Now it was Mikhail Shaporov’s turn to speak very fast. ‘We weren’t meant to hear it, but one of the chair people said, “Mind the same thing doesn’t happen to you,”’ and then he went on to translate the rest of it.
Powerscourt wondered how much longer Johnny Fitzgerald and the man from the Black Watch were going to be. He had no doubt that they had begun working on a rescue mission as soon as he and Mikhail had been taken away. He too looked with some suspicion at the whips in the corner. Whatever happened he had no intention of betraying the Tsar. He wondered how painful it might be.
‘Did you kill Martin? Here in this room?’ He spoke with as much hostility as he could muster.
‘Shut up about Martin!’ shouted Shatilov, half rising now out of his chair. ‘I want to know about the Tsar!’
‘Did you kill Martin?’ If Powerscourt had wanted to make the Russian Major angry he had certainly succeeded.
‘Shut up about Martin! For the last time, I want to know about your conversation with the Tsar!’
Powerscourt was certain the man was lying about Martin.
‘Did you kill Martin?’ Powerscourt shouted for the third time. Mikhail Shaporov raised his voice to the same pitch.
‘That’s it! That’s it! I’ve had it. Vladimir! Boris! Tie them up!’ Shatilov had turned bright red.
‘The full treatment, boss?’ one of the soldiers asked.
‘Not yet, tie them up first,’ said Shatilov, going over to the corner and picking up a whip.
‘Sorry about this, Mikhail,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be all right in the end,’ said the young man cheerfully.
By now the two men were tied securely to their chairs. Powerscourt found he could just about move his arms. If there was a deus out there somewhere, he said to himself, he wished he would hurry up and get out of his machina. Shatilov was pacing up and down behind the chairs, brandishing the whip in his left hand. Powerscourt felt there appeared to be a poverty of imagination in Russian torture methods, whips, whips and more whips.
‘Do you see this, Lord Powerscourt?’ Shatilov was showing him the leather thong. ‘In a moment, this is going to tear into the bare flesh of your back. After a while there won’t be any flesh left. All you have to do is to tell me the nature of your conversation with the Tsar and nothing will happen to you.’
‘Is this what you did to Martin? Whip him till he died?’
‘Cut his coat off!’ Shatilov was shouting to his assistants. Powerscourt felt his jacket being ripped away from his back.
‘You can keep your shirt on to start with, you bastard,’ yelled Shatilov, and the whip whistled through the air to bite deeply into Powerscourt’s back.
‘Tell me about your conversation with the Tsar,’ Shatilov shouted. ‘You’ve got ten seconds before I whip you again. After that your shirt comes off. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six -’
On the count of six there was a tremendous crash as Johnny Fitzgerald and the sergeant from the Black Watch rushed into the room, pistols in their right hands. They made straight for the two soldiers who had left their guns by the chairs in the centre of the room. But it was Ricky Crabbe who was the real revelation in the rescue party. Powerscourt was to say later that he had seen David as in David and Goliath reborn in a dingy house on the outskirts of the Tsar’s Village. He had bestowed about his person a number of large stones. The first of these, less than a second after Johnny had entered the room, he despatched with remarkable accuracy at the head of Major Shatilov. It took him right in the centre of his face and he collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his face, hands searching amidst the blood for what might remain of his nose.
‘Fantastic shot, Ricky!’ said Powerscourt as Johnny Fitzgerald released them from their ropes. ‘I am so glad to see you all! Now, let’s tie them up. I want to have a word or two with the Major here when he’s strapped to the chair.’
The Black Watch sergeant was expert at binding the prisoners in ways they would not be able to escape from. Shatilov was spitting blood down his uniform as he was locked in position. Powerscourt took a pistol from Shatilov’s pocket and pulled up a couple of chairs next to him.
‘Can you make this sound as bloodthirsty as you can, Mikhail? He’s got to believe that I mean it when I say I’m going to kill him.’
‘Of course,’ said Mikhail.
‘Now then, Major, let me just explain the rules now we’re in charge.’ Powerscourt laughed what he hoped was a bloodthirsty laugh. The Major seemed to find it difficult to talk. ‘All you have to do is to tell us what happened to Mr Martin. Then everything stops. Possibly including you. I haven’t decided on that yet. But what you need to understand is that there are a number of ways in which we could help you talk, and there are a number of us to do it. The sergeant,’ Powerscourt pointed to the six feet four inches of the man from the Black Watch, ‘is very keen to see what happens with one of your knouts on a bare back. Death perhaps by whip. Ricky, our expert marksman here, is anxious to see what happens when people are pelted with stones from different distances. Death maybe by stoning. A biblical death for you, Major. Johnny Fitzgerald is a great believer in the sticks or canes you keep in the corner of the room. Another death by beating. I, believe it or not, Major, believe in the pistol as the means of making you talk. I have made a rough count of the number of bullets available here for this particular gun and I have so far counted fifty-four. I am curious to see how many wounds the human body can sustain before it actually dies.’
There was a sort of gurgle from the chair. Ricky’s stone had certainly left its mark.
‘So,’ said Powerscourt, pointing his pistol absent-mindedly into the middle of Shatilov’s wounded face, ‘let us begin. Why don’t we start with the moment Mr Martin was brought here at about a quarter to ten in the evening. Why don’t you take it on from there, Major?’
There was another gurgle from the Major. Powerscourt turned the pistol to the ground and fired it six inches from Shatilov’s left foot. The noise was deafening. The two soldiers twitched in their ropes as if they thought they might be next.
‘Perhaps that might help your concentration.’ Mikhail was sounding very fierce as he translated the ferocious Powerscourt, the Powerscourt hungry for wounds and thirsty for blood.
There was another gurgle. Powerscourt now placed the barrel of the gun in the middle of Shatilov’s bloody mouth. He could feel the teeth rattling inside. ‘I don’t have to use all the fifty-four bullets, Major. I could kill you now, rather like, I suspect, you killed Mr Martin and took his body away. Now it’s my turn to count to ten. You’d better start talking before I get to ten, Major, or your mouth will disappear. Probably not quite enough to kill you as long as I avoid what passes for your brain. One, two, three . . .’
There was a lot of rustling about in the Shatilov chair. He was trying to shake his head.
‘Four, five, six . . .’
Shatilov’s hands were tied behind his back so he could not point. ‘I think he’s trying to ask you to take the gun out of his mouth, sir,’ said Mikhail.
Powerscourt peered closely at the Major. ‘Seven,’ he said. He withdrew his gun from Shatilov’s mouth. ‘Eight.’
‘It was all an accident,’ Shatilov began, the words slurred and heavy as if he were drunk, and Powerscourt thanked God he hadn’t had to reach ten. He wasn’t at all sure what he would have done.
‘I don’t want to know whether you think it was an accident or not, Major. I’m sure the scribes and Pharisees would have described Christ’s death on the cross as an accident, given half a chance. Just tell me when and how things happened.’
The Major looked at Powerscourt with pleading eyes. Please don’t kill me, they seemed to be saying. Powerscourt was remaining pitiless for the time being. His quest was nearly over.