Midnight in Madrid (24 page)

GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 14, 10:12 A.M.

S
leep well?” Federov asked. He leaned forward again and folded his hands.

“Not particularly, thanks to you.”

“The bed was uncomfortable?” he asked.

“What do you think? I ought to have you arrested for abducting me,” Alex said.

“You ought to, yes, but we both know that as much as you’d like to, you won’t,” he said. “So why are we even talking about it?” His eyes ran her up and down. “You look beautiful in that gown, by the way. You wear red so nicely. It’s yours to keep.”

“I can’t wait to get rid of it.”

He laughed. “Take it off right now and drop it on the floor if you wish. I would have no objection!”

She unloaded on him with a creative run of profanity.

“Wrong color?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Wrong way to present a woman with a gift,” she said.

“I apologize sincerely. But I’d be deeply honored if you would keep it.”

“I’ll think about it, all right?” she said, an edge remaining to her voice. “Am I your prisoner?”

“Of course not! You’re my guest.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’m free to go?”

“Whenever you’d like,” Federov answered, “but again, we both know you won’t, not without what you came to Geneva to accomplish. I understand you very well, Alexandra. Educated, strong, articulate in several languages; there are very few women like you. But you have an ‘Achilles heel,’ if that’s the phrase.
You
don’t understand
me
.”

He reached for a humidor on the side of his desk and pulled out a small cigar.

“You don’t get the impression that I might be a bit indignant about the way I was brought here and the way your staff seems to have undressed me completely and then dressed me up in a garment that pleases you?”

“You really don’t like the gown? I think it’s rather beautiful, more so with you in it, of course.”

He lit the cigar with a flourish.

Then she said, “The gown is very nice. And you know that’s not the point.”

“Then what
is
the point?”

“How I got here! Being undressed and re-dressed by strangers, your staff, presumably.”

“I had you brought here,” he began, “in an unorthodox way because I could not take the chance that you might be followed if I summoned you here on your own. I didn’t wish to meet with you in a public place, for the safety of both of us. But I do wish to help you with whatever request you’re here to ask of me. As for being undressed and re-dressed by strangers, my staff, as you say—that didn’t happen. The men I sent to bring you to me knew that the utmost care was to be taken and you were not to be harmed in any way.”

“Just terrified!” she said, interrupting.

“It had to be done like that,” he insisted. “Then you were brought here. You were handed over to me with the gentleness and care that one would use in placing a raw egg in a mother’s hand. I carried you upstairs myself, and I changed you myself. So the eyes of no strangers were upon you. I am an old friend.”

She felt a cringe within her. “Seriously. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Acquaintance? If I’m neither friend nor acquaintance, why do you come to Switzerland to ask favors of me?”

“You’re a business associate.”

“Well, I hope to eventually be more.”

“Like what?”

“Your lover, perhaps. Soon.”

“When hell freezes over,” she shot back. “Where are the rest of my things?” she asked above his laughter.

“Your clothes are in the closet of your room,” he said.

“I know that. What about my gun?”

He leaned forward and reached to the side drawer on his desk. He opened the drawer and pulled it out. The Browning was in its holster, the magazine removed. He laid the weapon and the magazine on the desk in front of him, complete with bullets. With the gesture of an open hand, he offered them to her. She walked to the desk and picked up both. She held them and folded her arms.

“Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about why you’re here. I might be able to help. Coffee? Tea? I have a staff here. You must be hungry.”

“Food and some answers,” she finally said. “Those are offers I can accept.”

Federov rose from his desk and led the way, offering an arm that Alex declined by ignoring. There was an awkward moment as Federov slowed, but then he continued. They passed through the expansive front entry hall and into the dining room, passing a set of double doors that Alex had not noticed the first time. She also now saw that there was a single place set, as if to await a late-rising guest, which, of course, she was.

Federov motioned graciously to her seat. She took it and he held the chair. Somewhere along the way since she had seen him last, he seemed to have taken up the study of manners, though he wasn’t always an “A” student.

She sat. He moved to a place at the head of the table, allowing an empty chair as an interval, obviously so as not to crowd her. Now that her fear had subsided, as had her shock at being abducted, she realized she was quite hungry.

Federov leaned forward and reached to a small bell on the table. He rang like an English aristocrat of the nineteenth century. A small woman named Lucy emerged from the kitchen and gave Federov a nod and fixed Alex with a smile that suggested that she thought that Alex was a girlfriend of the boss since she had spent the night.

“What would you like?” Federov asked. “For breakfast, I mean.”

“What are you offering?”

After a moment of discussion and negotiation, it was settled on scrambled eggs, toast, milk, and tea. Lucy gave a polite nod, vanished, and was soon making noise in the kitchen.

Alex turned back to Federov. She fingered the stone pendant that hung on the gold chain around her neck. Federov noticed the touch. She moved her hand away.

“Before you have questions for me,” he said, “I have many for you.”

“Go ahead,” Alex said. “You ask me one, then I’ll ask you one, How’s that?”

That, nodded Federov, was just fine.

“You’re an intelligent woman,” he said. “When I was changing you into your robe,” he said, “at one point all you had left was that stone pendant. Why do you continue to wear it?”

“It saved my life once,” she said. “Who knows? It could again.”

“Saved physically or saved spiritually?”

“Both.”

“So it’s a religious symbol?”

“Yes, it is. Praying hands.” She paused. “I used to wear a gold cross, one that my father gave me when I was a girl. I lost it on that bloody day in Kiev.”

“Ah,” he said. He seemed ill at ease in recalling the event. “I’m sorry. You lost a lot that day.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And yet you still believe in a benign God and these Christian superstitions,” he said, returning the conversation to the pendant.

“I choose to, yes,” she said.

“Because you always have?” he asked. “Because that’s what you were brought up with?”

