“So? No clever retort? Are we done with that?” Kulyakov said, putting one leg over the other and leaning forward.
“How’d you find us?” Scorpion asked.
Kulyakov gestured at the blondish man and there was an instant hum of pain. Scorpion felt his back arching and the agony in his loins. A loud groan escaped him. At a sign from Kulyakov, the machine stopped. Scorpion slumped in the chair. He was soaked with sweat.
“You have it backward. I ask the questions,” Kulyakov said, glancing at the mirror to make sure his wit was appreciated. “Let’s talk about the assassination. Who ordered you to kill Cherkesov? The 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?
It 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 café 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 h
im 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.”
Scorpion’s head hung down. They’d broken him, he thought. He would’ve said anything to make it stop. No, something inside him said. It’s just retreat. He remembered Shaefer in Afghanistan arguing with a senior officer and quoting Sun Tzu: “To retreat elusively, outspeed them.”
They dragged him back down the corridor to his cell. From somewhere came more screams; someone else being tortured. They threw him back into the cell. Just before they shut the steel door, Kulyakov leaned in.
“You know how they execute people in Lukyanivska? You think it’s picturesque, maybe? They stand you up against a wall at dawn like in the movies? Ni,” he sneered. “They drag you into a tiled room, the floor sloping down to a hole for the blood. They make you kneel and then they shoot you in the back of the head. Pah!” he said, pointing his finger and making a gunshot sound. “Your sud,” your tribunal, “is tomorrow. Day after, pah!” pointing his finger and making the gun sound again. “Your real name, who you work for, will no longer matter. You are no more.”
The cell door slammed shut with a metal clang, final as death.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sud
Kyiv, Ukraine
The sud, or tribunal, was held in a whitewashed room somewhere in the bowels of the Lukyanivska prison. They had taken him in shackles, escorted by half a dozen guards, down an elevator. Emerging from it, Scorpion had a sense of being deep underground, of moisture and pipes in the empty concrete corridors. He was in too bad shape to think of escape. Walking was painful, his groin aching badly, in addition to the shackles that made him hobble. They had put his clothes back on him, suit, shoes, shirt, no belt or tie. He must’ve lost a lot of weight in just the few days he had been the prison, he realized, because his clothes hung loosely on him and he had to hold his pants up with his hand.
They sat him in a chair in the middle of the room facing a narrow table. There were two rows of benches behind him. The mussory guards who had brought him down took up places by the door and along the wall, truncheons in their hands. He had hoped he might see Iryna, but there was no sign of her. They waited in silence, just him and the mussory. They don’t want this getting out, he thought. That’s why they had to do it right away; even in the middle of a war.
The door opened and three men, all with short hair and wearing the dark suits favored by Ukrainian nomenclatura officials, came in and took their seats behind the table. The middle suddya, or judge, was a thin, hatchet-faced man with short iron-gray hair. He wore a black tie with the yellow Ukrainian cross, suggesting he belonged to the Chorni Povyazky, and glanced down at the sheaf of papers he had brought in with him. A moment later a woman in a suit, carrying a laptop computer, came in and sat at a side desk, apparently to take notes. A technician entered the room and hooked up a video camcorder pointed at Scorpion. As the technician set up the camera, Kulyakov, also wearing a black suit and Chorni Povyazky tie, came in and sat in a chair on the side.
“Nam skazali, vy ne govoryat na Ukrainskom.” the hatchet-faced suddya said. We have been informed that you do not speak Ukrainian. “So this sud will be conducted in Russian. He glanced at the woman taking notes on the laptop. “For the record, this is a sud authorized by the Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny,” or SBU, “and the office of the Ukraine President Lavro Davydenko for the purpose of determining the guilt of the prisoner known as Michael Kilbane, also known as Petro Reinert, also the foreign agent Scorpion, in the murder of Yuriy Dmytrovych Cherkesov. The penalty for this crime is death. Let it be noted that this sud has authority to impose this sentence.”
He leaned forward and stared at Scorpion as if through a gun sight.
“You understand, prisoner, here is no prosecution, no defense. We ask questions. You answer. We decide. I am told that you will not reveal your real name or nationality. This is correct?”
“What difference does it make what my real name is?” Scorpion asked.
“A man who will not tell you the truth about his name will not say the truth about many things.”
“You could take it that a man who will not lie about his name will not lie about other things,” Scorpion said.
“But you are known by false names and also the code name Scorpion, da?”
“Da.”
“Are you an agent of the CIA or some other Western country? MI-6? DGSE? Mossad?” He pronounced “agent” the Russian way, with a hard g.
