Martin was desperately trying to struggle away from me, and I was loudly saying, “There, there, buddy, you’re going to be okay. You probably just got a piece of gum stuck in there. Here, I’ll give you a ride to the hospital,” as I maneuvered him toward the car. Katrina leaned back and flung open the rear door. I shoved Martin inside, banging his head against the door frame, which sent his glasses spilling into the gutter and made him howl.
I piled in, and Katrina pulled out into the street. While Martin was fighting to force some air down his bruised windpipe, I pulled some rope from my pocket and tried to grab his hands. He tried shoving me away, slapping at my face like a little girl, so I popped him hard on the nose, an easy target because the damned thing was so huge.
His hands flew up to his schnozz and he was whimpering and trying to keep the flow of blood from spilling all over his Burberry, while I began using the rope to tie his hands together. He tried protesting, and I screamed, “Shut up or I’ll kill you!”
Once I got his hands tied, I pulled out the hunting knife I’d bought at Tysons Corner, held it to his throat, and threatened, “One wrong move and I’ll cut you, asshole.”
I yanked a ski mask over my head, while he stared at my face, trying to place me, trying to fight his fear, trying to figure out how he got into this nightmare.
He started to talk, and I told him to shut up or I’d slice open his throat. This also was part of the treatment. I wanted him so scared he’d pee in his pants. Katrina headed uptown for the George Washington Bridge, which would compound our crime by taking us across state lines. But hey, once you’ve just assaulted and kidnapped the most powerful former Assistant Secretary of State in history, why sweat the small stuff?
About every five minutes I reached over and slapped or punched Martin, sometimes in the face, sometimes in the stomach, not because I’m a cruel bastard but to keep him terrified. He needed to know I was pitiless. He needed to feel pain. The more helpless he felt, the quicker and easier we’d get this done.
I could see Katrina wince every time I hit him, and she no doubt was regretting she’d ever agreed to my plan. But her role during this stage was to be perfectly silent, to be the mysterious lump in the front seat. I just kept reminding myself of Mel Torianski’s exploding head and the three guys who tried to murder Katrina and me, and my qualms abated.
We took the Palisades Parkway exit and headed toward Bear Mountain State Park. The drive took about forty minutes, with me smacking Martin every few minutes, Katrina shaking her head, and Martin mewling like a lamb dancing with the big bad wolf.
We crossed the Bear Mountain Bridge and took a left, heading toward Garrison. After about two miles I told Katrina to pull over at the next dirt road leading into the woods, which she did. I reached across Martin, swung open the car door, and shoved him out into the mud. He flew out face first and yelped. I came out right behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of his fancy Burberry raincoat, and dragged him into the woods. Katrina followed.
She asked, “Where you are taking him?” using a fabricated Russian accent.
“Where nobody can see me cut his throat,” I yelled. The shock of that registered instantly on Martin’s face.
Then we were into the bushes. I dragged and shoved Martin through the thick underbrush and every time he tried to stop, I slapped him across the head, the loud whacks echoing through the forest. We moved like this for half a mile, him occasionally slipping and falling onto the ground, and me kicking him in the ass every time he did, because Martin was a guy who’d never been humiliated in his life, never been subjected to such indignities, a guy who’d led a perfectly spoiled existence-Groton, Yale, a comfortable writer’s life.
I finally grabbed his collar from behind and threw him stomach first onto the ground. He let out a loud “whoomph,” then looked up, his expression hurt and terrified. “W-what do you want? Money? I’ll pay you. I’ll never tell anybody, I swear.”
This is the standard plea of all kidnap victims, trying to regain some sense of power, some control over their destiny. It’s a natural response to try to negotiate, to find your tormentor’s motive, to assert any kind of grip you can get on the situation.
I kicked him in the chest so hard that he went somersaulting backward and onto his stomach. I reached down and lifted him by his collar and the back of his pants, then hurled him through the air. He came down on his stomach with a loud scream.
He had to know I was much stronger than him, that he was powerless, that negotiation was out of the question. He had to know he had no control. He had to feel the sheer terror of being in the hands of a wildman.
I bent down on my haunches and put my face squarely in front of his. I flashed the hunting knife.
His eyelids stretched open, while Katrina said, “Oh, God, I cannot watch this. I must return back to car. I will be getting sick.”
Martin’s eyes darted from me to her. You knew exactly what he was thinking, because the thoughts scampering through his addled head were exactly what he was meant to think. What was with this woman’s accent? And she was obviously his only chance against the pitiless bastard with the knife. If she left, he was dead.
He yelled something in Russian, his voice trembling with fear.
Katrina said something back, and I yelled, “You two stop it! Speak goddamn English.”
Katrina coldly said, “He begs us not to kill him. He says he can make it worth our while.”
I let loose a nasty chuckle. “And your government would find us and kill us. Let’s get this over with.”
The shock of that registered very clearly on Martin’s face. “The Russian government?” he asked, sounding dismayed. “Please, there has to be a mistake. W-what are you talking about?”
I inched closer like I had no intention of discussing this with a man I intended to butcher.
“Please,” Martin begged, looking imploringly into the eye-slots of my ski mask. “You’re making a mistake. The Russians don’t want me dead.”
I was shaking my head, while Katrina swiftly said, “The order I have been given is most clear. You are to be disposed of. Is no mistake.”
“No, no, it’s wrong. I work for the Russians,” he squealed, literally howling as I positioned the knife against his throat.
Katrina barked, “Stop! Not yet.” Then to him, “What are you talking about?”
As scared as he was, he was no fool. In that instant he realized that Katrina was the boss of this operation, and that I was most likely a local hire under her employ.
His eyeballs shifted in her direction. “Please,” he sniveled. “Please listen to me. This is a mistake. I work for the Russians. I swear I do. Your people don’t want me dead.”
I snorted with disdain, while Katrina looked puzzled. “You are being ridiculous. You do not work for us.”
“No, no. I swear I do,” he said, completely confused, because he did work for the Russians, and if she did, too, then what was the deal here?
I moved the knife a centimeter to the left, enough to draw a little blood, enough to make his whole body shudder.
“Don’t listen to his bullshit,” I growled. “Let me cut his throat and collect my damn money.”
“You will be doing what you are told,” said Katrina in a most commanding and imperious tone. She took a few steps to get closer to us.
She put her hands on her hips and bent over Martin. “I am SVR agent. I have been ordered by Alexi Arbatov to dispose of you. Nobody has been making mistake here.”
“No, you… you’re wrong,” he assured her, struggling to cringe away from the knife. “P-please, I swear it. Arbatov’s a traitor. He works for the Americans.”
Katrina reached down and pulled my knife hand away from his throat. Still bent over, she stared down at him curiously and let loose a most convincing snort. “Alexi Arbatov is deputy head of SVR. He is Viktor Yurichenko’s protege. And you are saying he is traitor?” She let go of my hand. “Go ahead and kill him.”