"Unlock these cuffs and give me a gun!" McClain's voice was urgent. He leaned forward, practically shouting in Knebel's ear. Clara shrank back against the seat. She was scared, really scared, and she didn't know if it was of McClain or Rostov or who.

"I said calm down, McClain!" Knebel roared, looking nervously from the rearview mirror to the road in front of him. "n.o.body's going to hurt-"

A moving van pulled out of a side road in front of them, its long orange length blocking the road as it executed a leisurely turn. Horizon Movers was emblazoned in black letters on its side. Another moving van was behind the first.

"Turn around, Knebel! For G.o.d's sake!" McClain was shouting, but Knebel ignored him. He approached the van, but slowed slightly, looking worried when it failed to move out of his way. Clara waited to see what would happen with a kind of horrified fatalism. Either McClain was right and it was a KGB trap or it was nothing more than a moving van, and in a moment they would be past it and on their way. Knebel sounded the horn. The driver, features indistinguishable in the shadows of the cab, seemed to notice them at last. He stuck his gloved hand out the window and gave them a wave as if to say that he would be out of the way shortly.

The truck's back door rumbled up, and four men wearing identical gray coveralls jumped out. It was only as they began walking toward the now barely moving car that Clara noticed that their faces were smudged, the features squashed in a most peculiar way. They were wearing stocking masks. And they carried rifles in their hands. Knebel and Thompson must have noticed all that at the same time, because they swore and fumbled for the pistols they wore in holsters beneath their impeccably tailored coats.

"Oh, Christ!" McClain threw himself on top of Clara, knocking her out of her seat and crushing her down on the floor behind the back seat just as the shooting started. Clara screamed as the sound of gunfire roared around her like point-blank thunder. Bullets tore through the body of the car, skewing it sideways in the road. For the first moment the agents in the front seat were returning fire, but then either Knebel or Thompson, she wasn't sure which, shrieked. The shriek died in a liquid gurgle. The other one grunted, and muttered something that sounded like d.a.m.n. Then there was an awful silence.

The rear door opened. Clara heard it distinctly despite McClain's body all around and over her. Then she felt McClain's weight shift as he was dragged off her. Finally she felt an ungentle hand on her own arm. She opened her eyes as she was pulled from the car. McClain was standing by the car in the grip of two of the masked men, looking remarkably calm for a man with two rifles pointed at his heart. Another thug was holding her, while the fourth used his rifle to poke at Thompson, who was lying half on the front floorboard of the idling car and half on the ground. The thug put the rifle behind Thompson's head, then pulled the trigger. The shot at point-blank range exploded the agent's head like a grapefruit. Bright crimson blood mixed with gray brain matter spattered over the roadside. The smell of blood was strong in the air. Then the thug turned Thompson over. Clara felt her stomach heave when she saw the oozing crimson pulp that was all that remained of his face. Knebel was slumped over the steering wheel, she saw as she deliberately averted her eyes from what was left of Thompson. She a.s.sumed he too was dead. The thug who'd finished off Thompson walked around to the other side of the car, reached in and turned off the ignition. Then he plowed a bullet into Knebel. This time Clara closed her eyes before she could witness the butchery. Bile rose sickly in her throat. She thought she was going to vomit.

McClain swore. Clara opened her eyes. A figure she remembered all too well stepped from the back of the van. Unlike his compatriots, he was not masked. The sun glinted on his sandy hair as he walked toward them, a rifle tucked negligently under his arm.

"Well, well, it seems we are destined to meet in out-of-the-way places, doesn't it, Dragon? And Miss Winston too, of course," said Rostov, and smiled. Then, as he reached them, he lifted his rifle in a quick, savage movement and clubbed McClain viciously on the side of his head.

XVII.

"Now, I am going to give you a final chance to be sensible. Miss Winston, I will ask you first: Where is the microfilm?" Then he smiled at McClain. "Oh, yes, Yuropov told us all about it. Did you doubt that he would? Toward the end he was very eager to tell us everything he could." His eyes shifted back to Clara. "Well, Miss Winston?"

The moving van was rumbling down the road. Huddled half clad beside McClain on the cold metal floor, back pressed against the narrow wall at the forward end of the mobile prison, Clara felt her skin quiver with horror as Rostov looked at her. She prayed that he would not touch her again.

