She turned to look at him. She reached for his hand, and he took it without a thought. Her small fingers stroked the hair on his artificial knuckles. “You will know, Jim. You’ll be my svidetel. You won’t forget me, as soon as I disappear.”
She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed it.
“Nadia,” he said, breathing out her name in a soft warning.
She shook her head. Kissed his hand again. He tried to pull it away, but she clutched at his fingers.
She brought the hand up to her face and made it cup her cheek. “Do you feel this?” she asked, rubbing her cheek against his silicone skin.
“Yes,” he told her. “Not as much as with the other one.” He could feel basic textures with the artificial hand, some temperature differences. He could definitely feel how soft her skin was.
“And this?” she asked, moving his hand. Pressing it against her breast. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown he could feel her nipple hardening.
“Nadia—”
“Shh. Just a moment,” she said. Her eyes were closed. She lifted his hand away from her body but didn’t let go of it.
It wasn’t his real hand. It wasn’t him that had touched her like that, it was a machine. It wasn’t him. That was an utter lie, but lies can be useful things. If this ended now, if she stopped, he could forgive himself, he could—
She brought the hand down past her waist. Turned a little so she could maneuver it inside her panties, press it against her soft and yielding flesh. One finger slipped inside her effortlessly and he felt her warmth, felt how wet she was.
He tried to pull back, pull away, but his fingers brushed her clitoris and she trembled, her body as tight and as tense as a violin string. He stroked her there and her shoulders jumped. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slightly open, her breath deeper and stronger than before.
This isn’t me, he tried to tell himself. It’s the fake arm, it’s not me.
He started to take his hand away, but she brought both of hers down, covering his hand, pressing it back into place. He felt like this was inevitable, that it couldn’t be stopped now, not when it had already gone too far. He made a small circle with his fingertip and she sagged, as if her knees were getting weak. He touched her again and felt the heat of her body between them, filling the thin sliver of air between her and his real body, his own flesh. He could put his other arm around her, draw her closer, but, no, he didn’t dare, this was wrong; he couldn’t keep doing this, he thought, even as his fingers found her clitoris again. His thumb and index finger held it from either side in the softest grasp, moving up and down the tiniest distance. He released her and she gasped; touched her again and she made a sound like a bird inside a cage that’s just been unlocked.
“Yes,” she whispered, as he moved his hand, such tiny, precise movements, “Please,” she said, and he increased the speed, the pressure, but just by the smallest amount. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Jim, please, don’t… don’t stop… don’t…”
She was hunched over his arm, her head down, only an inch from crashing into his chest. If any part of her touched him, he knew he would have to stop, but she was agile enough to balance herself there as if she knew, as if she knew that was the only way this could keep happening. He could feel her gasping breath on his skin, but even as her hair slid down across her face it didn’t touch him. Only his hand was in contact with her body at all, only his fingertips.
He felt her start to shake, felt her body squeeze under his hand. And then with one convulsive noise like a sob she was there, the cage was open, the bird was free, its wings thrashing and taking flight…
She lifted her hands toward his shoulders as she came, reached for his actual flesh, his body, and he knew if she touched him once, he would not be able to resist, that he would scoop her up in his arms and carry her back to his bed and he would make love to her — no, at this point, the way he was feeling, he would fuck her. If she touched him. If she touched him at all.
He drew his artificial hand back, out of her panties, away from her. She stopped reaching for him. She let him go.
At the door leading back into the suite, he turned and looked at her there, in the moonlight. Her head was bowed and her hands gripped the railing and she was still trembling. “It’s all right,” she said. “You did nothing wrong. Try to get some sleep.”
He hurried back to his room and locked the door behind him. Sat down on his bed and reached up and unlatched the artificial arm, felt the clamps release and the arm fall away from him. He caught it with his good hand and wondered what to do with it. He wanted to throw it across the room. Smash it into pieces.
It hadn’t been long enough. For all he knew, Julia was trying to call him right then, trying to get back in touch and tell him she’d made a mistake.
No, he told himself. No, she hasn’t called. She’s not going to call. And Nadia is right here. Just waiting for me to get over myself.
Of course — there was the other reason this couldn’t happen. The fact that she was a foreign agent and that she might have orders to seduce him, to pump him for information.
He shook his head. He couldn’t resolve this. Couldn’t figure it out at all.
He cleaned and plugged the arm into a wall socket so it could recharge. Then he went back and sat on the bed and scrubbed at his face with his good hand, covered his eyes as if to keep anyone else from seeing what was happening there, behind them.
He did not sleep at all that night.
Nadia ordered down for breakfast the next morning, so they wouldn’t have to go down to the lobby and maybe run into Mirza. A huge platter of fruit and nuts and coffee and rolls came up to the room. Bogdan ate heartily, but Chapel and Nadia both just picked at the meal. Chapel drank a cup of coffee and announced he was ready to go.
Nadia looked at him and he looked away, as simple as that. Neither of them said anything, neither of them did anything to indicate that something had changed. “We’ll head down the back stairwell,” Nadia said. “There’s a service entrance at the back of the hotel. It will be monitored by cameras, but I doubt there will be anyone waiting for us there.”
Chapel nodded and hefted his bag. He led the way out into the hall, checking both ways to make sure it was clear before gesturing for the others to follow him. They weren’t expecting any trouble, but they wanted very much to get out of Tashkent without being followed.
It was a long walk down the stairs and then a short bustle through the kitchens of the hotel. A chef looked up and scowled at them, but he was too busy to say anything or chase them out of his stainless steel domain. The service entrance was unlocked and unguarded, and soon they were out into the alleyway behind the hotel, the early morning air already thick with exhaust fumes and the tape-recorded chant of a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.
It wasn’t far to the metro station, just a few blocks, but it took far longer because they had to stay in the alleyways and back courts the whole way, sticking to where the night’s shadows still hadn’t been eroded by the rising sun. They never crossed a street or turned a corner without checking for watchers, for any sign of a tail.