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

by Rik Stone

  His father worked in an iron foundry, the shirts were old and frayed, the oxide stains impossible to remove, but that never stopped him beating the hell out of young Afanasiy’s mother for not getting them to his satisfaction. And because he was poor-sighted even as a boy, and not handsome enough to show off to his father’s friends, his father instead ridiculed him in front of them. He had been the first person to call him pebbles – bastard.

  His attention jolted and he noticed Anchova’s lips curling up at either end; he even smiled quieter than anyone else. Interviews in these rooms were Anchova’s favorite part of the job. He loved playing softly-softly with a prisoner and then coming down hard. And he’d enjoy retelling the story of what transpired, as if it had been some hilarious incident at a social gathering. Afanasiy never shared those feelings. To him, interrogation and torture were a means to an end. However, looking at Borislav now, he wasn’t too sure if that was the case with him.

  They strung Borislav up while he was unconscious and now, stripped of clothing, he hung dangling from his arms on rope blocks. He moaned; he was coming round. It was at this point Anchova would normally have the smelling salts ready, but not today; today he stood back and waited. Afanasiy looked at Borislav and shook his head. Not a pretty sight: more aprons hanging from his overweight midriff than could be found in a restaurant kitchen – a heart attack waiting to happen.

  His patience was wearing thin. “Bring him round,” he demanded.

  Anchova’s response was stunted. He had been nursing his ear, looking deep in thought, but he shook his head, unscrewed the cap from the bottle, and wafted the spirit of ammonia under Borislav’s nose. Borislav’s head jerked up, his arousal immediate. Afanasiy smiled inwardly; arousal, he thought, and couldn’t suppress a throaty laugh. Borislav’s little dick stood out like a very short, thin, pencil stub and his testicles had almost disappeared into his pubic crest.

  Afanasiy moved behind the prisoner, hoisted the rope on one of the blocks with a snatch, and Borislav screamed as his shoulder dislocated.

  “Why, why are you doing this?” he sobbed, tears and mucous dripping from his nose. “I’ve never touched a boy, I swear. Never have I touched any child … ever. I swear.” His face reddened and sweat popped.

  Afanasiy’s chuckle dug thick phlegm from the back of his throat and he spat on the floor. “No, no, don’t go worrying about that, Sergeant. That was merely a ruse to get you here.”

  The weeping halted, surprise seeming to override pain. “Get me here? But why I …?” He stopped talking and his brow scrunched.

  “I must tell you, Borislav,” Anchova said, softly taking the stage. “My colleague here can be a very cruel man. I have my moments too, it’s true, but you’re a soldier like me. I don’t want to hurt you. Tell Sergeant Afanasiy everything he should know about this drug ring you are part of and I’ll make sure he doesn’t lift another finger against you.”

  Georgy’s pain had him moaning again. “My shoulders, please, I don’t know anything about drugs, please.”

  “Give me a hand,” Afanasiy said to Anchova as he pulled a tin bath filled with iced water across the floor.

  Together, they placed the bath under Borislav’s dangling feet. There were cables on the table with the ends stripped back and the wires bared. Afanasiy twisted one end around Georgy’s index finger and tried, without success, to get the other around his retracted testicles. It took several moments to get the wire secured and a memory brought a gruff laugh to his throat. Anchova was also laughing, but you had to look at him to know it; it came out as a silent hiss.

  “Are you thinking the same as me?” Afanasiy said.

  “Yes, I think I probably am,” he whispered.

  Afanasiy was talking about the time they carried out a similar interview. They had fastened a wire too tight and almost garroted a prisoner’s testicle. Blood had sprayed everywhere, on him, on Anchova, everywhere, but never have they had such a quick confession. The laughter settled, he sobered, and nodded to Anchova.

  Anchova brought his soft voice into action. “You no doubt realize this will hurt, but I feel I must warn you, it might be a lot worse than you think. Your shoulder has already turned blue, probably because you’re fat and have poor circulation. And having the heart of a fat man, I’m really not sure how long you might live under this sort of interrogation. Why don’t you just tell us about the drugs and we won’t have to do this?”

