Shit. I’m inclined to believe him. He’s too much of a coward not to give them up to save his skin, and they probably knew better than to trust him. We’ll hack into his email, but I doubt there’ll be many clues there.
Hearing shouts and running footsteps in the hallway, I press the gun to Karimov’s sweaty forehead. “Last chance,” I say grimly. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know!” His wail is full of desperation, and I know he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t know anything, which makes him useless. I’m tempted to save him for Esguerra or Peter’s amusement, but it’ll take too much effort to get him out of the country.
That means there’s only one thing left for me to do.
Squeezing the trigger, I pepper Karimov with bullets and watch his body slam against the wall, blood and bits of brains spraying everywhere. Then I lower the weapon and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding pain in my head.
When Sharipov’s troops burst into the room a few seconds later, I’m sitting in the chair, the empty weapon lying at my feet.
“I apologize about the mess,” I say, leaning on the crutches to stand up. “We’ll pay for the clean-up of this room.”
And ignoring the horror on everyone’s faces, I start hobbling toward the door.
12
Yulia
“Which organization do you belong to?” Buschekov leans forward, his eyes trained on me with the intensity of a snake hypnotizing its prey.
I stare back at the Russian official, barely registering his question. I can’t decide if his eyes are yellowish gray or pale hazel; whatever color his irises are, they manage to blend with the yellowish-gray whites around them, producing the illusion of a complete lack of eye color. In general, everything about Arkady Buschekov is yellowish gray, from his skin tone to the wispy hair plastered against his shiny skull.
“Which organization do you belong to?” he repeats, his gaze boring into me. I wonder how many people have caved from that stare alone; if I believed in x-ray vision, I’d swear he’s looking straight into me. “Who sent you here?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, unable to keep my exhaustion out of my voice.
It’s been over twenty-four hours since my capture, and I’ve neither slept nor had anything to eat or drink. They’re wearing me down this way, undermining my willpower. It’s a standard interrogation technique here. The Russians consider themselves too civilized to resort to outright torture, so they use these “softer” methods—things that mess with your psyche rather than cause lasting harm to your body.#p#分页标题#e#
“You know, Yulia Andreyevna”—Buschekov addresses me by my name and fake patronymic—“the Ukrainian government has disavowed any connection with you.” He leans even closer, making me want to shrink back into my seat. At this distance, I can smell the salted fish and garlic potatoes he must’ve eaten for lunch. “Unless some unofficial agency in Ukraine claims you, we’ll have no choice but to presume that you’re a Russian citizen, as your false background indicates,” he continues. “You understand what that means, right?”
I do. If treason is the charge they levy against me, I’ll be executed. That’s no reason for me to talk, though. Obenko won’t come forward to claim me, not even if I expose our off-the-books agency. One operative is nothing in the grand scheme of things.
When I remain silent, Buschekov sighs and leans back in his seat. “All right, Yulia Andreyevna. If that’s how you wish to play it.” He snaps his fingers at the wall-wide mirror to the left of me. “We’ll talk again soon.”
He rises to his feet and walks to the door in the corner. Stopping in front of it, he looks back at me. “Think about what I said. This can go very badly for you if you don’t cooperate.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I look down at my hands, which are handcuffed to the table in front of me. I hear the door open and shut as he walks out, and then I’m alone, except for the people watching me through the mirror.
The hours drag by, each second more torturous than the next. The thirst that torments me is comparable only to the hunger that gnaws at my insides. I try to lay my head down on the desk to sleep, but every time I do so, an ear-piercing alarm blares through the speakers, startling me awake. The screeching noise is impossible to ignore, even in my exhausted state, and eventually I stop trying, doing my best to zone out for a few precious moments while sitting upright in my chair.