The Kremlin Phoenix (17 page)

They walked Craig into a room
furnished with several comfortable chairs and a standing lamp facing a sturdy
wooden chair with armrests. A row of small bottles and sterile packets
containing metal syringes were laid out neatly on a side table beside the
chair. A microphone and video camera stood on a metal stand aimed at the chair
ready to record every word.

Craig glanced apprehensively at
the row of syringes. “What are you going to do?”

“How long will it take?” Nogorev
asked, ignoring Craig’s question.

“It depends on his resistance,”
Dr. Tatska replied as he tore open a syringe packet and a bottle of clear
liquid. “I’ll start the dosage low and gradually build up the drug’s saturation
in his system. I have to be careful, too much can have unpleasant side effects.”

“We don’t have much time. Give
him as much as possible, without killing him,” Nogorev said sharply.

Dr Tatska raised his eyebrows. “He’s
not likely to die from an overdose, but it could cause permanent neurological
damage, making it impossible to get what you want out of him.”

They forced Craig into the high
backed wooden chair and tied his wrists and ankles to it as Dr Tatska prepared
the syringe.

“No!” Craig struggled vainly against
their grip.

“Hold him steady!” Dr Tatska
commanded.

Drushkev held Craig’s head as the
doctor slid the needle into his neck.

“Has the equipment I requested
arrived yet?” Nogorev asked when Dr Tatska withdrew the needle.

“It’s in the dining room with the
operator. I thought it best the operator not be involved in the questioning.” Once
they had obtained the banking information from Craig, the operator would transfer
it to a secret Party account.

In the minutes that followed,
Craig became drowsy, but didn’t fall asleep. His fears dissolved as a strange
sense of well being overwhelmed him.

When Craig’s pupils were dilated
and his skin had turned pallid, Dr Tatska gave Nogorev a satisfied look. “There’s
no adverse reaction to the drug. He’s all yours.”

Craig’s head rolled forward
weakly as Nogorev asked his first question.

* * * *

September 23, 1999

Colonel Jack Balard fought to
remain conscious. Major Tarkovskoi turned to a young soldier standing nearby.

“Give him some water.”

The soldier pulled Jack’s head
back and poured a little water into his mouth. He swallowed gratefully, then
blinked as he sluggishly opened his eyes again. Brilliant white lights were
aimed relentlessly at his face, and beyond the lights, a man sat at a table
operating an electrical control panel.

Tarkovskoi walked back toward the
wooden chair Jack was strapped to. It resembled an electric chair used to
execute murderers, but it’s wiring was far more subtle, designed to inflict
pain, not death. Jack was stripped naked so the electrodes could be taped
directly to his bare flesh. Thick leather straps secured his torso and arms to
the chair, while his legs were stretched far apart by metal leg clamps. Electrodes
were attached to his arms and legs for inflicting minor punishments. Another
electrode was attached to his scrotum, allowing the electrocution to be applied
to his testicles when he was particularly uncooperative. It was the threat of
this last torture that always achieved results.

Tarkovskoi waited until Jack’s
eyes focused. “Be sensible, Colonel. You have lasted longer than most men. We will
not stop until you tell us everything we want to know.”

Jack was weary, his strength
gone, his will broken. He hated himself for what was coming, but he’d reached
his limit. He could hold out no longer.

“We have captured two other
stealth pilots, after you were shot down.” It was a lie, only one stealth plane
had been shot down.

“Who?” Jack wheezed. If stealth
pilots had been shot down, he would know them.

 “Men from your own squadron. If
you cooperate, in time, you can meet them,” Tarkovskoi said, offering an
inducement he could never deliver on.

Jack didn’t reply.

“They’ve told us everything, days
ago. They were sensible. Now they’re well fed, they have medical treatment, and
they’ll soon be returned to their families. Be sensible. All we ask, is you
confirm what they have already told us.”

“What did they tell you?” he
croaked.

“Colonel, you know I can’t tell
you that. Information is only valuable to me if it is from independent sources.
If you tell me the truth, you will confirm they have told me the truth.”

The GRU Major gave him a pained
look. Tarkovskoi had said many times, he didn’t want to torture him. He was
forced to do it, because Jack refused to cooperate. It was his fault, and only he
could stop it.

“How can I help you Colonel, if
you won’t help me?” Tarkovskoi asked silkily. “Do you think I like frying your
nuts?” He nodded to the soldier at the control panel. Jack screamed as a three
second low voltage electrical charge shot through his testicles, pinching and
twisting. Jack’s body convulsed violently against the pain, but the straps held
him in place, digging deep into his flesh. When the electrocution stopped, he
sagged forward panting but the agony continued in his lower body for a long
time after. Tarkovskoi waited for the pain to do its work. He could see the
utter exhaustion in his prisoner’s face. It was an expression he’d seen many
times, just before a subject broke.

“If you do not wish to talk,
perhaps I should come back tomorrow. My associate will continue the treatments
while I am gone,” Tarkovskoi said menacingly.

Jack shook his head slowly. “No
more.”

Tarkovskoi lifted his hand,
ensuring the soldier at the control panel did not electrocute him again. “See
how easy it is to stop this unpleasantness?”

“All right!” Jack whispered
feebly.

“If you co-operate, you will
never feel that pain again.”

Jack felt a flow of relief
through every fiber of his being. He’d give up anything to be free of that
pain, all he had to do was talk. “What do you want to know?”

Tarkovskoi leaned forward. “Tell
me about . . . stealth technology.”

* * * *

Present Day

“Mr Corman, how do you do,” Louis
Rogers said. The Chief of Security at the Moscow Embassy was slightly shorter
and more personable than Corman, and wore a conservative pinstripe suit
designed not to attract attention when he stepped outside embassy grounds. He shook
hands as he ushered them into his office. “Good flight?”

