Give Her the Upper Hand... For Now

“It’s clear that neither of us is stupid enough to fall for each other’s tricks,” you say. “I’m going to drop my gun. Don’t shoot me when I do it.”

Before she can respond, you let the gun fall out of your hand. A confused look crosses her face, the first hint of emotion that you’ve seen from her. In the distance, you see the elevator moving down as somebody has called it.

“Step back,” she commands, and you oblige, moving away from your gun. Your finger itches to pull out one of the other pills you have on your body, but you know that that would just get you shot. She crouches down and picks up the gun, her own never leaving you this entire time. She must be wondering what you’re playing at. You’re not so sure yourself, but the beginnings of a plan have taken shape.

“Lead me to your room,” she says, and you walk towards the Presidential Suite at the end of the hall, hands held above your head. No reason to raise any suspicion at this point just yet. She’ll be on high alert for any tricks.

“You may reach for your room key when you reach the door. You will unlock the door and push it open. If you attempt to turn around or try anything else, I will shoot you,” she says. You’re sure of it, too, so when you face the grand wooden door with it’s Do Not Disturb sign hung on the handle, you fish in your pockets for your key, and unlock the door in one smooth motion. With a light shove, the door swings open, revealing a beautifully furnished hotel room with a few packed suitcases in the corner and a couple articles of clothing laying about. Nothing suspicious. You always leave your hotel rooms exactly like this.

“Walk in to the centre of the room and stay there. Don’t move after that. I will follow you in. If you try to kill yourself, I’ll incapacitate you first.” This you do not doubt either. Luckily, what she wants you to do is predictable as sunrise, and you come to a stop between the massive four-poster bed and the large workstation, which has a pen and a few looseleaf papers on the desk.

She scans the room, reaches into her purse and pulls out a bulky set of binoculars.

“Having a bit of trouble seeing me?” you say, startling her a little. “I’m right here, you know.”

She purses her lips and uses the binoculars to scan over every corner of the room. She knows she can’t threaten you to keep quiet - it’s not credible, and a trained spy would never be goaded into actually firing a weapon just to stop a smart mouth from talking. If anything, some operatives would prefer their captives talk, to see what extra bit of information they can squeeze out. All you need to do, however, is get into her head a little.

Having deemed the room safe, she steps in and shuts the door behind her, locking it. She flings open the walk-in closet, snapping one of the hairs holding it taut. She doesn’t make note of it to you. She’s not the talkative type, then. As she rifles through the various suits you have on display, you continue.

“Aren’t you wondering how the instrument in the lift is doing?” you ask. “Security must have found it by now. They’ll review the footage, call the police and be here in a few minutes.”

There’s no response from her.

“It would be a pity if your comrade died from the poison,” you say.

The reaction lasts a hairsbreadth of a second, but you catch it, the tiny stiffening of the back, representing a minuscule inhalation. This is what you want to keep pushing on.

“The standard dose of polonium 210, as I'm sure you know, kills over the course of two weeks when ingested. When administered directly to critical regions of the body, this shortens the process to just a few hours. But you know as well as I do that your comrade was on the smaller side. A standard dose most likely acts twice as quickly as any other.”

You see her body jerk slightly as she pulls out of the closet, moving over to the bathroom. She still doesn’t reply to you, but the lie has worked.

“The Russian police, seeing the how she died, will not inquire further. They will assume that it’s the secret service’s doing. They will quietly depose of the body, and any information she has, anything she’s carrying on her, will be lost forever.”

She ignores you, moving over to the big desk instead, reading over the papers that you have scattered over the table. None of it is mission critical, or even classified. A false lead or two, but nothing too obvious. It’s interesting that she doesn’t seem to react to the possibility of the USB being lost. Is she calling your bluff, or simply uninformed?

“Common knowledge says that there is no cure to polonium poisoning. We both know that’s a lie,” you say. “We also both know that in order for the cure to be non-fatal, it must be supplied within …” you glance down at your watch “… I’d say fifteen minutes or so.”

“Alright,” she finally says, whirling around from the workstation to face you. “You’re coming downstairs with me. I will have the gun inside of my jacket, aimed straight at your guts. You will say pressed against my jacket. If you try to do anything, I will shoot you.”

You look at her, shaking your head. That doesn’t sound very fair at all. What do you propose instead?