Lord opened his eyes, expecting either another jolt of electricity or another piece of duct tape to be pressed over his nose. He didn't know which was worse. But he realized that he was no longer strapped to the chair. He was sprawled on a hardwood floor, his bindings cut loose and dangling from the chair's legs and arms. None of his torturers were around, the office lit only by three lamps and pale sunlight filtering past opaque sheers that covered floor-to-ceiling windows.
The pain of raw electricity surging through his body had been excruciating. Orleg had delighted in varying the contact points, starting with his forehead, then his chest, and finally his crotch, his groin now aching both from Droopy's blow and the bare wires that had sent voltage surging through his genitals. It was like cold water doused on a raw toothache, intense enough to black him out. But he'd tried to hang on, stay tough, keep alert. He couldn't slip and let anything out about Akilina. Some mythical heir of the Romanovs was one thing. She was another.
He struggled to lift himself from the floor, but his right calf was numb and he was barely able to stand. The numerals on his watch blurred in and out. He was finally able to make out five fifteen PM. Only forty-five minutes left to meet Akilina.
He hoped they'd not found her. His still being alive was perhaps confirmation of their failure. Surely when she'd called at three thirty and he hadn't spoken with her, she'd followed his instructions.
He'd been a fool to trust Filip Vitenko, thinking thousands of miles between here and Moscow enough insulation. Apparently, whoever was interested in what he was doing had sufficient connections to transcend international borders, which meant high-level government involvement, and Lord resolved not to make that mistake again. From now on he would trust no one, except Akilina and Taylor Hayes. His boss had connections. Maybe enough to counteract what was happening.
But first things first. He needed to get out of the consulate.
Orleg and Droopy were surely nearby, probably just outside. He tried to remember what happened before he passed out. All he could recall was more electricity surging through his body, enough that his heart had fluttered. He'd stared hard into Orleg's bleak eyes and seen joy. The last thing he recalled before succumbing to unconsciousness was Droopy shoving the inspector aside, saying it was his turn.
He tried once more to push himself from the floor. A wave of vertigo swirled through his head.
The office door flew open. Droopy and Orleg strolled in.
"Good, Mr. Lord. You're awake," Orleg said in Russian.
The two Russians yanked him from the floor. Instantly the room spun and nausea invaded his stomach. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling and he thought he was about to black out when a sudden rush of cold water soaked his face. The initial feeling was like the electricity, but where voltage burned, the water soothed and his dizziness began to abate.
He focused on the two men.
Droopy was holding him upright from behind. Orleg stood before him, an empty pitcher in hand.
"Still thirsty?" the inspector asked with sarcasm.
"Fuck you," he managed to say.
The back of Orleg's hand slapped his wet jaw hard. The pain from the blow roused his senses. He tasted blood on the corner of his mouth and wanted to pull free and kill the sonovabitch.
"Unfortunately," Orleg said, "the consul general is concerned about a murder taking place here. So we have arranged a little journey for you. They tell me a desert lies not far away. A perfect place to bury a body. I live in the cold. Some warm, dry air would be nice." Orleg stepped close. "There is a car waiting in the rear of this building. You will go quietly. There is no one present to hear any cry for help, and if you make one sound outside, I will slit your throat. I personally would kill you here. Right now. But orders do need to be followed, would you not agree?"
A long, curved knife appeared in Orleg's hand, its edge boasting a recent sharpening. The policeman handed it to Droopy, who pressed the flat of the blade to Lord's throat.
"I suggest you walk slow and straight," Orleg said.
The warning mattered little to Lord. He was still woozy from the torture and barely possessed the strength to stand. But he was trying to muster enough stamina to be ready if an opportunity presented itself.
Droopy shoved him out of the office and into a secretarial area devoid of people. Down a staircase they made their way toward the rear of the ground floor, past a cadre of offices, all of which were dark and empty. The glimpses he caught through windows showed that day was surrendering to night.
Orleg stepped ahead, now leading the way, stopping at a paneled wooden door outlined in elaborate molding. He unlocked the latch and opened it. Beyond, the growl of a car motor could be heard, and he saw the open rear door of a black sedan, exhaust smoke whipping mist up and over the roof. The inspector motioned for Droopy to bring their charge forward.
"Stoi," a voice called out from behind. Stop.
Filip Vitenko brushed past and moved straight toward Orleg. "I told you, Inspector, there would be no more violence where this man is concerned."
"I told you, diplomat, this does not concern you."
"Your Mr. Zubarev is gone. I am in authority here. I have spoken to Moscow and have been told to do as I see fit."
Orleg grabbed two handfuls of the envoy's jacket and slammed him to the wall.
"Xaver," Vitenko screamed.
Lord heard the gait of someone rushing down the hall, then a stump of a man rushed at Orleg. The second of commotion allowed Lord to jam his elbow into Droopy's stomach. The muscles were hard and flat, but he managed to wedge the point between ribs, then wrench upward.
Droopy's breath left him in a swoosh.
Lord shoved the hand holding the knife away. The big man atop Orleg noticed the attack and turned his attention to Droopy, leaping onto the Russian.
Lord lunged toward the outer door. Vitenko momentarily interfered with Orleg, which allowed Lord to leap out under the porte cochere harboring the idling vehicle. He saw no one in the car and jumped into the front seat. He rammed the gearshift into drive and plunged the accelerator to the floorboard. Tires grabbed pavement and the car rocked forward, the rear door slamming shut.
Ahead loomed an open iron gate.
He raced through.
Out in the street, he wheeled right and roared off.
"Enough," Hayes said.
Droopy, Orleg, Vitenko, and the aide stopped their tussle.
Maxim Zubarev stood beside Hayes in the corridor. "Good show, gentlemen."
"Now," Hayes said. "Let's go track that motherfucker and find out what this is all about."