Arsov! He knew that asshole would leave him to take the fall, but he hadn’t expected to spend two nights as a guest of the government. He suspected that was Arsov’s doing. To be sure, the UK jails were a paradise compared to some of the Russian jails he’d been in as a boy, before he smartened up and joined the Bratstvo, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed spending time there. Just another thing he’d chalk up on the ledger. Arsov wasn’t the only one who had a few friends in St. Petersburg.
Nazarov stretched and yawned; he hadn’t slept well in jail. Everything seemed in order here, so he decided to go home and get some sleep. He let Ivan know he was leaving, then walked down the corridor to the rear exit. He cracked the door to verify it was all clear before he rushed across the alley to the back door of the Italian restaurant. He had to give Arsov credit for establishing this discreet access. The Italian chef no longer needed a cover story, and Nazarov didn’t even slow down as he stuffed a fifty-pound note in the big man’s hand and kept walking. Seconds later he was headed for the cab stand two blocks away.
Berwick Street, Soho
Near Club Pyatnitsa
London, UK
“This could get a bit tricky,” Dugan said, watching the two plain clothes cops in the car parked fifty feet away. “What if they follow us if we leave?”
“They won’t,” Anna said from the driver’s seat. “And if they do, so much the better. We’ll lead them away from Borgdanov and Ilya.”
“You’re sure this is gonna work?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. We know Arsov successfully gave us the slip before, and we were watching both the front entrance and the opening to the alley. He never came out of either place. Therefore, he must have gone through one of the businesses facing onto the next street. If Nazarov leaves, he’ll likely do the same, and our Russian friends can pick him up while we stay here and keep the constables company.”
“Yeah, well, maybe the cops are doing the same thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Anna said, smiling sweetly, “because I never shared my conclusions with Detective Inspector McKinnon. Also, we’re watching one location, but McKinnon’s likely still trying to cover several, and he’s back to being short on manpower.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
Hopkins Street Car Park
London, UK
Ilya Denosovitch sat behind the wheel of the rental car, with binoculars pressed to his eyes, peering over the waist high side wall of the open-air car park into the street below. He’d been fortunate to find a vantage point on the third level of the facility that allowed him to look directly into the alley behind Club Pyatnitsa, two blocks away. He smiled as he saw the back door of the club open a crack and then fully, as Nazarov exited and scurried across the narrow alley and into another door. He picked up his radio and keyed the mike.
“Chase One, this is Eagle Eye. Do you copy, over?”
One block away on Wardour Street, Borgdanov responded from the driver’s seat of his own rental car. “Eagle Eye, this is Chase One. I copy, over.”
“Chase One, suspect should exit somewhere in your vicinity at any time. Be prepared. Over,” Ilya said.
“Eagle Eye. I have him. Repeat. I have him. Over,” Borgdanov said.
“Affirmative, Chase One. I am leaving my position to join you. Keep me advised as to your location, and I will catch up.”
“Affirmative, Eagle Eye. Babysitter, this is Chase One. Did you copy last transmissions? Over.”
Anna’s voice came over the radio. “Chase One, this is Babysitter. We copied all transmissions. We will stay in place and watch our friends. Good hunting, and please advise when you are well out of area. We will disengage here and join hunt if possible.”
“Affirmative, Babysitter. This is Chase One out.”
Berwick Street, Soho
Near Club Pyatnitsa
London, UK
Thirty minutes later, Anna’s radio squawked. “Babysitter, this is Chase One. Do you copy? Over.”
“This is Babysitter. Go ahead, Chase One. Over.”
“We are well away from you. Target exited taxi and entered apartment building on Chesham Place. I think is his place. Over.”
“We copy, Chase One. We are in transit to your location. Babysitter out.” Anna started the car.
“Fancy. The Belgrave Square area,” Anna said as she pulled away from the curb.
“Won’t the cops think it strange if we leave?” Dugan asked.
“Not likely. They’ve only seen the two of us, and they know we can’t stay here round the clock. They’ll probably just attribute it to lack of resources and figure we’ll rely on them. After all, they know half the team is amateur.” Anna smiled. “Be sure to wave at them as we pass, so we can cement that impression.”
