The room has moved on since I slipped away. Some other joke or anecdote has caught their interest. I arrive with the heavy silver tray of thirteen glasses filled to the brim and hold it up in front of me, but there seems little interest.
I sit on the armrest of the chair where the Russian is seated, then lean in close and say, “Sergei Mikhailovich, you are a man who appreciates exotic pleasures, yes?” This gets his attention, so I continue, speaking quietly so only he can hear. “In these glasses, I have tequila that’s better than any exotic pleasure you’ve ever had.”
He reaches for a glass, but I pull the tray away. “Not so fast, gospodin.” Sir. “It is for everyone. We all must share. Will you have the honor of proposing a toast?”
And this is all the nudging he needs, because the next thing I know, bloated Sergei Mikhailovich is on his feet, forcing a glass into everyone’s hand.
“Gentlemen!” Sergei Mikhailovich shouts over the din of the conversation. “I wish to make a toast to our excellent friends, Bohdan and Roman Kladivo.”
But I interrupt. “Sergei Mikhailovich, we must make it a proper Russian toast. That means one is to drink it all at once. No sipping.”
“In the Russian manner!” he bellows. “All at once!”
Everyone raises their glasses.
“To our friends, Bohdan and Roman. We wish you long life!”
And with that, everybody drinks. Everybody but me. As instructed, they down every drop in a single swallow. Only Bohdan disobeys Sergei Mikhailovich’s order and drinks only half. He squints at the tequila remaining in his glass, a sour expression on his face.
But Bohdan’s expression disappears when Sergei Mikhailovich startles everyone by throwing his glass into the fireplace where it explodes and sends sparks onto the floor. “Na zdarovye!” he bellows. To health!
There’s an awkward silence for a moment. Then Bohdan steps forward in a spirit of solidarity with his guest and throws his own glass into the fire, too. He’s followed by the American, then the Gambian army general, then everyone. They laugh for a good minute.
I know I should leave. But something compels me to stay: If you have the courage for the act, you have the courage to watch the outcome.
And the outcome begins seconds later as the massive dose of cyanide from the rat poison begins to take effect. It starts with the Chinese mobile phone king. He lurches away from the others, hands over his belly, shaking, stance wide as if trying to keep his balance. When he gasps and his body collapses to the floor, throat open, eyes bulging, everyone turns to him and begins to feel it, too.
The Gambian grips the back of a chair and gags. The American sinks to the couch, grabbing at his tie. Even the bear-sized Sergei Mikhailovich taps his chest with a fist before letting out a loud belch and falling to his knees. Bohdan—hands clutching the edge of the desk but otherwise strangely still—looks to Roman, watching as his son doubles over, hands at his throat, mouth agape. Roman looks back at his father, then collapses to the floor where his body thrashes as if electrified. There’s a cherry-red cast to Roman’s face that grows deeper as the seizure continues.
Bohdan turns to stare at me from across the room. His body may be dying, but his mind isn’t, not yet. He’s working through the problem—the what and how and finally the who. When the answer comes to him, he forces his fingers into his mouth and vomits on the floor.
I step over the nearly still body of the Gambian general to get to Bohdan. He’s reaching into his dinner jacket but having trouble pulling his pistol out. So I take the gun out for him and hold it loosely at my side.
“Sofia Timurovna,” he says. “You are a disappointment to me.”
I smile gently. “But you’ve made a mistake, Pan Kladivo,” I say. “My name is Gwendolyn Bloom.”
Even through the pain, he’s able to make the connection. I reach into his dinner jacket, feel around for the inside pocket, and find the fountain pen. Speech is beyond him now as the poison works its way through his body, racing through his veins, seizing every cell it finds and shutting down its flow of oxygen. I hold the pen up so he can see it. Then he convulses and leans forward. I take him in my arms in an embrace and hold him close. His saliva runs warm and slick down my bare shoulder.
“I found him this afternoon, Pan Kladivo,” I whisper. “I found my father. He’s free now. And the women you sold, they’ll be free soon.”
I release him, and he folds to the ground. I hear his gasping, and then suddenly I don’t. His body quivers on the floor for a moment with a motion that’s almost serpentine, then goes still.
*
Eleven women take the grand staircase down to the first floor where the lobby is illuminated like a disco with spinning blue light. There are cop cars out in front of the casino, a thousand of them, a million, and twice as many officers. A squad of eight, in black helmets and face masks behind a wall of gun barrels, moves toward the entrance in a brilliantly coordinated sixteen-legged trot.
The women push through the doors, raise their hands in the air, and I follow, the last to leave. Officers rush toward us, shouting commands in Czech. I kneel along with the others, the stone hard against my knees. Someone grabs me from behind. Someone forces me to the ground and puts cuffs around my wrists.
For a brief moment, I have the illusion of flying, as if the law of gravity no longer applies to me. It’s the feeling I’d get on the balance beam, the very best of the feelings I’d get. Like nothing else, this sensation. But I’m not flying, I’m being carried. There’s an officer on each of my limbs, rushing me through the air toward the back of a police car.
Twenty-Nine
I place my hands on the floor and toes on the concrete slab that is my bed and begin the push-ups again. One. Two. Three. Four.
There are no windows in the cell other than the one in the door, and that is covered at all times and hasn’t been opened once since I got here. There’s a camera in the upper corner of the cell under a little black dome of glass. I don’t know whether it’s always being monitored, but I have to assume it is.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.
I sleep only a few minutes at a time. They never turn off the lights, and since there is no blanket, I curl up on the concrete slab, shivering violently in an orange jumpsuit that’s thin as paper. I keep track of the time by counting the meals I’m served through a slot at the bottom of the door. Nine meals divided by three per day means I’ve been here three days.