“Nyet. I am an independent. I work for different people.”
“Like a business?”
“It is a business.”
“A good business? You make a lot of money?”
“Sometimes.”
“You work for anyone? So long as they pay?”
“Not anyone.”
“There are people you won’t work for no matter how much they pay?”
“Eta verna.” That’s right.
“A spy with morals!” The hatchet-faced suddya smirked, glancing at his fellow judges, who smirked with him. “But you took this assignment?”
“I took an assignment, da.”
“Tak,” the hatchet-faced suddya said, rubbing his hands together like a businessman who wants to make a deal. “Who hired you to assassinate presidential candidate Yuriy Cherkesov?”
“Nikto ne.” No one. “I was hired to prevent his assassination.”
The judges looked at each other.
“Tak vy govorte,” the hatchet-faced suddya said. So you say. “You have admitted killing Cherkesov. We have seen the video.”
“Did you also see the electrodes attached to my genitaliy?”
“That is not relevant. You confessed. That is sufficient here. Who hired you?”
Scorpion shook his head. “I protect my clients. That’s the basis of my business.”
The hatchet-faced suddya’s short laugh cracked sharp as a gunshot. “You really think after this you will still have a business?” He glared at Scorpion. “You will be dead, you mudak spy!”
“Then I’ll be dead,” Scorpion said. “If you want, get the electrodes. I won’t tell you who hired me.”
“Your job was to save Cherkesov?” the hatchet-faced suddya said sarcastically, leaning toward Scorpion.
“It was understood that Cherkesov’s death might lead to great difficulties with Russia. My client wished to prevent this.”
“Not very good at your job, are you?” one of the other judges, a thin man with bloodless lips, put in.
“Not this time,” Scorpion said, thinking how close he had come to pulling it off. Just a few more hours and it would have been over. “I was led to believe that a baklan punk working for the Kozhanovskiy campaign named Sirhiy Pyatov was the assassin. I managed to stop him.”
At this, the judges began to whisper among themselves. The hatchet-faced suddya leafed through the papers in front of him, then looked up.
“This Pyatov was one of those killed at the stadium in Dnipropetrovsk?”
Scorpion nodded.
“Did you kill him?”
“Two militsiyu did. There was much shooting.”
“But you were ready to kill him?”
Scorpion nodded, and the judges looked meaningfully at one another.
“You killed militsiyu and politsiy at the stadium?”
“Two militsiyu. Also several of the Chorni Povyazky, not politsiy.”
“How many Chorni Povyazky?”
Scorpion thought for a moment. “Five,” he said.<
br />
The judges looked at each other.
“A total of seven men dead, murdered by you?” the hatchet-faced suddya said.
“Not murdered. Killed. They were shooting at Iryna and me.”
“Not even counting Cherkesov?”
“I didn’t kill Cherkesov. One of the Svoboda security men, Dimitri Shelayev, planted the bomb that killed Cherkesov and his people in the car.”
“So you say,” the hatchet-faced suddya said.
“This is absurdnyi!” Kulyakov said, standing up. He pointed at Scorpion. “This man has confessed to the crime. Trying to lay the blame on another, a patriot, in the hour of our country’s peril, is obscene!”
“How many times do you change your story, Pane Scorpion? Whenever it suits you?” the hatchet-faced suddya said.
“I can prove it,” Scorpion said.
The hatchet-faced suddya turned to Kulyakov. “Where is this Shelayev? Can we bring him to the sud?”
“I know Dimitri Shelayev,” Kulyakov said. “We were colleagues, friends. He went missing the night of the attack at the stadium.”
“So where is he?” the hatchet-faced suddya demanded.
“He was hiding in the Chernobylska Exclusion Zone,” Scorpion said.
“So you say,” the hatchet-faced suddya said once more, staring at Scorpion. “And where is he now?”
“Dead.” Scorpion looked down. “He killed himself.”
“Not true,” Kulyakov said. “We found Shelayev’s body. There was evidence of a struggle. He was murdered. This man,” pointing at Scorpion, “was the last man to see him alive.” He faced Scorpion. “More blood on your hands, ubeetsa.” Murderer.
“Tak,” the hatchet-faced suddya said, steepling his fingers and squinting at Scorpion. “You are a dangerous man to be around, aren’t you?” He turned to the other judges. “We’ll have to execute this mudak bastard fifty times over!” He turned back to Scorpion. “You keep saying you have proof.”
“Shelayev confessed. It’s on video,” Scorpion said.
“Where is this video?”
Scorpion Winter Page 25
