President Gerov looked over the guest list for Saturday's state dinner. He nodded. The American ambassador would be there. Possibly after dinner they might be able to discuss the delivery of the promised ten new jet fighters for Irkhetnia's air force. The current fleet was obsolete, most of the jets left over from the Soviet era. The president was hoping for a significant upgrade of national defense capabilities. Luckily General Perelenko would be there as well. Perelenko had the expertise in these kinds of things -- specifications of the planes in question, training requirements for pilots, and so on.

The president's attention was attracted, as it so often was, to the corner of his office which his mannequins decorated.

The big blonde mannequin was being dominated by the tiny one. Miss Preston's body was more or less facing the president's desk, angled sufficiently towards the side so that Simonina, in front of her, did not block the president's view of Preston's face. He dearly loved looking at the American girl's blank expression and contemplating what emotions might be seething inside her. Of course, he had already walked around the pair for a more complete view and might again later. Preston was kneeling in front of the Simonina girl, who was standing upright -- how amazing, thought the president, that there is enough resistance to motion in her knee and hip joints that she can actually stand on her own. It was hardly noticeable that Simonina's backside was leaning against the back of a heavy chair behind her, since she was incapable of the small movements necessary for balance, especially on feet that small. But with that support and with her feet spread apart, she was quite stable. Preston's hands were locked together behind her in leather wrist cuffs, pushed slightly to the side so that they didn't hide the butt plug stuck in her rear. Around her neck was a wide leather slave collar, from which a leash ran up to Simonina's elegantly gloved hand held above Preston's head, the end of the leash wrapped several turns around the hand. The leash was taut. Preston was looking up at Simonina's face. It was amusing to the president that Preston, though kneeling, was still very nearly as tall as Simonina standing. Simonina's other hand, the one not holding the leash, was clutching Preston's breast, her fingers making deep impressions in the skin. The whole attitude of the two bodies, everything in their postures, suggested stern mistress and devoted slave. The president enjoyed constructing a narrative in his mind as to how Simonina, such a tiny slip of a girl, had come to assert such authority over the much bigger, athletic-looking Preston. He grinned. His trust in Celenskaya to make good use of the size difference in the two women had been justified.

The president considered telling the Celenskaya girl she had done an outstanding job. No, he decided, on second thought, she should remain uncertain. Obviously the fear of the consequences of failure had inspired her. The president decided it would be useful to maintain that fear.

Pain radiated through Rachel's body from two sources. She was amazed how much wincing accomplished in dealing with pain. She had never really realized it until the ability to wince had been taken from her.

Her breast hurt badly -- Anya's fingers were seriously pinching it, and wouldn't let go. But that was nothing compared with the throbbing in her butt. She understood the nurses were acting under orders. But did they have to do their job this well?

The only thing that cheered her was that, as far as she could tell, Anya was having a day off from pain. At least Rachel hadn't seen the nurses do anything to her of a nature similar to the butt plug they had forced into Rachel. Rachel could live with the pain if it meant the day would go better for Anya.

Please, thought Anya, let me have the pain.

Watching the nurses push the butt plug into Retchell's behind was bad enough -- Anya was very familiar with how that felt -- but worse than that, for Anya, was knowing that she herself was hurting Retchell. She knew exactly how hard she was squeezing Retchell's breast. And she couldn't stop! She'd been trying so hard to let go!

She thought back grimly to her vow that she would move, she would break down the magic inside her holding her frozen, if anyone tried to hurt Retchell. They had made a mockery of that resolve now.

Prastee meenya pozhalosta, Retchell, she thought helplessly. What was it in Retchell's language... oh yes. Im soarry, Retchell. Im soarry, Im soarry, Im soarry...

Rachel tried to concentrate on what the president was doing. He had spent considerable time in what seemed to be a dreary videoconference meeting. No doubt something along the lines of increasing farmers' quotas for hay. I'm so glad, she thought bitterly, I can cheer him up during his drab routine. She wished so badly she could just strangle him. How arrogant, how self-congratulatory he had seemed as he inspected her closely, earlier today. Rachel herself had no idea what her butt looked like with that thing sticking out of it. But he did. He'd found it amusing.

