‘Jesus,’ Sam whispered. The Russian’s casual disrespect for the lives of his victims impressed even him. What Dolohov was telling him had begun to fill in some of the gaps; but there were more questions springing into his mind. Some of them he wanted answers to. Others he wasn’t sure he did. Dolohov, though, was flagging. It was obvious. His body had taken punishment and his head was starting to droop. Even so, Sam wasn’t in the mood to mollycoddle him.
He reached for the bottle of vodka and held it to Dolohov’s lips. The Russian took a gulp, then winced slightly as the alcohol burned his throat. Sam stood then turned and faced the fireplace. A thick silence descended. He contemplated his next question.
‘I’m afraid,’ Sam said finally, ‘that I don’t really believe you.’
He turned once more, strode quickly to the table and before Dolohov knew what was happening he had grabbed the shears and was already unfurling one of the Russian’s thumbs. Dolohov tried to shout out, but his breathlessness stopped him for a moment. When he eventually managed to speak, it was with more of a sense of terrified urgency than Sam had ever heard before.
‘There’s more. I can tell you more. Do not do it again!’
Sam paused. Dolohov was almost weeping now. Through gritted teeth, the ultimate humiliation. His good English failed him. ‘I begging you not do again.’
‘Start talking.’ Sam kept the blades of the shears resting against the skin of the Russian’s thumb.
Dolohov spoke quickly. ‘I do not know everything. They do not tell me everything. It is better that way. But I know some things. One of them is to be activated. Maybe he already has. A major hit. Political. It will happen soon.’
‘Who?’
‘I do not know.’
‘I don’t believe you, Dolohov.’ He allowed the blade to slice gently the skin on his thumb.
‘I do not know! I would tell you if I did…’ And again his voice collapsed into sobs of helpless terror.
‘What’s the name of the red-light runner?’
But Dolohov couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, desperately, while the sounds of animal fear emerged from his throat.
Sam found himself breathing deeply and sharply. He let the Russian’s hand fall, ignoring the trickle of blood that seeped from the small flesh wound. Without a word he walked out of the room. He felt the sudden need to be alone, away from Dolohov. The need to collect his thoughts. The need to decide if he really wanted to ask the question that was on his lips. There was a fire in his blood. Anger. His head was spinning. In some corner of his brain he knew that Dolohov’s life was hanging by a thread. Sam Redman was on the edge, barely able to control himself. A nudge in the wrong direction and he would do to the Russian what both of them had done to any number of red-light runners.
He calmed himself. His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. He walked back into the room feeling numb, but somehow purposeful at the same time. Dolohov was slumped, corpse-like. Sam had seen it before – the shock that drained all colour from someone’s face. Even his lips were grey. He stood in front of the man and gave him a thunderous look.
‘Who gives you the orders?’ he asked. ‘Who tells you to kill the red-light runners? Who gives you the details?’
Dolohov raised his head and paused as he summoned up the last dregs of his arrogance.
‘You really know nothing,’ he observed in a weak voice. ‘Is our system really so difficult for you to work out?’
Sam didn’t hesitate. His body under the control of some force other than his thoughts, he grabbed his handgun from the table and pressed it hard against Dolohov’s head.
‘Who?’
‘The same man who trains them,’ Dolohov whispered. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face. ‘British. We never meet.’
‘Damn it, Dolohov. What’s his name?’
They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.
It was like a dream. Sam heard the words and they were like a trigger firing a weapon. Out of control, he raised his gun hand and slammed his fist against the side of Dolohov’s face. The Russian’s glasses cracked and flew across the room; the chair in which he was sitting tottered back and fell to the ground, taking its occupant with it.
Sam knelt down and once more pressed the gun against the Russian, this time into the flesh of his neck. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he hissed. ‘Tell me the truth. What’s his name?’
But Dolohov was past lying. He repeated himself slowly and in an exhausted tone of voice. ‘His name is Jacob Redman,’ he croaked. ‘Now I have nothing more to tell you. And if you are going to kill me, I ask that you do it now and you do it quickly.’
A bright orange sun rose slowly above the horizon of southern Kazakhstan. The countryside through which Jacob Redman drove his truck was bland. Flat and featureless. Every few miles he would drive past a settlement, but he saw only the occasional shepherd. Now, though, up ahead and in the distance, he saw the bleak sight of Communist-era tower blocks emerging above the horizon – concrete monuments to a time long gone, but they were still inhabited, no doubt. There were cars here on the outskirts, as well as the ever-present goats. Jacob just kept his eyes on the road ahead.
He was getting close now. His journey was nearly at an end.
The road took him past the town and further into the flat landscape. In his rear-view mirror he watched as a military vehicle approached from behind, clad in green and brown camouflage webbing and carrying God only knows what. Jacob allowed the truck to overtake him, but then kept the vehicle in his sights. After all, the chances were that they were heading for the same place.
Gradually, he began to see landmarks, sights that he knew indicated he was indeed on the right path. A control tower in the distance with a satellite receiver spinning slowly on the top. More vehicles – articulated lorries as well as military ones. Brown-grey concrete buildings, austere, unwelcoming constructions that again spoke of this country’s Soviet past.
Jacob was tired. He had been driving non-stop, allowing himself ten minutes shut-eye every few hours just so that he could keep going. Now that he was nearing the end, however, he felt a surge of adrenaline. It was no longer a struggle to keep awake. His mind was alert.
A fork in the road. The military vehicle up ahead bore left. Jacob followed. They continued through the drab countryside for several miles before he saw a high, wire boundary fence emerging from the distance. The military truck began slowing down. There were signposts now along the side of the road. Jacob couldn’t decode them because they were in Russian, but he could tell that they were warnings to stay away. He continued driving nevertheless.
They were only metres from the boundary now. A large panel announced their location in austere black letters.
Космодром Байконур
Jacob’s Russian was good enough for that. Baikonur Cosmodrome. Built by the Soviets in the mid-Fifties, it was the largest operational space launch facility in the world. The truck ground to a halt. The military vehicle ahead was allowed in, giving Jacob a plain view of the entrance as the truck disappeared into the vast expanse of the cosmodrome. There was a barrier marked with red and white stripes. The boundary fence had rolls of barbed wire on the top that made it look like some kind of concentration camp. There was a lookout post, but it was old and didn’t give Jacob the impression of being much used. By the barrier were a number of guards. They wore military uniform and carried the ubiquitous AK-47s. Jacob, in his non-military truck, had clearly raised their suspicions. Two guards approached, their weapons raised.