They were going to die, sooner or later, she knew. No one would know what had become of them. Knebel and Thompson's bodies had been loaded back into the car in which they had been killed, and that car had been driven up a ramp and inside the second moving truck, which had headed in the opposite direction from the first. The backup car, Clara's last hope, had not shown up. It had been deliberately delayed by another moving van that had pulled across the road in its path, ostensibly to turn around. By the time the occupants of the backup car figured out that the other car was not in front of them, all three vans would be long gone. And the authorities, being what they were, would undoubtedly a.s.sume that the hijacking of the agents and their car had been carried out by McClain. One more act of b.l.o.o.d.y mayhem by a crazed agent.

When McClain and Clara's bodies were found, if they ever were, they would be in the purloined CIA car at the bottom of a river somewhere. Thompson and Knebel would be discovered in the trunk.

Rostov had related this plan almost casually as they were herded aboard the first of the trailers. Then she and McClain had been forcibly strip searched in the most humiliating way possible. The two thugs with Rostov had first stripped McClain, roughly examining every part of his body and then going over his clothes with minute thoroughness before shaking their heads and tossing the garments back at him. McClain had borne the indignity with stony lack of responsiveness.

Clara had tried not to watch. But when they had turned to her, it had been a different story. She had screamed and struggled, to no avail. They removed every st.i.tch of her clothes, ran their hands over her body, looked in her hair and mouth and ears and made her bend over so that they could check the most intimate of body cavities. When it was over, Clara was reduced to a trembling wreck of humiliation. They had allowed her to pull on her teddy, flannel shirt and sweater (simply because the items had been dangling from the handcuffs that still chained her wrists and were therefore in the way) before pushing her stumbling toward McClain, who sat impa.s.sively against the front wall, clad once again in jeans and sweatshirt. Clara huddled against him for warmth as well as what scant protection he could offer, her long bare legs drawn up in front of her to hide as much of herself as she could from these monsters who had no human feelings whatsoever. At least their actions had been impersonal- so far. Rape was a horrible spectre she refused to even think about.

Until now Rostov had been almost affable- except for that single instant when he had clubbed McClain with his rifle b.u.t.t. He had said little throughout the searches, just watched keenly. He was smiling, swaying slightly with the movement of the truck as he stood before them, balanced on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, hands clasped behind his back. His teeth gleamed whitely in the light of the generator powered lightbulb that hung from a wire rigged across the ceiling. One of the two thugs who had stayed with Rostov had cranked the old-fashioned generator to get it going as soon as the prisoners had been taken aboard. The other two had gone into the cab as driver and lookout. With his blond hair, ruddy cheeked, cla.s.sically featured face and upright military bearing, Rostov looked like the all-American boy. Even his navy wool pants and white crewneck sweater over a pin-striped b.u.t.ton-down shirt were in impeccable taste. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought that death, when it came for her, would be dressed like a preppy!

"I don't know anything about a microfilm." Clara's voice was as steady as she could make it. She really didn't know anything about a microfilm, but Rostov wouldn't believe her in a million years. She knew that already. She cast a sidelong look at McClain. Did he know anything about a microfilm? He hadn't said anything about it to her.

"Admirable courage, Miss Winston." Rostov was still smiling. "Aided, of course, by your ignorance of how truly easy it will be to make you talk. What about you, Dragon? Are you going to save yourself and your lady some pain?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

Rostov's smile stayed in place. "Ah, Dragon, I know what you are thinking: if I tell Rostov where that microfilm is, I am dead- what do you say, beef?- as soon as he gets his hands on it. Right? You are not a fool, my friend, so I will not attempt to deny it. You and the lady will die, just as everyone you have talked to is either dead or soon to die. The operative you and the traitor Yuropov have imperiled is too big to permit us to take chances. But what you can choose is the manner of your dying. I can make it very easy for you. Or I can make it very hard and painful. You would not like the lady to suffer pain, would you, Dragon?"

"She knows nothing about any of this, Rostov. You made a mistake when you went after her. I never saw her before in my life before that night. If she wanted to, she couldn't tell you anything."

"Then that is her misfortune." Rostov turned to the goon behind him. "Get her up."

