Sharmukhamedov’s skull, just below the ridge where the back of his head swelled outward. Butuzov, standing in front of the Chechen, saw Sharmukhamedov’s eyes widen in angry surprise before he pitched forward onto the table.
They draped his arms over their shoulders and carried him out, staggering under the weight. Sharmukhamedov’s head lolled back, his mouth open to the ceiling as though hoping to catch flies. At that angle, no one could see the bruise that was already spreading across the back of his naked scalp. “The vodka,” they explained to any passerby who gave them more than a glance, “it was the vodka,” and everyone nodded understandingly; it’s never too early to be dead drunk in Russia.
Sharmukhamedov was pegged out on a metal table like an animal hide left in the sun to dry, a Gulliver roped down by Lilliputians. Thick steel bands secured his ankles, knees, waist, elbows and neck; any more than the slightest movement was impossible.
Sabirzhan walked all the way around the table. Sharmukhamedov’s eyes, blazing with fury, swiveled in their sockets as they tracked Sabirzhan’s progress.
Sabirzhan stopped, tapped his finger against his mouth and rocked back on his heels, the way people do in art galleries. “The problem we have,” he saidthoughtfully, “is this. Karkadann’s home is too well defended, and trying to pick him off in traffic is too risky.” He gestured with one hand, inviting Sharmukhamedov to help him solve the puzzle; they could have been chess players, crossword fanatics. “So what we need is somewhere less secure, somewhere he’s more vulnerable. Somewhere we can isolate him. The element of surprise is crucial, you understand that, Baltazar. This has to work the first time, or not at all.” He cocked an eyebrow over the pince-nez. “Any thoughts?”
Sharmukhamedov was silent. From the moment he’d regained consciousness and realized what had happened—more specifically, who’d seized him—he knew two things: firstly, that he’d have to resist for no longer than four days, because the moment he wasn’t back from Dubai as planned Karkadann would get suspicious; and secondly, that no matter what he did or didn’t tell them, they would kill him.
Sabirzhan’s forehead prickled with sweat under his widow’s peak. “No? Perhaps this will make you more talkative.” Sabirzhan held a syringe up to the light and rubbed at Sharmukhamedov’s arm. It was as hard as an oak banister; he must have been almost as strong as Lev, the two of them together could have formed a gang all on their own. Sabirzhan found a vein and jabbed the needle in with unnecessary force. Sharmukhamedov didn’t flinch.
“Caffeine,” Sabirzhan explained. “I’ve increased the dose to take account of your size. You’d have to drink ten, fifteen cups of coffee to get the same kick. You could recite
War and Peace
in the time it’ll take to wear off.”
Hours and hours of talking: Sharmukhamedov’s fury at being suckered by such a simple trick; all the women he was going to have fucked this week; how not to cut yourself when you shaved your head every day; how he should have known that the phone engineer was a fake; all the women he’d fucked in his life, especially the one whose cervix he’d split, now,
that
was a tale; how the caffeine was making his heart flutter … An endless monologue about himself, telling Sabirzhan everything other than what he wanted to know.
Sabirzhan gave Sharmukhamedov a second injection, barbital sodium to depress his will.
“I want to wash my face,” Sharmukhamedov said.
“You can wash it in your own blood by the time I’ve finished with you.”
“Beat me all you want. I’ll give it to you so that you’ll be paying the medical bills for the rest of your life.”
“Don’t drag the cat by its tail. Come on, out with it; you’ll save us both a lot of trouble.”
“The entire collective’s fucking your last girlfriend, you know.” Sharmukhamedov
They draped his arms over their shoulders and carried him out, staggering under the weight. Sharmukhamedov’s head lolled back, his mouth open to the ceiling as though hoping to catch flies. At that angle, no one could see the bruise that was already spreading across the back of his naked scalp. “The vodka,” they explained to any passerby who gave them more than a glance, “it was the vodka,” and everyone nodded understandingly; it’s never too early to be dead drunk in Russia.
Sharmukhamedov was pegged out on a metal table like an animal hide left in the sun to dry, a Gulliver roped down by Lilliputians. Thick steel bands secured his ankles, knees, waist, elbows and neck; any more than the slightest movement was impossible.
Sabirzhan walked all the way around the table. Sharmukhamedov’s eyes, blazing with fury, swiveled in their sockets as they tracked Sabirzhan’s progress.
Sabirzhan stopped, tapped his finger against his mouth and rocked back on his heels, the way people do in art galleries. “The problem we have,” he saidthoughtfully, “is this. Karkadann’s home is too well defended, and trying to pick him off in traffic is too risky.” He gestured with one hand, inviting Sharmukhamedov to help him solve the puzzle; they could have been chess players, crossword fanatics. “So what we need is somewhere less secure, somewhere he’s more vulnerable. Somewhere we can isolate him. The element of surprise is crucial, you understand that, Baltazar. This has to work the first time, or not at all.” He cocked an eyebrow over the pince-nez. “Any thoughts?”
Sharmukhamedov was silent. From the moment he’d regained consciousness and realized what had happened—more specifically, who’d seized him—he knew two things: firstly, that he’d have to resist for no longer than four days, because the moment he wasn’t back from Dubai as planned Karkadann would get suspicious; and secondly, that no matter what he did or didn’t tell them, they would kill him.
Sabirzhan’s forehead prickled with sweat under his widow’s peak. “No? Perhaps this will make you more talkative.” Sabirzhan held a syringe up to the light and rubbed at Sharmukhamedov’s arm. It was as hard as an oak banister; he must have been almost as strong as Lev, the two of them together could have formed a gang all on their own. Sabirzhan found a vein and jabbed the needle in with unnecessary force. Sharmukhamedov didn’t flinch.
“Caffeine,” Sabirzhan explained. “I’ve increased the dose to take account of your size. You’d have to drink ten, fifteen cups of coffee to get the same kick. You could recite
War and Peace
in the time it’ll take to wear off.”
Hours and hours of talking: Sharmukhamedov’s fury at being suckered by such a simple trick; all the women he was going to have fucked this week; how not to cut yourself when you shaved your head every day; how he should have known that the phone engineer was a fake; all the women he’d fucked in his life, especially the one whose cervix he’d split, now,
that
was a tale; how the caffeine was making his heart flutter … An endless monologue about himself, telling Sabirzhan everything other than what he wanted to know.
Sabirzhan gave Sharmukhamedov a second injection, barbital sodium to depress his will.
“I want to wash my face,” Sharmukhamedov said.
“You can wash it in your own blood by the time I’ve finished with you.”
“Beat me all you want. I’ll give it to you so that you’ll be paying the medical bills for the rest of your life.”
“Don’t drag the cat by its tail. Come on, out with it; you’ll save us both a lot of trouble.”
“The entire collective’s fucking your last girlfriend, you know.” Sharmukhamedov
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