Chapter Fifteen
Phoenix Shipping Warehouse B
East London, UK
Dugan stood in the beam of the car’s headlights and unlocked the padlock before leaning his weight into the edge of the large sliding door. After a moment’s resistance, the big door started to move, slowly at first and then faster as it built up momentum, the disused metal wheels on the track above squealing a lament. When it was halfway open, Dugan released the door and stepped back, and inertia carried it another few feet before it rumbled to a stop. He waved the car through the gap and took a quick, furtive look up and down the street before he stepped inside and tugged the door closed after him.
The car’s headlights cut a bright tunnel through the pitch-black interior of the warehouse, illuminating a section of the back wall. Dugan pulled a flashlight from his pocket.
“Stay there a minute,” he called out toward the car as he made his way to a breaker box near the door. “I’m going to get us some light.”
Seconds later the interior of the warehouse was bathed in light, and Dugan watched as Borgdanov and Ilya climbed out of the vehicle and looked around. Dugan followed the Russians’ gaze. It was a cavernous space, mostly empty, and the sound of the closing car doors was returned from the bare walls in a metallic echo. Here and there coils of old mooring lines and empty oil drums were stacked in disarray, the detritus of a successful shipping operation left behind when the expanding operations had necessitated a larger warehouse. They’d have to get this place cleaned up a bit before they sold it, Dugan thought, momentarily distracted. He looked back at Borgdanov as the Russian approached, shaking his head.
“I think we need quieter place, Dyed. In here the sound will be, how you say, amplified, and we do not want to attract attention.”
Dugan pointed to a door in a cubic structure built into the far corner of the warehouse.
“That’s the office. It’s insulated and soundproofed, and there’s probably some old furniture left. That should do.”
Borgdanov nodded. “Ilya,” he called to Denosovitch, who was dragging a bound and gagged Nazarov out of the trunk. “Take him to the door in the far corner.”
Ilya nodded and tossed Nazarov over his shoulder, none too gently. He started for the door.
“Did you have any trouble?” Dugan asked.
“Nyet. The only real problem is keeping Ilya from killing him.”
“You promised—”
“I know, Dyed. We promised Anna, and we keep promise. We kill no one in the UK.” His face hardened. “But I assure you, very soon our friend Nazarov may wish he is dead. I think also, it may be better if you leave, da? We call you when we finish.”
Dugan shook his head. “There are private security patrols on several of the nearby warehouses. If they see or hear anything, they may phone it in to the police. I have identification and work for Phoenix, so if they come, I can assure them everything is okay. Besides, maybe I can help out. I’m sure Nazarov is terrified of you guys, but maybe I can be the alternative. You know — bad cop, good cop.”
Borgdanov shook his head. “I am afraid ‘bad cop, good cop’ does not work so well with Russian mafiya. For them we must use ‘bad cop, worse cop,�
� da?”
Phoenix Shipping Warehouse B
East London, UK
Dugan watched as Ilya tipped the chair and dumped Nazarov on his back on the tile floor, still bound to the chair hand and foot. Nazarov screamed what Dugan assumed was abuse in Russian until Ilya placed a thick towel over his face and slowly began to saturate the towel with water from a plastic jug. Nazarov grew silent as he held his breath for what seemed like forever, and then the silence was replaced by the sound of Nazarov’s strangled attempts at breathing.
Ilya glanced at his watch, timing the man’s struggles, and then hoisted the chair back upright to allow the sodden towel to fall away. Nazarov bent at the waist and alternated between wet, racking coughs and gasps. Dugan shook his head and moved toward the door into the warehouse, motioning for Borgdanov to join him. Once they were outside the office and in the warehouse proper, he turned to Borgdanov.
“This isn’t working,” Dugan said. “I don’t know what the hell he’s saying, but you’ve water-boarded him five times now, and it looks to me like he just gets more defiant each time.”