"No!" Clara whimpered, huddling closer to McClain, who was motionless. Her eyes were huge as she watched them come for her. She had never felt so terrified in her life.

The stockier of Rostov's henchmen reached down to grab Clara by the arm and haul her to her feet. As she tried to resist, earning a vicious pinch for her pains, McClain made an abortive movement beside her. Almost instantly he subsided, his face impa.s.sive. Clara struggled as she was pulled toward Rostov, but to no avail. The man holding her was an ape. Shorter than either McClain or Rostov, thickset, heavy featured with a bald head so smooth Clara wondered hysterically if he shaved it, he had long since discarded the stocking mask he had worn during the ambush. Shuddering as she looked into his avidly gleaming small eyes, Clara wished he had kept it on. Then she would not be able to see the antic.i.p.ation in his eyes.

"You know, Dragon, I am inclined to believe you when you say the lady was a mistake. She is too soft, too easily hurt. Not your type, eh? This one does not have the toughness of the other, Gloria?" McClain's expression changed, almost indiscernibly. But Rostov saw it and smiled. "Ah, yes, I have made the acquaintance of Gloria. It seems she wished to make up your quarrel. At any rate, she returned to your apartment a couple of days ago. But she, too, knew nothing. A pity. But one must do what one must do. For one's country, you understand."

Clara felt her throat go dry as she absorbed the implications of his words. Had Rostov killed Gloria? He would do so without compunction, she knew. Clara had a moment of thanksgiving that her mother was safely out of the country. Then she was jerked back to reality by Rostov's almost casual command.

"Break one of her fingers."

Before Clara could recover her wits enough even to scream, the other thug had his arm around her throat in a choke hold. The first one grabbed her by the handcuffs that still linked her wrists, caught her left hand in his, and wrapped his huge hand around her pinky. With a twisting motion, he wrenched it to the side. Clara screamed in agony as pain shot through her body. When he released her hand, the littlest finger stuck out at an odd angle. Already it was swelling, turning black. Sobbing, Clara cradled the injured hand with the other. Her knees gave out; the thug behind her let her slump to the floor. Clara sprawled on the cold metal, clutching her hand, unable to believe the agony. They had deliberately broken her finger! She vomited, retching until her stomach was empty.

"Such a little pain, and you see how she reacts? This one is a lady. Hurting her will be easy." Rostov was talking to McClain, ignoring Clara who was still sobbing at his feet. As he spoke she scooted a little away from the puddle of vomit, but remained huddled on the floor. Hoping against hope that they would forget she was there.

"What shall we do to her next, Dragon? We could, of course, break all her fingers and toes. But that is mere child's play. Or we could strip her naked again and let Orlov have some fun with her. He is a sick man, our Orlov. But then, I am not feeling in charity with Orlov today. I specifically asked him to save the coup de grace to your agents for me, and instead he got carried away and killed them himself. So he needs a lesson in discipline. But there are still many other choices. You know them as well as I. So I will ask you again, Dragon: Where is the microfilm?"

"Go to h.e.l.l, Rostov."

Rostov shook his head. "I am sorry, Miss Winston, but as you see your friend does not value you as he should. Malik, help Miss Winston up."

The second thug walked over to pull Clara to her feet. She cowered, whimpering, still cradling her injured hand. Pain and shock throbbed along her nerve endings. She felt cold- so cold- a cold that had nothing to do with her bare feet and legs beneath the scanty edgings of silk and lace. Her throat was dry. Even the soft little cries she was making hurt. But she couldn't seem to stop whimpering. Terror filled her as she was jerked to her feet, imprisoned again in the choke hold.

"Scream all you like, Miss Winston. The trailer is soundproof." The words were benevolent. Their effect on Clara was horrible.

"Oh, please, please..." They positioned her so that McClain could see her and she could see him. He was looking at her, his face like stone. His eyes were as hard and impersonal as Rostov's. He was not going to give them what they wanted. A dry sob racked her, then another and another. They were going to hurt her, torture her, kill her...

"What shall we do to her, hmm? Orlov, have you a cigarette?"

"Da." He fished in the pockets of his gray coveralls and came up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which he pa.s.sed to Rostov.

