FIVE DAYS LATER

Zlata decided she was as ready as she would ever be. Three nights ago, her previous turn for the nighttime IV switch, she had contented herself with stroking each girl's hair, with a kiss for each one's forehead. She hadn't made enough progress with the dictionary.

She hoped she had now. She was more worried than ever about the direction Larisa was going with the girls. Yesterday Larisa had used the shocker again, this time with Blondie holding it, aimed from the start at Anya's left breast. Zlata had seen the first shock shake Anya's entire body.

I have to stop this somehow, Zlata told herself. She wanted to tell Larisa she was going too far, but all of them knew what kind of thing the president wanted. It seemed dangerous to look too resistant.

Zlata had chased through the dictionary for the English words she wanted, hoping she could get the syntax close enough to make it understandable when she put the words together. The alphabet was different, but luckily the dictionary, when going from Russian to English, showed the English word in both alphabets. Unfortunately, her own name was naturally not in the dictionary -- in case she was really messing up the grammar, she had decided that giving her own name would make it more clear that she was asking for Blondie's. For that she needed the help of the transliteration guide in the book. She had to go through it very carefully to make sure she was doing it right.

Entering the enclosure, in which the girls had again gone thirty hours without a new infusion of the mannequin drugs, Zlata smiled at Anya and briefly stroked her cheek, and then turned to Blondie, taking a deep breath quietly enough, she hoped, that it couldn't be heard outside.

Rachel looked up at the nurse in surprise. She had assumed that, as usual, the nurse would spend some time "talking," silently, with Anya. Instead, the nurse faced Rachel herself.

A moment later, Rachel found herself looking at a paper that read, in carefully written Roman block capitals:

YOU CAN READ? BLINK TWO EYE, AND BLINK TWO EYE

Stunned, Rachel understood she would be the focus of tonight's communication. She wants me to blink twice, she decided, but is trying to be very careful to say it in such a way that she can't screw up the English.

Slowly, she closed both eyes, opened them, closed them, and opened them. Her heart was pounding with excitement. My first communication with anyone besides Anya in... she had no idea how many days it was now. A lot.

A second sheet read, BLINK LEFT EYE, AND BLINK LEFT EYE. BLINK RIGHT EYE, BLINK RIGHT EYE, BLINK RIGHT EYE. THAT THERE IS NUMBER TWENTY-THREE.

I get it! thought Rachel. However much the nurse had struggled with this, and as cumbersome as the wording was, at least she'd succeeded in finding a way to get the idea across. Rachel winked twice with her left eye, three times with the right, to show she understood.

Rachel wasn't sure the joy she felt inside quite came up to the level of excitement the nurse was showing. Beaming at Rachel, the nurse held up a third sheet. It contained a numbered listing of the letters of the Roman alphabet. Below 26 -- Z, the last entry was BLINK TWO EYE -- SPACE BETWEEN WORD

Below the chart were the words: IF YOU UNDERSTAND, BLINK TWO EYE, AND BLINK TWO EYE.

Oh!!!!!! thought Rachel. That's why she wanted me to blink numbers! Each one will be a letter! And then blink both eyes when the word is done.

Rachel blinked twice.

The nurse slid another sheet down below the chart, one which was written: I ZLATA CHERMANOVA. HOW YOU NAME?

The wording was odd, but clear enough. Keeping an eye on the alphabet listing, which was very handy -- Rachel would have needed time to stop and count through the alphabet to know that P was the sixteenth letter, without the chart -- she blinked her name. As she reached the end, it occurred to her she could also give messages on her own, beyond just responding to questions the nurse asked. There was just one thing uppermost in her mind, something she was desperate to say now that she had the chance. Keep the words short and simple, Rachel, she thought, so the nurse can translate easily. Leave out verb endings that might throw her off. Rachel hoped saying it twice was enough to show how strongly she felt about it.

Zlata was taken aback briefly by how long Blondie's name was, then realized she was probably adding something more to it, as Anya had. Maybe, thought Zlata, whatever she is saying will give me a direction to explore on another night.

