Domination Bid. Don Pendleton

hung up, turned and proceeded into the restroom. He considered his options while he relieved himself. He could simply occupy one of the stalls and wait but that would leave him without any means of escape if the enemy found him first. Conversely, waiting out in the main part of the club would make him more conspicuous to any party that entered and might search for him in the crowd.

      Either choice presented risks but the latter one made more sense. At least he could move around and use the crowd for cover if he spotted trouble before it spotted him.

      Dratshev washed his hands and returned to the club proper. He shuffled along the edge of the crowd until he could find a free space at the bar. It took the service staff nearly two minutes to notice him. The bartender took his order for vodka, neat—Dratshev decided to limit it to one so as not to dull his senses. While he waited for his drink, Dratshev kept searching for threats. So far, it didn’t appear anyone posed a threat. When the bartender returned with his drink, he paid up including tip but sipped from the tumbler rather than hitting it all at once.

      “Hello!” a voice called in his ear, the speaker’s lips so close her breath tickled his earlobe.

      Dratshev turned with surprise to see the Emo chick from earlier. He tried for his best smile. “Hello.”

      “I watched you walk past me,” she said, again leaning close so he could hear.

      He reciprocated in like fashion and they continued that way throughout the conversation. “And?”

      She shrugged. “You looked like maybe you wanted to say something.”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Just perhaps?” She grinned and winked. “You mean you’re not sure you wanted to say something to me?”

      “Oh, I wanted to say something but I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. At least not coming from an old man like me.”

      She laughed. “You’re not old!”

      “Sometimes I feel old.”

      “Well, maybe I could make you feel younger.”

      “I bet you could at that.”

      “So now who’s being inappropriate?” She tapped just above her very ample cleavage.

      “Some would just say you’re honest.”

      She nodded vigorously and then extended her hand. “I’m Mishka.”

      He nodded and shook her hand lightly. “Oleg.”

      “You’re not from Minsk?”

      “You got me. I’m on vacation.”

      “Where are you from originally?”

      Dratshev thought about lying at first but remembered his training. The closer to the truth the easier to remember details if a discrepancy rose. Half-truths with leanings toward reality were the best.

      Dratshev replied, “Moscow. Well, just north of there actually.”

      “That’s crazy! I was actually born in Krakow.”

      “Is that right?”

      Mishka nodded; a freshly wild look in her eyes. “It is so nice to meet another Russian.”

      “You don’t meet a lot of Russians here in Minsk?”

      “Not really. I mean…at least none that stay around very long.”

      “But actually, I’m on vacation. So I won’t be staying that long, either.”

      “You’ll probably stay longer than you think.”

      Dratshev couldn’t be sure what she meant at first but then he noticed just the slightest shift in Mishka’s gaze. He knew the telltale signs and he turned his attention toward the dance area in time to see several men approach from various directions.

      He’d been betrayed! There could be no other explanation. Oleg turned from the men and tried to leave but he found Mishka blocking his path. He went to shove her aside but something stung his side. It felt as if a needle had been shoved into the space between his third and fourth ribs.

      Dratshev’s mind began to swim and then he felt woozy and it became suddenly difficult to breathe. He heard Mishka scream and begin to shout in a dialect he didn’t recognize, but then it didn’t much matter because the periphery of his vision turned spotty. Stars danced in front of his eyes and his lungs burned not with the scar tissue of his past but more like that sort of respiratory attack brought on by suppressive chemicals.

      With his head becoming foggy, his vision spotted and his capacity to oxygenate inhibited, Oleg Dratshev knew that to continue fighting and resisting would become futile. At long last he succumbed to the sweet rapture of what he assumed would be death and blacked out just a heartbeat after he felt his knees become wobbly. Then he hit the thinly carpeted floor of the club.

       CHAPTER TWO

      Oleg Dratshev woke to a dull ache in his head and a thick, dry tongue. When he ran his tongue inside his mouth he came away with a pasty feeling similar to what he might have experienced after a night of drinking. At first he thought maybe he’d been blindfolded but that quickly gave way to the sensation of dark, ominous shapes surrounding him.

      Around him he perceived the steady, rolling drone of what could only be the vibrations caused by plane engines. Slowly his surroundings took shape and he realized he’d been secured to a reclining chair. His arms felt heavy and he reached to rub his eyes but the motions were stopped short. He felt his wrists and realized they were encircled by thick leather restraints. The subsequent jingling were those of chains attached to the restraints.

      Low-watt, recessed lights above him came on and bathed his prison in a warm, red-orange glow. A door in the far wall of the compartment opened and two men entered. The first man was tall with a thick neck and muscular build. The man who followed stood much shorter. He was dressed with impeccable taste in tan slacks and a tailored silk shirt. Under the light, Dratshev found it difficult to determine the color but it looked perhaps aqua or azure in hue. He had black hair, dark skin and a neatly trimmed black beard with mustache.

      The man sat in a chair directly across from Dratshev’s. The expensive leather creaked under his weight. The bigger man stood behind him with his arms folded.

      “Good morning, Dr. Dratshev,” the seated man said in near flawless Russian. “I trust you enjoyed your nap.”

      “Who are you?” Dratshev asked, his voice sounding muffled in his own ears.

      “We’ll get to that in a moment,” the man replied with a pleasant smile. “Would you like something to drink? Water perhaps?”

      Dratshev thought about a moment and then nodded. The man gestured to his companion, who immediately turned and left the compartment.

      The man said, “The drug we used will leave you severely dehydrated. I’d suggest when my assistant returns that you sip the water rather than gulp it, as you might be tempted. I would not want to see you vomit, as this would only dehydrate you more.”

      “You haven’t answered my question,” Dratshev said with a new sense of defiance.

      “Fair enough. My name is Ishaq Madari. This will probably not mean anything to you.”

      It didn’t and Dratshev saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

      Madari continued. “I regret that I had to take such extreme measures to make your acquaintance but I can say with assurance that I have so long wished to meet you.”

      “You may not feel the same way when my people discover that you have kidnapped me.”

      “Perhaps,” Madari replied, inclining his head. He looked around the compartment a moment, appearing to gather his thoughts. “Once