“Do you know how long that could take?” Zikky asked incredulously.
Mariena glanced at the dead Earth floating in the distance. “It’s not like we have anything else to do.”
* * * *
Craig had been conscious a short time when the rear door of the ambulance opened, flooding the interior with light and fresh sea air. Two seamen pulled the stretcher from the ambulance and carried it out onto the ship’s deck. Craig lifted his head off the stretcher to discover blue grey water reached unbroken from horizon to horizon.
When the sailors set the stretcher down on the deck, Nogorev stepped forward. “Where is the master list?”
“In my head,” Craig said.
Nogorev spoke to the seamen in Russian. “He’s coming with me. Get some rope.”
The seamen relaxed, having no desire to be a party to a murder. They quickly bound Craig’s arms and legs, then carried him to the port side of the ship. The derrick arm moved into position overhead, then the seaman threaded its hook under the rope securing his hands. When he was winched off the deck, he discovered a Beriev seaplane, equipped with long range fuel tanks, floating close to the ship. The pilot sat with his legs in a hatch on top of the fuselage, waiting for his passenger.
Craig swung like a pendulum out over the sea as the crunching of the derrick’s gears sounded, then he was lowered onto the seaplane. When Craig’s feet touched the top of the wings, the pilot guided him down into the fuselage, laying him on his back before unhitching the hook and waving ‘all clear’ to the derrick operator. The cable swung back inboard for Nogorev, who took it in hand and balanced with one foot on the hook. He was lifted across to the seaplane, stepping off onto the fuselage without assistance.
“Is he going all the way?” the pilot asked, motioning to Craig
“Yes.”
“I’m operating at the extreme range, even with the external tanks,” the pilot said apprehensively. “I hadn’t figured on the extra weight.”
“He’s coming!” Nogorev snapped. “Modify your flight plan accordingly.”
The pilot nodded. “If there are headwinds, we’ll be swimming the last hundred kilometers.”
They took their seats at the controls, then the pilot taxied the seaplane a short distance from the ship before turning into the breeze. The twin, rear mounted engines roared to life, sending the plane crashing through the low swells, picking up speed until it lurched into the air. The pilot leveled off almost immediately and turned east.
“Only way to make it is to fly straight over Denmark,” the pilot said. “We’ll fly low, sneak under Danish radar, then climb to cruising altitude when we reach the Baltic.”
Nogorev barely heard him. Abandoning his mission before it was complete troubled him. He could return later to finish destroying the trail of European bankers that led back to Moscow, but before that could happen, he had less than forty eight hours to complete a much more critical mission.
He had to break Craig Balard’s will.
* * * *
The reporters drifted away from Joan Balard’s house as the string of homicides slipped from the headlines. The day after the last reporter departed in search of a more current story, Joan noticed a Lincoln parked across the road from her house. She didn’t know how long it had been there, and at first, she thought the two clean cut men in dark suits were reporters, but as the hours passed and they never showed a camera or demonstrated the feverishness displayed by the earlier news crews, she began to wonder who they were. She regularly stole a look through the curtains, checking to see if they were still watching her house, and each time, it was as if nothing had changed. After lunch, she peaked through the window, finding the car empty.
The door bell rang, startling her.
She stepped back from the window and crept slowly to the door as the bell rang again. Joan peered through the peep hole confirming that both men were standing on the porch. She hesitated, wondering if she should answer the door when the bell rang a third time. The chain was in place and the new deadlock was securely set. She decided to open the door, leaving the chain on, but as she reached for the deadlock, a metallic rattle sounded from the original door lock, freezing her in place. The rattle sounded again and the old tumbler unlocked. One of the men muttered a word she didn’t understand, then tried the handle, but the deadbolt held firm. For several minutes, the man tried to force the deadlock, then cursed softly in a guttural language.