Knowing she had little time left, with no hope of decoding Blondie's message until later, Zlata went on to her only other question, the really important one. She really hoped she'd made this one make sense to an English speaker.

Rachel read the words, and her heart seemed to leap into her throat. How had the nurse known to ask this?? The most important question she could possibly ask!

WHO IS AMERICAN MAN? YOU SEE MAN WHEN WE PAINT WHITE

She means when they made us statues! She knows there was an American there that night! She had to have known about him from Anya, Rachel decided. Who else? Anya has heard me speak English enough, Rachel reminded herself, that she must have recognized that the ambassador was speaking that same language, the same way I can recognize Russian now, while knowing almost no words. Oh, and they did say "American" a few times when they were talking about the planes. It had sounded like "Amyerikanski" to Anya.

Rachel had no idea what the man's name was, but she realized that wasn't the most important thing about him anyway. Carefully, not wanting any errors or misunderstanding, she blinked her answer. It was shorter than the response she'd given to the request for her name. As long as the nurse can find out what that second word means, Rachel told herself, I've told her everything she needs to know. And everything I can.

When she stopped, the nurse waited, clearly expecting more. Physically unable to shrug, or give any other sign that said "I'm done" other than ceasing to blink, Rachel simply looked at her.

Finally the nurse nodded. Folding up all her papers, and turning on the IV drip -- Rachel understood that she had delayed it each night until this time so that she and Anya could use their eyes to talk, but hated that once more she had a drug streaming into her bloodstream that was going to freeze her up again -- the nurse, as usual, gave Rachel a kiss on the forehead and left her and Anya alone.

As she always did at this time, Rachel exchanged I-love-yous with Anya, then closed her eyes to resume her interrupted sleep.

As soon as breakfast was over, Zlata hit the books again. On her bed, keeping "The Hunger Games" open in front of her but ignoring it, other than to turn a page occasionally, she began the long process of unscrambling what Blondie had told her.

This was a bigger headache than trying to put her own thoughts into English. The dictionary had a section with words spelled in English letters, but Zlata had to constantly refer to the list of letters just to remind herself, over and over, what the alphabetical order was -- the words, of course, were listed according to that order. Simply locating a word to begin with seemed to take forever. And Blondie's name, of course, wasn't in the book anywhere. For that, Zlata had to transliterate. It was more complex than it seemed it should be: an English letter didn't always go to the same Russian letter; sometimes it depended on what came after it. There was another word Blondie had blinked that wasn't in the book either; once Zlata had it transliterated, she saw it was the name Anya. So she does know Anya's name, Zlata thought.

RACHEL PRESTON [two spaces] STOP HURT ANYA STOP HURT ANYA

Zlata blinked. It was exactly the same sentiment Anya had insistently expressed about Blondie... about Rachel, that is. Anya, Zlata saw now, had given a reasonable abbreviation -- RCHL -- of Rachel's name. But that wasn't the important part, certainly not to Rachel. What was important, from Zlata's point of view, was that it was now clear that neither girl cared as much about what was being done to herself daily as she did about what was being done to the other.

Zlata shook her head, helpless to stop the gesture. She was stunned. They obviously share a very strong bond that goes far beyond just knowing each other's name, Zlata thought. How could that be possible through the language barrier? Neither understands any of the other's language. But it's a fact, Zlata told herself. Never mind how.

Zlata took a deep breath, and went on to Rachel's second answer. Again, endlessly flipping back and forth through pages while looking back at the alphabet -- after finding words in the dictionary starting AME, she had to refer to the alphabet to tell her that AMB would come earlier -- she finally found the words.

Zlata had to suddenly clamp down on her mouth, almost biting her tongue off. She had come so close to shouting the words out loud.