There, he was doing it again -- getting that other laptop out of his locked desk drawer, typing on it as soon as it was up and running and, presumably, connected to the outside world. She ran various speculations through her head as to what he could be doing. Typing his memoirs? She supposed that made sense, except why do it on a separate computer? Is he afraid someone will...

As soon as she began considering the furtiveness of the action -- not that he was blatantly acting differently, or self-consciously, but the act in itself of quietly using a different computer suggested hiding something -- she knew.

Mandy had dragged Rachel here, unwillingly, on some quixotic quest to expose a huge drug operation supposedly run by the president himself. That, if it was taking place at all, would be something he would have to be careful about.

Rachel thought it through. It all seemed to fit. Presumably access to his office was severely restricted, but even trusted staff should be trusted only so far. He probably had the office swept for listening devices regularly, but just in case, any activities suggesting a drug lord would be too sensitive to involve speaking aloud. He would use e-mail or instant messaging. His regular computer, she could see, was hooked up to what was most likely an Ethernet cable, for speed of communication to make the videoconferencing possible, but that would involve signals running through wires. Despite all attempts to encrypt the signal, he would probably feel safer with wireless communication -- a wireless signal might be intercepted, but only if someone knew to look for it. Did cleaning staff come in at night? If any were spies, they would focus on the visible computer on the desk, not the unknown one locked away out of sight.

That has to be it, Rachel told herself. That HAS to be it.

With that thought came another:

He has eyes looking at him right this minute, she told herself: mine. He also knows that I know, or at least suspect, that he runs a drug operation. He knows Mandy told me about it. If he spends any time thinking about it at all, he would know I could figure out what he's doing now.

Rachel felt a sudden wave of terror run through her. Because she remembered the president knew one more thing about her: that she wasn't able to tell anyone what she knew. And because of what he's revealing to me now, she thought, he will make sure I can never tell anyone.

Rachel, once she had learned that the process to which she had been subjected did work, that she was an utterly immobile, helpless mannequin, had been able to maintain some hope that the man would get tired of her, and perhaps decide to play with her in some other way, a way that involved being able to move. She didn't want to be sent back to the constant torture of the prison, but maybe, her hopes ran, he would keep me here -- with Anya, of course.

Rachel knew now that could never happen. It doesn't matter to him how much I know, she realized despairingly, because I can't possibly pass it on -- and now that he knows I have some knowledge worth passing on, he will make sure I never, ever can. He has no problem with keeping me frozen like this for the rest of my life. If he gets tired of me, he'll simply kill me. And kill Anya too. He'd have to.

Rachel felt lightheaded, her face tingly, her ears filled with a buzzing sound not present in the room.

And if I faint, she thought with an internal sigh, he won't even notice.

The president's thoughts turned back to the U.S. ambassador. A whimsical thought ran through his head. Imagine if...

His reclining leather chair returned upright with a thump. Do I dare do that? he asked himself. It would be so exciting if I could!

Can I really let the ambassador see the two of them?

Dimitri Gerov had reached his position by being ruthless and, when opportunities presented themselves, taking chances. In his rise to power he had often felt the thrill of risking it all for great gain. There were too few new risks these days. But here...

The wonderful irony! It was irresistible!

He considered the dangers -- he never faced risk without a sober assessment of its nature. He had followed the story of the two missing American girls online. Germany had been turned upside down in the search for information as to their whereabouts, but the case had run its course two months ago, the search all but abandoned in the absence of any leads. None of the searching had been done outside Germany. The president's office had never received a single inquiry, from outside or from the U.S. embassy.

Miss Preston, at present, did not look much like her published picture, with her now considerably different hairstyle. The ambassador had probably seen pictures of Preston at some point during the search, but would not have her on his mind at this late date, in a country in which her presence had never been suspected. But when Dimitri Gerov took a risk, he began by taking steps to reduce the chance of failure as near to zero as he could.

He left the office to go next door.

The four women all jumped to attention when the president entered the room. The artist girl, Celenskaya, looked deathly pale suddenly, as if she was near fainting.

The president liked to see fear in subordinates, but he hoped it wouldn't interfere with the girl's thought processes. "Miss Celenskaya. I want you to tell me whether you think you can accomplish something a little different."

