Chapter 12
But when she saw Valentine the next day, something had changed. He didn’t look at her when he came in the room. He seemed
distracted, staring at his BlackBerry, tapping the keys in a disconsolate way.
He was joined that morning by Mr. Salem, Nurse Lansing, and Mr. Francis, back from wherever he had gone the day before. She
didn’t want to be glad to see him, was determined to resist any weak-ass hint of Stockholm Syndrome, and was embarrassed by
the intensity of the relief she felt to have him there. It had gradually become clear to her that Valentine was the gas pedal
and Francis was the brake, and that it was no accident Valentine had waited until Francis was gone for an afternoon to slam
her into the MRI and leave her there.
The room was quiet while the male nurse, Lansing, went through the usual daily physical, checking her blood pressure, pulse,
and temperature, listening to her heart. It was easy to check her pulse because she didn’t have the bondage gloves on today.
Instead, her hands had been cuffed to a nylon strap around her waist.
Valentine typed on his handheld. Francis and Salem flanked the door to the hallway. At last—just as Lansing finished and began
stowing his gear back on his trolley—Valentine wrote a sentence with his thumbs, pressed a button, and she heard the whoosh
of an email sending.
He looked up at her and blinked. It seemed to take him a moment to recognize her.
“Donna, your brother is answering our questions. We’re going to ask you the same things we’re asking him.
If you answer differently, he’s the one we’ll hurt.
Unless we think it would be better to hurt you, on camera.
On the other hand, if you can be a good girl, well.
We’ve promised Van that if we get cooperation from you both, maybe the two of you can have a walk together, outside, at the end of the week. Do you think you’d like—”
Nurse Lansing had just wheeled his trolley into the hall and Salem closed the door behind him. It clapped shut with a flat
bang and Valentine jumped halfway up with a cry, his BlackBerry clattering to the floor. His chair almost turned over, but
he caught it, righted it.
“Something been eating you?” she asked, then licked her lips. “Besides me?”
Valentine didn’t smile. He stared at her with a chilly fascination.
“I didn’t sleep well,” he said, and sat down.
She kicked his BlackBerry to him and he bent and picked it up.
“Who knows about this place? Do you report to the head of the CIA? Senators? The president? I wonder who you’re sending those
emails to. Whoever it is, I hope they’re careful with ’em. I hope they don’t accidentally click the forward button to share
with Brit Hume.”
“I remind you again that we’re a private contractor. I make no comment on who might or might not be underwriting the valuable
work we’re doing here with you and Donovan. I will tell you that I’m not too worried about Brit Hume reading my emails. Messages
from this system can’t be forwarded.” Valentine held up his BlackBerry. “They can’t be printed out. They can only be read
on a limited number of devices. End-to-end encryption. We’re safe from Fox News, CNN, and Good Morning America . . . not to mention Mossad, the FSB, and the Chinese. In a humorous coincidence, the tech outfit that designed it calls
it Dragonware.”
She made a strangled noise in her throat.
“I want to start in the earliest days,” Valentine said, settling himself back in his chair. “You were in college. Your brother
tells me you used to entertain your friends by pretending you had twin telepathy, and your—”
She made the strangled sound again and stamped her foot. She lowered her head, clenched her jaws together.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
She gasped and blinked tears away and made the sound a third time. It really sounded, even to her, like a sob.
“I’m just so alone,” she said, in a roughened voice.
Valentine was quiet while her shoulders shook and a tear or two fell. At last, he spoke, in a softened voice that at least
attempted kindness: “If you work with us, you will get to spend time with your brother again. That’s a promise, Donna, from me to you.”
Donna nodded and, when she had recovered her composure, forced herself to sit back up.
She darted a brief sidelong look at Mr. Francis, over by the door, but his face was a bored, stony blank. If he knew she had
only barely staved off a laughing fit, he gave no sign of it.