Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Leaning forward, Fatiev stretched out his hand uncertainly towards the bundle of rags on the desk.

“Leave it alone,” Colonel Izorov told him sharply.

Returning his attention to his task, he began to polish the round with the same care he had used to clean the magazine. When he had finished, he placed it upright on the desk in front of him and picked up another. Then, as if something quite apart from Fatiev’s presence had reminded him, he reached into his pocket and brought out a spotless white handkerchief.

“Use this,” he suggested, tossing the handkerchief across the desk.

After that, he ignored the man in the chair until all the bullets stood polished in a line. Then, having reassembled the magazine, he picked them up and fed them back into it one by one, slapping the clip back into the butt of the pistol with the flat of his hand. Quite deliberately, he drew back the slide, compressing the inner spring until the first round presented itself to the empty firing chamber and the breach was closed. Then he gently lay the loaded pistol down, its muzzle pointing at the prisoner before him who had become still.

“Well?” Izorov asked amiably. “Do you have something to tell me?”

Forcing himself to take his gaze off the gun’s barrel, Fatiev replied shakily:

“I am sorry, Colonel? I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to speak to me.”

“You are not listening,” said Colonel Izorov. “I asked you if you had something to tell me.”

Fatiev opened his mouth to reply, but appeared to think better of it. Instead, he just shook his head and watched the policeman warily.

“Are you certain?” Colonel Izorov persisted. “Because I have to satisfy myself that there was no other way.”

Fatiev again shook his head slowly and did not reply. Berezovo’s Chief of Police looked at the bundle of rags on the desk and then back to his prisoner.

He tried for the last time.

“Just by admitting you know about them does not constitute a crime, Fatiev.”

“Know about who?”

With a gesture of regret, Colonel Izorov began to slowly unwrap the bundle. Fatiev’s eyes narrowed as he saw that it contained a second handgun. Smoothing the rags down on either side of it, Colonel Izorov picked up the gun and weighed it in his hands.

“Listen, boy,” he said, “I know what they told you. I know you believe that you won’t cooperate but everybody does, sooner or later. Maybe after an hour, or a day, or a week or a month; even sometimes a year. But everybody comes across, sooner or later. Everybody. But that doesn’t matter now. Do you understand? Today is different.”

Stretching out his arm, he levelled the gun at Fatiev’s chest, one eye closing as he squinted along his line of fire.

“Because today, you see,” he continued calmly, “I don’t have the time. So there won’t be any beatings, or solitary confinement, or any of that rubbish. That is why there is just you and me here, in this office, alone. Do you follow?”

Perplexed, Fatiev shook his head and watched with alarm as the Colonel’s finger tightened perceptibly around the trigger.

“Then let me make myself clear,” said Colonel Izorov. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, in approximately two minutes’ time I am going to kill you.”

Still keeping the gun aimed at Fatiev’s chest, Colonel Izorov stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. He saw Fatiev swallow nervously. Slowly lowering himself until he was sitting comfortably on the desk’s edge, he watched the young man’s face grow paler as the full meaning of his words sank in.

“While we’re waiting,” Izorov said conversationally, “you might like to know about this gun. This is the 7.65 millimetre Parabellum repeating pistol, designed at the factory of Ludwig Lowe in Berlin by a very clever man called Georg Luger. Perhaps you have already seen one before? This model has been standard issue to the Swiss Army since around 1900. There is a later model which came out about three years ago with a heavier calibre round, used by the German Imperial Navy. That is the nine-millimetre Parabellum. The Germans prefer nine-millimetre ammunition as they consider the 7.65 too light for armed combat. But this is a 7.65 and I assure you, my young friend, that at this range it is quite adequate for my purpose.”

Without taking his eyes off Fatiev, the Chief of Police leant back and picked up his service pistol from the desk. He held it up in front of Fatiev’s bruised face.

“My gun, as you can see, is different. It was originally designed and patented in the United States of America about ten years ago, by another ingenious man called Mr John M. Browning. The Belgian Fabrique Nationale d’Armes is licensed to produce it in Europe and this is one of theirs. You can see their initials on the butt. ‘FN’. See?”

He thrust it nearer to Fatiev’s face so that he could inspect it more closely.