  Borislav remained silent and Afanasiy impatiently took Anchova’s arm, moved him to one side, and said, “Don’t worry about answers; I want this to happen.” He grinned up into Borislav’s face, released the ropes, and lowered Borislav’s body until his feet disappeared into the ice-cold water. Borislav stiffened and fear seemed to take on a whole new dimension for him; eyes agog and mouth opened wide, his eyebrows had lifted and forged deep rifts into his brow, his breathing had become indiscernibly shallow, the veins in his neck throbbed violently, his hair stood on end, and his superficial muscles quivered.

  “And we haven’t even flicked the switch yet,” Afanasiy said, clearing his throat and spitting. “Hit the lever,” he demanded.

  Anchova gave an expectant look to the prisoner, but getting no response flicked the toggle. The electricity flowed and Borislav went into convulsion. Afanasiy let the juice run for a few seconds then motioned his head and Anchova turned off the power supply.

  “I’m not sure where all these heroics are coming from, Borislav, but let me tell you,” Anchova said, “we can do this all day and when the day is over, well, tomorrow is another day.” But the words went over Borislav’s head. His body had relaxed. He was unconscious.

  Chapter 25

  Sergeant Georgy had that pasty, dead flesh look when he fainted, which could be a worry. Afanasiy’s prisoners had died in the past, luck of the draw, but if Borislav were to leave this life before giving up his information it could leave Afanasiy with his balls in a sling. And he’d had enough of that after the Vorkuta fiasco. Knowing that Borislav was being illegally held and that he had the backing of his colonel, it didn’t take an Einstein to work out that he had to come through this unscathed. When he did come around, if he did, Afanasiy would go easy on him, bypass the rope block, and sit him in a chair. The soft touch wouldn’t make much difference now. The fear of further pain would be persuasion enough. Afanasiy had been on the job too long not to know when a prisoner was broken.

  He and Anchova left Borislav to sleep it off in the interrogation room and went to a bar for lunch. On their return, they found the prisoner curled up and groaning – Afanasiy took more than a little relief seeing he was still alive. Apart from worrying about the prisoner’s health, he was glad to escape Anchova’s constant griping about how the cold was biting into his ear. He should’ve been thinking how lucky he was. If Afanasiy hadn’t had the quick wit to pick up the earlobe in Vorkuta, he couldn’t have had it sewn back on. Then he really would’ve had something to cry about – nowhere to hang his glasses. A guttural laugh choked from his throat and Anchova gave him a withering glare, as if he had second guessed what he’d been thinking. Afanasiy cleared his throat.

  They tied Borislav to a chair and Anchova sat opposite him while Afanasiy sat on the edge of the bunk and pulled out a pack of Black Russian. He tapped one out for Anchova and lit up another for himself. Stupid glasses, he thought as small clouds of grey smoke drifted under the frames and stung his eyes. Borislav swayed in his chair like a drunk and if it hadn’t been for the ropes, he would’ve fell to the floor for sure.

  Afanasiy lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure he isn’t playing for time. Use the smelling salts.”

  Anchova floated the ammonia under Borislav’s nose and he almost jumped back to life. He coughed a phlegm-filled cough and shivered as if in shock.

  “At last … So, now you’ve had a small taste of what could be ahead for you I’ll hold back my persuasion, trusting you will talk.”

  Borislav’s eyes were inflamed from his relentless
crying. “You have no right …”

  Sergeant Afanasiy was impressed that the man still showed a little spirit, a surprise indeed. He drew on his cigarette, pursed his lips, exhaled a thin blue line, leant over and stubbed the butt out on Borislav’s arm. Borislav yelped as red embers sparked from his flesh, some falling to the floor, others burning out alongside the black ash on his skin where a bubble had already begun swelling.

  “Then get your rights back. Tell us what you know.”

  Tearfully, he gave an exhausted sigh and hung his head. “What is it you think I can tell you?”