Larisa blinked in astonishment. She had been afraid this was it, she was being sent off to that prison. Either that or, she hoped, he might tell her she'd done well. She hadn't been expecting anything like this. "Sir?"

"I am hosting a state dinner Saturday evening. Following dinner, I expect to have some of the guests join me in a smaller room for cigars, brandy, and discussion of topics of interest. This time I think I might use my office for that. And I would like some..." He smiled. "...new statues that the guests might admire. Their poses should not be quite as... debauched as those you have been creating for me. I would want something more subdued and refined. But -- and this is very important -- no one should suspect they are alive. Can you do that?"

Larisa took a deep breath. Now that she knew she wasn't in trouble, her brain seemed to be switching back on. "They should still be naked?"

"Yes, yes. Like statues that, say, the ancient Romans might have displayed."

Larisa scratched her cheek. "With some body paint, I guess they could be made to look like marble. Water based, so we could wash it all off afterward."

The president pointed at her, his face alight. "There, yes. I think that would do it." He frowned. "Would their breathing be detectable?"

"Sir?" Zlata spoke up. "If the guests stayed far enough away, I don't think anyone would notice them breathing. Say... maybe three meters, or so. They don't really breathe very hard. As long as someone didn't think to look for it, I don't think anyone would see it."

Larisa gave Zlata a grateful look, and turned back to the president. "You could cordon off the display with a rope, like they do at a museum. That would be a natural thing to do. It just would make people think they're looking at really valuable artworks."

Veronika suddenly said, "Wait. What about their eyes? We can't cover those with paint."

Raisa suggested, "We could close them. We do that at night, and they can't open their eyes on their own. Would that be okay? But they wouldn't be able to see. You've said you want them to see."

The president thought a moment. "I don't care about that, for this. They don't have to see. They just have to be seen."

Larisa said, "Saturday is five days. I don't know how soon we can get materials..."

The president said, "Body paint. Anything else?"

Larisa thought. "Face makeup that matches the paint. For doing eyebrows, lashes... Oh, something to color their hair. That same color. I'll try to think if there's anything else." She'd thought about saying we would try to think, but didn't want the nurses to have to take any responsibility if anything went wrong. "If I tell Ivan this afternoon..."

"Anything you tell him today, it should be delivered by tomorrow."

"Could we... I know this is asking a lot. Is there any possibility we could test out the effect in your office, beforehand? In the place where people will actually be seeing it? Far enough in advance that we can tell you whether it's working or not, and fix it if it isn't, or cancel if we can't? You could be right there and decide for yourself whether to go ahead. Or Ivan could."

The president thought a moment. He really wanted this, more so than before, now that it seemed within reach. "All right. Wednesday afternoon. I trust you will be ready by then."

Larisa nodded eagerly. "Yes sir, if the supplies get here tomorrow."

The president nodded, and turned to the door. "Tell Ivan what you need." He left.

Larisa closed her eyes and took a huge breath. This might, she thought, be a way to score points, and remove herself just a little farther from the threat of prison. From the snakes.

Or, it occurred to her, setting her stomach churning, it could be her ticket directly to prison, if something went wrong. She would just have to make sure nothing did.

FIVE DAYS LATER

Larisa finished with the grease pencil, and stood up, looking over Blondie's and Pixie's bodies, trying to decide whether anything more needed to be done. She had been adding veins of slightly darker color over the body paint on their skin, as a final touch towards making them appear to be made of marble. After Wednesday's dry run, that had been one of the things she decided was needed, and she had requested some close-up photos of real marble statues to get a feeling for making the pattern look authentic. For the last hour she had lost herself in doing the artwork, her worries put aside for the moment, but now they were crashing back in upon her again. She put her hand to her mouth and began biting the nails, shivering slightly.

Raisa and Veronika were carefully combing the paint through both girls' hair, as Zlata stood back at a distance, measuring the effect. They had colored the girls' hair with an ivory-colored hair dye, but it didn't quite match the body paint, as they had discovered Wednesday. It had been Veronika's idea to add a thin brushing of paint to their hair. As seen from a few meters away, it worked. Small dabs of paint were brushed through the girls' bleached eyebrows as well.

Larisa frowned. "Aren't you supposed to leave a patch of skin unpainted?"

