After a solid half hour of driving, Shamil pulled over by a shabby warehouse in the industrial district and hit the brakes hard – with the effect that Kaare was catapulted into the side of the van. He had been so deep in thought that he was completely surprised by the arrival at their destination. He was still groggy and struggled to get his bearings as the van doors were flung open. Firm hands dragged him from the car before his mind kicked into gear. He was hauled into a building and chained to a rusty heating pipe.
When his blindfold was pulled off, the dimmed light piercing the grimy windows under the roof blinded him as if it had been a powerful searchlight. Slowly, he absorbed the details around him. He was in a bare storage room, and a broad-shouldered giant with a shaven head was barking orders to other men. His eyes caught the newspaper clippings on the wall from the press conference in Vedbæk. Instantly, it dawned on him that the kidnapping was far from accidental. Revenge. The exchange of words that early morning in Helman Province returned to him like a boomerang, and hope evaporated like a candle being blown out. The context did not allow for the chance of a hostage rescue. His head was pounding painfully from the beatings and the ketalar; nausea hit suddenly, like a demolition hammer drill. Kaare ignored the hateful stares of his guards and their ridiculing of his appearance. He 159had to pull himself together and not vomit again: he must rein in the fear sweeping through him. It was almost a blessing when the giant put his blindfold back on.
Shortly after, he heard a door open, followed by determined footsteps on the concrete floor. Kaare’s thoughts were racing without destination or direction when they were interrupted by a voice. It was addressing him in immaculate, if heavily accented, English:
‘Welcome to our humble abode. Unfortunately, I cannot provide you true Russian hospitality, but I’m sure you understand,’ said Andrej Nitchenko.
‘Who are you? And where am I?’ Kaare slurred, trying to sound unaffected.
He was determined not to reveal his fear, but his throat was like sandpaper – every word was painful. It was like a surreal déjà vu. As if he was back on the interrogation exercise in combat survival with the Special Air Service Regiment. Weeks of escape and evasion through the unforgiving Scottish countryside meant a formidable mental strength was required to withstand the interrogation phase without breaking. Images from back then formed in his mind to provide the resolve he desperately needed. Back then, I could take everything they threw at me, and dammit, I still can! He gritted his teeth.
‘My name is irrelevant. You’ve damaged Russia’s reputation and murdered some of our soldiers. That, in contrast, is not irrelevant. I’m normally a kind man, and I’ll ask for your co-operation in the coming days. Any attempt to resist my wishes will be punished swiftly and harshly. Is that understood?’ Andrej Nitchenko continued calmly.
‘I’ve realised that I’m not the one calling the shots here,’ Kaare replied, forcing a wry smile on his tired face.160
‘Good. I’ll offer you a little bit of Russian hospitality then,’ replied Andrej Nitchenko and headed for the door at a brisk pace.
He shot a last glance at Kaare as he left the room and gave a telling nod to the Chechen brothers. Kaare’s well-being was more of a concern than he wanted to let on. At least until their demands had been met. Once Andrej Nitchenko had left the room, a smirk appeared on the pockmarked face of the bald-headed heavy. The Hulk placed a tray with water and some bread in front of Kaare. Without warning, he forced a piece of bread into Kaare’s mouth and down his throat. The muscular bruiser ignored the mouthful of crumbs that Kaare spat out, gripped his jaw and brutally forced a glass of water down his throat. Kaare struggled to keep it down, and most of it was coughed up again. Kaare tried not to give them the satisfaction of knowing his thirst and hunger. That was, however, like water off a duck’s back – the force-feeding just continued.
‘Is good, yes?’ the thug chuckled as he continued his brutal undertaking.
His bloodshot eyes glowed with expectation as he stopped feeding Kaare and instead took a firm grip on his testicles. A sudden, violent pain shot like a bolt through Kaare’s body as the strong hand squeezed. As a knee-jerk reaction, he spat blindly at his tormentor. The punishment landed promptly. Once again, the mighty fist closed around Kaare’s crotch. This time even more savagely, and Kaare nearly lost consciousness.
‘What a pity that you don’t like the food. I hope you’ll have a lovely time with your new friend here. You just need to get to know him better,’ Shamil snickered. 161
The laughter echoed in Kaare’s ears as he curled up and struggled to stay conscious. What will these psychopaths think of next? When everything finally went quiet, he let go and slipped into the painless darkness. Even if he had stayed conscious, Kaare would not have been able to overhear the intense conversation that Andrej Nitchenko and Sergey Pustynikov were engaged in.
‘I appreciate a job well done and people who rectify their mistakes. You’ve made Mother Russia proud these past couple of days,’ Andrej Nitchenko said to the Chechen brothers who had just joined them.
They shot relieved glances towards the sky, like gladiators having just received the thumbs up from the emperor.
‘Our next move will be to approach the Danish government. We need the money swiftly!’ Andrej Nitchenko continued as he addressed Sergej Pustynikov, allowing a rare smile to flicker on his lips.
‘He’ll soon crack. Let our artistic producer make a little video to get the dialogue going. This business always takes some time, so the sooner we get started, the sooner we can wrap it up,’ Sergej Pustynikov replied.
Fortunately, Kaare was not able to see the smug grin.