  The people Afanasiy interrogated always played the game in the same way – but why? They must’ve known they would break in the long run, so why endure the pain first? Not a trait he suffered from, which was why he had been quick to give answers when the Kornfeld lookalike had questioned him in Vorkuta.

  “Let’s start with the drugs. How is the operation set up and in which Russian districts do you supply?”

  “What? Russia? No, no, not Russia,” he said.

  The denial was a point at which Afanasiy should have inflicted more pain. But Borislav had a look of surprise. Anchova lifted his butt from the chair, but Afanasiy put a hand on his arm to restrain him. “Let’s do it another way,” he said. “I don’t ask questions, you just tell me about your end in the drug trade. Oh, and what drugs is it we’re talking about?”

  Borislav’s shoulders slumped and he winced at the pain the movement caused. “Heroin … and it isn’t for distribution in Russia. I believe it’s shipped to the West.”

  Afanasiy sat back and pondered. This scam could be bigger than he had first envisaged. If he got enough info from Borislav it could be meaningful to his career. “Shipped from where?” he asked.

  “Turkey.”

  Borislav wasn’t about to voluntarily tell his life story, so Afanasiy tried thinking ahead. “Who handles it and from where does it originate?”

  “The Turks handle the operation. I don’t know where the drugs come from, only that a Hasidic Jew skippers the Gulet from somewhere east.”

  A Hasidic Jew skippering a Turkish schooner. Afanasiy smirked. That was so unlikely it had to be true. “How do these Turks pay you?”

  “They don’t. And I don’t really know anything about the Turkish side of things, I swear.”

  “Then who pays you?”

  The room went silent; Borislav looked down. Afanasiy decided to let it go for the moment. “Very well, I assume you have something to do with payment for the drugs.”

  “Yes, I take care of that side of things. In fact, that is my main part in it.”

  The interview continued, slowly and painfully. Nightfall painted the window black, but Afanasiy had the bit between his teeth. He couldn’t leave it now. “Why were you chosen for the task?”

  Borislav was ever weakening and his head kept nodding forward. He was losing concentration. Afanasiy suddenly realized the prisoner hadn’t eaten since the previous evening.

  “Answer this one question,” he said, “and I’ll let you sleep, eat, wash … and I’ll have a medic look at your shoulder.”

  Borislav lifted his head and looked at Afanasiy with gratitude.

  “Why were you chosen for the task?”

  “I was recruited because of my position at the plant.”

  Afanasiy wanted to press, but the prisoner was on a heading for delirium. “Okay, tomorrow we finish up. But remember, Borislav, if sleep gives you a renewed courage and you decide to get tough, so will we.”

  But Afanasiy knew he was already finished. It was safe to wait.

  *

  Early morning, the air had its teeth in, and as the Smersh men walked from their accommodation to Tula’s KGB headquarters, Anchova complained of how it was biting into his ear. Afanasiy agreed to whatever he said with a nod, but he’d just about had enough of his partner’s whining. His ears blocked out all noise, and he let himself focus on the interview ahead. Inside the interrogation room, sunrays pierced the window, splintering across the open space, and capturing dust motes in beams of fuzzy light. Heat magnified through Afanasiy’s glasses and burned on the high points on his cheeks. Anchova could moan all he wanted, but it was a bright and beautiful day, and all was going well.

  As requested, Sergeant Georgy had already been brought from his cell. The medics had reset his shoulder and he was fully dressed. Sitting with one shoulder drooping like a wounded bird, his eyes didn’t lift from the table top. Afanasiy almost felt sorry for him; he knew what it was to feel such depression.

  “Good morning, Borislav. You had a good night’s sleep I trust?” The question rasped from Afanasiy’s throat. Deeper than normal, it even surprised him.

  Borislav grunted a response.

  “Okay, to pick up where we left off, you were recruited because of your position at the plant. What significance to the operation has your job got?”

  Borislav gave him a puzzled look. “You had no idea of what was going on before you began torturing me, did you?”

  Anchova fielded the question with quiet repose. “That has no relevance now, Borislav. Answer the question. What is it that makes your job significant?”

