CIA?”
“We both know I didn’t kill Cherkesov,” Scorpion said.
“We expected you to say that,” Kulyakov said, signaling to the blondish man.
This time the hum was louder and the pain much worse. He felt as if someone were stabbing his genitals with a red-hot knife. He screamed, the tears coming out of his eyes. Abruptly, the pain stopped and he became aware of the faint smell of burning flesh. His own.
“So let’s get this over with. For the record, who do you say killed Cherkesov?”
“Dimitri Shelayev killed Cherkesov,” Scorpion gasped. “I know it, you know it. By now, lots of people know it.”
“You have evidence?”
“You know I do. Shelayev’s confession. The video.”
“What video?”
“The one at the TV station.”
Kulyakov shook his head. “We searched thoroughly. There is no video.”
“People at the station saw it.”
“We questioned everyone at the station. They all deny it.”
“How can anyone deny seeing something you say doesn’t exist? How would you even know to ask for it?” Scorpion asked quietly.
Kulyakov reacted angrily. He reached over and slapped Scorpion hard in the face, then gestured to the blondish man. There was a louder hum and Scorpion screamed as the worst pain he had ever experienced radiated from his groin to his brain. He heard someone screaming and some part of him realized it was him. The pain seemed to go on and on, getting worse and worse. He doesn’t want you to die, he told himself. Sheikh Zaid. Be patient. The pain always ends. He needs a trial. He can’t afford to have you die. But the hum and the pain didn’t stop.
Now there was no more thought. Only pain. It went on and on. Stop it, stop it, please stop it, he said, not knowing if he said it out loud or in his head. Stop it. Please stop. For the love of God, stop.
The pain always ends. He doesn’t want you to die.
He didn’t remember them dragging him back to his cell. All he knew was that at some point he awoke. He was dimly aware of lying on the freezing concrete floor of the cell. He was naked. His hands were zip-tied behind him as before, a fire between his legs. The pain was an agony that wouldn’t stop, but not like when the electricity had been on. He had never experienced anything like that. Not at Fort Bragg, not anywhere.
Nor had he ever been so cold. He was shivering violently, his shivers triggering more pain in his genitals. He could feel himself slipping. A piece of who he was was dying. But who was he? He had had so many identities, he was no longer sure. He never told even Iryna who he was. If he thought about it, Kulyakov would find a way to get him to tell. They’re going to make me confess, he thought. Not that it mattered. Because he still had one ace in the hole. The video was on YouTube.
Regardless of what was happening to him and Iryna, the Russians and the Americans would see the video and know about Gorobets. Then they would kill him or imprison him or let him go, but the torture would stop. He just had to hang on. Hold onto that, he told himself. All you have to do is hang on and you’ll win. And if he had told Iryna about his real identity, Kulyakov and Gorobets would now know. He didn’t think the leak came from Akhnetzov. It wouldn’t have been in Akhnetzov’s interest to tell them about him. Don’t go there, his mind told him. Think about Iryna. She loves you. Yeah, but she told them. They put the screws to her and she told them about him.
He tried to picture Iryna’s face but couldn’t. Something was bothering him. He had seen something. A face. He couldn’t pin it down. It wasn’t Kulyakov. He’d made a mistake not killing him when he had the chance. If he ever got out of here, he thought grimly, if there was one thing he did, it would be to terminate Kulyakov. The cold penetrated his bones. And the terrible pain in his groin. It was getting harder to think, lying on the icy concrete. One thing. Hang on to one thing. Sheikh Zaid. The pain always ends. Either you die or if Allah wills, you will see the sun, but the pain always ends.
How long had he been in this hell? he wondered. It had to have been days. Maybe weeks. It was impossible to tell. And what of the war? Had it started? He didn’t think so or there would have been bombing or missiles or air raid sirens. Some sign that they were at war. He hadn’t slept or eaten in days. The minute he dozed off, guards would rush into his cell and start beating him with their truncheons.
“Prosnis-s-sh!” Wake up! the blondish man lisped, slapping him hard across the face, then stepping back so the guards could start pounding at him. As they whacked away, he could hear the blondish man’s strange “uh, uh, uh” laugh. Scorpion groaned and spit out some teeth.
There was hardly a single inch of his body that wasn’t battered or bruised. They had only given him water twice. Both times it was a filthy-looking brownish liquid in a tin dish that he’d had to lap at like a dog, and when he tasted it, he gagged because someone had pissed in it.
And what of Iryna? Was she still alive? And Alyona? What had happened to her?
I t was during the fourth or fifth or sixth interrogation-he had lost count-that they wrung the confession out of him.
“Why did you kill Cherkesov?” Kulyakov demanded. He nodded to the blondish man, who barely had to touch the dial for Scorpion to start screaming. Let go, he told himself. It’s time. But why hadn’t they mentioned the YouTube video? It was his lifeline.
“I don’t remember,” Scorpion muttered.
“You can do better than that,” Kulyakov said, putting his hand on Scorpion’s shoulder. “Stepan,” he said, nodding to the blondish man, and there was a sudden jolt of electrical agony. At first there was only the pain, and then it hit Scorpion. Stepan! He knew now who the blondish man reminded him of. Alyona! He was the crazy brother!
“Wait!” Scorpion cried out. Kulyakov gestured and the current stopped. Scorpion struggled to turn his head to look at the blondish man but couldn’t move his head. “What happened to Alyona?” he managed.
“You figured it out, haven’t you?” Kulyakov said, bringing his face close to Scorpion’s. “Yes, Stepan’s her brother. Say hello, dobry den, Stepan,” he said to the blondish man.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Stepan said.
“What happened to Alyona?”
“We let Stepan question his sister. Seemed only right, but Stepan wasn’t very nice. He poured kerosene on her and set her on fire. Didn’t you, Stepan?”
Stepan didn’t answer. Kulyakov looked at Scorpion.
“She’s dead,” he said.
Scorpion closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the photograph of her at the Black Cat cafe and felt sick. He’d tried to save her and instead had delivered her to the one thing she feared above all else. He didn’t say a word about Iryna. He didn’t want to know what they might have done to her. He didn’t want to know any of it. The only thing left was YouTube. He had to find out. The only way was at the tribunal.
“Who ordered you to kill Cherkesov? The CIA?” Kulyakov said.
Scorpion nodded, his head hanging down.
“And you now admit that you and Iryna Shevchenko, acting on behalf of Viktor Kozhanovskiy as an agent of the CIA, murdered Yuriy Dmytrovych Cherkesov?”
Scorpion nodded again. “Sure,” he said. “I also killed Rasputin, Kennedy, and Martin Luther King,” he whispered.
Kulyakov gestured to Stepan, who hit Scorpion with a hum of pain worse than anything they had done to him before. It seemed to go on and on forever. He was screaming, begging, not knowing what he was saying. He felt like he was going insane. The pain overwhelmed everything. It was like someone shoving a red-hot iron up his urethra through his penis and testicles.
“I did it! Stop! Please! ” he screamed. He couldn’t take it anymore. “I did it. I did it,” he sobbed.
Then it stopped. Kulyakov grabbed his face, dripping with sweat and snot.
“Don’t think you’re fooling me,” he hissed, flecks of spittle flying. “If you recant later, what you just got will seem like nothing.”