Both men stepped off the porch and moved slowly to the side window, casting shadows upon the curtains as they studied the recently installed window locks. One of the men tested the window lightly, but the key locks meant they’d have to break glass to enter, something they weren’t yet prepared to do. They began working their way around the house, testing each window in turn. Joan followed their movements by their shadows on the curtains, ensuring they never saw her. She tip toed to the kitchen, watching as they tried the window and back door, but again the newly installed locks foiled their efforts. When they’d gone completely around the house, they strolled back to their car. Joan peeked through the window, not daring to touch the curtain in case they saw movement. The two men sat talking for several minutes, then drove slowly off down the road.
Joan stood in the shadows, shaking with fear, watching the empty road outside for a long time. She couldn’t shake the idea that the men would come back again, and next time, the locks would not stop them. She retrieved the card she’d placed on the mantle a few days ago and dialed the number on it. After a few rings, a young man answered.
“Homicide. Detective Woods speaking.”
* * * *
The seaplane banked over the tranquil waters of the eastern Baltic, before gliding down onto the smooth waters of a wide estuary. When it settled into the water, the seaplane taxied to a pier where two men waited in plain clothes. Drushkev and Pieltov were non commissioned officers, who like Nogorev, had secretly been reassigned to work directly for the GRU, the main intelligence directorate of the general staff, although they knew much less about the operation than he did.
“Where are we?” Craig demanded as the pilot climbed out of his seat to throw ropes to the two men waiting on the wharf.
“Piarnu,” the pilot answered.
“Where’s that?”
“Seventy five kilometers south of Tallinin, Estonia.”
“Estonia?” Craig said incredulously.
Nogorev glared at the pilot. “Do not speak to the prisoner!”
The pilot looked surprised, unused to dealing with prisoners. He turned his attention to tying the seaplane up safely to the wharf.
Nogorev climbed out of the co-pilot’s seat, and approached Craig. “I’m going to untie your feet, so you can walk. Do not do anything stupid.”
“You won’t get away with this” Craig said. “People will be looking for me.”
“No one is looking for you – here,” Nogorev said as he removed the rope around Craig’s ankles. As soon as his feet were free, he kicked out at Nogorev, who effortlessly deflected the blow with one hand and jabbed him hard in the stomach with the other. Craig doubled over, wheezing for air, then Nogorev dragged him roughly out onto the wharf.
“Who is this?” Drushkev asked in Russian.
“Someone I intend to interrogate. Call ahead. Arrange for the appropriate facilities.”
“Yes sir,” Pieltov said as he and Drushkev threw Craig onto the back seat of the car.
“I demand to speak to the American Embassy!” Craig yelled.
Nogorev raised his pistol threatening to strike Craig in the head with the butt. “Not another word!”
Craig fell into a sullen silence, which he maintained on the long drive to Moscow.
* * * *
“Open up, Harriman!” Corman yelled as he banged on the hotel door again.
“Keep your shirt on,” Harriman grumbled as he unlocked the door.
Corman was dressed in a freshly pressed suit and was carrying his travel bag.
�
�Do you know what time it is?” Harriman asked.
“Yeah, it’s time to move.” Corman checked his watch. “I just got a call, Balard’s gone. Kidnapped.”
“How do you know?” Harriman asked, snapping awake.
“One of our satellites detected a sea plane rendezvousing with a ship off the coast of England. Tracked it to Estonia. Then one of our listening stations in Moscow picked up a call requesting a safe house and an interrogation unit for a high priority prisoner. It’s got to be him.”
“So it’s all over?” Harriman said, thinking there was nothing more they could do.
“No, it means we’re going to Moscow.”
“Moscow!”
“Be downstairs in five minutes.” Corman turned without waiting for an answer and headed for the elevator.
Harriman closed the door, quickly pulled on his increasingly crumpled suit and packed his bag. When he was ready to leave, he called Hal Woods. “Any news?”
