The Hunted

"Sure, Sergei." He leaned closer. "But it works like this. I'll talk and you'll listen."

The other four men slapped their thighs and roared with laughter. This was funny? This wasn't the least bit humorous. These punks were just begging for it. "Can I at least have your name?"

The man in the chair, said, "For tonight, Vladimir. Let's not worry about what to call me tomorrow. First, you have to give us a reason to let you live that long, Sergei."

"There's no need for these threats. What do you want?"

"Let's start with the easy one. Where's the money?"

"What money?"

A long sigh. "Do we really have to go through this, Sergei?"

"I'm a simple retired officer with a family. I am struggling to survive off my pension. It's not much. Perhaps we can work something out."

From somewhere behind his head, whack, whack, whack.

"Enough! That's enough!" he wailed.

"The money, Sergei. Where's the money?"

"What money?"

"Two hundred and fifty million. The money you stole, where is it?"

How did he know the exact amount? Golitsin briefly wondered. Only a handful knew: Tatyana, Nicky, and of course, the victim knew, not that it mattered. He was rotting in prison, after all, counting the days until his return to Russia.

"Maybe," Golitsin suggested-he squeezed his neck down, hunching his shoulders, trying to avoid another whack-"maybe if you told me who you're working for we can work something out."

Whack-the ducked head and bunched shoulders were a wasted defense. It felt like six hands were slapping the back of his head. He heard his own voice whining and pleading for them to stop.

And eventually the slaps did subside. But Vladimir allowed him no time to recover his wits. "Pay attention, Sergei. This is invaluable advice. You've never been on this side of the torture rack, always the other side, watching and enjoying the show. Fifty years of screaming victims begging for quick deaths. Are you listening, Sergei? Do you understand?"

The voice was so very cold, so flat, so casually captivating; amazing how mesmerizing a voice becomes when it controls the pain.

How many times had Sergei heard that same droll pattern over the years as he watched one victim after another suffer and scream their guts out, until they eventually snapped, until they signed whatever was put before them, signed anything to make the pain stop-accusing their own mothers, sentencing their own children, confessing sins they never came within ten miles of committing. Oh yes, he definitely understood.

He slowly nodded.

"You know how bad this can get, don't you?"

Another nod-yes, yes, of course he remembered. Tears were now rolling down his fat cheeks.

"The pain is going to become intense, Sergei. I don't want you surprised by it. You're going to wish you were dead. You'll beg us to end it. We won't kill you, though. You can't feel the pain unless you're alive. Sorry, but we need you to feel everything."

"Wait!" Something was bothering him. All this talk about torture, and the name of this cruel man. There was a connection there, he was sure of it.

"Why wait? Do you want to tell me where the money is?"

"Vladimir? Yes, Vladimir. Like the Vladimir who worked for me, right?"

A quick shift of the eyes to the floor. "I have no idea who or what you're talking about."

Golitsin stretched as far forward as he could. "He a friend of yours? Is that what this is about? I am so sorry for what happened to poor Vladimir. He killed himself, you know. Suicide. How tragic."

The interrogator jumped out of his chair. Turning to the other four men, he directed a finger at one and said, "Get the BP cuff and monitor his blood pressure. He's old and fat. We don't want him slipping away on us."

The man dashed off.

"Get the tools," he barked at another, who also disappeared into the darkness. To the other two, he said, "You look bored. Work on him while we wait."

They moved up and the slapping began again. No punches, everything open-handed, a relentless fusillade of girly slaps obviously meant to add shame to his pain. Golitsin wailed and screamed, all to no avail.

Vladimir walked to a corner of the large warehouse, yanked a cell phone out of a pocket, punched a number, then cradled it to his ear.

Golitsin was being slapped silly. His cheeks, the back of his head, occasionally his ears, which really stung. He howled and moaned, begging them to stop. Eventually, his chin sank to his chest. His head began lolling wildly with each smack.

He bit down hard on his tongue, choked back his screams, and played opossum for all he was worth. Just stop those infernal slaps, he prayed with all his might. And after a moment, the prayers were answered. They did stop. One yelled out, "Vladimir, he's out cold."

"Don't worry about it," Vladimir replied, sounding distracted, then returned to his phone conversation.

Golitsin fought to control his breathing and prayed they didn't catch on. He could overhear Vladimir speaking louder now, unconcerned about his ability to eavesdrop.