Page 40 of Denied Access
Kris shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Rather than answer, Petrov snapped his fingers. The bulkier of the two men emptied that Ziploc bag and a circular, metallic object about the size of a dime fell onto the cart.
“Microfilm,” Petrov said. “A dated but still highly effective way to commit espionage. Using a matryoshka doll as a dead drop was a brilliant piece of fieldwork, by the way. They can be found in any of the multiple souvenir shops adjacent to the church. Of course, most of those dolls lack this one’s hidden compartment.”
“I’m sorry,” Kris said, her head spinning. “I—”
“You might have succeeded if not for your Russian agent’s poor tradecraft. The traitorous scientist has passed his final bit of technical information to you, I’m afraid. He’s in an adjacent interrogation room, so I apologize if you hear the occasional scream. We’ve done our best to soundproof these walls, but sometimes my men get overzealous.”
The words, delivered in such a matter-of-fact manner, hit Kris like hammer blows. A man was being tortured in the next room, and she was sitting across the table from the person who’d ordered it. A flood of emotions washed over her. The fear and bewilderment she expected, but there was one in the torrent that caught her by surprise.
Anger.
“I’m done with this,” Kris said, leaning across the table as far as her restraints would permit. “I have no idea what game you’re playing, but I am done with it. I am the wife of an American diplomat. I demand to see my ambassador.”
Her voice’s tenor surprised Kris. Gone was the mouse who had cowered in fear of the strange men who had snatched her from the street. This was the voice of the team captain who had led her teammates to the state championship in her senior year of college. Kris stilldidn’t know what Petrov was playing at, but he’d chosen the wrong person for his scheme.
The Russian looked back at her for a long moment.
Then he slapped her.
Kris never saw the blow coming. One second, she was staring into Petrov’s cold eyes. The next, pinpoints of light danced across her vision as the length of her left cheek caught fire. She’d never been hit in the face before and was surprised by how much it hurt. Her jaw ached and it was all she could do to contain the moan that wanted to break free. Probing her teeth with her tongue, Kris confirmed that there were no new gaps, but she did taste the iron tang of blood.
He’d split her lip.
Her storm of indignation dissipated as quickly as it had formed. As a collegiate athlete, Kris was no stranger to physical discomfort. She’d weathered her share of strained muscles, jammed fingers, and even a broken bone. Her sophomore year, a spike she’d misread had given her a concussion and prematurely ended her season. She knew about pain, but the violence that had just been so casually visited upon her was something else. She still didn’t know what was going on, but she was certain about one thing—she couldn’t take another blow like that.
“I tried to be civil,” Petrov said. “To grant you the respect due another professional, but I can see now that you mistook my kindness for weakness. Hopefully, you won’t make that mistake again.”
Petrov raised his hand, and Kris flinched. She tried not to cower. She really did. But rather than fading, the pain from the blow was increasing. The numb tingling across her cheek had progressed to a dull ache and her jaw moved strangely when she tried to swallow. She didn’t think the bone was broken, but the joint might be dislocated.
“Good,” Petrov said, nodding in approval. “I think we’ve reached an understanding, so let’s bring this engagement to its conclusion.”
Kris took a minute to make sense of what Petrov was saying. She understood after a third man entered the room. A man with a handheldvideo camera. The gesture she’d mistaken for another slap was actually meant to beckon the newcomer. Tendrils of dread gripped her stomach as he casually extended the tripod’s legs and then attached the camera. She didn’t know what Petrov intended to tape, but she didn’t think she would enjoy it.
The newcomer said something to Petrov. His accent suggested he was from southern Russia, perhaps Rostov, and his words were difficult to decipher. Kris thought he might be indicating that he was ready, but she wasn’t sure.
“Excellent,” Petrov said before turning his hard eyes back to her. “About a decade ago, our scientists developed a novel method to help us stem the flow of secrets to the West. I believe you call it spy dust. Sound familiar?”
Kris had no idea what the man was talking about, but she also had no intention of weathering another slap. Torn between antagonizing the man with a denial or admitting to something that would further incriminate her, she tried to split the baby. Gritting her teeth, she refused to answer.
Petrov sighed. “Believe me when I say that silence will not serve you any better than your earlier outburst, but for the sake of time, I will overlook your insolence.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Petrov withdrew a flashlight with some sort of filter attached to the end. After thumbing on the power switch, the Russian pointed the flashlight at the matryoshka doll.
Kris gasped.
The wooden toy’s surface shone with bits of brilliance like someone had spilled a container of glitter onto the wood.
“Impressive, yes?” Petrov said. “Spy dust. The powder is invisible, but it fluoresces upon exposure to a specific band of the electromagnetic spectrum. It’s impossible to detect by touch or smell and it adheres to everything. Coating sensitive files or items with spy dust allows us to determine who has been touching things they shouldn’t. Let’s look at the bag we found inside the doll, shall we?”
The Russian angled the flashlight so that its weak-seeming beam focused on the Ziploc bag. Glitter sparkled from everywhere.
“And now for the finale,” Petrov said.
Maybe it was her aching jaw, or the effects of the tranquilizer, or perhaps just that she was still coming to terms with her imprisonment. Whatever the cause, the result was the same. Though Kris should have anticipated what was coming, she did not. With a flourish worthy of a stage magician, the Russian snapped the power off, pointed the flashlight at her manacled hand, and thumbed the switch back on.
Kris’s fingers shone.
