Birth of an Assassin Page 16

  He took out Kornfeld’s knife. She seemed unaware of the blade creeping up between their bodies. Otto slipped the point firmly between her ribs and pushed. She gasped as the cold steel pierced her heart. She looked up, her body heaved and renewed fear filled her face. But the assault took immediate effect and the life in her eyes dimmed.

  He let her slide almost gracefully to the floor and left the knife where it had come to rest. As he removed his gloves, he looked down and shook his head in disgust. The wound had smothered his greatcoat with blood.

  Chapter 27

  With his back to the railway station, Jez followed the main avenue. He came to a factory village that had been absorbed with the station town and other villages to create the city of Balashikha. Within this village stood Leninsky Avenue, a small tree-lined street with a couple of canopied shops, one selling vegetables, the other cheese and bread. It was almost mid-morning and queues of men and women had already spilled from the shops and out onto the street. They would hope there would be enough left on the shelves for their rations; and if there were, that the ration would be enough.

  His stomach rumbled. Should he take a ticket and get in line for a piece of cheese? But no, the task was too near conclusion. To impress the general, he needed to demonstrate he could take on new duties with ease. Besides, the club was only a hundred meters down the road. Carry on and eat later.

  He turned at the first intersection and saw a small sign – The Red Lite. Almost tentatively, he approached the steps leading down to a basement. Only a building, but the beat of his heart hammered in his chest and he felt sure that success would put his career back on the fast track.

  At the bottom step, the stale residue of alcohol and cheap fragrances invaded his nostrils. He levered down the door handle and pushed it open. Why wasn’t it locked? Quickly, he dismissed the doubt and made his way along a small passage that gave way to a main saloon. Lights on – in an empty club.

  An unlocked door, lights on. And he’d just killed Boris on someone else’s behalf. Could it be a trap? But if he searched the back office, it might produce the evidence he sought; and if it didn’t, he could set an ambush for the perpetrators. No, continue and be damned.

  His army brogues clicked on the concrete tiles, his leather jacket squeaked and his heartbeat drummed in his ears. The odd collection of sounds distracted him and his nerves calmed down.

  For years, his training and the action he’d been involved with had been about staying alert, because his life might depend on it. But now he found the eagerness to impress all-consuming. A corridor brought him to a door. He threw it open and entered without caution. No windows, but otherwise an identical office to the one where he’d left Boris: a desk, three chairs, a wooden cupboard, a filing cabinet in the corner. The nearest thing to decoration was a glass ashtray alongside a mug full of stubbed pencils.

  Right, desk drawers first. There were no people, no sounds – so where did the blow come from that sent his mind spiraling into disarray? Pain thundered in the back of his head. His body drove through the chairs and flew over the desk, slamming into the wall beyond. Blood ran freely down the nape of his neck; he was hurt, but instinct brought him to his feet. That same instinct turned him, ready to protect himself. Instead, his jaw dropped in disbelief.

  “Capt…” he begged, but Captain Mitrokhin stared with a cold, cynical silence.

  Before the words had left his lips, Mitrokhin had moved swiftly past the desk and thrown a punch. Flashes sparked in Jez’s head as the thud exploded on the side of his face. He reeled back.

  The cold, hard granite of the cellar wall crumpled his body and he squashed against it, sliding to the floor. Luckily the captain didn’t punch his weight, or already he’d be done. Resolve made a fist in his chest and he sidled sideways to take himself far enough from Mitrokhin to get to his feet and be ready for the next assault. But a glance at this unexpected enemy highlighted the swelling from the previous blow. His left eye had almost closed.

  He faltered. Another such strike would surely finish him. Jez faced the captain, saw the next attack coming and feigned a move to the left, but dodged right. Mitrokhin lumbered by. That’s the way: fitness and unequalled speed. He moved deftly one way, then another, and managed to avoid contact while recovering.

  Though under assault, he couldn’t help wonder at the captain. Why attack him? Had he somehow missed Viktor or been corrupted into thinking he was the enemy?

