Birth of an Assassin, Books 1-3: Killer Plots and Powerful Characterization (Birth of an Assassin - the series)

by Rik Stone

  “Right then, Kornfeld,” a voice said.

  Jez recognized it. The captain. “Captain Mitrokhin, thank goodness…” Further speech became impossible as pressure came on the front of the hood and clamped his mouth.

  “Do not start fucking with me by blurting out a whole lot of denial, Kornfeld. Your dealings have been documented and we know you’re guilty. It would be easier for both of us if you just signed this confession and let us move on to the next step.”

  The hold on his face relaxed.

  “Believe me, Captain, I have done no wrong. Please allow me to prove my innocence.”

  Mitrokhin snatched the hood from Jez and stood back. He held a length of hemp with a series of knots integrated, and swung it like a pendulum. But then he whipped the rope sideways and one of the slubs smacked Jez’s face. Something in his mouth exploded. The vitriolic taste of blood gushed from a cut on his inner cheek. The captain hooked the rope over Jez’s neck and pulled it back and forth. Jez closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

  “Do not play games with me, Jew, you’re wasting your fucking time. I know everything, and just to put an end to your futile bleating I will tell you what I know.”

  Jez looked at Mitrokhin – “Jew”. His eyes still echoed the hatred he’d shown in The Red Lite. Perhaps Poppa’s story hadn’t been so far off the mark.

  The walls in the interrogation room had flaking dark olive gloss paint and a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Mitrokhin dominated the view and the dim yellow light increased, haloing his head. Hatred was clear, but why? Jez looked to Sergeant Mayakovski, who seemed to watch on in boredom. But when he caught Jez’s gaze, he returned the same hostility as Mitrokhin.

  “Some time before I came to the unit,” Mitrokhin began, “you created a route which took you by train, rivers and canals from Moscow to Rostov. You smuggled your family there and then bribed a Turk to sail them away from the Soviet Union.”

  “That much is true...” Jez began, but Mitrokhin halted the words when he kicked him in the chest and knocked him flying. Mayakovski took the back of Jez’s head in one huge hand and tugged the chair upright.

  Mitrokhin grimaced. “Yes, yes, I know what you’ll say, and I believe you. At first you genuinely only wanted to save your family, but greed got the better of you and you started your trafficking operation: selling women into prostitution. When you fell out with Boris – your partner – you stabbed him to death, then used the same knife to kill Nadia Ulyanov, a prostitute who worked for one of your pimps.”

  “Nadia’s dead? No, no, it’s true I killed Boris in the course of the investigation, but Nadia was alive when I last saw her.”

  “Ah, that’s better. You admit you created the route and subsequently killed Boris. And you admit to knowing Nadia. That’s a good start to your confession; now we’re getting somewhere. As far as Nadia is concerned, there was a group of youths at the Plattenbau. They are more than willing to testify that you threatened them for no good reason before kicking your way into Nadia’s apartment. No, Kornfeld, I’m sorry, you’re fucked.” He smiled, turned to Mayakovski and preened.

  Jez watched the cards stack up against him. “It sounds damning, I admit, but you put me on the investigation. You knew what I was doing. All you need to do is speak to Viktor. He’ll verify my side of things.”

  “Ah yes, Sergeant Sharansky – the final nail in your coffin.”

  “Final nail, what do you mean by final nail?”

  “We have evidence to prove you killed the sergeant with a single shot through the head – or to be more accurate, a single shot that virtually blew his face off. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Viktor’s not dead? That’s not possible. He came to see you and…” Tears ran down his cheeks and the sterile taste of salt reflected his soul. Viktor couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t been involved in anything dangerous. He only went to see Mitrokhin and – Mitrokhin, no, no, not Mitrokhin.

  “You, it was you… you bastard, you won’t get away with this, Mitrokhin. I can prove my innocence to General Petrichova. You won’t get away with it.”

  Mitrokhin’s face turned to fury. He placed a hand over Jez’s face and forced his head back, almost to breaking point.