“Yeah,” Woods said. “Nikki Angelo told me Balard’s looking for his father, who according to his mother, and the US Air Force, was killed over Serbia years ago. That’s why he skipped the country. On top of that, someone’s sniffing around Joan Balard’s house. I tried to put some men in with her, but Ridley wouldn’t approve it. He says it’s outside our jurisdiction.”
“Is she in danger?”
“Maybe. Nikki Angelo was roughed up pretty badly. Someone might be planning the same treatment for Balard’s mother.”
“Does she know anything?”
“Doesn’t seem to.”
Harriman remembered what Corman had said, Craig Balard was going to be interrogated. “She’s leverage! They’ll try to get to Balard through her. You better keep an eye on her. No need to tell Ridley. Take some leave.”
“Sure boss.”
Harriman hung up, yawned once, then grabbed his bag and headed down stairs for the airport.
* * * *
When the car stopped in front of the safe house in the Moscow suburb of Schunkino, Nogorev and Drushkev dragged Craig inside where an older, scholarly looking man waited.
“I’m Doctor Tatska. I’ve been expecting you,” he said, offering a hand to shake, then withdrawing it when Nogorev brushed past him.
“Where are you doing it?” Nogorev asked, not bothering to introduce himself.
“In the sitting room.”
They walked Craig into a room furnished with several comfortable chairs and a standing lamp facing a sturdy wooden chair with armrests. A row of small bottles and sterile packets containing metal syringes were laid out neatly on a side table beside the chair. A microphone and video camera stood on a metal stand aimed at the chair ready to record every word.
Craig glanced apprehensively at the row of syringes. “What are you going to do?”
“How long will it take?” Nogorev asked, ignoring Craig’s question.
“It depends on his resistance,” Dr. Tatska replied as he tore open a syringe packet and a bottle of clear liquid. “I’ll start the dosage low and gradually build up the drug’s saturation in his system. I have to be careful, too much can have unpleasant side effects.”
“We don’t have much time. Give him as much as possible, without killing him,” Nogorev said sharply.
Dr Tatska raised his eyebrows. “He’s not likely to die from an overdose, but it could cause permanent neurological damage, making it impossible to get what you want out of him.”
They forced Craig into the high backed wooden chair and tied his wrists and ankles to it as Dr Tatska prepared the syringe.
“No!” Craig struggled vainly against their grip.
“Hold him steady!” Dr Tatska commanded.
Drushkev held Craig’s head as the doctor slid the needle into his neck.
“Has the equipment I requested arrived yet?” Nogorev asked when Dr Tatska withdrew the needle.
“It’s in the dining room with the operator. I thought it best the operator not be involved in the questioning.” Once they had obtained the banking information from Craig, the operator would transfer it to a secret Party account.
In the minutes that followed, Craig became drowsy, but didn’t fall asleep. His fears dissolved as a strange sense of well being overwhelmed him.
When Craig’s pupils were dilated and his skin had turned pallid, Dr Tatska gave Nogorev a satisfied look. “There’s no adverse reaction to the drug. He’s all yours.”
Craig’s head rolled forward weakly as Nogorev asked his first question.
* * * *
September 23, 1999
Colonel Jack Balard fought to remain conscious. Major Tarkovskoi turned to a young soldier standing nearby.
“Give him some water.”
The soldier pulled Jack’s head back and poured a little water into his mouth. He swallowed gratefully, then blinked as he sluggishly opened his eyes again. Brilliant white lights were aimed relentlessly at his face, and beyond the lights, a man sat at a table operating an electrical control panel.
Tarkovskoi walked back toward the wooden chair Jack was strapped to. It resembled an electric chair used to execute murderers, but it’s wiring was far more subtle, designed to inflict pain, not death. Jack was stripped naked so the electrodes could be taped directly to his bare flesh. Thick leather straps secured his torso and arms to the chair, while his legs were stretched far apart by metal leg clamps. Electrodes were attached to his arms and legs for inflicting minor punishments. Another electrode was attached to his scrotum, allowing the electrocution to be applied to his testicles when he was particularly uncooperative. It was the threat of this last torture that always achieved results.