“Fine, thanks,” Corman said. “This
is Detective Harriman, from the New York Police Department. He has no official security
clearance, however, he can identify the other side’s lead operative. Anything
he sees, goes through me first.”

Rogers nodded cordially. “Welcome.
First time in Russia?”

“No,” Corman said with a tone
indicating he didn’t want to discuss his earlier visits.

“Yes,” Harriman replied. “It’s
brighter and bleaker than I expected.”

“I know what you mean,” Rogers
said. “It’s a strange mix of Tsarist opulence, old Soviet dullness and nouveau
riche extravagance.” Rogers offered them seats, then slid into a comfortable
armchair opposite them. “Langley sent me a coded message this morning. It seems
some money has gone missing and a few nasty individuals have a US citizen whom
they’re . . . questioning.”

“Yes, a young man by the name of
Craig Balard,” Corman replied. “We need to find him fast, before they break
him.”

Rogers nodded. “I’ve got traces
out all over the city looking for him, but I have to tell you, if the Russian
intelligence service have him locked up, we won’t see him again – dead or
alive.”

“Can’t we complain to their
government?” Harriman asked.

“We could try, but this doesn’t
look like a regular Russian Intel op. None of our usual sources know anything
about it, and all the killing that’s gone on . . .” Rogers winced. “It’s just
too messy for our opposite numbers.”

“Indeed,” Corman agreed. “The
people behind this are bypassing the usual chain of command.”

“So who’s calling the shots?”

“We’re not sure,” Corman said,
“But it looks like one hand doesn’t know what the other is doing inside the
Kremlin.”

“Jesus!” Rogers said. “There are always
rumors about hard liners wanting to wind the clock back, but most of the time,
it’s just talk. You think this is the real deal?”

Corman shrugged. “Organized crime
virtually runs the economy, millions of people are in poverty and corruption is
out of control. Russia’s on a knife edge, and someone wants to push her off.
Our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I see,” Rogers said somberly. “Do
you have approval for a covert op?”

“I have approval for anything short
of thermo nuclear war.”

“We’ve got a good team here. What
did you have in mind?”

“Find Craig Balard before he
spills his guts,” Corman said. “Get him out, or get him dead.”

* * * *

Nogorev lightly slapped Craig’s face. “Wake
up!”

Craig’s eyelids half opened as his
head sagged limply forward.

“What’s the matter?” Dr Tatska
asked.

“The bank details he gave us are
wrong!” Nogorev announced furiously. “He lied!”

“I assure you, he cannot lie. His
mind is completely open to your questions.”

“Something is wrong! The information
he gave us is meaningless,” Nogorev declared, waving the sheet of paper they’d
written Craig’s account details on. “There’s no such account!”

Dr Tatska flashed Craig’s eyes
with a small pen light, testing his retinal response. “He may need another
injection.”

“Give it to him. All of it!”

Dr Tatska gave Craig a booster
shot, then waited while the drug went to work. “Mr Balard, can you hear me?”

“Hmm?”

“What is the number of your Swiss
bank account?”

Craig recited a series of
numbers, none of which agreed to those on the paper.

“Repeat the numbers.”

Craig recited another series of
numbers, different to the previous set.

“It’s unconscious substitution,”
Dr Tatska said. “The drug is forcing him to invent an answer he doesn’t know.
It’s the weakness of a serum this powerful. He would tell you the account
number, if he knew it, but he doesn’t.”

“He must know it!” Nogorev
exclaimed. “How else was he going to use the money?”

“Maybe he wasn’t going to use it.”
The doctor turned back to Craig. “Mr Balard, do you know the number of your
Swiss account?”

“No,” Craig slurred out the
words. “Don’t remember . . .”

Nogorev pushed Tatska aside. “Did
you write it down anywhere?”

“Huh?”

“Be specific,” Dr Tatska said.

“Did you write down your Swiss
account number?” Nogorev demanded.

Craig’s head bobbed uselessly
back and forth. “Yeah.”

“Where did you write it down?”

“In my . . . hotel.”

“Not where . . .” Nogorev shouted
in frustration. “What did you do with the number, once you wrote it down?”

Craig’s eyes blinked slowly,
unfocused. “Posted it.”

“To who?”

Craig had the strangest notion
that he shouldn’t tell the truth, but it was too distant a thought to have any
effect.

“Mom.”

Nogorev relaxed, surprised. “Your
mother has your Swiss bank account number?”

“Yeah. Sent it to her.”

Without another word, Nogorev
stormed out of the room. Dr Tatska turned to Craig, whose head hung forward limply,
certain his now unconscious patient had just sentenced his mother to death.

* * * *

Hal Woods tried unsuccessfully to
sleep on Joan Balard’s sofa. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket over
his shoulders, wincing as the strap from the gas mask he wore pinched his skin.
Sleeping with a gas mask on was a near impossible feat but he was determined to
put up a better fight than Powell’s guards had. He rubbed the sore spot on his
cheek as a scraping noise sounded from the front window. Woods lifted his head
slightly to look toward the sound, blinking himself awake. Two men in black clothes
stood outside the window, silhouetted by the street lights. One began cutting a
hole in the window with a diamond tipped glass cutter.

Woods slid silently onto the floor
and crept behind the sofa, while a click marked the extraction of a neatly cut circle
of glass from the window. One of the men reached in through the hole, released
the lock and quietly slid the window open. Both men wore bulky black masks and
carried short barreled, silenced automatic weapons. Thinking the room was
filled with gas, Woods pulled the gas mask’s strap tight, drew his thirty eight
police special and watched as the first man climbed in through the open window.