Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

Gorobets? Gabrilov and the SVR? But how could they have known about the broadcast or where he and Iryna were? Because they knew. Kulyakov had come himself with the SBU team to the TV station because he knew they would be there. But how? It was almost as if there were another agent, an invisible player in the game. But how could that be?

He heard footsteps and the door unlock, and then a blinding light came on. It hurt his eyes and he had to squint to see. It was Kulyakov. This time he came with four big guards. They had learned to take him seriously, he thought with a tiny touch of satisfaction. The battle had been joined.

“So Kilbane aka Peter Reinert aka Scorpion. Ready for a little chat?” Kulyakov said.

Jesus, where’d he get “Scorpion”? he thought in panic. Then he remembered, Akhnetzov knew it. Possibly Boyko too. And Iryna. He’d told her that night in the apartment in Zaporozhye.

No, not Iryna, he told himself. He didn’t want to think they’d gotten it so soon from her or what they might have done to her to get it. Still, point for Kulyakov, he acknowledged. Good move and right out of the KUBARK playbook. Show the captive that you know more than he thinks you do and he’ll assume you know a lot more. The CIA, the SBU, the FSB, they all played by the same rules.

“Khuy tebee v rod?” Scorpion said. With my dick in your mouth? His teeth were chattering like castanets from the cold, and one of the guards snickered. Hold onto one thought, he told himself as they took him out of the cage. Only one. No matter what, he can’t afford to let you die. Straightening his arms and legs was agony, but Scorpion forgot about it when one of the guards smashed him in the small of the back with a rubber truncheon, straightening him up.

Two guards, one on each side, half dragged, half carried him down a long gray corridor lined with steel cell doors. The corridor smelled of urine and disinfectant. As soon as they heard footsteps, prisoners began catcalling from behind the locked doors. Calling out, “Skazhit im nichoho, brat!” Don’t tell them a thing, brother! And “Dopomozhit!” Help! And “Yob tvoiyu maty, mussor mudaky!” Fuck your mothers, cop bastards!

The guards hauled him into a large room with a mirror that he assumed was a two-way glass and strapped him into a heavy metal chair bolted to the door. He was able to see implements on a bench and electrical wiring before they strapped his head so he couldn’t move it. It’s coming, he told himself, trying to keep his heart rate down as the adrenaline started pumping. One of the guards attached electrodes to his genitals. Just the clamps alone were painful. He started breathing shallowly and forced himself to breathe more slowly.

Kulyakov came in along with a pudgy blondish man in a guard’s uniform, which he wore with the jacket open, a wrinkled shirt hanging out of his trousers. The man had a smile painted on his face like a doll’s. Scorpion wondered if he was a mental defective. He walked over to an electronic box connected to the electrodes. He touched it, almost caressed it, with his fingers, then licked his fingers with his tongue. Kulyakov sat in a chair facing Scorpion. Two of the guards left the room. The other two stayed behind Scorpion’s chair, ready to grab him if he tried anything.

“The guards have gone to get their guns. You can’t get out of this room. Not till I say so,” Kulyakov said.

Scorpion didn’t say anything.

“I’ve been looking forward to this.” Kulyakov allowed himself a small smile.

“I should’ve killed you in the Puppet Theatre,” Scorpion said.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted to question you first. Then Iryna needed help.” He tried to shrug, but was unable to move.

“One of your many mistakes,” Kulyakov said. “You know why you’re here?”

“An unpaid parking ticket?”

“Good.” Kulyakov nodded. “You’re going to make this fun.” He smiled and looked at the guards, who began to laugh. The blondish man grinned and made a strange “uh, uh, uh” sound, showing wide gaps in his teeth. “You’re going to be tried and convicted of the assassination of Yuriy Cherkesov and the members of his staff who were in the car when you blew it up. You and your fellow conspirator, Iryna Shevchenko.”

“If the verdict’s already been decided, why bother with a trial?” Scorpion said.

“Tribunal,” Kulyakov corrected. “By the SBU.”

“Of course. Less chance of anything resembling the truth sneaking in.”

“You see,” Kulyakov said, turning his head toward the unseen watchers behind the glass. “This is good. We have a dialogue.” He gestured at the blondish man. “We should try out the equipment. Not too much.”

There was the briefest electric hum before the pain hit Scorpion like a sledgehammer. His penis felt like it was pulverized and on fire. He gasped in the chair, jerking desperately against the straps. It seemed to go on a long time, getting worse by the second. When it stopped, despite the cold in the room, he was drenched in sweat.

“That was a low setting. We can make it a lot worse,” Kulyakov said.

Again, right out of the KUBARK manual, Scorpion thought. Create anticipation of greater pain by telling the subject how much worse you can make it. Begin the obscene intimacy between torturer and subject, where the subject comes to regard the torturer as his ally in a conspiracy to limit the pain.

“So? No clever retort? Are we done with that?” Kulyakov said, putting one leg over the other and leaning forward.

“How’d you find us?” Scorpion asked.

Kulyakov gestured at the blondish man and there was an instant hum of pain. Scorpion felt his back arching and the agony in his loins. A loud groan escaped him. At a sign from Kulyakov, the machine stopped. Scorpion slumped in the chair. He was soaked with sweat.

“You have it backward. I ask the questions,” Kulyakov said, glancing at the mirror to make sure his wit was appreciated. “Let’s talk about the assassination. Who ordered you to kill Cherkesov? The

“We both know I didn’t kill Cherkesov,” Scorpion said.

“We expected you to say that,” Kulyakov said, signaling to the blondish man.

This time the hum was louder and the pain much worse. He felt as if someone were stabbing his genitals with a red-hot knife. He screamed, the tears coming out of his eyes. Abruptly, the pain stopped and he became aware of the faint smell of burning flesh. His own.

“So let’s get this over with. For the record, who do you say killed Cherkesov?”

“Dimitri Shelayev killed Cherkesov,” Scorpion gasped. “I know it, you know it. By now, lots of people know it.”

“You have evidence?”

“You know I do. Shelayev’s confession. The video.”

“What video?”

“The one at the TV station.”

Kulyakov shook his head. “We searched thoroughly. There is no video.”

“People at the station saw it.”

“We questioned everyone at the station. They all deny it.”

“How can anyone deny seeing something you say doesn’t exist? How would you even know to ask for it?” Scorpion asked quietly.

Kulyakov reacted angrily. He reached over and slapped Scorpion hard in the face, then gestured to the blondish man. There was a louder hum and Scorpion screamed as the worst pain he had ever experienced radiated from his groin to his brain. He heard someone screaming and some part of him realized it was him. The pain seemed to go on and on, getting worse and worse. He doesn’t want you to die, he told himself. Sheikh Zaid. Be patient. The pain always ends. He needs a trial. He can’t afford to have you die. But the hum and the pain didn’t stop.

Now there was no more thought. Only pain. It went on and on. Stop it, stop it, please stop it, he said, not knowing if he said it out loud or in his head. Stop it. Please stop. For the love of God, stop.