There was no response.
“The headache. Remember it.” He paused. “I am Eugen Yakovich Staranov, a
leader within the organization.”
Rubenstein stared at the ceiling.
“I am one hundred sixty-five centimeters in height, and seventy-six kilograms in
weight. Smaller than average, perhaps, but I have found it to be adequate stature. I am in
perfect health—for a man who spent a short time digging canals in Siberia. “By 1952, my beloved father, Yakov Antonovich, had risen to the rank of major—as
you designate your similar rank, I believe—in the Ministerstvo Gosudartvennoi
Bezopasnosti, a predecessor of the KGB. He had been a divinity student whose interest
in things divine was somehow reversed by his experiences in the Revolution and events
thereafter. He became a torturer, active in the repressions that were a part of Stalin’s
terror after the end of the Great Patriotic War.
“Unfortunately for me and my family, he also employed his torture tactics in the
management of our household and our lives. He was very strict about the social graces and I was an apt student. For example, I may torture you—I may even kill you—but rest
assured, I shall never, never be impolite.
“I was born in 1944, the sixth of six children. My memory of my early days is
unclear, but it appears that under the strain of my home life I came to have extensive
understanding of the power of torture. As a toddler, I tortured flies. Cats and dogs by
age five. By the time I reached twelve years of age and had become conversant with the
bodies of small children, my father, unable to control me, sent me to a reform school. “The school did not reform me—au contraire. In those days the government
surveyed the nation’s youth for talent, from athletic promise to academic prowess. I was
subjected to a series of tests that indicated I had the sensitivity needed for a career in
what is termed psychology in your country. I was found to be—” He turned to the
woman. “Chutkij?”
“Sensitive. Empathetic.”
“Empathetic. The capability to connect, metally, with another person. But there was
a problem. Can you imagine what it was, Professor?”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.
Staranov grasped Rubenstein’s left little finger and bent it backward until his patient
screamed.
“Professor, but you must—you simply must—join me in our discussion. Do you
comprehend?”
“Yes. I do.”
“I was found to have a sort of reverse empathy. I understood the other person’s
concerns, but my reaction was a negative. Do you follow?”
“No.”
“If I found a subject who had broken an arm, my inclination was to break the other.
Do you comprehend?”
“No.”
“That is understandable. People such as I are a rarity.
“I was selected for special—very special—schooling.
“I and other selectees were transported to the small city of Nyrob, just before the
Oorals. There we were taken to a huge pile erected on the slope of a small mountain, one
of the several Monasteries of St. Basil in European Russia. It was the training school
Palyeznee Ooneeverseetyet. In English, the useful university.” Staranov cackled. “Very
useful indeed. It was a school for torturers. A school! Can you imagine?” “No.”
“The school’s axiom told all. Shall I tell you what it was?”
Rubenstein nodded.
“Worse things can happen to a human than dying. Do you understand?” Rubenstein nodded.
“Tsar Alexander III established the school at the monastery in 1882, a part of his
violent reaction to the assassination of his father the year before.
“Lenin closed the school in 1918 and ordered Stalin to destroy all evidence of its
existence. Stalin closed the school, but retained the records. After Lenin’s death, he
reestablished the school.
“You can imagine how happy I was, surrounded by persons of similar nature.” He
paused. “What do think of such an upbringing?”
“Interesting.”
“And the personality?”
“Interesting.”
“Prevoshodnyi! Excellent! Wonderful! I count you almost a colleague, Professor. “I graduated at the top of my class in 1966 and was assigned to the headquarters staff
of KGB’s Second Chief Directorate. Those were the counterspies, which, of all
organizations, most needed to know how to extract information from recalcitrant
suspects.
“I had a glorious career. I traveled the world. I learned English, as well as Spanish,
German, Swahili, and some Mandarin. I bought clothing in London. Shoes in Italy.
Shirts and cravats in New York.” He shook his head. “And look at me now! I am
positively dowdy. Our lider has determined that we must be nondescript. I define
nondescript, do I not?”
Rubenstein nodded.
“To continue, I was involved in an important case in Chile—before the arrival of
General Pinochet, of course. And I was active in several governmental transitions in
Africa.
“North Korea—an honor, that. Colonel Qadhafi requested me by name. Romania.
Afghanistan. Poland. Hungary. On and on. Until.” He paused and stared at the
opposite wall. “Until.”
Rubenstein croaked. “Until?”
“Ulaanbaatar, 1989. There was a kidnapped Chinese general. The First Chief
Directorate agents had injected him with a massive amount of heroin, but the General had
a vast tolerance. I was about to commence my treatment when he broke away. The
blows he sustained from our—bolvany, Naveeva?”
“Dolts.”
