laughed. “And your prick drips because a whore gave you a double-barreled bouquet; the clap
and
syphilis. Ha!”
The barbital sodium proved as ineffective as the caffeine had. Sharmukhamedov stared at the ceiling and said nothing. At some point he closed his eyes; he may even have gone to sleep. At least he wasn’t talking anymore.
Lev sat at his desk, his chair pushed back to make room for his legs.
“Give him a steam bath,” he said at length. It was prison slang for a no-holds-barred interrogation.
“Just what I’d have suggested,” said Sabirzhan. He was hopping around like a pea on a hot griddle, flushed not only with elation at the prospect of inflicting untold pain on his prisoner, but also with eagerness for Lev’s approval if he did it well.
Sharmukhamedov smiled when Sabirzhan showed him the stun gun. He’d used one many times himself, on those who wouldn’t sign contracts or who quibbled about protection money.
Sabirzhan held the barrel against Sharmukhamedov’s chest, glanced at his watch, and pulled the trigger. A terrible jerking against the restraints—one second—those sapphire eyes screwed tight shut, the first time the Chechen even looked to have felt pain—two seconds—how extraordinary, one hand was splayed open like a starfish, the other was clenched into a massive fist—three seconds and here they came, the unmistakable sounds and smells of a body involuntarily emptying itself. A lake bloomed suddenly across Sharmukhamedov’s crotch; sludge oozed from between his legs. Sabirzhan gagged on the cloying sweetness and held the stun gun aloft.
“Every time after this, Baltazar, I keep it on for a little bit longer. Three seconds, five, seven, ten. Irreparable paralysis begins to set in at ten seconds, you know?”
9
Tuesday, December 31, 1991
A lice arrived at the McDonald’s on Pushkin Square ten minutes early. She’d chosen the venue deliberately; if privatizing Red October was to be the real start of Russia’s road to capitalism—capital couldn’t function without private property, after all—where better to plot its course than in the bastion of consumer capitalism itself?
Harry and Bob were already there. Even though Alice had never met either of them before, she recognized them instantly, and would have done so even if she hadn’t been sent files on them beforehand. The locals were dressed in dull, earthy colors, they were eating their hamburgers with the reverence one accords to an exotic delicacy and hard living had lined their faces with trenches of strain. Healthy of countenance and with bright windbreakers draped over the backs of their chairs, Harry and Bob were tucking in without ceremony. Oh—and Bob was black, which in Moscow was enough to single him out to a blind man.
Alice walked over to them. “Hey, guys. I’m Alice”—she adopted a jokingly girlish voice—“and I’m going to be your boss for the next few months.” She stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the lion’s den.”
They were on their feet, laughing with her, glad to have another in their gang.
“Bob Craig, Houston, Texas”—thickset in a heavy sports jacket—“great to meet you.”
“Harry Exley, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania”—like anexcited freshman—“heard so much about you, Mrs. Liddell. It’s a real honor to be working with you, I was
so
thrilled to be asked …”
“Easy!” Alice chuckled to hide her embarrassment and take the sting from her reproach. “Harry, you’re gonna have to kiss more ass than a toilet seat sees all year before this thing is out; don’t waste your butt licking on me. And the next time you call me Mrs. Liddell, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week, understood?”
“OK.
Alice.”
Harry pushed a paper bag toward her. “We were too hungry to wait lunch for you; sorry. And the lines were awful, so we bought you a hamburger meal to save you waiting. No cheese; is that OK?”
“Cheese, no cheese—they all taste the same
and
syphilis. Ha!”
The barbital sodium proved as ineffective as the caffeine had. Sharmukhamedov stared at the ceiling and said nothing. At some point he closed his eyes; he may even have gone to sleep. At least he wasn’t talking anymore.
Lev sat at his desk, his chair pushed back to make room for his legs.
“Give him a steam bath,” he said at length. It was prison slang for a no-holds-barred interrogation.
“Just what I’d have suggested,” said Sabirzhan. He was hopping around like a pea on a hot griddle, flushed not only with elation at the prospect of inflicting untold pain on his prisoner, but also with eagerness for Lev’s approval if he did it well.
Sharmukhamedov smiled when Sabirzhan showed him the stun gun. He’d used one many times himself, on those who wouldn’t sign contracts or who quibbled about protection money.
Sabirzhan held the barrel against Sharmukhamedov’s chest, glanced at his watch, and pulled the trigger. A terrible jerking against the restraints—one second—those sapphire eyes screwed tight shut, the first time the Chechen even looked to have felt pain—two seconds—how extraordinary, one hand was splayed open like a starfish, the other was clenched into a massive fist—three seconds and here they came, the unmistakable sounds and smells of a body involuntarily emptying itself. A lake bloomed suddenly across Sharmukhamedov’s crotch; sludge oozed from between his legs. Sabirzhan gagged on the cloying sweetness and held the stun gun aloft.
“Every time after this, Baltazar, I keep it on for a little bit longer. Three seconds, five, seven, ten. Irreparable paralysis begins to set in at ten seconds, you know?”
9
Tuesday, December 31, 1991
A lice arrived at the McDonald’s on Pushkin Square ten minutes early. She’d chosen the venue deliberately; if privatizing Red October was to be the real start of Russia’s road to capitalism—capital couldn’t function without private property, after all—where better to plot its course than in the bastion of consumer capitalism itself?
Harry and Bob were already there. Even though Alice had never met either of them before, she recognized them instantly, and would have done so even if she hadn’t been sent files on them beforehand. The locals were dressed in dull, earthy colors, they were eating their hamburgers with the reverence one accords to an exotic delicacy and hard living had lined their faces with trenches of strain. Healthy of countenance and with bright windbreakers draped over the backs of their chairs, Harry and Bob were tucking in without ceremony. Oh—and Bob was black, which in Moscow was enough to single him out to a blind man.
Alice walked over to them. “Hey, guys. I’m Alice”—she adopted a jokingly girlish voice—“and I’m going to be your boss for the next few months.” She stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the lion’s den.”
They were on their feet, laughing with her, glad to have another in their gang.
“Bob Craig, Houston, Texas”—thickset in a heavy sports jacket—“great to meet you.”
“Harry Exley, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania”—like anexcited freshman—“heard so much about you, Mrs. Liddell. It’s a real honor to be working with you, I was
so
thrilled to be asked …”
“Easy!” Alice chuckled to hide her embarrassment and take the sting from her reproach. “Harry, you’re gonna have to kiss more ass than a toilet seat sees all year before this thing is out; don’t waste your butt licking on me. And the next time you call me Mrs. Liddell, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week, understood?”
“OK.
Alice.”
Harry pushed a paper bag toward her. “We were too hungry to wait lunch for you; sorry. And the lines were awful, so we bought you a hamburger meal to save you waiting. No cheese; is that OK?”
“Cheese, no cheese—they all taste the same
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