  He let out a heavy sigh. “I use two of my drivers and a truck from the cartridge plant to take the payment to Turkey. My papers give me authority to travel freely. I oversee the operation to make sure the drug swap takes place without problem and then I come back to Russia with Anton.”

  The questions queued up in Afanasiy’s head. He hardly knew where to start. “Who is Anton?” seemed the obvious place.

  “He watches out for me.”

  “A bodyguard. Okay, so Anton comes back with you?”

  “Yes, but I left him looking after a Russian prisoner we had taken. Both Anton and the prisoner seem to have gone missing.”

  “Russian prisoner? What Russian prisoner?” Afanasiy was hooked.

  “I don’t know. A woman … Anna. I don’t remember her second name. A Turk who goes under the name of Batur tipped us off that she was coming to Turkish soil. We ambushed her after she left the airport.”

  “Why? Did she have something to do with the drug trade?”

  “I don’t know why. When I found out about her, I informed my superiors and they wanted her questioned and disposed of. I think she had something to do with those two men on the run here in Russia – at Vorkuta. My people seemed to think she knew them and they wanted their identities. They also wanted the full background of those she was meeting in Turkey. And they thought she might know who the Chechen rebels were from the Gulag.”

  Afanasiy’s skin tingled. “Did you find out who any of these men were?” he asked eagerly.

  “No.”

  Leave it for now, he thought. “Very well, but you say the woman and your bodyguard went missing. What happened?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t have time to check it out. I had to get back, so I left the problem with Kudret.”

  “Kudret?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Kudret; he’s a policeman in Marmaris. He’s currently in charge of the drug trade. There have been a lot of changes in the Turkish operation lately. He came out on top.”

  Anchova scribbled notes like there was no tomorrow and excitement tingled over Afanasiy with each new revelation. He continued, “Okay, so I’m guessing you’re paying for the drugs with ammunition from the cartridge plant?”

  “Not ammunition, no. I transport Semtex plastic explosive. Don’t ask me how it ends up at the cartridge plant. I don’t know. I only deal with the paperwork, use it, and then bury it in the system.”

  “What about the route? How do you get back and forth to a non-Soviet country without suspicion?”

  “I told you; my papers give me authority to travel anywhere on Russian soil and I have similar powers for my truck and its drivers. The Turks I deal with make sure the authorities in Turkey never ask questions. As for how I get there, we drive to Odessa in the truck, take a cargo ferry to the Crimea where I take care of official
business then I separate from my drivers. I catch a pedestrian ferry to Istanbul and the truck takes a cargo ferry. Anton is always waiting for me on the ferry. I have a car at my disposal in Istanbul and Anton drives me to the railway station. I pick up another car near Icmeler and we meet up with the truck a bit later.”

  “Obviously the truck drivers are making the deliveries, but are they actually on your payroll?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is all done legally?” Afanasiy couldn’t believe security could be so easily sidelined.

  “Yes, part of my normal job is picking up and delivering materials for the plant. My remit covers invoice and supply, so everything is above board as far afield as the Crimea. This is why I go separately to Anton, so I can do the legal business before going on to Turkey. I often do the same on the way back.”

  Afanasiy took a minute to take in the overflow of information before carrying on. “You said you cover invoicing, but there’s more to the paperwork than invoices. Do you cover everything?”

  “Well, yes … no, not alone. Another sergeant at the factory helps. Between us the activity is covered from receipt of Semtex through to delivery. When I leave the Tula plant the paperwork describes a half load of ammunition and a half load of Semtex, but by the time we get to the Crimea it only mentions the cartridges. The ammunition I take is usually specialized stuff to justify using one lorry. My drivers do the unloading and up to now no one has questioned us about a delivery.”

  “The Semtex; you’re talking high quantities?”

  “Yes, as I said, up to a half a truckload at any one time.”

  “Truckloads of Semtex being ordered and delivered to the Tula cartridge factory for your use would take a much higher sign off than a couple of sergeants. Who are you working for?”