Amerikanskiy posol! American ambassador! If Zlata had said that aloud, with her door open and all of the others to hear her, they would be going to prison now, all four of them. The listeners outside the room would guess that all of them, Zlata herself, Veronika, Raisa, Larisa, all knew the identity of the man for whom they had decorated Rachel and Anya, something the president surely would not want them knowing. They would only be correct in Zlata's case -- none of the others would know why Zlata had suddenly blurted "Amerikanskiy posol!" But their mystified denials would probably do no good.

Of all people, thought Zlata. The ambassador from America. It might have been an oil company executive, a popular singer, a famous athlete. But it was none of these, it was the ambassador. The one man, out of all of these possibilities, who might have recognized Rachel for who she was. The ambassador would know all about an American citizen in prison.

And that was why the president had wanted Rachel in the room with him. To parade her presence right in front of the ambassador's eyes, without him realizing it. To have a private laugh. And as one more way of tormenting Rachel. Rachel had known who he was -- it was she who had told Zlata. Imagine, thought Zlata, Rachel's torture at being unable to move, to announce herself, to be saved from what the president was doing to her.

Zlata wondered whether the ambassador knew Rachel was in prison. There might have been a public trial, and obviously he would have followed that and tried to free her. Or, more likely, the trial might have been secret. Zlata knew so many cases of people just disappearing, and you never heard what had happened to them. But she realized, as she thought about it, that the distinction wasn't really important. Whether or not Rachel had really committed a crime, whether or not her country's ambassador knew she'd been arrested and imprisoned, he couldn't possibly know she would turn up here in the president's mansion, an immobilized mannequin, helplessly being displayed naked to visitors, simply as a joke. The man, and his entire country, would be outraged if he knew. Irkhetnia couldn't afford to outrage a country whose help they needed so much.

I have to tell him somehow! Zlata told herself. He has to know! He could get Rachel out of this, if only he knew she was here!

Zlata rolled onto her back on the bed, her arm over her eyes, trying to imagine possibilities. Talk to her parents on the phone, somehow get them to call the embassy and pass along Rachel's name? Nonsense. Her phone calls were listened to. Something hidden in a letter? Hidden how? In code? A code had to be prearranged. Write a letter directly to the embassy? That almost made Zlata laugh with its absurdity.

I don't have to figure this out right this minute, Zlata pointed out to herself. And if I do come up with something, I have to consider it from every angle before I do anything. The cost of failure is so enormous.

First things first, she said to herself. I've got to get rid of these papers. Especially the one with that incriminating word on it.

Under cover of pulling "The Hunger Games" closer, she wadded the nearest paper in her hand. A few minutes later she went into her bathroom. To pee.

TWO WEEKS LATER

The president beamed at the face on his computer screen. "Yes, Pyotr Ivanovich! I trust things are going as planned?"

The doctor nodded. "I only wanted to give you a progress report. Everything is on schedule. Until a few days ago, I wondered whether the joint drug was somehow losing its effectiveness."

"Oh?"

"Well, see for yourself." His face was replaced by a video of Irina Novocheva, sitting upright on an examining table. The president sucked in a quick breath, seeing her marvelous nude body, in full light for the first time. She had a food bowl in her lap, having a meal exactly as Preston and Simonina had been when the president had visited the facility weeks ago. Novocheva was eating with the fingers of her right hand, the muscles in her arm clearly straining, her face grimacing with effort, each time she brought her hand up to her mouth. Her left arm was raised so that her forearm rested in front of her breasts, hiding them, while the bowl hid her sex. Preston had not made such an effort to preserve her modesty while the president had been there.

An assistant approached with a blood pressure cuff. Novocheva, her face showing anger, used her right hand to push him away.

The president frowned. "That is nothing like Preston's behavior in that same situation. Are you giving her that same memory-inhibiting drug?"

"Indeed. What you're seeing are not acts of will, as such. Like Preston and Simonina, Miss Novocheva is behaving purely on an instinctive level, without conscious thought. She simply has different instincts. At this point in the treatment of both Preston and Simonina, they had lost the ability to feed themselves -- you saw them much earlier in the treatment, when they could still move easily. As I said, what you are seeing here is from a few days ago. Since then Novocheva has at last stopped moving on her own. Not that she isn't trying." A new scene replaced the old on the screen. Novocheva was on her back, as the doctor's assistants attended to her. Even here the president could clearly see the girl's muscles flexing as she tried to resist the probing hands, her eyes still projecting that same anger.