“Our dolts so marked the body that the planned myth—that he had not been
interrogated—could not be maintained. I was held accountable.” Staranov shook.his
head. “I was cashiered.
“I was forty five years old and unemployed. I examined the Moscow employment
scene. No market for expert torturers. I was frustrated, but by then, with the change in
government, the mafyas had begun to rise. I found employment with Galavna-ya Bohl
and was assigned to an enforcement squad.
“There I discovered that I have management skills and I became what I am today, a
lejtenant to Valubin, chief of Galavna-ya Bohl.” His face almost touched Rubenstein’s.
“A charming story, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Now, regarding you. I believe my intelligence regarding you is complete. You were
born in the United States, in Washington, the District of Columbia, in 1946. Your
father’s nationality was French. Though a Jew, he was an officer in the Corps
Diplomatique. His last posting was the United States, but his last previous posting was
Dublin, where he married your mother, a Caucasian. Both of your parents are deceased.
You received your doctorate in mathematics from the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology in 1967. You have worked your entire career for the American government
as a mathematician predicting weather. Am I correct?”
Rubenstein nodded.
Staranov cackled again. “And you resemble the small Irish comedian whose name I
cannot yet remember.”
Rubenstein stared at the ceiling.
“Why am I here to minister to you? I believe that you have developed a way to
predict the move
ment of some aspects of the American stock market. I mean to secure
this capability in order that Galavna-ya Bohl—thus I—may benefit from its use. Do you
understand?”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.
Staranov displayed his clenched right fist, then struck Rubenstein’s solar plexus. Rubenstein fought for breath.
Staranov smiled. “I beg you not to allow your attention to wander, Professor.” Rubenstein breathed deeply, then nodded.
“Good. Now here is my plan for you. By providing you with never-ending, always
increasing pain, I shall disassociate you from your interest in your invention. When I
have finished, you will determine that your relationship with your predictor is so slight
that giving its particulars to me in return for the end the pain will be the most intelligent
decision you ever made.”
Staranov bent low over Rubenstein. “Is that clear?”
Rubenstein nodded.
“If—after reflecting upon my plan—you are now prepared to provide me with the
details of your program, there is no reason to continue.”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.
“No? Tee, hee!” Staranov’s cackle was mirthless. “I was hoping that I would have
justification for practicing my skills again.”
Rubenstein stared at the ceiling.
“And so to work?”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.Staranov grasped Rubenstein’s left little finger again and
bent it far back.
Rubenstein’s eyes opened wide. He bit his lip.
“And so to work?”
“Yes, yes! To work!”
“Good. Let us continue your education. Torture is used for two main reasons. The
first is to alter a victim’s attitude or beliefs. The efforts of the Dominican Tomás
Torquemada in fifteenth century Spain come to mind.” He bent over Rubenstein. “Do
you know of his work?”
“Yes.”
“The second—which is the reason we are gathered here today—is the extraction of
information.”
Rubenstein nodded.
“Prevoshodnyi! Professor, I must tell you what a pleasure it is for me to deal with
someone of your mental stature and training. The difference between a patient such as
you and a Chilean peon in a colonel’s uniform is stimulating. Since I am certain you will
be appreciative, I shall share some of my learning, observations, and experience.” He bent over Rubenstein’s body again and whispered in his ear. “Are you pleased at
the prospect?”
“Yes.”
“But do not delude yourself. We are only postponing your pain while we enjoy
ourselves, scientist to scientist, intellect to intellect.”
Rubenstein nodded.
“The professors at my Ooneeverseetyet taught that there are four classes of torture—
classes in this case referring to methods of provision. They are force, fire, water, and
what they referred to as subtle. Do you understand?”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.
Staranov drove his fist into Rubenstein’s solar plexus again.
Rubenstein closed his eyes and gasped for air.
“If I were you, Professor, I would try to avoid any further assaults on your sternum.
A cracked sternum can be lifethreatening.”
Rubenstein nodded his head rapidly.
“Now, which would you least like to have as the means of your torture: Force, fire,
water, or something subtle?”
Rubenstein shrugged.
“I see. You do not have enough information to choose. I must provide some
examples. Hmm. Force. There are many examples of force. One is the lengthening of a
body upon what is called the rack.” He paused. “Are you familiar with the rack?” “Have read.”
Staranov peered into Rubenstein’s eyes. “Would force be your selection for your
own torture?”
“No.”
“No. Nor I. Let us next consider fire. We were taught that fire—meaning heat, of
course—was the most painful. Would you care to have a heated metal shaft inserted into
your anus? Or perhaps into one of your eyes? Attended, of course, by the tantalizing
smell of blazing human hair.”
“Not fire.”
“Nor I. Water? I have never found much imagination there. There is near drowning
and the forcing of water into various bodily orifices. Not much difference between water
and force, is there?”