  “Fucking idiot, Jew, I’ve already got away with it. You’re a dead man,” he said bitterly. “I set you up before you were given the task. We are the only two people – no, no, that’s not true, I mustn’t forget my dear friend Adrik here,” he said. “Yes, my friend knew, but no other had any idea you were on the case. You see it was me who was tasked to carry out the mission. I brought in Sharansky, not Petrichova. And he, for the sake of the reports I’ve written, was my partner – until you killed him.

  “You could have confessed to me, but now, now further interrogation by Smersh will bring the facts to the surface. Because I’ve told you what happened, they will extract that story from you. Whatever else you might say will sound like jumbled rubbish. Oh, and I had a meeting with your precious Petrichova earlier today. He has no interest in speaking with you. In fact, he said to tell you he’s washed his hands of you.”

  “You think you’re so clever, Mitrokhin, but either at the tribunal or when I speak to the general, I can and will prove my innocence.”

  Mitrokhin kicked him in the chest and this time Mayakovski left him where he landed. The captain summoned the guard and left with his sergeant.

  “I can prove it, Mitrokhin,” Jez shouted desperately as they exited the interrogation room. “I can prove it!”

  The guard lifted him to his feet and returned him to the cell. Jez curled up on the bunk and grieved for Viktor. He tried to concentrate, to run through everything he’d done from the beginning. He hadn’t pulled the trigger against Viktor, but because of his immature approach to the case, he might as well have. When he thought back to Nadia’s confession, she’d told him of a sergeant in the KGB, Tchaikovsky she’d said, but he hadn’t seen it, Mayakovski. His hurt drifted and the power of anger took his mind. It reminded him of how he dealt with pain in combat, and that would be how he would have to deal with it now.

  Again, he ran through events and had to face the facts: he would never be able to convince the general or anyone else of his innocence.

  Chapter 30

  “Do you think he knows anything that could damage us?” Adrik asked.

  Otto snorted. “No, not for a minute, but our success hasn’t endured by ignoring possibilities. We must assume he does, which means something has to be done.” He closed the office door and went straight to the vodka, then sat back and looked deeply into the drink he’d just poured. “But what?” he said thoughtfully.

  A knock brought in two men, both wearing trilby hats, both about the same height – short, both sporting wired pebble glasses and both stockily built.

  Fuck, Otto thought, he could do without Smersh right now.

  “Good day, Captain Mitrokhin,” one said.

  Otto couldn’t but pay attention to the unusual voice, deeper and darker than the brown suit the little man wore. He sounded as if he had gravel in his throat. Otto had forgotten all about them and now realized that bringing them into the loop had been a mistake. Reluctantly, he acknowledged them.

  “We’ve just been down to the interrogation rooms,” the deeply spoken inquisitor said, “and have been told that all authority to interview Kornfeld has been suspended on your orders. It must be said that we had him softened up so he would reveal anything and everything about his conscious life after another session. To stop us now would be a retrograde step.”

  The gravel man took off the pebbles. They’d steamed up coming in from the cool of the corridor. He wiped them between thumb and forefinger, folded the little olive cloth he’d used and neatly replaced it in the breast pocket of his jacket. Carefully, as if handling rose petals, he fitted the glasses back onto his nose.

  “Ah yes… Sergeant, isn’t it?” Otto said. “My apologies, we haven’t long left him. Before further interrogation takes place, I
want to sort out some new evidence that has surfaced. I don’t believe it’s meaningful, but it has to be checked. When I’m satisfied it has no significance, I’ll let you know. Once again, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

  “New evidence, what new evidence?” he asked.

  Otto felt his face harden. “As I said, I’ll let you know when the time is right, but in the meantime bear with me.”

  The gravel man was about to go on with his issues, but his partner restrained him with a hand to the arm. “Very well, Captain,” the second man whispered, so softly he almost couldn’t be heard. “But please – keep us informed of proceedings,” reasonable words but something in the intonation disconcerted Otto. “We won’t hold you back any further.”

  And with that, they left the office.

  “Those two don’t seem to understand rank,” Otto said, petulantly pouring more vodka. He was about to continue the attack on the little men, but held back. “Shit, their self-importance doesn’t matter. But all the same, if the Jew has any kind of proof, those two could make things awkward.” He gulped back the alcohol and poured another before lifting his feet onto the desk. “Smersh have just made the decision for me.” He frowned. “Not an ideal solution: Petrichova will ask questions, especially as he doesn’t even know we have him in custody, but the Jew must die.”