Zlata shook her head absently, while trying to decide whether any more needed to be done. "That's a myth. Painting their whole bodies won't affect them, unless they start to overheat, because they can't sweat, but that won't be a problem over this short amount of time."

The last item on the checklist was eye makeup, a careful application of ivory coloring around the very edges of the eyes -- Larisa's job. Larisa looked at Zlata helplessly. "I should have done the eyes first. Now I've started thinking about everything and my hands are shaking."

Zlata patted Larisa's arm. "I'll do it. Just watch closely so I don't miss anything, okay?"

Larisa gave her a weak, grateful smile.

Zlata took the tubing used for closing the girls' eyes and blew gently through it against the bridge of each girl's nose. After closing their eyes, she set to work with an eyeliner pencil and soft brush for the lashes. After about ten minutes of careful work, she looked up at Larisa. "Okay?"

Larisa, still biting her nails, nodded.

Zlata stood in front of Larisa, taking both her arms. "We can still call it off. The president said he'd understand if you thought it didn't look real enough."

Larisa shivered. "It's not that. They do look real. I'm just... scared, that's all."

"Like I said, we can call it off."

Larisa shook her head quickly. I've probably worked myself up way too much, she thought. The nurses saw the same prison video I did. They were scared by it, of course, and they know the danger they're in, but they just go ahead and do their jobs. I need to stop worrying so much and just do mine. "Let's take them into the office."

If only, Larisa thought, they hadn't shown those damned snakes on the video. I really didn't need to know about those.

Veronika rang for Ivan, who minutes later opened the door for them to the president's office.

There was an oval marble pedestal in place now, for the girls to stand on. Two cylindrical metal bars, painted the same color as the wall behind them so that they were essentially invisible, ran upward from the back edge of the pedestal. Zlata and Veronika stood Blondie up first, her feet about thirty centimeters apart. Blondie was very nearly vertical, and would appear so to the casual observer, but actually was leaning back slightly against one of the metal bars, which was wedged between her buttocks. Raisa stood Pixie immediately to Blondie's left, and similarly stabilized her stance with separated feet and the other of the two bars behind her. The nurses spent several minutes gently nudging both girls from all sides to make sure they weren't in danger of falling, and then did the final touches on their poses: Blondie with her left arm across Pixie's shoulders, and her right arm raised, index finger pointing, as if showing Pixie some amazing sight off in the distance. Both had their mouths slightly open, as if in wonder -- not wide enough to let in sufficient light for an observer to notice the pink of the insides of their mouths. It looked like a mother showing her child something wondrous -- or would have if Pixie's breasts weren't so big, but nothing could be done about that.

Lucky thing, thought Raisa, neither one has a bush. We would have had to shave those. That saved us a little work.

Larisa and the nurses all retreated across the rope line behind which the president's guests would stay. Zlata patted Larisa's back. Larisa stood beside her, wringing her hands, her resolve to worry less already lost. "They look perfect, Larisa," Zlata told her softly. "You did a great job."

Raisa and Veronika went back through the door into the ward. Zlata started to follow, but looked back to see Larisa frozen in place, biting her nails once more. She reached up to take Larisa's hand away from her mouth, and pull her along. "It's fine, Larisa. Let's go rest."

Rachel wished she could see. She knew where she was, and she knew she had her arm draped on Anya's shoulder -- that much was good: she always wanted to know where Anya was, and hated when they were separated -- but the terrifying defenseless feeling was far worse when she was blind.

What was especially strange was that now that the nurses had left the room, the president had not then entered. It seemed as though hours were going by, and the room was in dead silence. Rachel started to feel panic setting in, not only frozen and blind, but also deaf, or so it seemed.

Finally -- finally! -- she heard the door open. To her shock, there were several male voices entering, softly chatting. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

I've got a roomful of unknown men looking at me naked, she thought, and I can't see them!

Rachel understood now, suddenly, the mystery of the body paint. The nurses had painted her and Anya both a solid off-white color a few days ago, had taken them into the president's office, tried them in different poses, stood there discussing it, the president had come in and he joined in with the discussion, and after awhile the nurses had taken her and Anya back out again, and none of it made the slightest sense. Now it does, Rachel thought. The president is showing us off as marble statues!

