Katerina was lying prone on the bench press, using its leg lift, a big LCD counter notching up each pull. She was dressed in tight black neoprene sprinter shorts, green stretch-leggings, and the top of a loose mauve T-shirt that'd been slashed in half, its ragged hem barely covering her large breasts. Her mane of blonde hair was held back with a broad white elastic towelling band. She was perspiring heavily, drawing breath through her nostrils, an expression of grim concentration on her perfect chiselled features.

"I do know you," she said through clenched teeth. The weight she was lifting was almost as much as he used in his own regimen. "You were at Julie's house."

"That's me," Greg said. "Nice party, wasn't it?"

"You can go now, Mark. Kendric will be out in a minute."

The bodyguard looked like he wanted to protest, but didn't quite know how. Greg flashed him a sunny smile, receiving a dark scowl for his trouble.

Despite the Ferranti glasses, Greg could tell the man's eyes were on Katerina as he shuffled off forward. It was understandable, given the circumstances. His own gaze kept switching between her fantastic legs and her abdomen, hypnotised by the hard cords of muscle flexing below her smooth tanned skin. Ever hopeful her little scrap of T-shirt would ride up just that fraction higher.

"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, finish," she gasped.

"Is it worth it?"

Her head dropped back to rest on the bench's thin padding. "Kendric likes me to be fit," she said, her voice was high, childlike and remote. "He says that anyone blessed with a body as good as mine has a duty to keep it in tip-top shape. He wouldn't enjoy me so much otherwise."

"And what Kendric says and enjoys is important, is it?"

Her eyes closed. "Yes. Very. They do things to me, you see, such wonderful things. If I can't please them in turn, they might stop. I couldn't stand that."

The passive singsong lilt she used to recite her doctrine gave him a chill. He folded his espersense around her.

Katerina's mind was strange; unruffled, as though she'd been popping tranquillisers. There was little mental activity, she was taking only the minimum notice of her surroundings; it was almost a hibernatory state. But there was no sign of any post-trauma withdrawal, nor any of the jagged rents of chemical-induced damage he had been expecting. Greg went deeper.

Beneath the sluggish currents of her surface thoughts there was a treasured core of memory, a glowing centre of delicious anticipation and joy. But for all its bright glory, it was a contaminant, tainting every thought.

"What wonderful things?" he asked softly.

Katerina's face became dreamy. "They love me," she said.

"How do they love you?"

"Sometimes gently. Sometimes so fiercely they make me cry. It doesn't matter which. It always ends wonderfully."

Greg felt his skin going slick with cold sweat. "How long has this been going on, Katerina?"