"Ah, thank you, comrade." Rostov leisurely extracted a cigarette from the pack, which he then slid into his shirt pocket beneath the sweater. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he flicked the lighter to life and held the flame to the tip, inhaling deeply. Snapping the lighter shut and sliding it into his pants pocket, he took a couple of long drags on the cigarette. Then he looked at Clara, frowning in a mock-considering way.

"Now, let us see..."

"Please, don't hurt me!" Clara's voice was a hoa.r.s.e croak. She was dizzy with pain and terror. This animal was going to burn her tender skin with the cigarette, she had absolutely no doubt. It would hurt- like her hand still hurt. She couldn't bear any more pain. But there was nothing she could do; she was helpless, at their mercy. And they were merciless men.

"Where shall we start? Not the face, at first. No, the face is too pretty to mar unless we must. What about the neck? Just beneath the ear..."

He pulled hard on the cigarette. The tip glowed bright red when he took it from his mouth. Clara cringed as he reached for her with his free hand, smoothing her hair away from her neck with a caressing gesture.

"Such soft skin," Rostov murmured.

Clara realized with a sick heave of her stomach that he was actually enjoying what he was doing. She strained away from him, whimpering, pressing her head back against Orlov's barrel chest in a vain effort to evade the approaching cigarette. Rostov's hand held her hair clear; the cigarette touched her neck just below her ear. Clara screamed, jerking helplessly as the cigarette burned into her white skin. The scent of charred flesh reached her nostrils as Rostov stepped back. For a moment she thought she might faint. Everything swam before her eyes... She wanted to faint, to hurry up and die and get it over with. But she didn't. She could only stand trembling, cringing, sobbing, to wait for another onslaught of pain.

Rostov returned the cigarette to his mouth and took another leisurely drag. When the tip was glowing bright red again he took it out and turned it over in his hands, studying it.

"Hold her up, Malik." Rostov's order was sharp.

"No, please. No." Clara barely even heard her own mindless pleading. The thugs paid no attention. Orlov tightened his grip on her swaying, trembling body.

"That's better." Rostov nodded, looking Clara up and down. Then he reached toward her, grasped the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head so that it hung from her chained hands. Clara shook from head to toe as he began to flick open the b.u.t.tons that fastened her shirt. She felt nausea churn again in her stomach as he exposed the soft flesh of her neck and shoulders, the burgeoning swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against the silky white teddy. He pushed the shirt off her shoulders. Clara could feel the men's eyes on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She had a horrible premonition that before this was over they would all rape her, not because they wanted her woman's body but because they enjoyed inflicting pain and humiliation on the helpless. They were sick, evil men...

Rostov's hand reached out, caressed her shoulder, slid a spaghetti strap down one arm. He continued to tug at the strap until her left breast was exposed. Clara cringed against Orlov as Rostov ran a questing finger over her breast, flicking the shrinking nipple.

"Very nice, very s.e.xy. I compliment you on your taste in women, Dragon." Rostov was drawing on the cigarette again. Tears fell from Clara's eyes. She was helpless to stop him from hurting her.

She looked over at McClain to find him watching her. Those green eyes were stony in his set face.

Rostov withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and held it over her breast without quite touching it. Clara squirmed, panting and whimpering in antic.i.p.ation of the pain as he moved the cigarette around in the air, seemingly trying to position it just right. Finally he stopped when it was directly over her nipple. She could feel the heat of the glowing red tip although it was still about an inch from her skin.

"Please, no! I don't know anything, I swear I don't!" Clara was babbling through falling tears. "Please..." Her eyes encountered McClain's. His were such a dark green that they looked almost black. "Jack!"

"All right, Rostov. You win. Back off." McClain's voice was hoa.r.s.e. Clara didn't understand for a moment as she watched the slow smile that stretched Rostov's mouth. His pale blue eyes gleamed. Then the cigarette was put back in his mouth and he turned to look at McClain. At a gesture from Rostov, Clara was abruptly released. She sank to her knees, dazed with relief. It was a moment before she could even cover herself. Then she scrambled back into the protection of shirt and sweater like a rabbit running for its burrow. Not that the garments would protect her, but she couldn't stand to be naked to their view.

"Well?" Rostov drew out the syllable, not troubling to conceal his triumph.

