The dust cloud was visible for miles as Sergey Pustynikov’s Mercedes rocketed down the potholed dirt road leading towards the Rzhevka airfield outside St Petersburg. The abandoned airfield was in an area that a tourist pamphlet most likely would describe as rural surroundings. The reality, however, was that the vacant airstrip was surrounded by mosquito-infested marshland with dense, unchecked vegetation. Once, it had been the regional airport for St Petersburg, but today, the international airport handles all civilian air traffic to and from the city. Thus, Rzhevka was left as a ghost town of buildings, control towers and endless rows of planes falling into dilapidation because nobody could afford the maintenance. The planes were only a fraction of the enormous fleet that the Soviet Union had maintained as part of its state-owned airline Aeroflot. Although it positioned itself as a standard commercial airline, most of its planes could easily be converted for military purposes in hours. This fact was not reflected in the cap on military aircraft set in the disarmament negotiations.
Sergey Pustynikov glanced at the endless rows of AN-12 double-deckers and AN-26 transport planes at the other side of the 368airfield’s rusty wire fence. They clearly had not been in use for years. Wind and weather have done their part to make these onceproud birds of prey look as bleak as the rest of this ramshackle airport. A sad symbol of the decay of our nation’s standing as a superpower. He sighed wearily and tried to ignore the windy, rainy weather that did little to improve the scenery. Sergey Pustynikov shook himself from his sentimental reverie and focused on the tasks ahead of him. He could not afford to be distracted by thoughts of the glorious past. The painful reality of the new Russia was something he simply had to face up to. I can’t let emotions dull my sixth sense. Throughout his military career, that ability has repeatedly helped him make the right decision. His decision to move Kaare to Rzhevka yesterday had turned out to be the right one. There were too many indications that somebody was on to them. A technician with ties to the underworld had been killed under strange circumstances in Moscow, and someone had killed the janitor at the studio in St Petersburg. And the latest, the guards around the factory buildings had reported people reconnoitring in the area. His thoughts were stopped in their tracks as the black Mercedes reached the rusty iron gate at the entrance to the airport terminal buildings.
A couple of guards ran up and opened the old gate, and the car drove up in front of the run-down airport building; Tatjana and Holger were yanked from the car and shoved brutally up the staircase to the main entrance. Holger’s legs were numb after the drive, and he stumbled on the first step. But he wasn’t allowed to fall as strong hands propelled him up the stairs and through the doors into the eerie departure hall. Andrej Nitchenko had been waiting for a while, and his impatience was getting the better of him. He 369had subdued his aggravation with vodka from a small flask, but calm would not take root.
‘Welcome. Have a seat. We must uncover everything about you, especially what you were doing in my building. This won’t be a stay you’ll enjoy. But take solace in the fact that your time here will be limited – to the time you’ve left on this earth.’
His voice and smile caused a chill to creep down Holger’s spine, and he turned towards Tatjana. Her eye locked onto his; he tried to encourage all the optimism and fighting spirit he could. He tried to appear unfazed by the threats and glanced around the ramshackle departures hall. It was apparent they were at some kind of airfield. The walls, with their cracked paint, were decorated with faded pictures of Aeroflot planes from times gone by. The building was evidently abandoned, as the electric wiring had been ripped from the walls. Holger tried to recall the different airfields near St Petersburg from his briefings at Steenbæklund but became distracted as three men entered the departure hall. The three Chechen brothers walked towards them, positioning themselves on either side of Tatjana and Holger. As synchronized swimmers with a meticulously choreographed program. Andrej Nitchenko sauntered slowly up to Holger and stared him balefully in the eye:
‘Who sent you?’
His tone was now more brutal.
‘I’m a Danish citizen, and nobody sent me. Sometimes people just act alone, of their own volition,’ answered Holger trying to sound frightened, which was not difficult in the circumstances.
Holger heard his voice as if from the outside; he thought his response sounded hollow. On the other hand, his voice sounded wearier and more frightened than he had intended. His courage 370was oozing away faster than he’d appreciated. Andrej Nitchenko’s facial expression did not give anything away. He simply nodded. And in a flash, Shamil hammered the back of his hand across Holger’s mouth. The sudden violence took Holger entirely by surprise, and he released a shrill cry – a combination of shock and pain. Blood dribbled down his chin, and terrified, he watched it drip onto the floor. Andrej Nitchenko turned to Tatjana, grabbed her chin with his right hand, and forced her head backwards so he could look into her eyes.
‘Are you acting of your own volition as well?’
His tone was menacing, and he said the words as if he had chewed on a pickled egg. Tatjana was visibly frightened, but Andrej Nitchenko’s firm grip on her chin prevented her from answering. When she finally wiggled herself free, her gaze dropped to the floor. She did not dare to look him in the eye, and her defiance was slipping away. Andrej Nitchenko was not interested in a reply but simply nodded once more.
Shamil stepped nimbly in front of Tatjana, and with a brutal grip on her hair, he jerked her head upwards, forcing her to look at him. A vicious smile curled his lips as he read the fear in her eyes. He held her hair like a vice, tearing open her blouse with his free hand. Tatjana slumped apathetically as he started groping her breasts violently. But Shamil was just getting started and struck her across the face. Tatjana’s brow split, and blood cascaded down her face. Her soft sobbing cut to the core of Holger’s spine, and it was clear that she was close to breaking.
Holger’s survival instinct was intact; he knew neither of them could withstand raw violence for long. The thought of the pain to 371come made him briefly dizzy. His urge to protect her by stopping the abuse took over:
‘Bravo! Hitting a defenceless woman, you are despicable. Cut me loose, and let’s settle this as men!’
During his time in combat survival, Holger had been exposed to unpleasant interrogation techniques. He had then learned to shut out the pain and discomfort. That was the only way to delay and forestall the inevitable, the point where he, too, would crack. Everybody cracks. It’s just a matter of time. But use me as a punching bag until you get tired.
‘Brave words. But we are in charge, and I fear this could be a most tiring conversation spanning hours. You will certainly break, and I’m sure my men will have some very enjoyable hours with the young woman. What I need to know is more about you. And trust me, before you die, I’ll get to the bottom of which of my competitors sent you.’
We’re apparently so incompetent that it hasn’t even occurred to him that we’re here to rescue Kaare, Holger thought with surprise.
With an arrogant gesture, Andrej Nitchenko signalled for them to be taken away. Holger and Tatjana couldn’t believe that the horrors had ended as they were abruptly dragged from the departure lounge and pushed along winding hallways. He glanced quickly backwards and saw the Chechen brothers following them. Suddenly, they reached a solid metal door that was swiftly unlocked. Holger and Tatjana were shoved inside a naked concrete room. Holger heard the door slam shut behind him. Still, with their hands tied to their backs, they scanned the primitive cell in bewilderment.