The doctor went on, "Of course, once I bring the muscle nerve drug up to maintenance level, you won't see her muscles working like that. She will lose conscious contact with them. She will be completely ready for you in another three weeks, as promised."

"And you are sure she won't remember any of this?"

The doctor sighed loudly, a symbol of exasperation with the president that few people would dare display. "I assure you she is not forming any permanent memories." His face reappeared on the screen.

The president nodded. "Again, I sincerely thank you, Pyotr Ivanovich. Please continue advising me of your progress."

"Of course, Mr. President." The doctor boldly terminated the connection from his own end.

The president sat back, looking once more, as he did often every day, at Preston and Simonina. Today the dog was on his back, his protruding male organ penetrating Preston who was mounted atop him, her head thrown back and mouth open, as if in the throes of orgasm. She was supporting her weight on her hands, her back curved. Her head was turned slightly, so that she was looking directly at the president. Simonina was kneeling, nearly sitting, on the floor in front of Preston, her knees spread wide apart. Her crotch was resting on the dog's wide-open mouth, his teeth digging into the skin surrounding her sex, his hardened tongue forced several centimeters inside her. Simonina, as she often did, had both hands squeezing Preston's breasts, no doubt causing pain. The president gave Preston another smile and a cheery wave.

He needed to get Celenskaya working on Simonina's execution. No doubt it would be something both he and Preston would remember.

It occurred to him that something might be done with Simonina after her death. The doctor could easily enough preserve her body for... what?

Perhaps she could be hung by her neck, her wrists bound behind her. Preston's eyes could be directed towards Simonina's suspended body, seeing her day after day in such an obvious death pose. The president chuckled, knowing Preston wouldn't even be able to close her eyes to avoid the sight. No! Wait! Simonina could be a rug! Her skin alone preserved, empty of bones and organs, like a bearskin! And, like a bearskin, her head could be left whole. And her breast tissue. That should be preserved as well, two large lumps in the rug. Preston and Novocheva could cuddle together on the Simonina rug.

His mind went back to the image of Novocheva on his computer screen. Such a fantastic body! Such a treat for the eyes. And the fantasies.

He realized he was visualizing lying with her in his bed, using her, penetrating her, with her unable to move. He had not realized such a thing would arouse him, but then he had not often seen such a sexually stimulating vision as she.

His thoughts turned back to Preston, and the sudden certainty that he would enjoy her in bed too. Less raw power, but still more physical beauty than Novocheva. He would definitely try it, he decided. Perhaps he might sleep with each on alternate nights. Whichever was sharing his bed, he was sure he would take several turns at her through the night. They would be warm, soft, not at all like mannequins, really. He wasn't sure why he hadn't seen the attraction before.

He recalled he had told Preston he did not want her for sex. He smiled to himself. A man could change his mind, surely. She would understand.

He grunted. Without realizing it, he had become very hard.

The girl, Lyka, with whom he had been sleeping for several weeks: should he keep her when he moved to the dacha? A runaway, found by his security men sleeping in a park near the mansion. The president had left standing orders that girls of a certain age, of a certain physical type, should be brought to his attention when arrested in the city. Lyka was eighteen, but physically quite mature and well-formed, very attractive once she had cleaned up. And an imaginative and energetic bed partner. But she was starting to be demanding -- of him, of all people! She actually wanted to accompany him to a state dinner! He would keep her until the move, he decided, then send her off to prison. Sleeping with Novocheva and Preston would be very different, of course. He would have to do all the work. But it would be a fascinating experience.

He made a note to himself to have the doctor add a contraceptive to Preston's and Novocheva's food.

He looked at Preston again, and chuckled, a fantasy of her being impregnated by the dog passing through his mind. He wondered how she would like delivering a litter of puppies.