Borgdanov shrugged. “We had to try easy way first, Dyed, but I did not really expect this to work. Also, he is Bratstvo, and these scum think they are very tough guys. Now he is congratulating himself that he has endured our punishment and is big tough guy. So. When we start more aggressive methods, he will have big surprise. Is how you say ‘psychological.’ Da?” Borgdanov patted Dugan’s shoulder. “Do not worry so. We know what we are doing.”
“I sure as hell hope so,” Dugan muttered as he followed Borgdanov back into the office.
They found a silent Nazarov glaring defiantly at an impassive Ilya, and Dugan held back as Borgdanov approached, smiling before addressing Nazarov in Russian.
***
“So, Nazarov,” Borgdanov said cheerfully, “did you enjoy your last little swim?”
Nazarov spit and screwed his head around to look at Borgdanov. “Is that the best you have, Spetsnaz? I am Bratstvo. You will never break me.”
Borgdanov shrugged. “Well, we will in time, but I would prefer for you to cooperate with no more little unpleasant things, da? We are not savages. So, I ask you again, please tell me where you are keeping the girls and also where Arsov is hiding.”
Nazarov sneered. “Fuck you, soldier boy. You want girls? Then come to club, I fix you up with many girls.” Nazarov looked up at Ilya and grinned. “But too bad you missed one of the best ones. Her name is Karina, and she loved to suck my cock. Also she was crazy about taking it up the ass. We have some nice videos of her satisfying five big guys at once. Maybe I can get you two a copy. You can use it to jerk off.”
Nazarov threw his head back and laughed, and Borgdanov watched Ilya, half-expecting him to kill the man immediately, but the big Russian remained outwardly calm; the only indication of his rage a red flush creeping up the back of his neck and into his-close cropped blond hair. Borgdanov shook his head and addressed Dugan in English.
“I see we must change methods, Dyed. Can I count on you to assure Anna we did at least try to do things nicely?”
Dugan nodded, and Borgdanov pulled a syringe from his pocket, uncapped it, and ejected a bit of fluid before sinking the needle into Nazarov’s neck. The man jerked a few seconds and then slumped in the chair against his bonds.
“Come,” Borgdanov said to Dugan as he recapped the syringe and tossed it in the corner. “Please help me carry in the rest of the supplies while Ilya prepares our friend.”
Ten minutes and several trips to the car later, Borgdanov and Dugan stood watching Ilya cut Nazarov’s clothes off. Borgdanov followed Dugan’s gaze as the American looked at the floor and studied the collection they’d carried in.
“Christ, Andrei!” Dugan said. “Where the hell did you get all this stuff?”
Borgdanov smiled. “Harry and Lou are a little less concerned about methods than Anna. I gave them my shopping list. They got me the tranquilizer too.”
***
Nazarov floated on the edge of consciousness, fighting unsuccessfully to open his eyes. Something was tickling his nose, and he tried to scratch it, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. Then the acrid smell of ammonia filled his nostrils, burning the inside of his nose as he gasped for a breath. His eyes flew open in time to see a retreating pair of hands holding the crushed remains of an ammonia popper, and he gazed up the arms attached to those hands into the smiling face of Borgdanov.
“Very good, Nazarov. You’ve decided to rejoin us. Apologies for waking you so abruptly, but we are a bit pressed for time. I’m sure you understand.”
“Fuck you.” Nazarov studied his surroundings.
He was stark naked, seated semi-reclined on the floor, the cracked tile cool against his bare ass. He was leaned back against some sort of support, his arms stretched out to his sides and duct-taped at the wrist to a board stretched across his back to keep them that way. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. The board was obviously securely fastened to something. His legs were also stretched wide and-duct taped at the ankles to another board. B-t most worrying were his balls. His genitals rested slightly elevated on a flat triangular piece of concrete that had been shoved between his legs. He felt the rough point against his anus and tried to shift his weight away from it, but he was totally immobile. He fought down his terror and grinned up at Borgdanov.
“You think you can scare me, soldier boy? You can’t do this shit in the UK. This is all a bluff.”
Borgdanov shrugged. “I think perhaps you should consider this warehouse to be a little piece of Mother Russia for the moment. That may help you focus your thoughts, da?”
