Going Rogue, page 27
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘Fuck!’ whispered Buster.
46
The four men expertly extracted Tom and Buster from the car. Two of the gunmen covered them from a distance with their AK-47s while the others efficiently searched and handcuffed them.
They did not resist and did not struggle. Both men had completed protracted training in resistance to interrogation during their time in SRR; they knew that to fight at that point would only result in a bullet. Opportunities to escape may present themselves in due course but the priority was to avoid antagonising their captors and move into what was known as “grey-man mode”.
Oskar stood passively by, seemingly unaffected as he watched from a distance while Buster and Tom glared at him.
The leader of the quartet of gunmen was heavily built with short cropped hair and a pockmarked face which brooded with anger and hatred. Tom couldn’t help but notice the yellow-and-blue insignia on a patch on the man’s upper arm. The badge had a yellow background with Social Nationalist Assembly markings in vivid blue. It was impossible not to compare the emblem to a swastika. Tom’s understanding of Cyrillic was poor but even he recognised the words on the badge. “Azov.”
The man stood leafing through their passports looking them up and down with undisguised contempt.
‘Where is the Colonel?’ he said in Russian to Oskar. Tom understood the man but decided that his linguistic abilities would be better utilised covertly.
‘In the trunk,’ Oskar said, almost gabbling with fear.
The leader nodded at one of the other men who opened the boot, to reveal the bound and hooded McEwan.
‘Get him out,’ the leader said and one of the soldiers helped McEwan out, pulling his hood off his face. McEwan blinked as the light assaulted his eyes after the journey in pitch dark. His cable-ties were cut by the soldier and McEwan’s hands moved up and began rubbing his inflamed eyes furiously, blinking furiously. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said.
‘What about my fee?’ Oskar asked, his voice trembling.
The leader sighed and shook his head just slightly before nodding at the soldier closest to the fixer. The man strode up to Oskar and swung the butt of his AK-47, which collided with brutal force into his temple. He dropped like a stone to the tarmac.
‘That’s how we treat traitors, men,’ the leader said to the other soldiers. He then repeated this in English to Buster and Tom. ‘You may wish to see this, gentlemen, so you can be sure how committed we are to our cause. We know that Oskar was a bastard traitor who has been selling our secrets.’
The soldier let his AK-47 fall on his sling as he approached the unconscious Oskar, pulling a wicked-looking bayonet from a scabbard at his waist. Straddling the prone Oskar, he pulled the man’s head back from the floor by his hair, exposing his neck. Without a moment’s hesitation he drew the bayonet across Oskar’s neck, cutting deeply into the windpipe, almost to the spine. Blood spurted and flowed, and Oskar bucked and thrashed as the life literally pumped out of him whilst everyone watched grimly.
McEwan watched the gory scene, horror etched across his fine features.
The big man turned to the man who had just butchered Oskar and said in Russian, ‘Take the Colonel to Mr Zelenko’s hotel in this Mercedes and see he is taken care of. Quick now, we must leave this place soon.’
The soldier opened the passenger door and McEwan thankfully climbed inside, casting one last horrified look at the mutilated corpse that lay in a pool of congealing blood. He still had not even glanced at Tom or Buster, which was something at least. The last thing Tom needed was to be recognised by him.
The leader turned to Tom and Buster and said in perfect, only lightly accented, English, ‘Gentlemen, my name is Captain Kushnir from the Azov Battalion. You will accompany us back to the dacha. My employer has questions for you. If you resist, struggle, or cause us any problems then you will be killed. Do you understand?’
Both men nodded in response, avoiding eye contact.
A giant black Ford S150 SUV rumbled into the car park from the main road, drawing to a halt right by the leader. Filthy grain sacks were pulled over Tom and Buster’s heads, before they were shoved into the rearmost seats of the F150, still handcuffed.
Kushnir’s voice rang out in the gloom. ‘Gentlemen, you can now see how ruthless we are and what will happen to you if you do not cooperate.’
