The Collaborator

by Ian Kharitonov

  Gunshots blasted in quick succession.

  Prince stood unsteadily in the middle of the empty stage, aiming his pistol at Sokolov, arm swaying. Sokolov dived as bullets tore holes in the bartop behind him. He rolled along the floor, more shots firing, bottles exploding. Finally, Prince ran out of ammo. Getting back to his feet, Sokolov saw the silver-haired thug disappearing behind a door at the far corner of the lounge. Alik had also escaped.

  Fired up by adrenaline, Sokolov gave chase. The door concealed a stairway which led to the basement. Sokolov descended, finding himself in a murky corridor. Recessed LED downlights on the ceiling cast a faint red glow as the only illumination. Now devoid of customers, this was the club's darkroom where liaisons with the girls usually took place. Sokolov's sensitive hearing did not pick up any sound that gave away a human presence. Under his feet, the floor was slick with grime, but in the darkness he could hardly see what he was stepping on.

  Most likely a redecorated wine cellar, it resembled a cavernous dungeon. Along the stone walls, private cabins and doorless cubicles formed a maze.

  Sokolov advanced stealthily, prepared to strike. The labyrinthine cave turned his pursuit into a cat-and-mouse game. With Prince and Alik hiding in the shadows, he could be attacked from any recess. Moving farther from the stairway increased the risk of getting trapped in the basement.

  One by one, he kicked out the doors in each booth.

  No sooner had he reached the third door than it burst open and Prince shoulder-tackled him. Sokolov became vulnerable as he almost lost his footing under the weight of the bigger man. Prince grappled him with one hand and held his gun in front of Sokolov's face.

  “I got him, Alik!” he bellowed.

  There was no way of knowing if he'd reloaded the gun.

  Sokolov's heart thumped. Fist clenched, his left arm lashed out with the speed of a whip and the power of a sledgehammer. He batted Prince's wrist away so forcefully that the gun broke loose and sailed through the air. In a quick reverse motion, he swung his forearm outside to inside, striking the hand that gripped his jacket. Free from the hold, he punched with his right, shifting his weight to put maximum strength into the blow. Prince dodged, avoiding much damage, but the hit connected well enough to send him falling backwards.

  Yelling like a madman, Alik came charging at him. Sokolov turned sideways, raising his hand defensively in a futile block as Alik delivered a savage strike to his temple with a piece of metal pipe.

  His vision dimmed and Sokolov went down for good.

  11

  STEPAN REZLER WAS DRIVING the Ferrari from Le Marteau when his phone rang again. He was heading to his office, having spent two hours at the club with Alik, first debriefing Prince, then making a few calls. Soon afterwards, he'd received numerous messages in response. Their enemy had been identified. Now the enemy had to be located and eliminated. Rezler was busy working out a solution, and he would not rest easy until the job was finished.

  He glanced at the incoming call details and swiped his finger across the large touchscreen to answer Prince.

  “What is it again, you fool?”

  “That bastard was here! You hear me? The son of a bitch nearly killed us! But we got him, oh yes we did.”

  Rezler cut him off, unable to make out the drunken slur that followed, mixed with obscenities.

  “Shut up and get me Alik. Is he still with you?” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Alik? What the hell happened?”

  “We're having an emergency here,” the young man replied. “It's Sokolov. He showed up at the club and wrecked the whole place. Like, smashed everything into bits. Four lads got beaten up badly. I couldn't believe my eyes.”

  Now it was Rezler's turn to curse out loud.

  “How did he find you?”

  “No idea. But it's all over for him now.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “I'm not sure. I hit him on the head pretty hard and he started bleeding. Uh-huh, I think he might be dead by now.”

  “You shouldn't think, just check!”

  “Not right now. I'm behind the wheel and he's in the trunk. We put him in the Mercedes.”

  “What the hell!”

  “We couldn't leave him at the club. What should we do next?”

  “Can you find your way back to the warehouse?”

  “Yeah, I can find it.”

  “Good. Drive carefully. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Rezler ended the call, a scowl crossing his face.

