The questioning went on for a half hour, at the end of which it was clear that the Russians hadn’t bought his story and were convinced that Yulia’s group was anything but pro-Russian. But Evgeny had painted himself into a corner with his feint, and he was now committed to his version of the truth, no matter how implausible. By the time Savenkov rose, a disgusted look on his face, Evgeny was trembling from exhaustion.
“This ridiculous story is what you’re sticking to?” Savenkov demanded. “You’ll regret it. I can assure you of that.”
“Inspector, I swear I’m telling the truth.”
“I don’t believe you. In any case, it doesn’t matter. You were attempting to purchase enough missiles to start a small war. Whatever side you’re on, that’s still illegal here, and you will be dealt with swiftly. I’d hoped you would be more amenable to reason, but I see my time’s been wasted.”
“Inspector, I’m not even Ukrainian. I was born across the border, here, in Russia. In Kursk. You can check. I’m Russian. Whatever you think you know, it’s wrong, or at least incomplete.”
“Why would I care where you were born? You’re nothing to me.” Savenkov rose stiffly and folded his chair. “I’d advise you to think about our discussion. When I return, it will be with one of our interrogation specialists. I trust you can imagine how that little chat will go? So far all you’ve done is spun lies. But we’ll get to the bottom of things. We always do. If I were you, I’d be asking myself how you could cooperate, in an effort to get your sentence reduced. The alternative is hard labor in Siberia.” He took two steps toward the door and paused. “I will check on your story of being Russian-born. But in the end, it will be actions that determine your fate, not words. You will be made an example of, and I assure you, the experience will be worse than anything you can imagine.”
Savenkov left the cell, seeming to suck any life out of it with his departure, and the guard slammed the slab door behind him and locked it. Evgeny collapsed on the floor, his energy spent, his feverish mind working on some way to impress the inspector that he was not really the enemy. He understood the confusion, as well as the approach the man was taking, and while Evgeny was loyal to the Ukrainian cause, he’d heard enough stories of Russian prison to fear for his future.
There had to be a way to ingratiate himself with the Russians, to prove that he could be useful to them in exchange for leniency.
Because, in the end, the others wouldn’t take a bullet for him, he was sure. And he saw no reason to risk his life on their behalf, to throw it away for nothing.
When Savenkov returned, he’d see what the man offered. It wouldn’t hurt to listen. He was aware that the first salvo from a skilled interrogator would always be shock and awe, and the next round was likely to be a lifeline after enough time had gone by for the prisoner’s fears to whittle away his resolve.
An effective technique, to be sure.
Evgeny curled into a fetal position, shivering in spite of the warm temperature, and closed his eyes, willing away the visions of himself waist deep in snow, struggling to survive on a Siberian chain gang.
Chapter 12
Pristina, Kosovo
Matt stared at his phone in frustration. His attempts to call Jet had failed after the aborted first connection, and all he was now getting for his efforts was a fast busy signal. If not for the break-in at his shop, he’d have attributed the failure to the sketchy Kosovo communications infrastructure, which periodically experienced lapses of cell and Internet service for no apparent reason, but now he suspected the worst.
The thought that Jet had been hurt, or worse, because of him, gnawed at his guts like acid, and he resolved to go by the house. If they’d known where he lived, they would have been waiting for him as he’d come out his front door. That he was still walking around, free, and they were stuck in his shop, proved there was a limit to how much they knew.
That was a slim advantage, but one he’d use to maximum effect.
Matt poked his head around the corner of the building and took in the street beyond the alley, searching for any surveillance. Everything appeared normal: the flow of traffic was dwindling as the morning rush ended, and the cars that lined both sides of the boulevard were empty. He knew what to watch for – furtive, sudden movement as a head ducked below a dash, cigarette smoke rising from a partially open window – but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.