‘Your gaff,’ Sam replied, peering harder into the light. ‘You do what you want.’
‘I intend to.’ Dolohov stood up and stepped away from the light, revealing more of his features. He was a small, dumpy little man with a jowly face behind unfashionable spectacles. His thin hair was Brylcreemed and combed into a severe parting. He wore slacks and an open collar under his jumper. The small gun in his hand remained firmly pointed in Sam’s direction.
‘I consider it unlikely,’ Dolohov mused, ‘that a man such as yourself, armed with a weapon such as that, is a mere delivery boy. A common thief perhaps, here to rob me for drug money?’ An unpleasant smile spread across his face as he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
Sam refused to let any expression cross his face. ‘A university professor,’ he countered, ‘armed and coshing anyone who turns up at his flat late at night. Doesn’t quite add up.’
Dolohov gave him an icy look. ‘Self-defence,’ he stated.
‘Sure.’ Sam shrugged. ‘But against what?’
‘Against interfering idiots like you.’ Dolohov took a step closer and Sam could sense his anger. ‘I recommend that you tell me who you are and what you want, otherwise our conversation will be very short.’
Dolohov’s glasses were slightly crooked on his face. If he wasn’t carrying a weapon, he’d look faintly ridiculous. He took another step towards Sam, as if to underline his seriousness.
Keep coming, Sam thought to himself. Just keep coming. His face still hurt, but the nausea was passing. ‘I thought we might have a chat,’ he goaded his assailant.
‘About what?’
‘About some e-mails.’
Dolohov’s lips thinned. ‘What e-mails?’
Sam smiled at him, an intentionally arrogant and infuriating smile. He said nothing.
‘What e-mails?’ Dolohov straightened his arm and took another stride towards Sam.
That was all he needed.
Sam moved quickly. With one hand he grabbed Dolohov’s podgy wrist in a crunching grip, pulled himself to his feet and circled his other arm tightly round the man’s fat neck. Dolohov fired his gun; the bullet slammed into the back of the chair, knocking it a metre along the floor before it rocked and upturned. Sam squeezed Dolohov’s neck, while firmly gripping his gun hand.
‘Drop the weapon!’ he hissed.
A gasping sound from Dolohov’s throat, but the gun stayed where it was. There was a fireplace to Sam’s right, surrounded by marble and with a shelf above that housed delicate china figurines. Sam twisted Dolohov’s body round, then slammed his wrist against the fireplace. One of the figurines toppled and smashed; the gun, too, fell from Dolohov’s hand as he gasped in pain. Sam continued to squeeze his neck. The flesh bulged and the gasping sound from Dolohov’s throat grew weaker. Sam had to concentrate. Keep the stranglehold for too long and he’d kill the man, but he just wanted him to lose consciousness. It would give Sam a few precious minutes to prepare for what had to happen next.
Dolohov’s body started to go limp. Sam held firm. The struggling ceased, so he relaxed his grip; as the man fell to the ground he manoeuvred his arms under Dolohov’s armpits and gently lowered him to the floor. Two fingers against his neck. A pulse. Sam nodded with satisfaction.
He had to move quickly. Violence like that affected different people in different ways. He could be out for five minutes or thirty seconds. Sam had to restrain his prisoner before he woke.
Running to the entrance of the room he switched the main light on and took a moment to get his bearings. He was in the room that he had seen leading off the entrance hallway. It was plush. Next to the fire there was a comfortable, intricately upholstered armchair and on the opposite wall an antique chaise longue. At one end of the room were big windows looking out over a long garden far below and the roofs and towers of London beyond. Thick, corded curtains hung on either side. There was art on the walls, rich rugs on the floor and books seemingly everywhere.
Sam approached the long table in the middle of the room. He disconnected the light from its socket, then, with a sharp tug, pulled the flex from the lamp. Returning to the body on the floor, he bent down and pulled Dolohov up, plonking him on the chair which had been positioned behind the lamp. He took the flex and wound it tightly round the man’s body, arms and around the back of the chair, before tying it tightly. Dolohov could wake up any second, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. It gave Sam a chance to explore the house a bit.
To find the tools he needed.
He drew the curtains first, then made sure the front door was locked from the inside. The little kitchen, which was reached by a thin corridor that led off the main hallway, was modern and scrupulously tidy. An unopened bottle of vodka sat on the side. Sam grabbed it, twisted the top open and took a gulp. The fierce alcohol warmed him immediately as he started to rummage through the kitchen drawers. There were plenty of knives, good sharp ones, but it was the sturdy set of poultry shears that caught his attention. He added them to his stash, then helped himself to a few tea towels that were neatly piled up. Rummaging though a cupboard he found a small culinary blowtorch. His man obviously fancied himself as a chef, but he wouldn’t be making brûlées tonight. He found a drawer containing a set of DIY tools for odd jobs – pliers, a hammer, two standard-sized screwdrivers. Sam took the pliers. Walking back into the main room, he placed everything on the table. Then he turned back and surveyed Dolohov, whose head was drooping onto his chest.
In the Regiment they called it field interrogation. Torture by any other name, of course. Earnest politicians denounced it in public, but their special forces were well trained in extracting information by whatever means necessary. Sam had long since lost any squeamishness about the Regiment’s methods and he wasn’t in the mood to mess about. Was he going to torture an innocent man? He shook his head. The guy in front of him oozed many things. Innocence wasn’t one of them. Once you’d done this enough times, you got a feel for these things.
Dolohov stirred. He raised his pale face and looked at Sam with the confused expression of someone waking from a long sleep. It took a few seconds for him to remember what was happening; when he did, he stared at Sam with undisguised hate. His eyes flickered towards the gun on the table, but there was no way he could reach it.
Sam took the bottle of vodka, then approached his captive, raising the bottle to Dolohov’s lips.
‘Drink?’ he offered.
Dolohov turned his head away and muttered something. It sounded like Russian. It also didn’t sound very polite.
Sam inclined his head, took a swig, then replaced the bottle on the table. He walked round to the back of Dolohov’s chair, bent down and spoke just inches from his ear. ‘I’m going to give you one chance,’ he whispered, ‘to tell me absolutely everything you know. Who you are. What you do. Believe me, Dolohov, you don’t want to fuck around.’
A pause. And then Dolohov spoke. ‘I teach in a university,’ he said. His English accent had slipped. ‘And you,’ he continued, ‘you can go to hell.’
Sam’s eyes narrowed. He straightened up and walked back round to Dolohov’s front. Taking one of the tea towels, he approached the Russian.
‘Open your mouth.’
Dolohov kept his lips clenched firmly shut. Sam raised an eyebrow and, without warning, dealt a massive blow to his ample stomach. The Russian gasped loudly, winded by the punch; his eyes bulged as Sam stuffed the tea towel into his mouth. Dolohov’s body seemed to go into spasm as he tried to bend over and gasp for air; but the flex and the cloth in his mouth meant he could do neither.