Sam watched as the Russian gradually got control of his breathing and his body. Then he looked around. In one corner of the room was a stereo system. He switched it on and pressed a button on the CD player. Classical music swelled into the room. Sam adjusted the volume: not so loud that it would disturb the neighbours, but loud enough to muffle any sounds that came from the room.
And only then did he take the poultry shears from the table.
By now, Dolohov’s glasses had slipped down his nose. He looked over them, noticing the shears for the first time. Instinctively he shuffled his chair back a few inches, shaking his head. Sam ignored him and approached.
There was no point making threats. The first rule of field interrogation was to let the person you’re questioning know that you’re serious. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which hand was it you were holding that gun in? Left or right?’ He furrowed his brow theatrically. ‘Left, I think. We’ll start with the left.’
Dolohov made some kind of noise and shook his head more vigorously. He was sweating like an altar boy in church. Sam walked round to his left-hand side and felt for the Russian’s fingers. They were clenched shut, but it was no great problem to unfurl his trigger finger. More noises – squeals, almost. Sam ignored them. He opened up the blade of the shears before clasping them round the base of Dolohov’s fat finger.
And then he squeezed.
The sharp blades slipped easily through the layers of skin and fat, like a warm knife cutting into jelly. Only when they hit the bone did he have to squeeze harder. The blades crunched through, more on account of Sam’s force than their sharpness. The finger came away and blood flowed copiously from the fresh wound.
Dolohov’s body had started convulsing, his muffled squeals more constant. Sam walked casually to the table, placed the amputated finger in full view of its former owner, then picked up the blowtorch. ‘We don’t want you bleeding to death,’ he told the Russian.
It wouldn’t take much to cauterise the wound. The cigarette lighter from a car would do it, but Sam had to use the tools at his disposal. The flame from the blowtorch was a pale blue – you could barely see it – but it would do the job nicely. He approached the still-squealing Dolohov and touched the flame to the bleeding stump of his finger. The wet blood dried brown and a foul, acrid smell hit Sam’s nose. Dolohov’s arm stiffened with the pain, but the blood stopped flowing.
He stayed out of Dolohov’s sight for a few moments before removing and cauterising a second finger – the little finger, this time, on the right hand. The bone was smaller here; the shears made short work of it. It had the same effect on Dolohov, however. The muffled squeals seemed to go into overdrive and he shook so much Sam thought for a moment that his chair might topple over. He walked round to Dolohov’s front, switched the blowtorch off for a second time, then stepped back, before pushing the Russian’s glasses back on to his face, opening his mouth as if to say something, then making a pretence of deciding against it.
He took the pliers, grabbed the thumb on the Russian’s right hand and held it firm. Sam clasped the thumbnail between the jaws of the plier and squeezed, tightly clamping the nail. Then he pulled. He watched with near total detachment as Dolohov squealed like a pig. Sam had to pull hard to tear the nail off, but after several tugs it was loose and he was finally able to drag it out of its roots, like a dentist loosening a tooth.
Sam walked out of the room and back into the kitchen. He’d give Dolohov a few minutes to sweat it out and worry about what was coming next before going back. In the meantime, he turned on the tap and started washing off the blood that had smeared all over his hands. Pink water ran into the basin. His hands were perfectly steady.
Sam rummaged in a cupboard and found a deep saucepan. He filled it with water, then returned to the main room. Dolohov had passed out. Good. He’d hit his pain barrier and he wouldn’t want to do that again. Sam stood in front of him, then threw the cold water over his head. The Russian awoke with a shock. He stared at Sam in horror as Sam picked up the wooden chair that had previously been shot down, then placed it opposite his victim before sitting only inches away from him.
‘What shall we do next, Professor Dolohov? Same fingers on the other hands? Or maybe…’
He smiled, as if a good idea had just struck him, then looked down at Dolohov’s crotch. Dolohov shook his head violently – even more violently than before. An odour drifted towards Sam’s nostrils. In a situation like this, guys would often piss or cack themselves. It smelled as though Dolohov, the pussy, had done both.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave that till last. After all, it’s only a small one isn’t it? Drink?’ He reached for the bottle, then yanked the tea towel from Dolohov’s mouth. This time Dolohov accepted the drink, a good mouthful of it. It didn’t stop his heavy breath from shaking and trembling, though. Not a bit of it. He whispered something in Russian, then addressed Sam.
‘You are an animal!’ he spat.
‘’Course I’m not,’ Sam replied calmly. ‘If I was an animal, I’d have started with your thumbs.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Have you got any idea how difficult it is trying to take your underpants off without any thumbs?’
Dolohov gave him a monstrous look.
‘But we’ll move on to the thumbs next,’ Sam continued, ‘unless I get what I want.’
‘Untie me.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Dolohov. I want to know who you are and what you do. And believe me, my friend, if you say the word “university” again, this is going to be a long fucking night for you.’
SEVENTEEN
‘Ja russkii.’
Dolohov spoke first in his native language. His eyes were closed, perhaps because of the pain, perhaps because he was scared or perhaps in resignation, because telling the truth was a trial for him. He opened them, then reverted to English. ‘I am Russian.’
‘I’d got that far.’
The Russian pursed his lips with loathing. ‘If you know so much, then I will remain quiet.’
Sam just gave him a steady look. Dolohov couldn’t withstand it for long. His flabby face was pale and sweating.
‘I work for the Russian government.’
‘Spetsnaz?’ Sam was almost asking himself.
Dolohov sneered. ‘Do I look like a Spetsnaz dog?’ he demanded, before shaking his head. ‘Federalvoi Sluzhbe Bezopasnosti. The FSB. My country’s security service.’ Every word he spoke sounded like an effort, as though he was forcing himself against his better judgement. ‘Though when I first came to London, it was known by a different name.’
‘Ah… the KGB.’
Dolohov looked meaningfully at the bottle of vodka. ‘I would like…’ he started to say.
‘Just keep talking, Dolohov.’
The Russian breathed deeply. ‘I am a professional,’ he whispered. ‘You are a professional too, I think.’
‘We’re not talking about me. Keep going.’ The smell of burnt flesh still hung in the air.
‘I receive orders from Moscow. There are people who need removing. Terrorists. My job is to remove them.’
He closed his eyes again and appeared to be trying to master the pain. A silence fell across the room. Sam slotted this new information into the jigsaw of his mind. The details of the red-light runners. The word DECEASED ominously printed above them. ‘You’re a hitman.’
Dolohov didn’t open his eyes. ‘And what are you?’ he replied. ‘A church warden?’
‘The last two hits you made,’ Sam demanded. ‘Tell me who they were?’
Only then did Dolohov open his eyes again. He moistened his dry lips with his tongue and, although his face was still racked with pain, Sam thought he noticed a glint in his eye. Enthusiasm? He couldn’t tell. ‘They are dead,’ he said.