“I will tell you nothing.”
“On the contrary. You have already confessed to doing very bad things to my friend Ilya’s favorite niece, so he very much wants to kill you. Fortunately for you” — Borgdanov shrugged — “or perhaps unfortunately — you have information we need. But I will not bother to ask you again, because I know you will only resist. Instead we will have to do things the hard way.” Borgdanov stepped aside, and Nazarov lifted his head to see the one called Ilya standing nearby. At the big blond’s feet lay an assortment of pliers, various sharp instruments and other tools, and a propane torch. Ilya smiled down at him.
“Fuck you too,” Nazarov said again, but there was fear in his voice.
“I admire your courage,” Borgdanov said. “And Ilya and I agree it may take some time for you to agree to cooperate. So we’ve decided to save all these little toys for later and to use them only if necessary. Instead we have decided to go to the most extreme measures immediately so you will understand we are very serious.” Borgdanov shrugged. “Then, if you are still not convinced, we can always resort to the tedious cutting and burning.”
Nazarov swallowed, his mouth dry. He tried to speak but didn’t trust his voice.
“After some consideration,” Borgdanov said, “we decided the worst thing we could do to a big stud like you was to remove your genitals. We considered various methods — you know, like dull knife or maybe burning them off with the propane torch. But my Ilya is a man of action. He said to me, ‘We should not pull the wings off the fly like some cruel child. Nyet. We are not barbarians. We should be humane and crush the fly quickly.’”
Nazarov cut his eyes back to Ilya as the big blond reached down and rose with a long handled sledgehammer. It was a massive thing, with a flat face on one side of the head tapering to a rounded point on the opposite end. Nazarov watched with horror as Ilya stepped around the table, raised the hammer over his head, and charged forward, with the obvious intent of flattening Nazarov’s genitals. The huge hammer descended in an arc, and Nazarov closed his eyes and screamed as he felt the hammer impact.
“Ilya, dammit, I told you to be careful. You missed completely.”
Nazarov opened his eyes and moaned, his balls aching from the impact of the hammer on the concrete only millimeters away.
“It is not my fault,” Ilya said. “I told you we n
eeded to center his balls on the stone. Now look what you made me do. Put his balls back in the center, and I’ll try again.”
“I’m not going to touch his balls,” Borgdanov said. “Use the pliers and… oh shit, Ilya. You cracked the stone. Now we’ll have to get another one.”
“All right, I’ll talk,” Nazarov whimpered.
“We don’t need another stone,” Ilya said, ignoring Nazarov. “This one is perfectly fine. It’s only a small crack.”
“I’LL TALK!”
Borgdanov looked down at Nazarov and then back at Ilya. “He wants to talk.”
Ilya shook his head. “I don’t care. He hurt Karina, and you promised me I could smash his balls. Besides, he talks with his tongue not his balls, and we have plenty of ways left to make him talk.” Ilya stepped back and raised the hammer again.
“No… no, it wasn’t me! I never touched Karina. Arsov wouldn’t let me. He kept her for himself.”
Ilya hesitated, the hammer raised.
“And where is Karina now?” Borgdanov asked.
“In a container on a ship bound for the US. All the girls are… that is the three troublemakers. They left port three days ago.”
“And what is the name of this ship, and what is its exact destination?”
Nazarov looked from Borgdanov to the hammer raised above Ilya’s head. “If I tell you, will you promise not to smash my balls?”
Borgdanov shook his head. “No. But I do promise you that if you don’t tell me in five seconds, your balls will be looking very different.”
Nazarov said nothing, and Borgdanov shrugged and nodded to Ilya, who grinned and repositioned the hammer for another swing.
“Wait! It’s the Kapitan Godina bound for Jacksonville, Florida. That’s all I know. I swear.”
“I think you are far too modest my friend,” Borgdanov said. “I think you also know where our friend Arsov is hiding, da?”
“I… I cannot. He… he will kill me if I tell.”
“Then I think you are in a very bad situation, Nazarov, because we will kill you if you don’t tell. After, of course… well, you know …”
Deadly Crossing (Tom Dugan 2) Page 12