  Eugene Sokolov. The putz certainly had some chutzpah.

  Minutes after establishing Sokolov's name via the car agency, Rezler had obtained his CV, courtesy of a former GRU colleague providing access to the required database.

  He'd read the profile with such astonishment that he still couldn't get it out of his mind.

  Apparently, Sokolov had received a Gold Star for a mission so secret that it was beyond even GRU clearance. Major Sokolov, EMERCOM officer and Hero of the Russian sodding Federation. On top of that, he was famous for his feats in martial arts: a fourth dan in kyokushin karate, listed among only a handful of the world's fighters to have completed the One-Hundred-Man Kumite.

  Defeating a hundred opponents? Was that even real?

  Judging by Prince's hysteria, it was damned well possible from this man.

  But there was also something else, eye-catching because it was familiar.

  Eugene was the son of Ivan Sokolov, an Air Force pilot once stationed in East Germany.

  12

  THE SHEER FORCE OF the metal pipe striking Sokolov's temple would have sufficed to kill him instantly.

  Luckily, he had shielded his head almost reflexively, his arm absorbing much of the blow before it glanced off the top of his skull. Yet it felt as if a chunk of his scalp had been sheared away. He blacked out.

  He hadn't a clue for how long he'd lain incapacitated. When he came round, he became aware of uneven, floating motion. He opened his eyes but still saw blackness. A bag of some sort covered his head, sticky with blood. His ankles were bound by rope, wrists tied securely behind his back. His head was throbbing, but even disarrayed, his vestibular sense still told him that he was inside a moving car. Every bump in the road resonated in his brain. But worst of all was the pounding beat of some terrible French hip-hop tune. Sokolov was in the car's trunk. The music blared from a subwoofer next to him, intended to drown out his cries for help should the car stop within earshot of any passers-by.

  Short of breath, his mind blurred.

  At some point, the motion ceased and so did the vexing musical beat. The engine shut down and doors slammed. Sokolov was heaved out of the trunk, dragged for some distance and then unceremoniously thrown on the ground. Slamming against the hard surface, flat on his back, he groaned.

  “Ah, so he's alive after all.”

  The voice was unfamiliar, belonging neither to Alik nor Prince.

  “Get that bag off his noggin.”

  Plastic rustled as Alik removed the grocery bag.

  Sokolov squinted as harsh light hit his eyes, causing a wave of nausea. He found himself lying on the cold concrete floor of a vast garage―or rather a warehouse, given the stacks of cardboard boxes taking up space in the middle.

  One of the three figures looming over him was a bald, rotund man in his mid-fifties. He carried the appearance of an accountant but for the ten-inch bowie knife he was flipping in his hand.

  “Welcome, Comrade Sokolov.”

  “I'm not too keen on your comradeship.”

  “There was a time when we were all Komraden. Back in the day, I served in the army―or to be precise, military intelligence. My name is Rezler. I doubt you've heard it before. You were still a toddler when I crossed paths with your father. I must say, the outcome for him was deplorable. But he got what he deserved.”

  Sokolov's face did not betray his seething fury. He had to keep his composure as Rezler tried to enervate him.

  “Like father, like son. Both ended up meddli
ng into something way out of their depth. You should have stuck to rescuing kitties from trees, EMERCOM man.”

  Prince snickered, nowhere near sobering.

  Rezler continued. “Well then, I have no time for sentiment. We're running a bit late here. First of all, Sokolov, I want to make one thing clear right away. You will die. This I guarantee. And you will die screaming. I will ask questions and receive truthful answers. Don't delude yourself into thinking you can trick me. The only uncertainty is how long you're willing to suffer as you die. Quick or slow death is the choice available, and you can merely prolong your pain.”

  Rezler stooped over Sokolov, bringing the blade to his face. The cold steel pressed against his cheek, the tip of the bowie knife a whisker away from his eyelid.

  “My interrogation methods are highly efficient, as you will soon learn. The Afghan mujahideen were a tough lot and yet not one of them could hold out against me. I will cut off your lips … And your ears and nose. I'll chop your fingers off one by one. But you won't last that long. I'll break you down inside a minute without getting messy.”