  The captain lunged forward with another blistering attack. Jez dodged the main assault, but a high kick grazed his shoulder. The struggle was being lost. The combat training Spetsnaz received wasn’t about taking prisoners, and the way Mitrokhin acted now he would kill him unless he could assert himself.

  Jez stooped, stumbled onto his back foot, gripped his injured shoulder and assumed the stance of a wounded bird. He couldn’t tell if Mitrokhin had bought into it but, whatever his thoughts, they didn’t stop him coming forward with too much confidence. An opening presented itself. Jez threw a savage straight-arm blow that hit Mitrokhin in the ribs. But the strike glanced off. He’d failed to inflict damage, but just for a moment, Mitrokhin’s eyes died. They lost their fire. And in that moment, Jez took control.

  He swiveled his body and directed his strength into delivering a single strike. A gamble: if he missed he’d be off balance and leave himself open. The blow was a crude kick that traveled up between Mitrokhin’s legs. The delivery crunched home and Mitrokhin crumpled to his knees.

  Jez had won the battle, but he felt no victory. He was at a loss with the whole situation. How could events have come to this? Awkwardly, he pulled the big man to his feet and maneuvered him onto an undamaged chair. Mitrokhin could do nothing but allow the manhandling.

  “Captain Mitrokhin, I don’t understand. Why attack me? You know what I’ve been working on.”

  Jez paused to give Mitrokhin a chance to reply, but nothing.

  “I don’t know how, but something’s gone badly wrong here,” he continued. “We must put our information together to see if we can come up with an answer. Have you spoken with Sergeant Sharansky?”

  Jez heard the words echo around his head and panic wouldn’t let go of his chest. Who had turned Mitrokhin?

  Blood seeped onto his neck, his face hurt and his head ached. Anxiety magnified this throbbing pain out of all proportion. Out to impress his mentor, almost there, but now it had all turned upside down and for no clear reason.

  Events continued on a downward spiral when two, armed, uniformed officers burst into the room. They crouched and aimed pistols directly into his face.

  “Drop your weapon,” one shouted.

  “I’m not armed,” he replied, and held his arms out in crucifixion while opening his hands palm outward.

  But while facing the men, another tremendous blow shook the back of his head and he plunged into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 28

  Jez’s nostrils inflamed to an acrid chemical. He shook his head vigorously, and his tormentor withdrew his hand from under… maybe a hood.

  Consciousness seeped back slowly and pain thumped in his head, pain he’d been blissfully unaware of until now. Blood had settled, congealed on his neck, and pulled at the roots of his hair. His eyelids felt welded together. One popped open, but there was only darkness.

  He was a prisoner, hooded and tied. What had happened? Where was he? He’d been trained to handle terror situations, but now he could see death, and fear held him in an icy grip. He felt a cold draft on his chest and his nipples pinched – electrodes. He moved a foot, and caught his ankle against a chair leg. His feet were bare.

  “Ah, nice to have you back, Lieutenant Kornfeld. Let me pay tribute to your fitness. There are not many who recover so quickly.”

  A voice that whispered, soft, almost friendly. Jez couldn’t think why he’d become subject to interrogation, but that’s what this was. Someone soft; soon there would be another, coming down heavy. But why? Not important now, he had to stay in contr
ol. He’d managed with these conditions in training, so he had to do the same in conflict.

  As expected, a second interrogator chipped in. “Please, please, don’t speak so nicely to this traitor.” A harsh, graveled voice grated from the throat.

  The interrogator’s face was close. Breath filtered through the hood and the odor was no sweeter than the foul taste Jez endured from his own mouth.

  “Unlike my partner, I have no kind regard towards you, Kornfeld,” he said. “I will only be satisfied when they execute you with a shot into the back of that worthless head of yours.”

  Traitor, how could he call him that? And execution; words of treachery and execution. These people were part of a Smersh unit. Initially formed to bring death to spies, the unit was extended to deal with mutineers, traitors and deserters. When they finished with their victims, execution was a welcome reprieve. He tried to harden his determination, but couldn’t stop the wave of fear that brushed over his skin.