"It's on the d.a.m.ned cat."

"What?" Rostov's voice was sharp. The cigarette came out of his mouth again to be held tensely in his hand as he stared at McClain.

"You heard me. The cat. The one we've been lugging around. The microfilm is on the cat."

Rostov swore in Russian. Clara blinked, her attention caught despite the pain. McClain had hidden the microfilm on Puff? No wonder he had been so careful of him! Fuzzily she remembered him saying, Just because I didn't let the d.a.m.ned cat drown doesn't make me some kind of hero, you know. Some kind of hero, indeed! He'd been saving his precious microfilm, and not Puff at all! She looked across at him, blinking, knowing she should be angry but too dazed with pain and fear, only to find that his attention was all on Rostov.

"And where is the animal now?"

McClain smiled, a slow and mocking smile that made Rostov's lips tighten.

"Where is Puff now, Clara?" McClain was looking over at her with a kind of triumph in his eyes. Rostov's eyes followed his. Clara felt her heart lurch as those merciless pale blue eyes pinned her. He would hurt her again...

"The pound. They took him to the pound," she gasped.

"Where?"

"At Camp Lejeune."

Rostov uttered another short Russian curse and turned to Malik. "Tell them to stop."

Malik pulled a walkie-talkie out of his pocket and said something into it in Russian. A moment later the truck was pulling off the road and coming to a stop. Rostov turned back to McClain.

"For your sake I hope you are telling the truth. If I go to the quite considerable trouble of extracting an animal from an impoundment office and there is no microfilm I will be most unhappy. And if I am unhappy, I fear I will vent my feelings on Miss Winston here first. Perhaps I will present her with a necklace. Like all women, you like necklaces, eh, Miss Winston? But not, I think, the kind I have in mind. You see, we take a small rubber tire and soak it in gasoline, then put it over your head so that it imprisons your arms. Then we give you a cigarette to smoke. Sooner or later an ash falls, the tire ignites, and you are burned alive." Rostov smiled as Clara paled. She had no doubt at all that he would do just as he threatened. "Think well about that, Miss Winston, while I am gone. If I return without that which I seek, that is how your life will end."

He turned, saying something in Russian to Malik. Malik in turn said something into the walkie-talkie. A few seconds later the van's door rolled up. Rostov turned to look at McClain.

"I will be back, Dragon," he said, and then jumped down onto the road. Malik and Orlov followed him. The door rumbled shut. Clara heard a clang as it was locked from the outside. For a moment she stayed where she was as the van once again got under way, unable to believe that they had gone. She was reprieved, no matter how temporarily. Then she saw McClain's bare feet beside her and realized that he was standing over her.

"Clara..." He hunkered down beside her. With his hands still cuffed behind his back, he couldn't touch her, but his voice was rough with concern. She lifted her head. Her teary eyes traveled over the broad chest and wide shoulders clad in soft black cotton; they touched on the thick neck, jutting chin, narrow mouth, crooked nose, and kept going until they met his eyes... His eyes were a dark pine green. She stared into them, saw the hurt that was in them for her, and sobbed. Immediately he was leaning over her, nuzzling her cheek with his lips, rubbing his face against her neck.

"Sh, baby."

"Oh, Jack!" She rose off the floor to press against him, her face burrowing into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, desperate for his warmth, for the solid comfort of touching him. She had been so frightened. Was still so frightened. And she hurt. Sobbing, she huddled against him, trying to get closer yet. He couldn't take her in his arms, but his warmth was all around her. She squirmed against him, her cuffed hands going under the hem of his sweatshirt to entwine in the thick mat of hair on his chest, her mouth open against the skin of his neck. Her eyes closed as she tasted the salt of his skin against her tongue, breathed in the musky scent of man, felt the satin over steel muscularity of him, the hard warmth of his chest. She needed him so much that she wanted to absorb him through her skin. Shivering, she leaned against him and cried, her tears trickling down his neck, glistening against his bronzed skin.

XVIII.

"Clara."

She sobbed, hiccupped, and pressed her face harder into the warmth of his neck. His voice threatened to pull her back to reality. Closing her eyes tightly, she resisted. He moved slightly, his mouth nuzzling the hair out of her face to rest against her forehead.