  He stepped back and motioned for Alik and Prince to do their part.

  “Turn this shmo over on his stomach.”

  They heaved him upside down. He lay flat on his face, chin grazed against the concrete floor. A kick to his side made him clench his numbing hands.

  A pair of hands frisked him.

  “Oi, look! He got money!” Prince said cheerfully. “Not a lot but I won't mind.”

  Alik smirked. “Heh, Russian officers still earn less than French sluts.”

  Prince relieved his pockets of the phone as well as the cash.

  “Let's get the ball rolling,” Rezler ordered.

  Alik grabbed the end of the rope tying Sokolov's feet and pulled with all his might. Sokolov gasped as his legs bent behind his back. At the same time, Prince yanked the rope around his wrists in the opposite direction. The excruciating pain made him cry out through gritted teeth. His neck craned away from the floor far enough for him to view Alik grimacing with exertion. As Sokolov's heels reached his head, every muscle and ligament strained near the point of tearing. He shrieked. His arms hurt so much under the tension that felt they would pop out from their sockets. The mad tug-of-war did not relent. He shut his eyes, sucking in air spastically. He lost count of the seconds. The only sound he heard was his own scream. His whole body was on fire. He could not take it any longer. The pain was agonizing. The ropes tautened further. His spine was about to break in half.

  “Stop,” Rezler commanded. “Enough for now.”

  Alik and Prince released the ropes. Groaning, Sokolov slumped onto the ground. His body slackened but ached all over. His pulse raced.

  “And now,” Rezler said, “the question. Where is that kurva of yours, Michelle?”

  Rezler snapped his fingers and Alik immediately put the plastic bag over Sokolov's head again. Then the ropes tugged at his extremities even harder.

  The torture continued. His body curled in a backbend again.

  His joints erupted with pain. Tendons threatened to burst.

  Only this time, he was also suffocating.

  Panic made his heart drum like crazy and he wheezed, sucking up air. The asphyxia magnified all pain signals and he gasped emptily like a fish out of water. A dying fish.

  He thrashed, but the bindings dug deeper into the skin, making it worse.

  His body and mind had never suffered such crushing torment.

  It was driving him crazy. His brain was exploding.

  No! I beg you! No more!

  It was a voice screaming out loud―his own voice.

  “An honest answer and I promise you an easy death.”

  Make it stop! I'll tell you everything.

  “First you will tell me where she is. Then it will be all over.”

  He only wanted it to end. His endurance had depleted.

  He gave them what they wanted.

  A hotel. A love hotel in Pigalle.

  13

  THE AGONY ABATED. The bag was removed and Sokolov panted, inhaling lungfuls of stale air which now tasted so fresh and rich. Sweat beaded his face. He lay shattered. This was what he needed now―a breather. Cautiously, Sokolov rolled to his side, facing his captors.

  “Guess what,” Rezler said. “Just under two minutes. Unbelievable. I'm impressed, Sokolov. Even battle-hardened soldiers can normally manage a few seconds at most. But still, you cracked like everyone else. You know what will happen if your information is false. I'll use the knife. This stretching warm-up will pale in comparison. You'll watch me disfigure you until you give me the correct answer.”

  He turned to Alik.

  “Take the Mercedes and check out the address. It should take ten minutes tops. If she isn't there, call me at once. Prince, hand him your gun.”

  “And what must I do after I find her?”

  “Bring her over here. You can have some fun before you kill her. But should she make too much noise along the way, get rid of her.”

  Alik left.

  Rezler gave Prince the bowie knife.

  “You watch over him. I need to contact the boss.”

  Phone in hand, Rezler walked to the back of the warehouse, behind a door marked with a red stop sign.

  Alone with Sokolov, Prince sighed.

  “If it weren't for the girl, I'd slit your throat right away. But it's better that we finish her off before your eyes. Knowing Alik, he'll abuse her in every possible way. I'm tempted to join him. She's quite hot, y'know. Will you enjoy the sight? I'll grant you that one last wish―to see her anguished face as you bleed to death.”

