Stuart Kaminsky - People Who Walk In Darkness

That was not exactly the truth. The Yak’s plan was far more bold. He had prepared for it over the past four years, gathering information about the failures of the Division of Murder and the weaknesses of General Frankovich. The Yak had his own plan to take over the Division of Murder, employing concise reports of failure and private documents that might uncharitably but accurately be labeled blackmail.

“Frankovich has his own loyal staff,” the Yak continued. “It is unlikely he would retain the personnel now working in this Office. You and your detectives would be reassigned, as would I. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. You have provided for me in the past, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. It is vital that you do so once more.”

The Yak had delivered what the Americans called “a pep talk.” It lacked the emotion one might expect at halftime from the coach of the Dynamo Soccer Team. The Yak may have felt emotion, but he was incapable of conveying it. Besides, Rostnikov didn’t need a pep talk.

While he did not know what the Yak’s plan was this time, he knew it was more than simple survival. One did not survive in Russia at the Yak’s level, particularly in the police hierarchy, just by protecting one’s rear. One had to tear a painful, bloody chunk out of the rear of the enemy as well.

While he did not welcome the prospect of losing his job, Porfiry Petrovich did not mind having a deadline, a clock ticking over his shoulder. He knew he had a tendency to sit back and listen rather than advance. He was a man of great curiosity. He was not in the least ambitious, which was one of the reasons Yaklovev trusted him, or came as close to trusting him as the Yak was capable of.

“That’s all,” said the Yak.

He was rubbing the thumb and a finger of each hand together as if he were about to count a stack of money. The movement was small. It didn’t escape Rostnikov.

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov rose with difficulty, tucked the three file folders under his arm, and looked at the Yak. Their eyes met. There was a warning in the eyes of the man behind the desk under the photograph of Vladimir Putin. Rostnikov was to ask no more questions.

When Rostnikov had moved slowly across the room and out the door, Yaklovev removed from his desk drawer a more detailed copy of the reports he had given his Chief Inspector.

There were many things in the reports he had not mentioned, though he had included the tale of the ghost girl. It was part of the peasant fabric of lore that built up around every small town and most of the large ones throughout Russia. Russians could be ignorant and superstitious. It was one of the many weaknesses in the national psyche that a careful, ambitious man could exploit.

“I am of mixed minds about what I want you to do. Are you listening? You don’t look as if you are listening.”

The lean black man didn’t answer and didn’t look at Vladimir Kolokov. He stared straight ahead to the single dirty window in the concrete basement.

Kolokov was a man of average size and build, neither thin, nor fat, nor athletic. His hair was a mop of brown-yellow, his face a forty-three-year-old mask of indifference.

Kolokov was smoking an American cigarette. He had offered one to George Umbaway. George had refused.

Two of the other three Russians in the room were also smoking. The two lounged against the wall where George, were he to turn his eyes but slightly, would be looking directly at them. There was nothing of interest about the two men except that they might be called upon to kill George and his companions in another room. It was the fourth man who did frighten George. The man, Pau Montez, was the youngest of the quartet. He was lean and muscular, his neck thick. His head was shaved and he wore a permanent smile. Pau’s grandfather had fled Spain for a welcoming Russia when the Loyalists were defeated. Though desperately in need of volunteers, they had been happy to see the sadistic young man depart. This newest member of the Montez family seemed to have inherited that homicidal streak.

“You cannot stop your heart from beating,” said Kolokov, reaching down to place his right hand on George Umbaway’s chest. “It is a lie detector.”

Kolokov turned his head slightly to the right as if listening in the air for a heartbeat. Smoke curled into Kolokov’s eyes. He squinted.

“Remarkable. You might have a heart attack before I can get your answer. What is your answer, by the way? You’ve forgotten my question. Who supplies you with the diamonds, and when and where are you getting another delivery?”

George willed his heart to slow down. He was sweating even though it was cold in the room. He thought about his wife, Marie-Marie, and his children. For no reason he wondered, not for the first time, why his wife’s left arm had been refusing to function. She would need to be sent to England for evaluation and possible surgery. George trusted neither white nor black doctors in South Africa or Namibia or Botswana.

“What do I do with a man like this?” Vladimir said with exasperation, looking at the Spaniard for an answer he was certain he would not receive.

The Spaniard smiled.

“Alek, Bogdan?”

The two men in the corner stopped talking when they were addressed. The younger of the two, Alek, looked at the older for an answer and got none.

Kolokov shook his head.

“Then I will have to rely on my own resources. I want the information you have, the answers to my questions, but I am of two minds. I also want to torture you. I want to see the extent to which a man, or woman, will undergo agony before they are broken. I must admit that I’ve never had the opportunity to torture a black man before. I understand that black people have a very low level of tolerance for. .”

“Just do it, Vlady,” Bogdan called out.

Kolokov spun around and flung his cigarette toward the man. Bogdan held up a protective arm and the perfectly flung missile bounced to the floor. Kolokov pointed a finger at the man and said, “Do not tell me what to do, ever. Suggest. Do not tell me.”

“But you. .,” Alek began and changed his mind.

The Spaniard was smiling more broadly, enjoying the exchange.

“You have made up my mind, African,” said Kolokov, fishing a fresh cigarette from his shirt pocket and lighting it as he moved to a table against the wall where George could see something white next to a cardboard box.

Kolokov’s voice had risen.

Now George could see what was on the table and became truly afraid.

Kolokov turned back to George, adjusted the sleeves of his white surgical jacket, and said, “I wear this to keep the blood from my clothes, my body. And also, between us, it makes me feel like a doctor or a scientist doing important research, which, in a way, I am. If I am ever caught, I can give them vivid reports on the effectiveness of each session. All right, George, here is what we are going to do. It was a method used on my father by the NKVD. He survived. You may. He didn’t have the option of giving information or confessing to anything. They just wanted to torture him. Maybe it was a slow day. Are you hungry?”

Now George turned his eyes to the man who was either mad or pretending to be to frighten him.

“We’re going to feed you. We are going to put a feeding tube down your nose. Wait, I’ll show you.”

Kolokov moved to the cardboard box on the table and pulled out a coil of plastic tubing.

“I think it’s too thick,” Kolokov said with a sigh. “But it will have to do. When it was done to my father, blood gushed from his nose, but they kept pushing until the cartilage cracked. He couldn’t scream, not with the pipe in his throat. And breathing was. . you can imagine. He remembered wheezing until the pipe was in his stomach. Then they. . am I boring you?”