Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Like the more recent Parabellum, it takes nine-millimetre ammunition, more than capable of killing you from quite a long way away. But, given the circumstances, it does not suit me to use it. So it shall remain in my holster. Cleaned and unfired.”

Suiting the action to the word, he slid the weapon back into its holster, pressing the holster button closed with a loud snap.

“Now there is only one gun,” he explained, indicating the gun in his hand. “This one, the one I shall say you brought in with you. Of course, after he has dragged your body away, the sergeant will be severely reprimanded. He should have thoroughly searched you before bringing you in. Instead, in the middle of your interrogation, you produced this gun and tried to assassinate me but, alas, you were inexperienced and the gun became caught in your clothing. There was a struggle and you got shot. Twice. Once in the face, once in the body. Not that anyone will ask any questions, you understand? But I have always believed that the records should contain no discrepancies.”

He raised the gun slightly, then lowered it until it was resting on his lap.

“I am sorry,” he apologised. “I should have offered you a cigarette. That was rude of me. I am afraid that we have no more time left now.”

With deliberate slowness, he raised the pistol again, until the end of its barrel was less than two hands’ width from the prisoner’s right eye.

“The face first, I think.”

“No,” gasped Fatiev weakly.

“Yes,” Izorov contradicted him. “You have less than ten seconds to live.”

Fatiev’s legs began to shake uncontrollably, making the chair rock slightly.

“NO! Please… No!”

“You are going to die now.”

“God! No… please!…”

“Hush now.”

“Please… I’m sorry…”

“I know, I know.”

“Oh, please don’t… Please don’t…”

“Goodbye Fatiev!”

With a deafening roar that filled the room, Colonel Izorov leapt forward, bringing the fist of his free hand crashing down against the side of Fatiev’s head.

“Tell me!” he bellowed.

The chair toppled over sideways and with a scream, Fatiev fell to the floor. Izorov followed him down, hitting him repeatedly in the face with the butt of the pistol.

“Tell me!” he roared again.

This time Fatiev broke. For a split second he had glimpsed the nameless animal that had been let loose beneath the policeman’s skin: its lips drawn back, its hackles roused, its razor sharp teeth gleaming in its mouth. Izorov had gone, had become a beast: inhuman, untameable, longing to kill. It had been there in his last shout and it remained in his taut brow and staring eyes.

“Stop!” Fatiev screamed. “I… I… know about the convoy!”

Grasping a handful of his hair, the beast pulled Fatiev’s head back until his body was arched upon the floor. Laying the cold steel of the gun’s barrel against the side of his damaged nose, it whispered:

“I know you know, Fatiev! What I don’t know, and what you are going to tell me, is what you and your gang are planning to do about it.”

Fatiev made the mistake of hesitating for a fraction of a second. The gun jerked viciously in the beast’s hand and the young man screamed for a third time as fresh gobbets of blood began to fall from his damaged nose.

“Nothing! Just a demonstration… that’s all,” he blubbered. “Followed by a mass meeting in front of the prison. Please stop!”

Blinded by his tears and the pain, Fatiev felt the beast’s grip tighten on his hair and wondered where the gun had gone. A sudden heavy pressure at the hollow of his exposed throat provided the answer.

“Which groups?” snarled the beast. “Tell me or I will kill you.”

“Just my group and some of the Essers. Not many.”

The end of the muzzle continued to press against his throat, as if it were trying to bore through the skin. Fatiev realised that if he couldn’t swallow in the next few seconds, he would choke to death. Then, suddenly, it was gone and Colonel Izorov had let go of his hair and was straightening up, moving away.

“Get up now,” he heard him say quietly. “Here, take my hand.”

Automatically, Fatiev reached out and let the policeman help him to his feet and brush the worst of the dust from his clothes as he leant shaking against the desk.

“Ah Fatiev, Fatiev!” said Izorov sorrowfully. “Why do we do such terrible things to each other? It’s all over now. All finished.”

Leaving him by the desk, Izorov bent down and picked up the fallen chair. Beckoning Fatiev to it, he gently but firmly pressed him down onto its seat.

Burying his face in his hands, Fatiev began to sob loudly.

Unmoved, the Chief of Police returned to his desk and began wrapping the rags around the pistol, murmuring the occasional word of comfort as he did so.

“There, there. That’s right, you have a good cry my young friend. It doesn’t matter. There’s just you and me here. Would you like something to drink?”