But, no, it wasn’t that. “Why is your husband a Stepanov and his sister a Barstow?”
“She changed her name. Katie did. For the movies.”
He seemed to take this in. “Should I be insulted?”
“Is that your name? Stepanov?”
“No, it’s not,” he told her, and she heard mirth in that short sentence, as if the idea that he would ever respond with his real name was utterly absurd. Which, of course, it was. “But Stepanov is a very common name. I know two families with that name.”
“Then why would you wonder if you should be insulted?” She knew now—she knew it with a confidence that she hadn’t felt about anything since they had been abducted—that he wasn’t going to rape her. He wasn’t going to hurt her. She relaxed.
“Because changing it is disrespectful to Russians. And to her family.”
Now that she was sure he wasn’t going to assault her, she found herself hoping that she could keep him here with her for another few minutes. Perhaps if she really won him over, he might untie Billy. He might untie all the other men.
“I think she was just doing what the studio wanted.”
“Hollywood doesn’t hate the Soviet Union.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But they do make pictures for America, and they don’t want to upset that apple cart.”
“Apple cart? Who has apple carts? This is 1964.”
“It’s an expression. It means—”
“I know what it means. I was teasing you. I actually have family in America.”
“Really?”
“I was jesting when I asked if I should be insulted. I know why she changed her name. I changed my name too. It used to be Washington.”
“And now you’re”—and she considered using the word jesting, the way he had, but was afraid it would sound condescending—“teasing me again.”
He nodded. “My name was never Washington and I never changed it.”
She was surprised at his playfulness. He was rather funny. “It wouldn’t make sense for you to tell me your name. Obviously,” she agreed.
“Obviously.”
“Your English is excellent.”
“I would make a joke that it was my native language, but you’d probably believe that, too.”
“Yes. I probably would.”
“But you’re not a gullible woman. So, why is that?”
She took a breath, buying time, unsure how far to press him. Finally, she replied, “Perhaps because I’m scared to death? Because I was tied up for hours? Because I’m here alone in the dark? Because this morning I saw people murdered?”
“You don’t need to be scared.”
“I saw men killed.”
“They were raising their rifles. They had guns.”
“The guide didn’t. Juma.”
“But the person who shot him thought he did. My guy thought he was raising his hands to fire.” He shook his head, a motion she could see even here in the deep gloaming on the inside of the hut. “All of you have value when you’re breathing. None of you have value when you’re dead.”
“Unless you’re a ranger or a guide,” she said. God. She was alive only because she happened to have been born in America.
“Yes. I have very little use for either rangers or guides. Nevertheless: I don’t want to see them dead. I don’t want to see anyone innocent dead.”
Innocent. So, here was the logic: you lived if you were innocent or valuable. She understood who could be pegged as one or the other. But guilty? She had no idea how he defined that. Since her captor was Russian, might the guilty be capitalists? If so, it was apparently better to be valuable and guilty than worthless and innocent. But if this were a kidnapping, that meant these men cared a hell of a lot about money—more than even the most ruthless capitalists. It wasn’t as if the most cold-blooded and merciless among the Rockefellers or Carnegies were shooting people seventy and eighty years ago.
“May I ask something else?” She saw him nodding in silhouette from the entry, and so she continued: “How much money are we worth? What are you asking for?”
“Are you asking the money value of a human life?”
“I guess I am,” she agreed, though it was tragically clear that some lives had far greater monetary value than others.
“Well, I will ask you something in response, Mrs. Billy Stepanov. What makes you think we’re interested in money?”
“You admitted this was a kidnapping.”