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Meed felt Irina grab her limp arm and extend it out to ninety degrees. It felt like the limb was being torn from her body. She felt Irina’s foot against her upper rib cage and then a steady, strong pull on her wrist. There was another blast of stunning pain and then a loud click as the joint reassembled. Meed felt her head spin as she fought to stay conscious. A sheen of cold sweat coated her face. She rolled to her opposite side and struggled to her knees, and then to her feet. She set her legs to keep from dropping again and clutched her relocated shoulder.
She heard the sound of distant clapping—but not from a crowd. Just from one person. As she looked up, she saw the headmaster observing from the stone balcony outside his office. Standing next to him was a guest, a tall man in a well-cut suit, with blindingly white teeth. Meed could tell that the guest was impressed. He was the one applauding.
CHAPTER 16
KAMENEV PLACED HIS hand on his guest’s elbow and guided him back into the oak-paneled office. The visitor had a thick mane of black hair to go with his impressive teeth. He spoke in an accent that could have been Middle Eastern or Central European or a blend of both. Or it could have all been an act. Kamenev knew the type well. The guest gave his name as Mazen. But, of course, that could have been made up, too.
“My contacts did not exaggerate,” Mazen said. “Your students are highly…” He searched for the right compliment, then found it: “motivated.”
“They do what is necessary to succeed,” said Kamenev. “As do you, I’m told.”
Mazen shrugged off the transparent flattery. “I sell weapons of mass destruction to self-destructive people. It’s a lucrative business. I never run out of customers.” He cocked his head at his host.
“And what, exactly, isyourbusiness, Headmaster Kamenev? Help me understand. What degree does your institution confer?” There was a touch of playful sarcasm in his voice. He knew the school had never handed out an actual diploma.
Kamenev pressed his hands together. In conversations like these, he always picked his words carefully. His guest had been fully vetted, but no need to reveal more than necessary. Just enough to make the sale.
“Thousands of our graduates are already at work in every country,” he said. “Every government. Every agency. Every organization. Every multinational company. We handle intelligence, operational assistance, special assignments.” He was sure that Mazen could translate the euphemisms. “For fair compensation,” Kamenev continued, “we support the right people, and they support us.” Kamenev smiled. “As you say, it’s lucrative.”
“And the price?” asked the guest, with his brows raised.
“Numbers are not the point,” said Kamenev. “Whatever we charge, you can afford.”
The guest leaned back in his chair. He knew it was true.
“As you’ve seen,” Kamenev continued, “our students are highly skilled, with no messy political or religious preconceptions. Raw clay, to be molded to the needs of the assignment. They have been raised here since infancy. They are infinitely adaptable. They live only for the mission.”
The guest appeared to be thinking something over, then revealed the full glory of his brilliant smile. He stood to shake Kamenev’s hand.
“Very well,” he said. “Arrangements will be made.” He rebuttoned his suit jacket and picked up his slim attaché case. “To start with,” he said, “I will require an attractive female.”
As it turned out, he already had one in mind.
CHAPTER 17
Chicago
THE RACKET WAS so loud I could hear it through my cell walls. The treadmill was whining at top speed, and Meed’s feet were pounding hard on the belt. She’d unlocked my cell door and left it open a crack so I could get out on my own. It was one of the few tiny ways she’d eased up on security recently, but I knew cameras were on me the whole time. I still couldn’t even use the toilet in private.
She’d installed a small TV hanging from a bracket near the ceiling of my cell. She ran the movie of my solitary life on a loop, 24/7. Her idea of motivation, I guess. At night, I tossed a towel over the screen.
When I walked out into the kitchen, my smoothie was waiting on the counter. I picked up the glass and guzzled the slime like always, then walked over to a bench near the workout area. I glanced up at the flat screen overhead, where a CNN correspondent was reporting on a mudslide in Ecuador. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Meed. In her black workout outfit, she looked like an Olympic athlete or some kind of superhero.
Her hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head. After a minute, she reached up and pulled out a hairpin and let her curls fly. She was wearing a short-sleeved top, which was a different style for her. I’d never seen her in anything but long sleeves. As her arms pumped, I could see marks on both of her forearms—small red welts, like cigarette burns.
For a split second, I considered asking about them. But I knew better. Wrong question, no doubt. Since she seemed to be a stickler for physical perfection, it felt strange to discover that she was a little less than perfect—which somehow made her even more of a mystery.
It was all very confusing. I still hated her for keeping me a prisoner and not telling me why. And for working me to exhaustion every single day in her private boot camp. But that didn’t change the fact that she was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen, scars and all.
I saw her punch a button on the console. The treadmill slowed down. She grabbed the handrails and vaulted off to the side like a gymnast. Sweat was dripping from her nose and chin. Her hair was soaked and matted around her neck.
She grabbed a towel from a cabinet and pressed it against her face. Then she tossed the towel aside and took a step toward me. She set herself on the balls of her feet and bounced from side to side. She shook her head, sending sweat droplets flying from her hair. The adrenaline started to shoot through me.
“Front!” she shouted.
I knew the drill. By this time, I was like one of Pavlov’s pups. I jumped up and lowered my head. I set my feet, then charged full out across the room. I launched myself toward her waist, already thinking through the move, just like I’d practiced—how my shoulder would slam into her gut, bringing her down hard onto her back. But that’s not what happened. That’s not whateverhappened. This time, she whipped her right leg around and caught me in midair. Her foot hit my ribs like a baseball bat. I landed on the mat so hard I saw sparks. I hadn’t laid a finger on her. Not once. But I’d swear this time I got close.
When I rolled over, I felt her heel in my diaphragm. With one hard shove, she could have turned my liver to mush. I knew, because she’d drawn me a diagram.