“No.”
He chuckled. “There is, of course, the idea of watching a stomach explode. Or lungs.
I have never had the opportunity to see either.” He paused. “Might you perhaps
appreciate such a treatment?” He looked at Naveeva. “Vera Davidovna would enjoy it,
would you not, my dear?”
The woman giggled and clapped her hands.
“Vera Davidovna has almost as much talent as I. She is someone to watch in the
coming years.”
Rubenstein closed his eyes.
“Finally, there is a class designated subtle, which is torture employing an array of
machines. The well-known Iron Maiden, various ill-fitting foot gear, thumb screws, and
so forth and so forth—a dreary array of quite unsubtle hardware, in my opinion.” He
paused. “However, there is one I have always thought showed some astounding
creativity. Shall I share it with you?”
“Please.”
“Good! Good participation, Professor! You will see, this whole matter will be
finished quickly and easily.” He clapped his hands, then frowned. “Where was I?” “The Dutch procedure, sir?” Naveeva said.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Vera Davidovna.
“Not so many years ago there was a group of Dutch Protestants whose Catholic
countrymen had religious attitudes the Protestants found displeasing. Bored with the
usual means of effecting changes, one member of the group had a wonderful idea. The
patient was laid on his back on a table. A copper pot filled with dormice was upended
over his abdomen, the dormice remaining inside. Thereafter, the bottom of the copper
pot was heated. The dormice, frantic to escape the heat, proceeded to burrow their way
through the least resistant surface. Most painful, I imagine. Needless to say, the
Hollanders used this technique for demonstration only.” He giggled.
“These define the universe of the caregiver. You would not select any of these four
for your own treatment?”
Rubenstein shook his head.
The woman whispered in Staranov’s ear.
“What? Oh, yes, not mentioned is the modern idea of drugs. I have no use for them.
Most patients have their minds so disarranged that the results from an extraction of
information standpoint are, or may be, unreliable. You will not be drugged while under
my care.”
The woman whispered again.
Staranov smiled at the woman again. “Quite right, Vera Davidovna, quite right.
Thank you. Such a talent! My aide reminds me that I do not use electricity either. I
belong to a school of torture developed prior to the advent of electricity.” He hesitated.
“Now that those techniques have been made clear, shall I carry on?”
Rubenstein nodded.
“Good. Before I continue, I must ask if you are ready to tell me about your predictor?
It would be an error to continue my efforts if you have already decided to cooperate,
would it not?”
“No.”
“No,
not an error, or no, not ready?”
“Not ready.”
“Very well, back to subtlety for a moment. Let me assure you that while my
techniques are in the subtle classification, you will soon be able to judge how much more
sophisticated they are than a crushed foot or a dislocated shoulder.”
Rubenstein, his eyes closed, didn’t respond.
Staranov touched the bottoms of Rubenstein’s feet with the Bastinado. “No sleeping,
Professor.” He bent over Rubenstein’s body. “Yes?”
Rubenstein nodded, but at that moment his bowel released a large amount of gas. “Ah, Professor,” Staranov said, “you are attempting to aid me by providing a fresh
supply of filth. Its effects will fade rapidly, but I appreciate your efforts.” Rubenstein closed his eyes tightly.
“Remember that we are colleagues, working together to disassociate your mind from
everything you hold—an Anglo-Saxon expression here—near and dear.” Rubenstein didn’t respond.
Now, may I have full access to your predictor?”
“No.”
Staranov sighed. “Very well. It is now tomorrow morning in Moscow, time for me
to rest. I must be fresh when I continue your treatment.
“Naveeva, clean the room, allow him to shower, allow him to drink half a liter of
water, then tie him again to the bed. I shall return in eight hours.”
There was no one in sight when Staranov closed the laundry room door. “Now, a
hotel.”
“T.C,” Dreshchensky yelled, “come.”
Cooper appeared.
“A hotel. Something close by.”
“Nothing close. We’ll have to travel some.”
“Why?”
“There’s no hotel near here you’d like—or that would like you.”
“A suitable one, then. Immediately!”
Cooper frowned. “The Atkinson. On Tenth Street in midtown.”
Chapter 23
July 2
It was not yet light when Staranov burst into the laundry room the next morning.
“Awake, awake, Professor. Time for class.”
Rubenstein, naked, was again strapped to the bedsprings. His abdomen was concave. Staranov examined the face. “I do not like your color, Professor. Your heart,
perhaps?”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.
“You will tell me if a problem arises? I am certain you have no wish to die here.” Rubenstein stared at the ceiling.
“Shall we proceed?”
“Yes.”
“Which brings us to the business at hand. You have had time to consider your plight.
Rubenstein's Augur Page 23