  Jez noted how his words sounded hollow when he said, “I have committed no crime. Everything I’ve done has been in attempt to stop an illegal operation. Somehow, Captain Mitrokhin has been tricked into thinking I’m the guilty party. I need to speak with him – now.”

  The final sentence unwittingly came out as a demand, and a blow lashed his face with a force that left a rush of blood in his mouth. He sensed that someone had moved behind him. Whoever it was gripped the hood and twisted the loose fabric. The material cut into his throat and pulled taut across his face. He choked. The hood tightened and the swelling on his eye felt ready to explode. The congealed scab on his scalp broke and blood dribbled onto the back of his neck.

  He brought his mind to a state of acceptance: Live with it. You’ve been trained to deal with such situations. He almost convinced himself – but then someone lifted his legs and submerged his feet in icy cold water. Alarm returned. He’d been right about his nipples being clamped, but the knowledge failed to prevent the electric current from racing along the rigid copper path or the shockwaves from streaming through his body.

  “Uhn…” His teeth clinched and his body jerked. He rose up, his frame straightened, his hands clenched into fists and his toes curled. Muscle spasm, cramping, tightening as the flow of electricity battered from within. The unending assault bleached his body, drained him of life. Seconds, minutes, hours, he had no way of telling, but the onslaught seemed infinite, and then came bittersweet relief as the assault ended.

  His head slumped forward, at last it had finished. But then someone kicked him to the floor, lifted the chair back onto its legs and gave him another burst of electricity.

  “Uhn… Just tell me what… what you want. Uhn…”

  The voltage dropped and a kick or a punch slammed into his cheek. The side of his face swelled in response and he fell silent.

  “You’re holding up well,” the soft voice said. “I wonder how you’ll cope when your mother is brought in. Before we put that hood on you, I thought you looked rather pretty. If your mother is nearly as nice, well, I think we’ll probably enjoy ourselves a little before we start hurting her.” Even his snigger was whispered and the gravel man choked out a rasping chuckle.

  “If you lay a finger on my mother, I’ll kill you,” he said, and wished he hadn’t when he heard the interrogators laugh uproariously.

  “No, no, actually, we’re killing you.”

  “If you’re going to kill me, then do it now,” Jez demanded, but only to the sound of more laughter.

  The questions continued.

  “All this is meaningless. Even if I understood what you wanted, I don’t think you’re interested.”

  They chuckled, clearly content with browbeating him. Jez knew they were applying attrition tactics, disorientating and intimidating him. They would build a campaign to weaken his resolve, destroy his spirit before getting to what they wanted. And it would be something simple.

  “Of course, I get it. You want a signed confession. If you had wanted answers, you’d have used sodium amytal.”

  They would know the mind-numbing sedative wouldn’t be as effective on a weathered soldier, but if they did expect to get information then drugs wouldn’t hurt their cause.

  His chair was kicked from behind. He fell forward and his knees scuffed the floor. Freed from his bonds, they brought him to his feet, fastened his hands behind him, and a firm grip on the elbow guided him from the room. The hood was still over his head as he was frog-marched through a number of corridors. The only thing that stopped him from falling was the vice-like grip on his arm. Halted, he was spun a quarter turn and pushed forward. A door closed.

  A room, maybe the same room, and the walk-about had been part of the effort to confuse. But a sour smell wafted up under the hood – an odor accompanied by damp cold air. A different room. Perhaps the torture was over for the moment.

  Silent, he listened for breathing, any sound that might betray another presence – nothing. He edged forward, stuck out a bare foot, and gently stubbed his toes against an object. He outlined it. A bunk covered with… probably a horse blanket. Good, maybe there would be respite. Still handcuffed and hooded, there could be another visit soon. He had no idea how long he had. He should rest.

