Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

‘What shall we do next, Professor Dolohov? Same fingers on the other hands? Or maybe…’

He smiled, as if a good idea had just struck him, then looked down at Dolohov’s crotch. Dolohov shook his head violently – even more violently than before. An odour drifted towards Sam’s nostrils. In a situation like this, guys would often piss or cack themselves. It smelled as though Dolohov, the pussy, had done both.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave that till last. After all, it’s only a small one isn’t it? Drink?’ He reached for the bottle, then yanked the tea towel from Dolohov’s mouth. This time Dolohov accepted the drink, a good mouthful of it. It didn’t stop his heavy breath from shaking and trembling, though. Not a bit of it. He whispered something in Russian, then addressed Sam.

‘You are an animal!’ he spat.

‘’Course I’m not,’ Sam replied calmly. ‘If I was an animal, I’d have started with your thumbs.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Have you got any idea how difficult it is trying to take your underpants off without any thumbs?’

Dolohov gave him a monstrous look.

‘But we’ll move on to the thumbs next,’ Sam continued, ‘unless I get what I want.’

‘Untie me.’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Dolohov. I want to know who you are and what you do. And believe me, my friend, if you say the word “university” again, this is going to be a long fucking night for you.’

‘ Ja russkii .’

Dolohov spoke first in his native language. His eyes were closed, perhaps because of the pain, perhaps because he was scared or perhaps in resignation, because telling the truth was a trial for him. He opened them, then reverted to English. ‘I am Russian.’

‘I’d got that far.’

The Russian pursed his lips with loathing. ‘If you know so much, then I will remain quiet.’

Sam just gave him a steady look. Dolohov couldn’t withstand it for long. His flabby face was pale and sweating.

‘I work for the Russian government.’

‘Spetsnaz?’ Sam was almost asking himself.

Dolohov sneered. ‘Do I look like a Spetsnaz dog?’ he demanded, before shaking his head. ‘ Federalvoi Sluzhbe Bezopasnosti . The FSB. My country’s security service.’ Every word he spoke sounded like an effort, as though he was forcing himself against his better judgement. ‘Though when I first came to London, it was known by a different name.’

‘Ah… the KGB.’

Dolohov looked meaningfully at the bottle of vodka. ‘I would like…’ he started to say.

‘Just keep talking, Dolohov.’

The Russian breathed deeply. ‘I am a professional,’ he whispered. ‘You are a professional too, I think.’

‘We’re not talking about me. Keep going.’ The smell of burnt flesh still hung in the air.

‘I receive orders from Moscow. There are people who need removing. Terrorists. My job is to remove them.’

He closed his eyes again and appeared to be trying to master the pain. A silence fell across the room. Sam slotted this new information into the jigsaw of his mind. The details of the red-light runners. The word DECEASED ominously printed above them. ‘You’re a hitman.’

Dolohov didn’t open his eyes. ‘And what are you?’ he replied. ‘A church warden?’

‘The last two hits you made,’ Sam demanded. ‘Tell me who they were?’

Only then did Dolohov open his eyes again. He moistened his dry lips with his tongue and, although his face was still racked with pain, Sam thought he noticed a glint in his eye. Enthusiasm? He couldn’t tell. ‘They are dead,’ he said.

Sam stood and picked up the shears. Dolohov shook his head violently. ‘Young men,’ he started gabbling. ‘My job is to make their deaths appear accidental. To stop anyone from investigating them further. The last hit was a car crash. I doctored the engine and made it happen when he was speeding on the motorway. Before that…’ His cheek twitched. ‘Before that, what your doctors call auto-erotic asphyxiation. I made it appear as if my target had…’

Dolohov continued to talk, but for a moment Sam lost his concentration. The words matched the information Clare had given him. He knew the Russian was telling the truth. ‘So you’re the guy that’s been bumping off the red-light runners,’ he said.

‘The what?’ Dolohov asked. He managed a half-smile. ‘That is what you call them? I call them fools.’

An image flashed through Sam’s brain. Kazakhstan. The training camp. The bullets pumping into the bodies of the slumbering kids. The photos of their corpses.

‘Talk to me,’ Sam demanded. ‘Everything you know.’

Dolohov’s face reverted to its look of hate. ‘You work for the British security services?’

‘I work for myself. Spit it out, Dolohov. Now.’

The Russian paused before speaking, almost as if gathering his thoughts. Sam listened in silence to the monologue that followed.

‘You call them red-light runners. Perhaps they call themselves red-light runners? I do not know why. The truth is that they are just foolish young men, targeted by the FSB. A very particular type of person. A type of person that would be attracted by a particular… A particular lifestyle . A type of person that enjoys danger. A type of person that is easily misled. As I have already told you: fools. They are approached – I do not know how or by whom – and told that they have been selected for a certain purpose: to work undercover for your MI5.’

‘Only they’re not working for Five at all,’ Sam interrupted thoughtfully. ‘They’re working for the Russians. But they don’t know it.’

Dolohov inclined his head. ‘They are taken to a training camp where they are given instruction. Surveillance techniques, the construction of improvised explosive devices, weapons training. When they are returned to this country, my government has a sleeping army. If one of them is caught, they do not know who they are really receiving their instructions from. They will always tell the same story – that they are working for MI5.’ He gave Sam a piercing look. ‘No matter how many of their fingers you cut off.’

‘None of this explains why you’ve been slotting them, Dolohov. You’d better start sounding convincing.’

A wave of pain passed across the Russian’s face again. He spoke with difficulty. ‘They are told to keep silent, to tell no one. It is…’ He searched once more for the correct words. ‘It is drummed into them . But to be silent is not in their nature. We know, sooner or later, that they will speak. They are weak and impulsive. They cannot help it. For a year, perhaps, they are able to keep their own counsel. But after that, they start to get sloppy. They are not professionals, like us.’ Sloppiness, Sam deduced, was something he could not abide. ‘That is when I am called in. They are given twelve months. In that time they may or may not have been useful to our cause, but they are eliminated anyway, then replaced by fresh recruits.’

‘Jesus,’ Sam whispered. The Russian’s casual disrespect for the lives of his victims impressed even him. What Dolohov was telling him had begun to fill in some of the gaps; but there were more questions springing into his mind. Some of them he wanted answers to. Others he wasn’t sure he did. Dolohov, though, was flagging. It was obvious. His body had taken punishment and his head was starting to droop. Even so, Sam wasn’t in the mood to mollycoddle him.

He reached for the bottle of vodka and held it to Dolohov’s lips. The Russian took a gulp, then winced slightly as the alcohol burned his throat. Sam stood then turned and faced the fireplace. A thick silence descended. He contemplated his next question.