Syndicate thugs, that's all, nothing to be overly alarmed about, Golitsin told himself.
And they had made a mistake, a big one. They were nothing more than common, everyday kidnappers who threw out a random net and stupidly dragged in the meanest shark in town. Oh yes, this was a real boner, one they would deeply regret, and he decided to inform them of this right away. He worked up his most scary sneer. "Do you punks know who you're messing with?"
"Punks," one of them answered. Whack! — Golitsin's head bounced to the side. A spray of blood shot out his nose.
"Don't you dare strike me again. You-"
Whack, whack, whack.
"All right, all right. Enough," Golitsin insisted.
Whack, whack.
"Please… I… I said that's enough."
One of them pulled over another wooden chair, reversed it, then eased into it. Their faces were three feet apart. He looked about fifty, older than the others, and carried himself like he was in charge. A hard, weathered face. Dark, piercing eyes. "Listen up, Sergei. This can be hard or it can be easy. Understand?"
The punk had called him Sergei. He knew his name! It wasn't a random kidnapping after all. Golitsin even, very briefly, entertained the notion of reminding this scum of his proper title: General. But maybe flexing his muscles at this instant wasn't such a good idea. Maybe it was a terrible idea, in fact. That last whack had left him with a splitting headache.
"Can we talk?" Golitsin asked, trying his best to sound reasonable and unctuous.
"Sure, Sergei." He leaned closer. "But it works like this. I'll talk and you'll listen."
The other four men slapped their thighs and roared with laughter. This was funny? This wasn't the least bit humorous. These punks were just begging for it. "Can I at least have your name?"
The man in the chair, said, "For tonight, Vladimir. Let's not worry about what to call me tomorrow. First, you have to give us a reason to let you live that long, Sergei."
"There's no need for these threats. What do you want?"
"Let's start with the easy one. Where's the money?"
"What money?"
A long sigh. "Do we really have to go through this, Sergei?"
"I'm a simple retired officer with a family. I am struggling to survive off my pension. It's not much. Perhaps we can work something out."
From somewhere behind his head, whack, whack, whack.
"Enough! That's enough!" he wailed.
"The money, Sergei. Where's the money?"
"What money?"
"Two hundred and fifty million. The money you stole, where is it?"
How did he know the exact amount? Golitsin briefly wondered. Only a handful knew: Tatyana, Nicky, and of course, the victim knew, not that it mattered. He was rotting in prison, after all, counting the days until his return to Russia.
"Maybe," Golitsin suggested-he squeezed his neck down, hunching his shoulders, trying to avoid another whack-"maybe if you told me who you're working for we can work something out."
Whack-the ducked head and bunched shoulders were a wasted defense. It felt like six hands were slapping the back of his head. He heard his own voice whining and pleading for them to stop.
And eventually the slaps did subside. But Vladimir allowed him no time to recover his wits. "Pay attention, Sergei. This is invaluable advice. You've never been on this side of the torture rack, always the other side, watching and enjoying the show. Fifty years of screaming victims begging for quick deaths. Are you listening, Sergei? Do you understand?"
The voice was so very cold, so flat, so casually captivating; amazing how mesmerizing a voice becomes when it controls the pain.
How many times had Sergei heard that same droll pattern over the years as he watched one victim after another suffer and scream their guts out, until they eventually snapped, until they signed whatever was put before them, signed anything to make the pain stop-accusing their own mothers, sentencing their own children, confessing sins they never came within ten miles of committing. Oh yes, he definitely understood.
He slowly nodded.
"You know how bad this can get, don't you?"
Another nod-yes, yes, of course he remembered. Tears were now rolling down his fat cheeks.
"The pain is going to become intense, Sergei. I don't want you surprised by it. You're going to wish you were dead. You'll beg us to end it. We won't kill you, though. You can't feel the pain unless you're alive. Sorry, but we need you to feel everything."
"Wait!" Something was bothering him. All this talk about torture, and the name of this cruel man. There was a connection there, he was sure of it.
"Why wait? Do you want to tell me where the money is?"
"Vladimir? Yes, Vladimir. Like the Vladimir who worked for me, right?"
A quick shift of the eyes to the floor. "I have no idea who or what you're talking about."
Golitsin stretched as far forward as he could. "He a friend of yours? Is that what this is about? I am so sorry for what happened to poor Vladimir. He killed himself, you know. Suicide. How tragic."
The interrogator jumped out of his chair. Turning to the other four men, he directed a finger at one and said, "Get the BP cuff and monitor his blood pressure. He's old and fat. We don't want him slipping away on us."
The man dashed off.
"Get the tools," he barked at another, who also disappeared into the darkness. To the other two, he said, "You look bored. Work on him while we wait."
They moved up and the slapping began again. No punches, everything open-handed, a relentless fusillade of girly slaps obviously meant to add shame to his pain. Golitsin wailed and screamed, all to no avail.
Vladimir walked to a corner of the large warehouse, yanked a cell phone out of a pocket, punched a number, then cradled it to his ear.
Golitsin was being slapped silly. His cheeks, the back of his head, occasionally his ears, which really stung. He howled and moaned, begging them to stop. Eventually, his chin sank to his chest. His head began lolling wildly with each smack.
He bit down hard on his tongue, choked back his screams, and played opossum for all he was worth. Just stop those infernal slaps, he prayed with all his might. And after a moment, the prayers were answered. They did stop. One yelled out, "Vladimir, he's out cold."
"Don't worry about it," Vladimir replied, sounding distracted, then returned to his phone conversation.
Golitsin fought to control his breathing and prayed they didn't catch on. He could overhear Vladimir speaking louder now, unconcerned about his ability to eavesdrop.
"No, don't worry. We've only gotten started." A long pause. "Look, I've done this before. I-" Another pause. "Nicky, you have my guarantee, he'll tell us everything. Everybody does. We start ripping off the body parts, and they all-" Pause, then a nasty laugh. "I know, I know, Nicky. Look, by the time he's got no fingers or toes, his kneecaps are pulp, he'll spill… Yeah, okay, you, too."
Vladimir flipped the phone shut and returned to the scene of torture. A scream was going off inside Golitsin's head. Nicky! That rotten son of a bitch. That lying, thieving, betraying bastard. These were his people, he realized, and he fought the urge not to scream and threaten these people, to unleash all the rage he could muster.
One of the boys returned a moment later with the BP monitor. He quickly slapped it around Golitsin's right arm and tightened it up. Then the other fellow reappeared lugging a large dark suitcase, which he set down on the floor.
"Open it. Get the tools ready," Vladimir told him.
Golitsin heard the locks snap open and the noise of the lid hitting the cement. He didn't want to look-he had no desire at all to see what terrible ghoulish instruments were inside that damned case-he tried to fight it, just squeeze his eyes shut, he told himself; ignore them and ignore it. But it couldn't be helped. The curiosity was just too irresistible; he had to know, had to see what they had in store for him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he cracked open his right eyelid, just a hair. A tiny, tiny sliver, and he peeked.