  He maneuvered onto the bed and curled up. But his body shook, his teeth chattered and his mind raced over what had gone by. He moved awkwardly and his shoulders ached. The binding cut into his wrists and restless turning rubbed the hood against his face. But he couldn’t let go the agony of not knowing what had happened. It was clear enough the captain hadn’t liked him from the start, so his thinking would be easily corrupted. But if he could bring Viktor into the loop, that would surely prove his innocence.

  Chapter 29

  Sporadic awakenings, nightmarish dreams about head injuries, and then Jez came round to a delirious consciousness. But as his mind cleared, his thinking moved closer to sanity. He wasn’t sure if he’d been asleep for moments or hours, and with the hood over his head he couldn’t tell night from day. The cover interfered with his breathing, a blocked nose caused his eyes to draw and he couldn’t swallow. Every movement brought memories of pain and torture.

  Deflated, he had to question his decision of ever leaving his family home. Life had been so simple there. But there was no future in looking back. He needed success, not regret. What was the situation? Cold and damp – possibly a cellar. Did that mean the club, or an underground cell? The club wasn’t damp, so it would be reasonable to consider he was in the Lubyanka cells. Logical reasoning lifted him.

  Now, what had happened in the club? With only the captain there… oh, and the armed men. But he was facing them before he was knocked out. Even so, the captain had been in no fit state to attack him. Wait, the glass ashtray, it went soaring when he flew over the desk. Okay, Mitrokhin could have hit him with that. Mitrokhin, he was the important factor here. If only he could convince him of his innocence.

  The door unlocked, boots clicked, someone brought him roughly to his feet and he was dragged from the room.

  “Is this Lubyanka?” he asked, but a tightening grip on the arm gave him the only answer he would get – Silence!

  Jez stumbled through the corridors and thought of one of the stories his poppa told.

  *

  Poppa used to gather the family round the table after supper for his weekly tales of how Russian life had been for Jewish people.

  “I tell you this story so you’ll never forget what you are.” He postured in readiness. “Our families lived in Moldova in Kishinev, a monastery town nestled on the tributary banks of the River Nistru. In 1903, they fled from a pogrom, the worst of its kind there. Our people scattered like a flock of birds to the farmer’s gun.”

  Jez had sat attentively, tuned in alongside his brothers and sisters. All sighed in unison as Poppa stopped to muse. Jez allowed his mind to wander: shadowy figures rose in his imagination, dark indistinguishable shapes hovered over his head and brought his own version of the bogeyman. He came back to reality
with unblinking saucer-like eyes.

  “When the families returned from their hiding places they found many killed and countless injured. There had been more bloodshed than they could have imagined. Enough to know that it wasn’t safe to stay.”

  Poppa dug his fingers into his beard as if searching for crumbs from the earlier meal.

  “Our homes burned, and those that weren’t on fire had been destroyed. I don’t have real recollection, I was still a babe in arms, and Momma still waited to be born. But I know that many families fled west to America, and others to Palestine to live amongst the Jews and Palestinians there.

  “Our families stayed in Russia and moved north. When they got to the Golden Gate of Vladimir, they settled. My family hadn’t wanted to live in the city so we moved to its rural suburbs. And here – up to now – we’ve been safe.

  “The worst part of this story is that the pogrom had been supported by the State.” He stopped to give a practiced measure of silence. “It’s true we live under a different administration, but the argument holds. Wherever your lives might take you, my children, you must remember: as Jews there will always be gentile hatred for you. You should always remain aware.”

  *

  “Could that be what this is about?” he wondered. “But it couldn’t be, not after such long service. No, whatever the reason, it wasn’t that.”

  All the same, someone had put him in the frame. And to damn it all, his investigation hadn’t yet shown who that might be. The guard opened a door and pushed him through. The handler forcefully made him sit and the door closed.

  “Right then, Kornfeld,” a voice said.

  Jez recognized it. The captain. “Captain Mitrokhin, thank goodness…” Further speech became impossible as pressure came on the front of the hood and clamped his mouth.