spread-eagle the Sensualist had used while employing his patented mind-games in an attempt to extract secrets from her, to the twisting and torturous shibari ropework Doctor Glee had pretzeled her into before lowering her into his crocodile pit. By comparison her present situation was positively cozy, though, as she gave her bonds another squirming pull, it was no less effective.
She sat in a bucket seat in the back of a black van with heavily tinted, almost opaque, windows. Her captors, four heavily armed men in dark suits, had snatched her off the Chicago streets and tossed her into the seat, then secured her for what appeared to be a long trip as the van pulled out into traffic. They had pulled her jacket off, then ratcheted what looked to be German polizei-issue handcuffs onto her wrists in front of her. As she was well-covered by a pair of Uzis, she decided discretion to be the better part of valor. One of the suits then produced several black web straps, of the sort used to wrap around steamer trunks, the kind that tighten with a single pull and stay tight until the catch on the buckle is released. The two not holding guns went to work on her with a minimum of conversation, as deftly and quickly as machines, one above the waist and the other below. A strap went around her upper arms, passing beneath her breasts, and tightened in place; a second at waist level, just above her elbows, followed, pinning her arms tightly to her sides. More straps cinched her ankles together, digging into the leather boots, then around her calves and her thighs, the last strap threading through the short chain of the cuffs to hold her hands firmly in her lap. Finally they pulled her seat belt across her chest and lap, securing her to the seat, a tightly wrapped package who was going nowhere but where the suits had been instructed to take her.
One of them then produced a large black sleep mask from his pocket and pulled it over her eyes, plunging her into darkness as he tightened it behind her head. The next thing Bethany heard was a terse "Open wide." Here she shook her head and began to protest, "Look, guys, you've got me. There's no need to ga--nnngghh!" A steely hand gripped her jaws and forced her mouth open and something thick and foul-tasting was wedged hard between her teeth. She tried to push the leather bit out with her tongue to no avail as it was buckled in place. She emitted a few muffled grunts, then settled back into her seat, bound and blind and gagged, as the van made its way through the city streets.
She still had her lockpicks, hidden here and there on her person, but they might as well have been an ocean away. The German-issue cuffs were notoriously tough to pick, and though she could do it, it would take a lot more time and privacy than she had. She had no doubt that the reason her hands had been cuffed in front of her was to keep them in plain sight. She banished escape as an option -- for the moment -- and concentrated on what she could do.
Obviously she had been blindfolded to keep her disoriented, to prevent her from knowing where she was being taken, to heighten the feeling of helplessness. These boys were pulling all of the standard tricks. But while being unable to see was a nuisance, she had been well-trained in ways to lessen blindness as a liability. As she had done during the fight in her apartment, Bethany concentrated on the signals her other senses were receiving. She noted each turn the van made, comparing it with the rough map of Chicago in her head. Each time the vehicle stopped for a red light, she listened carefully for traffic noises and registered the difference between the steady thrums of car engines in the business district and the deeper growls of trucks as the van entered the warehouse district. She heard the roar and blare of trains growing closer and knew they were approaching Chicago's famous railyards. Bethany suppressed a momentary shudder as the memory from years ago, of being tied to the tracks of the DSV outside of Paris, suddenly flooded back... working frantically at the ropes as the track vibrated with the approach of the 200-mph bullet train... scrambling away mere seconds before the blur of steel shot across the spot she had just occupied...
She shook the harrowing thought away and refocused, both to regain her bearings and to deny her silent captors the impression that she had shuddered out of fear. Stay sharp, Jones, if you plan to get out of this. Her jaws were beginning to ache from the bit-gag. Still, it could be worse, and once they reached their destination, Bethany had no doubts that it would be.
* * *
Madeleine's headache began as the canvas laundry bin she was stuffed into was rolled up a short ramp and into the back of a waiting truck with its engine running. It started small, at the base of her skull, but as the truck pulled away from the service entrance of the hotel, each jostle and bump increased the pain exponentially. Before long, the headache threatened to drown out the orchestra of aches and pains that wracked the rest of her body, and that was saying something.