  Prince burst out laughing.

  Sokolov twisted his hands, working hard to weaken the rope. Handcuffs would have given him zero chance. But with the piece of rope, he could do it. He had to. It was old and worn. He still had his Breitling on, unseen beneath his sleeve when they'd tied him in haste. He prayed for just a tiny gap. He clawed at the knot with his fingers and desperately jerked the rope, rubbing his wrists raw. Damp with his blood, the fibers softened, already thinning from the stress of torture. He wrenched his left arm out, the bracelet of the watch catching strands between the steel links and ripping the rope loose.

  He freed his hands. He couldn't believe it.

  Neither could Prince.

  “What the … You scum!”

  He lurched forward, drawing back his foot to kick Sokolov's head like a football. Down on the ground with his feet fastened together, Sokolov had one advantage: Rage.

  He rolled and held his arms defensively, catching the foot as it swung at him. He snapped the ankle and hooked Prince's supporting leg in a two-footed sweep along the ground.

  Tumbling, Prince slashed down with the knife. Sokolov turned his body away just in time. The blade stabbed the concrete inches from his neck as Prince crashed down. Sokolov pinned his forearm to the ground with one hand and used the other to slam his nose and chop the elbow joint with a rigid palm, forcing him to release the knife.

  Still locking Prince's arm down, Sokolov snatched the bowie knife and severed a bunch of veins.

  Blood squirted.

  Prince yelled for help. His cry turned into a hoarse gurgle as Sokolov reached his neck and sliced the carotid artery.

  Sokolov hacked through the rope to unbind his feet and got up. Prince writhed on the floor, spewing crimson. Seconds later, his body twitched as the brain died, deprived of oxygen.

  Hurrying, Sokolov headed to the door at the back of the warehouse. Gone was the lingering pain, eclipsed by a desire to get Rezler. He burst into the small office.

  Rezler was sitting behind a desk, conversing with someone on the phone. Staring at Sokolov, he cursed and immediately dropped the connection, his face contorted with horror. Frantically, he rummaged through a drawer, producing a revolver. He aimed the barrel at Sokolov, his thumb cocking the hammer.

  “You forgot your knife.”

  Sokolov flung it and the blade wedged deep
through Rezler's eye socket.

  Blood streaked down from beneath the bowie knife planted into his brain. His lifeless body collapsed.

  Sokolov froze, as if expecting Rezler to rise and jump back at him But nothing happened. Nobody was attacking him. Rezler lay sprawled, unmoving and most certainly dead. The knife handle protruded from his face grotesquely. Blood gushed to form a grisly crimson halo around his head. There was a deathly silence.

  Sokolov caught his breath, exhilarated by survival.

  Defeat in detail. The old military tactic had tipped the odds in his favor. But to break up the enemy trio, he'd had to make them stop the torture by any means.

  Now Sokolov had a new problem on his hands.

  Alik must have already reached Pigalle, and was nearing Michelle.

  Sokolov's main professional strength was keeping cool under extreme pressure. In his job, innocent lives depended on it, and currently Michelle's life was still at stake. He glanced around the modest office. Not a trace of any documents on the desk. It was spotless―save for Rezler's phone and a Ferrari keychain. He picked up both.

  He bent over the corpse. A folded handkerchief decorated the breast pocket of Rezler's suit. Using it to wrap the knife handle, he extracted the blade from the skull and wiped it clean.

  Back in the storage area, he retrieved his money and the Sonim from Prince, again careful not to begrime his clothes in blood.

  As he was about to leave the warehouse, he inspected the cardboard boxes. None had any markings apart from the word FRAGILE stenciled on each side. The containers were identical, seemingly belonging to the same consignment.

  What cargo could be inside? Weapons? Drugs? Explosives?

  From the edge of the stack, he lifted a single box, and set it on the floor. It was heavy but the weight wasn't indicative of its contents. He cut the box open at the top and unfolded the flaps. It was filled to the brim with foam peanuts cushioning the interior, designed to protect the items within. He scooped the foam away, the little polystyrene pellets showering down.