They got off the Shore Parkway in Brooklyn and went down a street below an elevated railway that was filled with shops like the Taste of Russia, a furrier, and a nail salon. The streets were alive with traffic—every second car, it seemed, was a Mercedes—and the sidewalks were filled with people of all ages and sizes, including grandmothers wearing head scarves.
Normal, everyday families, Cassy thought, and that alone frightened her almost as much as the man sitting next to her. Bad things could actually happen even in a place like this. And she knew in her heart of hearts that even if she could manage to power down her window, stick her head out, and scream at the top of her lungs, people might look up, but they would do nothing to help her. They would mind their own business.
Come to me, Ben, she almost mouthed the words, I need you.
Panov turned down a broad avenue lined with five- and six-story brownstone apartment buildings, the traffic here much lighter, the sidewalks empty.
Two blocks farther, he turned down a narrower street and stopped at a tall, steel mesh gate. Behind it was the trash-filled backyard of a two-story brick building with long green awnings shading the windows on both floors.
A stocky man in jeans and a tight-fitting light green V-neck sweater, a big pistol stuck in his belt, came out and unlocked the gate, swinging it inward far enough so that they could drive through. He closed and locked it again.
Panov parked next to a low wooden shed that butted up to the back of the building, and Anosov got out on the driver’s side, holding on to Cassy’s arm and dragging her with him.
“So this is the putana?” the man in the green sweater asked, his Russian accent thick. The word meant whore or prostitute.
Anosov laughed, said something in Russian, and Panov and the man in the green sweater grinned and nodded.
“But she’s a handful, Vasili,” Anosov said. “Maybe you’ll need help.”
They went into the house, Anosov’s grip firm enough on Cassy’s arm that it hurt, even though she was not resisting.
They went up two steps and through the back door into a short pantry hall that opened onto a large kitchen. A half dozen men, mostly in jeans and T-shirts, were seated around a large round table, eating what looked like some sort of stew, with several loaves of bread from which large pieces had been torn, and big bottles of beer with porcelain caps.
A man was taking a beer out of a refrigerator, while a large, shirtless man with a huge belly and a massive hairy chest was at the stove stirring something in a big pot.
The odors of grease and of unwashed male bodies were nearly overpowering, and Cassy gagged.
One of the men at the table laughed. “I don’t think she’s going to like Mikhail’s cooking,” he said.
The others laughed too.
“Maybe I’ll have to give her something else to eat,” the man at the stove said.
“Do you want something to eat or drink?” Anosov asked.
Cassy shook her head, unable to speak.
“I’m taking our guest to the attic room, and until I give the word, it’s hands off, gospoda,” Anosov said. “Am I clear?”
Another man appeared at the door across the kitchen, and he pulled up short, his eyes all over Cassy. He grinned. “Nice merchandise,” he said. He was tall and on the slender side, a pistol stuck in his belt.
“Am I clear?” Anosov repeated.
“Yes, sir,” everyone responded, obviously not liking it.
“Just relax,” Anosov said. “We have the rest of this day and all night, so you’ll get your chance.”
His grip still tight on Cassy’s arm, he led her across the room, brushing the man at the door aside. They went back through what was a dining room with a long table that could easily seat a dozen, and then into the living room with a lot of overstuffed furniture and out into the front stair hall.
All the windows in the front of the house were covered by heavy drapes, only a small amount of light coming from the outside, completely blocking anyone from seeing what was happening in here, and Cassy’s despair deepened.
A chair and a side table with a half-full ashtray, a couple of Russian-language magazines, and a cell phone were set up in a corner of the stair hall. The man who’d opened the gate for them was the rear-door guard, and the man with the gun who’d come into the kitchen was the front-door guard. The place was a fortress.
She didn’t resist as they went upstairs, but Anosov never let go of her arm.
A half dozen doors opened off the corridor that ran the length of the second floor, at the far end of which was a bathroom, its door open.
Halfway down the hall, Anosov reached up and pulled a cord that lowered a set of folding stairs, the spring twanging.
“Up the stairs,” Anosov said, and Cassy climbed up on all fours into an attic, with rough boards for a floor and open roof beams that sloped down to the eaves. At the front a small window let in some light, while at the other end a room that looked like a large closet or storage space with a thick door had been constructed on one side.
As Anosov came up the stairs, Cassy had a wild thought that she should kick him in the face, and then somehow make her way down to the front door and make her escape.
But she stepped back instead, and Anosov joined her.
“You missed an opportunity just now,” he said. “Too bad.”
“What do you want with me?”
“The flash drive you stole from your bank.”
“I told you that I gave it to Ms. O’Connell. She’s my boss. You can check with her.”
“First I’ll search you, just to make sure.”
Cassy spread her arms. “Be my guest, you fucking pig.”
Anosov laughed, then took her arm and led her to the door at the rear of the attic, where he undid the latch and opened it.
The room was small, less than ten feet on a side with the sharply sloping roof beams on the left, beneath which was a narrow cot with only a rough blanket and a dirty pillow. A portable plastic toilet, like campers used, was set up in the opposite corner. There were no lights nor a window. With the door closed it would be like sleeping in a coffin, and Cassy had to shudder.
“Take your clothes off,” Anosov said, letting her go when they were inside.
“Are you going to rape me?” Cassy demanded, her voice a lot stronger than she felt.
“Later. Right now I want to see if you have the flash drive.”
Cassy hesitated for a moment. She was frightened and angry.
“Take your clothes off,” Anosov said.
She took off her blouse and handed it to Anosov, who searched the pocket and the folds of the cloth before he tossed it aside. She took off her bra, and he checked it the same as he had the blouse.
This was worse then she’d expected it would be. She was naked from the waist up, and she’d never felt more vulnerable in her life than right now.
“Everything,” Anosov said.
Cassy sat on the edge of the cot to take off her gray Sketchers sneakers, which she handed to Anosov, who checked them before tossing them on the floor.
Then she stood up and took off her khaki trousers and her panties and tossed them to the Russian. “You got what you wanted, now get out of here and leave me alone.”
“Not quite,” Anosov said, checking the trousers’ pockets before tossing them and the panties aside.
“I’ve got nothing!” Cassy shrieked.
“You were telling the truth, after all,” Anosov said. He left the room and closed the door, the sound of the latch going home loud.
Cassy rolled over, her knees up to her chest, and she began to cry.
Downstairs, Anosov phoned Bykov. “She doesn’t have a flash drive.”
“Are you sure?”
“Da,” he said.