  “Sounds right; who’ll do it?”

  Otto’s face became sullen. “Sorry, Adrik, it has to be you. Believe me, I’d love to do it, but I’m under suspicion. If I kill the Jew, it might add credence to that belief. You know I don’t usually ask you to...”

  “Stop,” Adrik said, scowling and raising a hand. “It really doesn’t bother me. The only thing I need to know is how you want it done.”

  The sudden thought of having Kornfeld blown away made Otto almost gleeful. “We haven’t much time, so we’ll keep it simple.” He ran a hand over the contours of his chin, pondering. “The only thing that readily springs to mind is to kill him in an escape attempt. But you can’t just let him out of the cell and then shoot him... Let me see, the guard is regular army but big, so we’ll start by bringing in one who is lightweight. Someone the Jew can easily overpower, even with his injuries. You, Adrik, will wait out of sight, in the corridor, and shoot him as he leaves the cell.”

  Otto straightened himself in the chair, but couldn’t hold his excitement. He almost jumped to his feet and paced as if he was planning a campaign on the eastern front.

  “We’ll give Kornfeld clues that he’s about to be hit, and make his trying to escape inevitable. Tomorrow he gets a gentle interview, no hood and no hand fastenings. And we won’t be rough – he’s going to need energy to handle the guard – and we’ll make sure he gets a decent meal.” He paused, nodded and then smiled to himself. “A medic, get him a medic… and fresh clothes. That way any signs of torture can be passed off as injuries he took while resisting arrest, and it will appear that he has been subsequently well cared for… That should be enough to get him thinking.”

  He stared from the window and his eyebrows rose in shocked surprise.

  “Oh God, I nearly forgot. It’s one of Mother’s visiting days. If you start setting things in motion, I’ll come back and sort out a new guard. Or, if you want to come with me, we can set it up later.”

  “No, no, that’s all right, Otto. I’ll get things going here.”

  Otto laughed: it could be a great day.

  Chapter 31

  The medic dabbed at Jez with a cotton swab. “This gash should’ve been stitched,” he said admonishingly. “Too late now, just be careful you don’t take any more knocks or it might split again.”

  No more knocks. That would be nice. Maybe the medic should be having a word with the interrogators, not him.

  “But it’s clean and looks free of infection, and I’ve put antiseptic on it to be safe.”

  “Yes, I felt it,” he said, bringing an ironic smile to his face. The medic grimaced and smiled painfully back at him.

  “You’ll be pleased to know that your facial injuries are no more than swollen lips, a little swelling and a good old-fashioned black eye. The abrasion under it isn’t anything to worry about either.”

  The ironic smile remained fixed. The rest of the clean-up was completed in silence. The medic had just about finished packing his kit when the cell door opened and a burly guard came in.

  “Ah, well timed. I’m just leaving.” The guard gave no response and the medic pulled a glum face at Jez. The guard put a tray of food and some clothes on the bunk and left. The medic followed closely behind, and had barely cleared the gap when the cell door slammed shut.

  Jez checked what was on the bed: food and the shirt and trousers of a clean uniform. Strange, Smersh never used a soft approach. But he wasn’t about to complain about that. He changed and ate. A cold draught blew over his feet and set his mind racing. He’d been given everything but socks and shoes, no socks or shoes. Something had happened to change the treatment, but whatever it was, it didn’t include footwear...

  He had to get back to thinking like a soldier. Okay, so what is the situation? Rested and wounds tended, washed and a change of clothes – without shoes – no shoes… and well fed. Why? What had changed Mitrokhin’s plans?

  Muzzy thoughts cleared and a picture formed. Mitrokhin wasn’t happy with the safety of the situation. Either he believed Jez when he’d told him he could incriminate him; or he wouldn’t take the chance that he knew nothing. Before Jez could reason further, the door opened and the guard came in, mutely gestured him to his feet and ushered him from the cell into the dimly lit corridor. His time had come for another round of torture.