*
After a short drive, they were escorted into a building, still hooded and their hands still secured. They felt themselves being taken down some concrete stairs and into a cold, echoey room. Their hoods were pulled off leaving them both blinking in the dim light at a small room about the same size as a typical police cell. The walls were bare and rough, and the floor was poured concrete. The door was made of heavy solid wood and a set of empty wine racks lined the wall to their left. Kushnir stood and watched whilst another soldier covered them with his AK-47.
‘Turn around and face the wall,’ he commanded. Both complied.
‘If you try anything, or I even suspect you are trying something, you will be shot immediately. I am going to release your handcuffs and secure them to the wall. Do you understand?’
Both men nodded, their eyes facing the floor, completely submissive. Two stout metal loops were embedded in the concrete on the wall about six feet up from the floor and a thick chain hung limply down from each, about eighteen inches long. Tom felt one of his cuffs being released and he dropped his hand down to his waist, unthreateningly.
‘Remove your jacket and trousers and boots.’
Tom complied, leaving him in a thin t-shirt and boxer shorts only.
‘Extend your hand with the handcuff still on and secure it to the end of the chain, and don’t try anything stupid,’ barked Kushnir, his voice flat and compelling.
Tom complied, lifting his left wrist, still with the cuff applied, and snapped the open cuff onto the end of the chain.
‘You the same,’ Kushnir growled at Buster, who also complied, first removing his jacket and trousers and then snapping the cuff into place on the end of the next chain that was secured to the wall. They were now both effectively secured with cuffs to an unbreakable chain secured to a concreted iron loop.
The guard kicked their clothing and boots into a pile at the far end of the room.
The door swung and slammed shut heavily and keys rattled in the door and they were plunged into darkness, once more.
‘Well, this is nice,’ Buster said.
‘Isn’t it? Bit chilly though,’ Tom said with exaggerated sarcasm.
‘Why haven’t they kicked the shit out of us yet?’ Buster asked, puzzlement in his voice.
‘I have a nasty feeling that it is below their pay grade. They are uniformed and deferential to the boss-man. I suspect they’ve been told to bring us unharmed, which is good for now, but I wouldn’t get too hopeful. He said that his employer wanted to speak to us and I suspect that he will be less friendly.’ Tom’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘So, what are we going to say? We can’t tell them we’re rogue cops trying to get him back to Blighty.’
‘No. Just say we are private contractors for a rich person whose kid was killed in the bombs. We are being paid to get him out of Ukraine. Keep it simple, right?’
‘Right, have you noticed the door?’
‘Not really. It looks strong.’ Tom looked at the door, light seeping through the cracks and, tellingly, through the keyhole.
‘The door is, and the lock is big and bulky but it’s a tin-shit one-lever mortice lock. If we can get to it, I could pick it in a second with a couple of pieces of stiff wire,’ Buster whispered.
‘Nice to know. But we are both handcuffed to a chain, fixed to a reinforced concrete wall, and can’t reach anything.’
‘I could pick these cuffs easy as if I had the key with some wire as well.’
‘That’s brilliant. You are awesome, Buster. Do you have any wire?’
‘Not at the moment.’
A shadow fell over the door, obscuring the light seeping in from the cracks. Keys rattled and the door swung inwards. The first thing they saw was the barrel of an AK-47 pointed directly at them, held by one of the soldiers. One of the others entered the room, also with an AK-47 that he pointed at them. He circled in the cell to move to a covering position by the empty racks. The ex-Spetsnaz housekeeper that they had disabled earlier strode into the room, fury written all over his rough face. He stood square to them in the middle of the room, staring at them. His jaw was set firm and there was a hard look in his eyes. He turned to Kushnir, who had also entered the room.
‘This is them. They knocked me out then tied me to the stairs,’ he said in Russian.
Turning back to Tom and Buster a nasty smile crept over his face as he resettled his spectacles on his nose. ‘I am now just a humble housekeeper and cook, but in Spetsnaz I used to be a very skilled interrogator,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘My employer will be here soon and I will be delighted to help him in ensuring you tell the truth.’ He looked again at Kushnir and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Kushnir gave the briefest of nods. ‘Just once,’ he said quietly in Russian.