He added a new note: Possible? Another question for the doctor.

Then he began drafting a note to Celenskaya.

Larisa blinked as Ivan handed her an envelope when he brought the lunch cart. The nurses had received occasional letters from family, forwarded from a central military receiving station, but there was no one to write to Larisa.

Taking her lunch into her room and setting it on her desk, Larisa tore open the envelope.

On reading the first sentences, her face froze, for the moment as expressionless as Blondie's. Then her hand began shaking.

Out of a sense of duty, she read the message to the end. Then she screamed and buried her face in her hands, sobs wracking her body.

The nurses came running in, crowding around Larisa, asking her what was wrong. Zlata picked up the letter Larisa had been reading.

Her jaw dropped in shock. The letter was from the president, explaining that he would have a new mannequin arriving in three weeks, and requesting that Larisa submit a plan for "disposing of the smaller mannequin." Her death should take place over a prolonged period, perhaps a full working day, in the president's office, and the "larger mannequin" should be a spectator. Blood, if any, should be easily cleaned up afterward.

The president stated a preference that Larisa not tell the nurses about her assignment until after a plan had been approved.

Too late for that, Zlata thought. Worried about the reaction of us life-saving professionals, is he?

And then the reaction set in. Zlata bolted for Larisa's bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

She knelt there, her face sweating, until she felt confident it was over, then rinsed her mouth in the sink. Behind her, Veronika came bursting in for a turn at the toilet, apparently having finished reading the letter. Zlata left the bathroom to make room for Raisa.

Larisa, now alone, was sobbing with her head down on the desk, her whole body convulsing, almost unable to breathe. Zlata knelt beside her, rubbing her back and shoulders, cooing, "It's all right, it's all right, everything will be fine." Everything, Zlata knew, would not be "fine," but the first priority was to get Larisa calmed down.

Larisa turned to Zlata and threw her arms around her, burying her face against Zlata's shoulder, still crying. Veronika returned and, a minute later, Raisa, both of them taking positions behind Larisa to give her their own forms of support.

Zlata had a sudden thought. It repelled her instantly, so that she tried to squash it down, but it returned, so insistently that she was compelled to blurt it out before second thoughts could stop her. She said quietly, "I'll make the plan, Larisa. You don't have to do this."

Veronika and Raisa both shot Zlata astonished looks. Larisa raised her head, sniffling, her only expression one of gratitude.

I have to do it, thought Zlata. I have to take charge of deciding how to kill Anya.

More reasons came to her to add their weight to her decision, all telling her she was right.

Her first thought had simply been that she would make sure Anya was killed in the least painful, least messy way that would pass muster with the president. He hadn't insisted on pain, nor really on blood either, though he'd mentioned the latter as a possible side effect. Leaving it to Larisa, considering the direction she'd been heading, opened up the possibility of a really agonizing death.

Zlata then recognized another advantage: that she could stretch the process of planning out to the full three weeks that apparently remained. Larisa might have wanted to get it over with, and there was no guarantee that the president would necessarily wait for the new "mannequin" to arrive. Anya might, with Larisa in charge, be dead by next week. But Zlata could make sure to use as much of the three-week period as possible, increasing the likelihood that something good could happen along the way.

Like figuring out how to contact the American ambassador. Zlata was still at a loss to visualize a way to communicate with him that had any hope of success.

And then Zlata saw how useful it would be to engage Veronika and Raisa in the search for a "disposal" method. Or at least appear to. Zlata had not been sure how to tell any of the others what she had learned from Anya and Rachel. Obviously she couldn't say any of it aloud. Putting it in writing was problematic: it would look suspicious if Zlata were to start passing notes around. But now that problem was taken care of. Under the guise of handing Veronika and Raisa some written ideas for Anya's demise and soliciting their feedback, Zlata could tell them anything they needed to know without arousing the attention of whoever was watching.