Maddy closed her eyes against the pressure building in her temples and squirmed again to ease the cramps in her legs, arms, and shoulders. It didn't help. She was bound in a stringent hogtie, with what seemed like miles of nylon cord cinching her wrists and upper arms, her ankles, knees, and thighs. Moreover, she was firmly wedged inside the basket, covered with a pile of crumpled hotel sheets that reeked of cigarette smoke and old sex. The odors contributed mightily to her headache, and thoughts of just what might be pressing against her skin made things even worse. She had been in the middle of ballet exercises when Sarge and the phony housekeeper had kidnapped her, and she was wearing nothing but her point shoes, panties, and a t-shirt that had ridden up to uncover one of her small breasts. She groaned in despair, but what sound came out was lost in the linen napkins that filled and covered her mouth tightly.
As the truck wended its way through the streets of Chicago, the bin only moved slightly on its casters. Perhaps Sarge was holding onto it, or perhaps it had been somehow strapped in place. Whichever it was, Maddy was at least glad for that. She was certain that rolling around would have caused her to vomit into her gag, something she didn't even want to contemplate. Things were bad enough already.
Why is this happening to me? Who are these people and what do they want? It's not me they're after -- it's Beth. But why? Why didn't she ever tell me she could fight, or that she had a gun? Or that she had enemies? How could she lie like that, so completely, for years? She shook her head as the headache stabbed her between the eyes. Well, duh! She was keeping it from you for your own good, idiot. What do you expect, she's just gonna turn to you in the middle of breakfast and say, "Oh, by the way, I'm an international jewel thief on the lam. Want some more toast?"
No. Not a thief. She's a good guy, I know it. A cop, maybe, or--
A spy.
There was an almost audible click in Maddy’s mind, the realization of having known something all along without being aware of the knowledge, like suddenly discovering one can play the piano. How she knew this extremely vital fact about her friend she could not fathom, but it was instantly as concrete a reality as the sunrise.
“Beth Layton” was a lie. The truth was a spy named Jones.
Strangely enough, Madeleine’s headache had disappeared, as if the sudden revelation had been a pop relieving the pressure in her head. But now her plight was worse than ever.
The panel truck stopped. Maddy’s heart pounded in her chest as she heard the truck’s rear doors open and felt the laundry hamper being moved. Suddenly she was pitched against one of the canvas sides as the hamper rolled down an incline, a ramp. Through the sheets and blankets pressing down on her she heard a distinctive roaring sound. Airplanes? I’m at an airport?
Her captors did not say a word as they conveyed her tiny prison on wheels across bumpy ground, but Maddy began screaming into her gag for all she was worth. Airports meant people, security guards, police! “MMMMMMPPPHH! HNNNNNGGHH!” Tears streamed down her face as she squirmed in the vicious hogtie, trying to perhaps jostle the hamper, attract attention to it, anything…
All at once, the rolling stopped and Maddy heard voices, loud but indistinct over the din of taxiing planes. A woman’s voice, but not the husky bark of the fake chambermaid who had helped to kidnap her. This one was higher, but with a tone of command to it.
Suddenly she felt someone reaching into the hamper, lifting the bedlinens that covered her. Afternoon sunlight stabbed Madeleine’s eyes as she blinked up and found herself staring into the face of a beautiful blonde woman with the cruelest smile she had ever seen. Maddy mewed plaintively into the triple gag, but her muffled plea was met by a full-throated laugh of delight from the woman.