The housekeeper stepped forward and delivered a hard punch that caught Tom square in the mouth, sending him reeling back, his head striking the wall. Blood flowed from his lip as his teeth cut into the soft flesh. He sagged a little as if the impact of his head against the wall had concussed him.
‘Ha! This is just the start, you British pig. Soon you will regret coming here.’ He stepped forward, his fist raised.
‘Nyet!’ shouted Kushnir, and the housekeeper stopped in his tracks.
‘Later,’ he said, spitting on the floor and turning on his heels to leave the room.
Tom spat a mix of drool and blood on the floor and sagged again once more, lurching forward as if dazed.
All the other men turned and marched out of the room. The keys jangled in the lock and all was silent once again.
‘You okay buddy?’ Buster whispered in the gloom.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Hamming it up a bit, mate. Got a good punch on him for an old boy, though.’
‘He seems pissed off at us,’ Buster chuckled.
‘Probably because he got duffed up doing his job; he’ll be in the shit with the boss. We need to keep away from him.’
‘Like we have a choice?’
From outside the door they heard the sound of a vehicle arriving, followed by a distant hum of conversation. Tom strained to hear the chatter but could not make it out.
‘Sounds like the boss-man might be here, if what the touchy housekeeper was saying is true,’ Tom said.
‘Excellent. Can’t wait to meet him,’ Buster replied.
‘We should try and get comfortable; no idea of telling how long we will be here,’ Tom said.
It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The chain was a little too high for them to sit comfortably and, if they did, the shackled arm was stretched high to the chain meaning that their arms soon became sore. In the end they satisfied themselves simply leaning against the wall as best they could.
‘This feels like a stress position, mate,’ Buster said with discomfort etched across his face. ‘It’s sore whichever way you try it. You’d think they’d have supplied chairs.’
Despite the desperate nature of their predicament, Tom couldn’t help but snort, just slightly, with amusement.
‘Genuinely, Borat. This isn’t funny. Not even a little bit,’ Buster said, although Tom could hear grim amusement in his voice.
‘It’s the one of the four qualities of a commando, Buster. You paratroopers wouldn’t know about that. Courage, determination, unselfishness and cheerfulness in the face of adversity. No point moaning, is there?’
‘Well I love a good moan, so shut up with the bootneck bollocks,’ Buster retorted.
Both men giggled, just slightly, despite their situation.
Their banter was silenced by the jangling of the keys in the lock. The heavy door swung inwards, once again flooding the room with light.
Kushnir strode into the room, bristling with aggression and intent, his shoulders squared and chest puffed outwards. He was joined by a brutish, muscled man wearing a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. His Slavic features were heavy and he wore a deep frown, radiating malice and cruelty.
‘My name is Igor, I am Mr Zelenko’s head of security. He has questions he wants answering from you. Why are you here?’ He spoke in heavily accented English but his voice was surprisingly high-pitched.
Silence hung in the room for a good ten seconds, only broken when Buster let a slight snort of amusement escape his throat. This seemed to enrage the man.
‘You think this is joke? You know not who we are? We could kill you both and not care,’ he shouted in fury, stepping forward to deliver a vicious backhand slap that connected with Buster’s cheek with a crack, rocking his head to the side.
Another guard entered the room with a pistol held in both hands pointing directly at Tom.
‘Piotr!’ shouted Kushnir.
The housekeeper entered the room with a nasty gleam in his eye, worryingly carrying low by his waist a long-nosed pair of pliers.
Kushnir looked at Tom and said, ‘If you move one centimetre, my associate will put a bullet in your knee. After that he will put a bullet in your friend’s balls.’
‘Gentlemen, it seems we will need to convince you that we are serious,’ said Igor. ‘Piotr, here, is very distressed about your earlier actions and he would like to make it clear how serious we are.’