It was a lucky thing that Larisa had broken down, Zlata thought, though not really surprising, considering the pressure. As terrified of failing the president as Larisa had become, she would never have intentionally violated the president's directive to avoid telling the nurses. By the time Zlata or the others found out, the means of murdering Anya horribly would have been approved and written in stone.

Larisa was wiping her eyes now, starting to regain control over her runny nose, and giving the others hugs. Zlata returned to her own room, as did Veronika and Raisa a few minutes later.

None of the lunches were touched.

Zlata lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her hands behind her head. Now, she thought, I have to really start thinking about how to kill Anya.

Zlata went into Veronika's room. "I'm thinking of ideas for disposing of Pixie," she said breezily. "Let me know what you think." She went back to her room without another word.

Veronika gaped at Zlata's retreating back. She started to crumple the page Zlata had set in front of her, then sighed and told herself that she should at least take the measure of Zlata's unanticipated craziness. Her eyes took in the beginning sentence. And then more.

Veronika, Raisa: Don't react visibly. Don't display any surprise. Just look this over, please.

I don't want to kill Pixie. I am trying to help her.

The president keeps calling them the mannequins. We know they are not mannequins. They are people. We need to do what we can to save them.

I have been talking to them. Writing to them, I mean, so no listeners can hear. That is the reason I wanted that privacy curtain around them, so no one watching could see. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that, Veronika. Thank you for helping with that. They have been getting the mannequin drugs early on the days before it's my turn for the midnight IV change, because I started us switching the order of IVs and bath -- sorry for that too, Veronika, that I didn't tell you why -- and then the next night delaying the drugs until I get up for the change at 2 a.m. When they go that long without the drugs, their facial muscles start to loosen up. They would have to go much longer before they would be able to try moving arms or legs. And their jaws and throats are still frozen, so they can't speak, but I don't want them to anyway -- again: listeners. But they can move their eyes, and they can blink them. I have given them a language of blinks. And they have told me some things.

Pixie's name is Anya. Blondie's name is Rachel Preston. Rachel is an American. She doesn't know any Russian. I don't know what she is doing here. I didn't ask that yet. I write her messages and questions using that Russian/English dictionary.

On that night when we made them look like statues, with the body paint and all that, it was because the president had the American ambassador here. Rachel told me that. She knew who he was. She tried to move for him, tried to show him she wasn't a statue, but she couldn't. It was all a big joke to the president, torturing her like that.

Rachel and Anya are very close. I don't know how or why. Anya doesn't know any English. When I talked to Anya, the first thing she said after she told me her name, the most important thing she wanted to say, was that she wanted us to stop hurting Rachel.

When I talked to Rachel, she was very insistent about one thing: she wanted us to stop hurting Anya.

Those are the only things either of them wants from us.

If we do what the president wants, Rachel will have to watch someone she loves die. That will entertain him.

I don't want to go to prison. But if I let the president do this, I don't deserve to live. Veronika, please pass this on to Raisa. Don't give it to Larisa yet. She is too scared. She might give us away to save herself. I don't know. I'm just not ready to trust her. Something has gone wrong with her.

We have to think of a way we can save Anya. Please let me know if you are with me. If you're not, if you want to give me away, then go ahead. In prison I would know I tried to do the right thing.

Zlata

Veronika gasped halfway through the note, as a memory came back to her. After she finished reading, she wrote below Zlata's signature:

Raisa: Pass this note back to Zlata after you read it. There is something she doesn't know.

As soon as I saw "Rachel Preston," I started thinking I saw that name before. I figured out where. Months ago I read some news articles online that talked about two missing American women. I am sure that is where I remember the name Rachel Preston from. I don't remember the other one's name right now. It might come back to me, but it wasn't a Russian-type name like Anya, and Zlata just said Anya doesn't speak English, so she's not American. I have no idea who she is. Rachel is missing from a trip to Germany. The articles never said anything about Irkhetnia. But she is a missing American citizen, so any American ambassador anywhere would have heard of her. Somehow we have to tell somebody that she is here. I don't know how yet.

Veronika