Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(120)

Forgive me, Ilona, Tina, he repeated, eyes closed. The shard of glass from the lens of his eyeglasses was tucked inside his cheek. He fiddled at it with his tongue, feeling the sharp edge, tasting blood. I am not doing this for myself, but for Vajda, he pleaded, to the demons of doubt, swarming around him like buzzing insects. And after all, he was only anticipating his own inevitable death, no?

Was it really for Vajda? Was it just fear of pain? Could any man be blamed for a mortal sin in such circumstances? In their rambling, one-sided conversations, Novak had detailed his favorite techniques for inflicting maximum agony to Imre. Death was preferable. Nausea gripped him. He could not faint. Must not. One chance. Only one.

They dragged him into Novak’s library, over lurid colors cast by the stained glass, through the warm glow of wood paneling. They flung him into a seat in front of the computer with a force that jarred his degenerating bones and made him drag in dry gasps of pain.

Novak was there, waiting for him. He sat down next to Imre, grinning. “We have another juicy treat from your little friend. You would enjoy seeing him in action once again? For old times’ sake? So talented, our Vajda. Watch this, my friend, watch this. Gregor, play it for him.”

Gregor clicked with the mouse until the video image filled the large screen.

Imre watched, his jaw set, having learned the futility of trying not to look the last time. He still had hematomas in his arm, from Novak’s hideously strong fingers, his thick, yellowed nails.

A bedroom, dimly lit with pale morning light. A man and a woman, moving slowly together on the bed in the classic rhythm of love, her astride. The camera clearly showed the woman’s lovely profile, her graceful back, the gentleness in her hands as she cupped Vajda’s face.

Vajda’s face had a look upon it that Imre had never imagined seeing. He clasped the woman’s hands in his, lifted them to his lips.

Imre watched, in growing amazement. This was not pornography.

In truth, the other one had not been either, but this one was still less so. It was imbued with tenderness. Imre saw it in every gesture. A concert pianist, he had trained intensively all his life in the art of imparting real emotion, true tenderness with every gesture, every phrase. He knew the real thing when he saw it. He felt it in his chest, his gut. This was real intimacy. Intimacy that had been kidnapped and held for ransom.

He felt an urge to weep at the awful irony of it. His Vajda loved this woman, of all women. This was Vajda’s chance at having what Imre had had, for those few short, wonderful years with Ilona. Seven years of grace, and then a lifetime of gratitude for even that much, despite the loneliness, the silence. The waiting.

He would not let this be taken from his poor boy. Vajda had been robbed of too much already.

Imre’s doubts were gone. This thing would be done out of love, not fear.

Tough, tender Vajda. Son of his heart. Tears started from his eyes, crept down his cheeks. He was such a pathetic ruin, his captors might notice. He did not bother to wipe them away.

He looked up, and saw Ilona smiling at him, from the other side of the computer table. An angel, untouched by the filth of that place. She wore her old blue housedress and sweater. Her sweet face shone with pride. His heart leaped at the sight of her. It wouldn’t be long now.

He dragged in a deep breath. May God have mercy on his soul.



Novak sat in front of the computer screen, grinning as the pixels tightened into focus.

“You received the footage?” Val asked mechanically.

“Yes, of course. Very moving, most romantic. Although I personally preferred the dynamism of the previous encounter,” Novak said. “Perhaps the next time, you could vary the menu a bit?”

Val sat there and stared at him, rendered mute by impotent fury. Novak waited for Val to apologize for not being sexually entertaining enough. He stared stonily into the camera’s black eye.

Novak made an impatient sound. “Well, then,” he said. “I will let you speak to your friend. He intrigues me, you know. Despite his dislike of conversation. Here, move your chair a bit. I’ll get out of your way.”

Novak gestured and the computer was shifted so that the angle included Imre, who sat next to him.

He was even more reduced than he had been before. A shriveled wraith. Only his eyes had life. They were luminous with tears.

Answering tears surged up, clogging Val’s throat, and blocking the meaningless questions poised on his tongue. Are you well. Have they hurt you. Can you hold on for a little while longer.

“Vajda, listen carefully,” Imre said softly, in French. “I am about to give you a gift, my son. Take it and be free.”

He put his hand to his mouth and pulled out what appeared to be a small shard of glass.

Horrified dread swelled inside Val. “Imre, no! What are you—”

“Good-bye.” Imre’s hand stabbed down. Someone shouted. People leaped for Imre, and the chair spun back. Blood sprayed high. Imre’s hand waved in the air, drenched with shiny red. Novak was bellowing, incoherently. The wall spun into view, spattered with blood.

Someone hit the keyboard with their fist. The image disappeared.





Chapter


23




András sat in the beachside bar, sipping his sixth espresso as he studied the monitor that revealed Janos’s position. The man had been wandering around the beach aimlessly after renting himself a car. The local man with the handheld monitor had him under visual surveillance, not far away. Everything was firmly under control.