“Good afternoon, cherie,” the woman purred in a rich Gallic accent, reaching in to stroke Maddy’s cheek above the gag with manicured fingertips. “My, you are a pretty thing.” Maddy struggled to turn away from the woman, sensing to her core the sheer malevolence behind the caress and the words. Madame Ducharme laughed again. “You are wise to be afraid, little one, but you should relax. We’re going to take a little trip, and then you and I will get acquainted and discuss our mutual friend Bethany Jones…”
* * *
As the van stopped and its panel door slid open, unseen hands worked the straps off Bethany’s legs, leaving her arms pinned to her sides and her hands cuffed. Her seat belt was unbuckled and the sudden tug at her shoulder was a clear instruction. Still blindfolded and bit-gagged, she rose to her feet and allowed herself to be guided out of the van and onto the ground. A cavalcade of odors assailed her nostrils – diesel fuel and rotting trash and cigarette smoke and animal blood. I’m in the railyards close to the meat-packing district, she mused as she was prodded forward. Sensing the presence of her captors in front and behind her, she walked slowly and carefully, as a false step would send her sprawling without her hands to break her fall, and she wasn’t inclined to count on help from these guys.
Bethany felt the sun on her face as she made her way, her bootheels crunching on rough cement. Pretty ballsy of these characters to march a tied-up girl outside in broad daylight. But then, the Organization was always a bit cocky. There was no doubt that the men who had snatched her were operatives of her former employers – every facet of her acquisition had been textbook procedure, quick and effective. Bethany had herself once snatched the wife of a billionaire arms dealer off a Monte Carlo street the same way.
A large hand gripped her elbow and she heard a voice mutter, “Stairs, eight of them.” Feeling with the toe of her boot, Bethany found the first step and started up. She heard a heavy steel door open and she was ushered inside. Their footsteps echoed off a high ceiling. Warehouse. Empty.
The hand on her arm tugged at her to stop, then she was turned and pushed into a hard, high-backed chair. Hands forced her legs together and she felt the bite of the straps at ankles, calves, and thighs again, her hands once more pinned in her lap, then two more straps above and below her breasts, securing her tightly to the back of the chair, her spine ramrod-straight. Then she counted four pairs of shoes walking away. Shifting in the uncomfortable chair, she listened intently for what would happen next.
“Hello, doll,” Jack’s voice rebounded off the walls as she heard his approaching footfalls. He stood in front of her, and she could feel his eyes sweeping the length of her bound body. Jack was always an unapologetic ogler of women. “Sorry we had to do it this way.”
“Nnnnggglll mmmpphh!” She lifted her face and grunted into the thick bit between her teeth.
“Of course.” She could hear the smile in his voice as his hands worked behind her head, unbuckling the strap that held the gag in place. The foul thing was pulled away and Bethany worked her aching jaws. “Thank you. It really wasn’t necessary for them to gag me, you know,” she snapped.
“You know the drill, Bethany. S.O.P.” Jack removed the blindfold and pulled it away. Bethany blinked in the dim light coming from windows set high in the walls of the warehouse. As she had deduced, the place was empty, one of the Organization’s fronts. Behind the door at the far end, the one marked OFFICE, would be rooms filled with surveillance equipment, decryption processors, and loads of weapons – everything the Chicago unit required for domestic spying on a level the FBI and NSA could only dream about.
She looked up at her former controller, as usual impeccably dressed in a tailored dark suit but with a jaunty red silk tie. “I don’t suppose you’re going to take off the rest of this stuff.” She fluttered her fingers from her lap, tugging on the handcuffs strapped to her thighs.
Jack’s smile was almost affectionate. “No, Bethany, I don’t relish the idea of my teeth skittering across the floor, nor do I want to have you shot. You’ll stay put until we’ve had a chance to talk.” He called for a chair, then put his hands in his pockets and gave her another once-over. One of the suits wheeled an office chair over and he sat down, minding the crease in his trousers.
Bethany ignored him. “We have nothing to talk about, Jack. Like I told you before, I’m out.”
Jack clucked his tongue sadly. “Doll, the Organization spent ten years and millions of dollars training you to play our little games, and you were one of the best. Over the course of your career you became privy to secrets not even the President will ever know. You don’t just walk out on us. We own you, Bethany.”