She felt the background current of anger, never completely still, rise again to flood stage. She tried to calm herself. It's just one more thing to add to the list, she thought, of all the ways he's found to show his power over me, over us, and how completely helpless Anya and I are.

At least none of the voices are coming close enough to touch me, she observed. Or touch Anya. Rachel still, after repeated demonstrations to the contrary, maintained a belief that she could somehow protect Anya if Anya were threatened. She knew it was bullshit, but she had to keep believing it. Nothing that could be done to Rachel herself was nearly as frightening to her as what might be done to Anya.

Suddenly an electric shock ran through her. It can't be, Rachel thought, it can't be. It's my overworked imagination, she insisted to herself. It so desperately wants to hear what it can never hear...

No, it is! It is!

One of the voices was speaking English.

And then the president responded to the voice. Also in English.

"Who did these, Mr. President? Local artist?" Rudy Kenner would have spoken in Russian, as he was a guest here, but he knew the president enjoyed an excuse to practice his English.

"Yes, from the city. She does very nice work. Very... like living."

"It certainly is. Lifelike, that's the word. Do you have an address for her? I'd like to contact her."

"I would have to ask her first, Mr. Ambassador. She is a very... what is that word... private. She is a private person. But I can ask."

Rudolph August Kenner, professional diplomat, still found himself amazed at the heights his career had reached. Ambassador! he thought to himself again. They call me Ambassador Kenner! And I'm standing here in the private office of a head of state, drinking his brandy, smoking his cigars, and this man who runs a country is trying to curry my favor because he needs something from me! After two years on the job, it was still hard to get used to.

Kenner had been correct, decades earlier, that it would be worth his time to learn the Russian language. It was spoken in so many independent countries now, formerly all part of the Soviet Union, including nations such as Irkhetnia, too tiny for its American embassy to be used as a political reward -- and insufficiently attractive to tempt a rival out of the way of the President of the United States. Places where only someone with Kenner's background would be considered for the ambassadorial posting.

Kenner was glad General Perelenko, chief of staff of the Irkhetnian armed forces, was here tonight. The ambassador, though starstruck by power, always felt a little queasy around Gerov, some instinct telling him there was something a little off about the man. Kenner liked Anatoly Perelenko, though, and often met with him in a purely social way, sometimes for golf on Irkhetnia's one decently-maintained course, or for all-night poker games along with other friends. Perelenko had been through an international school in Virginia for high-ranking army officers of countries allied with the U.S., spoke perfect English, and seemed to harbor an affinity for American-style democracy that, as far as Kenner could determine, was rare among military men, especially in this country. In public, Perelenko always gave the appearance of being unswervingly loyal to President Gerov, yet occasionally on the golf course, far from the possibility of eavesdroppers, either human or electronic, Perelenko had cautiously dropped hints to Kenner suggesting that his personal uneasiness with Gerov, bordering on disdain, was similar to Kenner's.

As uncomfortable as Kenner felt negotiating access to modern military hardware with Gerov, he was at least glad that, in practice, Perelenko would be in charge of the stuff. Kenner felt a trust in Perelenko, a kinship of a sort, that he very definitely did not feel with Gerov. Kenner wished Perelenko could be running the country itself, rather than just its armed forces.

Kenner looked again at the statues. He was amused by the incongruity of the child having such big breasts. Or maybe I'm misinterpreting the tableau, he thought. Outstanding work, though! I really hope Gerov puts me in contact with that artist.

Anatoly Perelenko smiled at his friend Rudy's fascination with the statues. Perelenko himself didn't have much interest in art, but he had to admit the taller statue was quite striking. Maybe I'll try to remember to get the artist's name myself later, he thought, and send a statue over to the embassy. No, wait -- I'll get one for myself and let Rudy try to win it in poker.

He chuckled at the idea.

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod Oh! My! God! thought Rachel. Gerov called the English speaker Mr. Ambassador -- and the guy has an American accent! What country do you think he represents, Rachel?

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod...

This, Rachel's mind screamed at her, is the guy who could get me out of here! The one man in all of this country who could do it, and he's standing here looking at me, ten feet away!

Rachel, since awakening here in the president's mansion, had tried so many times to move, just a finger, just a toe. Just an eyelid. But never, at any time, had she tried as desperately as she did now.