"Clara. Baby, stop crying. Come on."

"No." It was a resentful mutter. His mouth nuzzled her forehead again.

"Please, sweetheart. We've got things to do before Rostov gets back. We've got to make sure he can't hurt you again."

"You can't stop him." Her voice was m.u.f.fled against his skin. Another hiccup punctuated the words.

"I can try. Come on, Clara, dry up, will you please? We don't have time for this. Besides, I'm uncomfortable as h.e.l.l. My legs have fallen asleep."

This bit of trivia had the effect he desired. Clara lifted her head, looked up to find his face so close that she could make out every black whisker, every pore in his bronzed skin. Shakily, her hands against his chest, she pushed herself a little away from him, aware suddenly of the shooting pain in her hand where Orlov had broken her finger, the stinging of the burn beneath her ear.

"My hand hurts." Brought back to reality, she was also brought back to pain. She stared down at her hand. The little finger was shades of purple and swollen to three times its normal size; it stuck out from her palm at a forty-five degree angle.

"I know it does. I can make it better. Just hold on for a couple more minutes. Don't faint on me, baby."

Clara felt herself swaying, felt the blood drain from her face. The inside of the van seemed to swirl around her. She thought hazily that she needed to lie down. Then, like a flower left too long without water, she wilted, and lay panting on her side on the floor.

"Clara!" He was beside her, bending over her. She blinked up at him, saw his mouth tighten. Her eyelids flickered down.

"You've got to stay with me, baby. Just a little longer. Do you hear?"

He was speaking very slowly and distinctly, as if he was afraid she might not be able to understand him. Clara looked up at him, her brow wrinkling. She supposed she must be going into shock. Her eyes closed, shutting him out. Her every instinct clamored for sleep. Sleep was escape...

"Clara." There was an urgency to his voice, a leashed frustration to his movements that were hampered by his chained hands. Against her will, she felt herself being pulled back from the edge of blessed unconsciousness. She was in pain, frightened, and exhausted. All she wanted was to go to sleep. But he was not going to let her escape.

"Clara. Don't go to sleep. There's something that I need for you to do." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek as he spoke almost directly into her ear. "When Rostov hit me with that rifle and I fell down, I managed to pull the keys to the handcuffs from Thompson's pocket. Do you hear me, Clara? I have the keys to the handcuffs."

"You don't." Clara's words were slurred. It was all she could do to think at all. "They searched you. They would have found them."

"I dropped them on that pile of moving pads just inside the door. They didn't see me. I knew they would search us. Come on, Clara. I need your help to get these handcuffs off. Rostov probably won't be back for a while, but we can't take that chance. We have to do it now."

It took the words a few minutes to penetrate the fog surrounding her. Then Clara felt a sudden tiny p.r.i.c.kling of hope. She struggled to suppress it. To hope was too painful. It would just make her suffering worse when Rostov got back.

"Get up, Clara."

He wasn't going to let her go to sleep. She turned her head, blinking at him resentfully, trying to marshal the words to tell him how hopeless it all was. But before she could put them together in her dazed mind, he leaned over and kissed her, hard and quick, on the mouth.

"You are a pain in the a.s.s, Clara Winston." The words were rueful, affectionate, exasperated. He clambered to his feet and stood over her, nudging her thigh with his bare toes. She liked his toes, she decided, looking at them with detachment. Long, narrow toes with a tiny tuft of black hair on the largest attached to long, narrow feet. Nice.

"Clara, stand up!" There was no affection in his voice now. It was hard, the words a command. Clara flinched, looking up into his eyes almost fearfully. He sounded too much like the men who had done this to her. Hard, uncaring men who liked inflicting pain.

"Did you hear me?" The edge to his voice made her whimper. His eyes narrowed, hardened. Clara felt nausea rise in her stomach. The brutal voice penetrated. Moving slowly, awkwardly, she stood up. For a moment everything swam around her; she was afraid she might fall down again. He swore, moving behind her, helpless to hold her up if she should fall. His cuffed hands twitched impotently.

"Don't you dare faint on me now!" The words were a fierce order. "d.a.m.n it, I don't know about you, but I refuse to just lie here and die, and you're going to help me! Do you understand?"