“I believe because I sense a presence out there that’s bigger than this world or any person in it,” she said. “I believe because sometimes my prayers are answered and because my faith offers meaning to my life. And why are you asking me this?”

“Because I’m interested. If there’s something to this religion thing, why would I want to miss it?”

“You seem to have missed it so far,” she said.

“Never too late. Isn’t that what they say? I was brought up in an atheistic society, so that’s what I was trained to believe. Well, perhaps I’m midway through my life. Or perhaps someone will shoot me tomorrow. Arguably, I could become ‘born again,’ no? Like your Jimmy Carter.”

“I suppose, over the course of human history, stranger things have happened. Look,” she said, “in my society we have a choice of whether we want to believe or not. This is what I believe.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “But I could also say it’s all nonsense,” he said. “And it enhances your life in no meaningful way. Religion is irrational. Not just yours, but Islam, Judaism, Buddhism. All of them.”

“Is that what you think or are you engaging me in a debate?”

“Maybe both.”

“Then I can easily prove belief in God as rational,” she answered.

“Let me hear you do it. In any language you wish.”

She stayed in English. “Have you ever heard of ‘Pascal’s Wager’?” she asked.

“No.”

“Pascal’s Wager is one of the most famous arguments in the philosophy of religion,” she said. “It was first devised by Blaise Pascal, the seventeenth-century French philosopher, in his book
Pensées
. He suggested that rational people should believe in God even if it is impossible to prove whether he exists, simply because it is a better bet.”

“A better bet?” Federov laughed. “A fixed horserace is a good bet.”

“Suppose you believe in God, but God doesn’t exist. Then there’s nothing to lose. But assume He does exist. The prize for a believer could be as high as eternal life in paradise. Nonbelievers, on the other hand, might roast in hell.”

“Like I probably will?” Federov said.

“Weigh the gain or loss in wagering that God exists,” Alex said. “Pascal theorized that if you gain, you gain all. If you lose, you lose nothing that you already had. Wager then, without hesitation that God exists and live your life accordingly. You would be irrational
not
to.”

Federov blinked. In the kitchen, Lucy had turned on a television. Distantly, Alex heard some sort of inane quiz show, this time in French. At the same time, not that Alex was ready for surprises, two more surprises sauntered by—a pair of majestic Abyssinian cats whom Federov introduced as Lara and Tonya.

“Zhivago?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Most people miss that.” He laughed. “When I lived in Odessa I had a dog named Zhivago. A wolfhound.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said.

“And Pascal,” he said, moving the discussion backward, “I’ll bet this Pascal was a Jew.”

“For the record, Pascal was a French Christian. He offered his wager to persuade nonbelievers to believe.”

“Apparently it didn’t work,” he said with a laugh. “The French are endlessly godless people.”

“And you’re not?”

“I am too. You are right. Tell me something else,” he said.

“Like what?”

“I’m a retired man. I am not an educated man, but I have begun to do a lot of reading. And thinking. I believe I have a soul, so I’m looking for salvation for my soul perhaps. None of us lives forever, and I’ve done terrible things in my life, just as terrible things have been done to me. Tell me about forgiveness.”

“I’m not a theologian,” she said. “I’m merely a churchgoer, and honestly I don’t go as often as I should or might like. If you’re really interested, maybe you should go to a church or two and see what suits you. They’ll be glad to have you once they get over the shock of seeing you there.”

“I like the way you insult me,” he said. “I don’t let very many people get away with it.”

“And I don’t allow very many people to abduct me.”

“Do you practice forgiveness yourself?”

“I try to. That’s what Jesus taught.”

“Then you should forgive me for abducting you and for changing your clothes.”

She had never underestimated the retired gangster’s intelligence, if in fact he was retired, which she wondered about. But in doing so much reading, his articulation had improved. In a way, she wondered how he could be the same thug who had murdered people in Ukraine and New York and had beaten prostitutes that had worked for him. Then again, her own faith said much on the subject of spiritual redemption. All sinners were invited into heaven’s open door through faith. With such peace with God also came the inner peace of the certainty of salvation. This was not the first time that Federov had expressed a fascination with her faith. Was it a sham or some sort of test?

“All right,” she said. “How’s this? You’re forgiven by me for yesterday.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“Perhaps I won’t.”

She began a counterattack in her argument.

“But of course I can only forgive you on a personal level. Only God can forgive sins completely, and you don’t believe in God, so there’s no way you can pray for forgiveness.”

“Perhaps I will change. Perhaps if you stay with me, if we spend time together, you will sway me with your example.”

“I’ll tell you this much,” Alex said. “Man receives forgiveness through a sincere expression of repentance to God, and Jesus taught that He completes this in the act of forgiving others. Forgiveness is about healing, and through forgiveness, Christians embody their mission to live as a people who are reconciled to God.”

“All because Jesus forgave those who executed Him?” Federov asked.

“Think of that act as a rock dropped into the middle of a pond. An example by which all other acts can be judged. The means for humans to forgive other humans is the same means as God’s forgiveness of mankind, the death and resurrection of Jesus. When Jesus said, ‘Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us,’ He was giving clear instructions on that relationship.”

“Curious,” he said. “How do you know all this?”

“Bible study. Whether you want to believe in it or not, it’s literature, it’s history, it’s the culture of much of the world. So it’s worthy of study and discussion.”

“Then keep talking.”

“Why are you leading me through all this?” she demanded, almost angry.

“Because I am intrigued. And I’ve never met anyone who was so well-versed in your Christian philosophy. Please. Do me these favors, and I will owe you several.”

“The disciple Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times—or seventy times seven,’ I forget which.”

“So tell me. Those people who attacked your president in Kiev and had your future husband killed. In your heart, have you forgiven them?”