And, as it had been since the very beginning, it was still impossible now. No part of her body seemed connected to her will.

If I could just open my eyes! she thought. He'd see that, and know I wasn't a statue. If I could just lean forward the tiniest bit, away from this rod I've got running up my buttcrack holding me up! I might crack my skull falling off the pedestal, but it'd be worth it. Even if I die from it. It would start an investigation, and the president would be toast!

Rachel could hear the president and ambassador still talking, not about the statues or the artist, now it was something about jet planes, capabilities, delivery dates. A third man had joined in the discussion, still all in English. Business meeting going on. Rachel could smell cigars, hear the clinking of glasses. After-dinner stuff, she guessed.

She wished the cigar smoke would make her sneeze. It didn't.

She kept trying to move. Her head was pounding, her heart thundering in her chest. Move! Move!

Rachel guessed that an hour had gone by, and she heard the sounds of the meeting breaking up. No, no, please no, wait, I can do it, just give me some more time...

Minutes later the room was empty.

Rachel herself felt equally empty.

A few minutes after that, she heard the voices of the nurses returning. Coming to take her back down the rabbit hole.

Dimitri Gerov breathed a heavy sigh of relief, as the ambassador took his leave. That was glorious! he thought. But more nerve-wracking than I expected. I'm never doing anything like that again. But it's done now. I have the memory to look back on. That's all I need.

As she helped Veronika carry Blondie back from the bathroom following her pee break, and set her in the washtub with Pixie, Zlata looked at the clock. "We should start their IV food drips now, while they're in the tub. It's really late, and there isn't enough time to wash all this paint off, and then finish two bags before they need to be back in the office in the morning. And anyway, they must be starving by now."

Raisa nodded and pulled two IV stands, hooking one of them up to Blondie while Raisa started Pixie's feed. Then, sighing heavily at the long job ahead, Zlata used the sprayer to start washing the body paint out of Blondie's hair.

Rachel tried not to give in to the utter despair that threatened to engulf her. The ambassador had been right there looking at her -- talking about her! -- and she'd been totally unable to do anything to identify herself as a living person, let alone a missing American the ambassador surely had heard about. Obviously he wasn't familiar with her face, and she wouldn't have expected him to be, especially with him assuming he was looking at an inanimate marble carving. But none of that would have mattered if only she could have made some movement to destroy the illusion of being a statue.

Before tonight, she reminded herself, I'd already decided there wasn't any way out. I'm not really worse off than I was before, in that sense.

This philosophical approach wasn't really working very well.

It worked slightly better to remind herself that she was still with Anya. If Anya were taken away, Rachel told herself, then I would have nothing at all. Even freedom would have a sour taste if Anya couldn't be there to share it.

If only Anya herself didn't hate me, she thought. I'm sorry, Anya. Prastee meenya pozhalosta, Anya. Prastee meenya pozhalosta, Anya. Rachel repeated it over and over.

Rachel found it also helped to lose herself in the sensuality almost overwhelming her body as the paint was washed off. She had gone through this once before, after what she now understood had been a practice painting session, but she still was amazed how erotic it felt, all these hands all over her. It went well beyond the quick soaping and sponging of a normal bath. They had to spend a long time on every inch of her skin, including her breasts and, most arousing of all, her sex. The fact she still had her eyes closed compounded the sensuality, with her unable to judge by sight where the hands were going next.

She hoped so fervently Anya was getting some enjoyment out of it. Anya, at least, didn't know how close she'd come to being rescued. It was good she was ignorant of that.

Prastee meenya pozhalosta, Anya.

Larisa watched the bathing process for a few minutes, then went to bed. She stretched out on the bed feeling wonderful. It worked, she thought, it all worked! The president is happy with my work, and now if I do make a mistake, he'll probably be patient with me, remembering how well tonight went. And this is probably just a one-time thing. He's not going to want to keep showing off the girls to guests. Anything that went wrong would be bad for him, not just me.

Her mind was suddenly popping with ideas. She looked at the painting on her wall, the one with the animals, which she was so embarrassed the president had seen. She realized he had hinted he might be interested in something like that. She needed to think about what she might do with that.

She turned over, pulled up the covers, and had a full night's sleep undisturbed by snakes, for the first time in many days.