Kushnir leapt forward and grabbed Buster by his untethered arm, yanking him forward until the chain was rigid. He wrapped his arm around Buster’s, tucking it tight into his body with his armpit. His strength was phenomenal and, coupled with the shackle, Buster was unable to move.
Igor spoke once more in an icily calm voice. ‘If you resist, we will remove your thumb. Extend your fingers. Now!’
Piotr stepped forward and grabbed Buster’s clenched fist, opened the pliers, and bit the tool’s blades either side of the thumb joint.
‘My friend, I will happily remove your thumb. It will please me a great deal. But my instructions are to just remove a fingernail at this stage,’ Igor said in a sadistically amused tone.
‘Buster. Do it, mate. Open your hand,’ Tom said in a calm, even voice, knowing that he was powerless to stop what was about to happen. A combination of the shackle and the pistol made any intervention impossible.
Buster screamed in frustration then splayed his fingers wide open, resigned to his fate. Piotr moved the plier blades from his thumb joint and, grasping Buster’s pinkie, applied the pliers tight to the nail and pulled violently.
Buster let out an animal scream, a mixture of pain and rage as his fingernail was ripped out and dropped to the floor. Piotr cackled in sick amusement as Kushnir released Buster and stepped back out of range.
‘I hope you now know that we are not playing games. We will return soon, and you will answer all of our questions or Piotr, here, will have his fun,’ Igor said as he turned and marched out of the room, followed by the guard and Kushnir.
Piotr lingered for a moment, eyeing both men with a maniacal stare. ‘Please don’t answer the questions, gentlemen. I would far rather have my fun.’ He let out a disturbing giggle, turned and then left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘He seems nice,’ said Buster, despite the severe pain in his hand.
‘Seems like you are getting the commando spirit, mate. I’m sorry, I couldn’t do anything. Are you okay?’
‘Never better, Borat,’ he said bitterly. ‘Never better.’
Tom knew that they were using typical interrogation techniques against them. The shock of capture followed by incarceration and then initial episodes of escalating violence to make it clear who was in charge. They were already being held in stress positions designed to sap their will and Tom was confident that they would now be subjected to sleep deprivation before further interrogations would begin.
One thing was clear. The longer their ordeal went on, the worse their physical condition would become and the less likely that they would be capable of attempting escape. They needed some luck, but Tom just couldn’t see where it was going to come from.
47
After several hours in the small, claustrophobic room it grew dark outside, the temperature dropping with the sun. Both men began to shiver a little.
‘We need to do something if the opportunity arises,’ said Tom. ‘The colder it gets and the weaker we get without food and water the less use we will be.’
‘I agree. It’s getting really fucking cold and I’m bursting for a piss.’
‘Well aim it away from me. Can’t you tie a knot in it?’
‘Not with only one hand, it’s that big.’
‘Not in this cold it won’t be,’ Tom chuckled. Despite their grave situation the humour was still there.
The steps that they heard outside the door halted any further banter as the door swung open, throwing a shaft of electric light into the room. Harsh strip lights erupted overhead as Piotr walked into the room, a nasty smile on his rough face. He was carrying a length of knotted rope that he tapped menacingly against his thigh.
He wore grey tracksuit pants and a tight-fitting sleeveless grey muscle vest that displayed a number of crudely worked tattoos on his arms and shoulders. He had a belt around his waist with a pistol in a holster. He seemed to be dressed for a workout, which was something of a concern.
He smiled as he stood in the centre of the room swinging the rope in a semi-circle while he contemplated Tom and Buster. Lifting his index finger to reset his spectacles on his nose he smiled nastily.
‘My associates have decided to go to eat leaving just me and one guard upstairs with nothing to do to pass the time. We have no women here and very little alcohol, so I think that to pass the time I should give you both a taste of what is to come. My employer is concerned as to how you came to learn that Colonel McEwan was staying here. He worries that he may have a leak in his organisation, and that will not do.’ He spoke softly in what was almost a growl that then turned into a throaty chuckle.