Bethany’s features hardened and she pulled hard at the confining straps, glaring at him. “You got your money’s worth out of me a hundred times over, Jack! I betrayed and fucked and killed people whose only crime was knowing something you didn’t! I did my job and now it’s over! I’m sick of it! I quit! It’s not my problem anymore!”
Jack’s face was impassive, his voice calm and steady. “On the contrary, Bethany, this situation is very much your problem.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper. He opened it up and held it out in front of Bethany’s face, where she could read her own writing – the note she left for Madeleine back at the hotel. Suddenly Bethany couldn’t breathe.
Jack tilted his head. “Who’s Maddy?”
Bethany looked at him, her hands twisting futilely in the cuffs. “What have you done with her?” she growled dangerously.
“Us? Not a thing.” Jack shook his head. “We got your hotel and room number from the keycard in your purse, and I dispatched agents to toss your room. When they got there, they found signs of a struggle and this note. Blevins’ bully-boys beat us there and they took her, whoever she is.” He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, his grey eyes locked on hers. “She’s obviously important to you. If Blevins and Ducharme have her, she doesn’t have much time, which means you need to start cooperating with us right now. What do they want from you?”
Bethany bit her bottom lip, her mind racing, body straining against her bonds. “Revenge.”
Jack sighed, closing his eyes. “Strike one. We know they rifled your apartment back in Cooper’s Landing. They were looking for something, and I’m willing to bet it was something you took from them before blowing their lair to Kingdom Come, supposedly along with yourself.” Suddenly his eyes snapped back open. “Velenkov…”
Doctor Arkady Nikolaievitch Valenkov had been one of the foremost microbiologists in the world, a People’s Hero back in the days of the Soviet Union before he defected to the West in 1984, a daring operation conducted by the Organization in broad daylight. In Moscow, heads rolled, but the Supreme Soviet had had no choice but to let Velenkov go, lest his participation in a monstrous bio-warfare program become public knowledge. Though the Organization had kept the scientist on a short leash, they allowed him to pursue his true calling, searching for cures for the new generation of viruses now ravaging the Third World. It was rumored that Velenkov had made some sort of breakthrough in treatment of the Ebola virus when he disappeared…
Suspicion immediately focused on the KGB but was quickly dismissed when Arno Blevins contacted the Security Council, claiming he had taken Velenkov, put him back to work on the long-abandoned Soviet project, and was now prepared to unleash utter devastation on the world’s most populous cities unless he was paid five trillion dollars in three days. His demand was accompanied by an untraceable fax detailing enough of Velenkov’s formula to convince the Russians that the threat was genuine.
As Velenkov was within the Organization’s purview, they dispatched their deadliest agent to find the scientist and stop Blevins: Bethany Jones.
It was to be her final mission.
“No.” Bethany shook her head slowly, her gaze fixed on the piece of paper dangling from Jack’s fingertips. “Velenkov is dead, along with everything he was working on.” She turned her eyes back to Jack. “ I got the job done.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “He kept notes. Did you take them?”
Bethany’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I was captured on that mission, Jack. Tortured and almost killed by that sick bitch Ducharme. I barely got out of there alive, and when I did I was determined never to go through that again. I let the virus, Velenkov’s notes, and everything you people made of me go up in flames.”
It was a bluff, of course, played by a woman who had been trained by some of the finest gamblers in the world. But this time she was trying to bluff a man who had known her more acutely than any lover, and with the life of the most important person in her world suddenly in the balance. For a full minute the air between Bethany and Jack fairly crackled with the presence of the lie.
Finally Jack blinked, turning away in thought, and for a moment Bethany breathed a sigh of relief. It was not to last.
“Mister Carlyle,” Jack said to one of the suits, “bring me the pentathol.”
Bound nearly immobile in the chair, it was all Bethany could do not to scream as the agent approached her with a syringe loaded with the serum that would force her to tell the truth about herself, about Madeleine Weld, and about the deadliest secret in human history…