  *

  Back in the cell, he weighed up his time in the interrogation room. The roughest part of the grilling had been when the guard tied him to the chair. The Smersh agents had been dropped and Mitrokhin and Mayakovski had interviewed him.

  For an hour the pair had tormented him with racist insults, but never once lifted a hand against him. For his part, he gave answers as mechanically as the questions thrown at him. No longer did he protest his innocence, there was little point. Everyone just went through the motions. But why bother?

  Why? No bindings, no hood, wounds cleaned and dressed, a fresh change of clothes, no shoes and a gentle interrogation. And then it struck him. Ooh so obvious. Why would shoes be necessary? He wasn’t going anywhere. His injuries could be passed off as having happened when he was arrested.

  He would be killed. And to make it look right, to justify why it had happened, it would be while trying to escape. He’d only been questioned to coerce him with the faint hope of getting a confession. A signature would make it that much easier when Mitrokhin wooed his superiors into believing that a murderer, rather than a suspect, had been killed during an escape attempt.

  If the evening routine stayed the same, he’d get two visits from the guard, one to feed him, one to top up the drinking water and washbowl and change the slop bucket. For now, he had to get his head down, try to sleep and conserve energy. A clear mind would be vital over the next few hours. The guard was big; only regular army, so overpowering him wouldn’t be impossible. But fighting with someone that size, in a confined space, could sap his power. And after the escape he’d need his energy.

  Now, if he could imagine who the killer might be, it would help. Not Mitrokhin, he would keep his distance, but it would be a KGB man; a partner that knew what was going on. Probably Mayakovski but not necessarily; there could be a multitude of other soldiers in on it. All the same, hope came. He knew most of the people in the section and, as far as he was concerned, he was better equipped for combat than any of them.

  *

  When the guard made the first visit, Jez wasn’t exactly staggered to see the burly man had been swapped out for a boy soldier. It made sense. If the big man was on duty and subdued him, Jez wouldn’t get to the corridor so couldn’t be terminated. The young soldier was a slight boy, medium height, in fact, a similar stature to his
own. Mitrokhin’s intentions were clear now: Jez was meant to overpower the boy and die in the corridors during an escape bid.

  “Tell me, young man, how long have you been in the army and why were you given this duty?”

  The boy gave him an awkward glance, unsure whether to answer. He would know he shouldn’t. But he couldn’t resist. “I’ve been out of training for two months and an Osnaz officer thinks I could have potential,” he answered proudly.

  “Oh, you must be good. Did they tell you I was a dangerous prisoner?”

  The boy gave him a broad grin. “No of course not, you’re a clerk being interrogated about your political views. How could you be dangerous?”

  “Ah, you knew, right.”

  The young soldier left the cell. Jez ate some of the food and put the rest to one side. He curled up on the bunk and waited. After what seemed like only a moment, his meditation was disturbed by the sound of the cell door. The boy came back in, filled the small washbowl and topped up the battered tin carafe next to it.

  “What name do you go by?”

  “Boris.”

  “Boris.” Jez smiled, and shook his head in disbelief. “You may not believe me, Boris, but of late that name has been the curse of my life.”

  “Well, as long as you don’t start any trouble, this Boris will not be one of your problems.”

  “If only that were possible; but unfortunately if I fail to overcome you I will be killed.”

  The boy’s head swiveled with unnatural speed. He stared in disbelief, but before he came to terms with what had been said a fisted blow thudded into his temple. He tottered and then fell limply to the ground. Jez took the boy’s olive greatcoat, put it on and filled the pockets with left-over food. He lowered himself onto the rickety chair and reasoned his next move. The corridors held no hiding place; he had checked on his return from interrogation. He couldn’t leave the cell… so somehow the assassin must come to him.

  Boris suddenly got to his feet and launched an attack. Quickly, Jez rose from the chair and threw light blows that should’ve stopped him, but the young soldier was unstoppable. Jez stood squarely, grounded himself and delivered a fierce open-handed blow. The heel of his palm struck the centre of the soldier’s forehead. The boy’s head snapped back and twisted. Bone broke and the sound of scrunching sinew filled the air. The soldier fell to the ground, his neck broken, and this time he came to rest without life.