Tarkovskoi waited until Jack’s eyes focused. “Be sensible, Colonel. You have lasted longer than most men. We will not stop until you tell us everything we want to know.”
Jack was weary, his strength gone, his will broken. He hated himself for what was coming, but he’d reached his limit. He could hold out no longer.
“We have captured two other stealth pilots, after you were shot down.” It was a lie, only one stealth plane had been shot down.
“Who?” Jack wheezed. If stealth pilots had been shot down, he would know them.
“Men from your own squadron. If you cooperate, in time, you can meet them,” Tarkovskoi said, offering an inducement he could never deliver on.
Jack didn’t reply.
“They’ve told us everything, days ago. They were sensible. Now they’re well fed, they have medical treatment, and they’ll soon be returned to their families. Be sensible. All we ask, is you confirm what they have already told us.”
“What did they tell you?” he croaked.
“Colonel, you know I can’t tell you that. Information is only valuable to me if it is from independent sources. If you tell me the truth, you will confirm they have told me the truth.”
The GRU Major gave him a pained look. Tarkovskoi had said many times, he didn’t want to torture him. He was forced to do it, because Jack refused to cooperate. It was his fault, and only he could stop it.
“How can I help you Colonel, if you won’t help me?” Tarkovskoi asked silkily. “Do you think I like frying your nuts?” He nodded to the soldier at the control panel. Jack screamed as a three second low voltage electrical charge shot through his testicles, pinching and twisting. Jack’s body convulsed violently against the pain, but the straps held him in place, digging deep into his flesh. When the electrocution stopped, he sagged forward panting but the agony continued in his lower body for a long time after. Tarkovskoi waited for the pain to do its work. He could see the utter exhaustion in his prisoner’s face. It was an expression he’d seen many times, just before a subject broke.
“If you do not wish to talk, perhaps I should come back tomorrow. My associate will continue the treatments while I am gone,” Tarkovskoi said menacingly.
Jack shook his head slowly. “No more.”
Tarkovskoi lifted his hand, ensuring the soldier at the control panel did not electrocute
him again. “See how easy it is to stop this unpleasantness?”
“All right!” Jack whispered feebly.
“If you co-operate, you will never feel that pain again.”
Jack felt a flow of relief through every fiber of his being. He’d give up anything to be free of that pain, all he had to do was talk. “What do you want to know?”
Tarkovskoi leaned forward. “Tell me about . . . stealth technology.”
* * * *
Present Day
“Mr Corman, how do you do,” Louis Rogers said. The Chief of Security at the Moscow Embassy was slightly shorter and more personable than Corman, and wore a conservative pinstripe suit designed not to attract attention when he stepped outside embassy grounds. He shook hands as he ushered them into his office. “Good flight?”
“Fine, thanks,” Corman said. “This is Detective Harriman, from the New York Police Department. He has no official security clearance, however, he can identify the other side’s lead operative. Anything he sees, goes through me first.”
Rogers nodded cordially. “Welcome. First time in Russia?”
“No,” Corman said with a tone indicating he didn’t want to discuss his earlier visits.
“Yes,” Harriman replied. “It’s brighter and bleaker than I expected.”
“I know what you mean,” Rogers said. “It’s a strange mix of Tsarist opulence, old Soviet dullness and nouveau riche extravagance.” Rogers offered them seats, then slid into a comfortable armchair opposite them. “Langley sent me a coded message this morning. It seems some money has gone missing and a few nasty individuals have a US citizen whom they’re . . . questioning.”
“Yes, a young man by the name of Craig Balard,” Corman replied. “We need to find him fast, before they break him.”
Rogers nodded. “I’ve got traces out all over the city looking for him, but I have to tell you, if the Russian intelligence service have him locked up, we won’t see him again – dead or alive.”
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