back their chairs as far as they could. For his part, Dakaev sat as he had when Karpov barged in, hands clasped in front of him on the tabletop. Unlike Colonel Lemtov, he didn't express outrage or appear confused. In fact, Karpov saw, he knew perfectly well what was happening.
That would have to change. Karpov dragged the first mole along the table, scattering papers, pens, and glasses of water, until the man fetched up in front of Dakaev. Then, staring into Dakaev's eyes, Karpov pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the back of the first mole's head.
"Please," the prisoner said, urinating down his leg.
Karpov squeezed the trigger. The first mole's head slammed against the table, bounced up, and settled into a pool of his own blood. A Pollock-like pattern spattered across Dakaev's suit, shirt, tie, and freshly shaven face.
Karpov gestured with the pistol. "Get up."
Dakaev stood. "Are you going to shoot me, too?"
"Eventually, perhaps." Karpov grabbed him by his tie. "That will be entirely up to you."
"I understand," Dakaev said. "I want immunity."
"Immunity? I'll give you immunity." Karpov slammed the barrel of the pistol against the side of his head.
Dakaev reeled sideways, bouncing off a terrified silovik paralyzed in his chair. Karpov bent over Dakaev, who lay huddled half against the wall.
"You'll tell me everything you know about your work and your contacts - names, places, dates, every fucking thing, no matter how minute - then I'll decide what to do with you."
He hauled Dakaev to his feet. "The rest of you, get back to whatever the hell you were doing."
Out on the floor he encountered absolute silence. Everyone stood like wooden soldiers, unmoving, afraid even to take a breath. Colonel Lemtov would not meet his eyes as he took the bleeding Dakaev over to the bank of elevators.
They went down, past the basement, into the bowels of the building where the holding cells had been hewn out of the naked rock. It was cold and damp. The guards wore greatcoats and fur hats with fur earflaps, as if it were the dead of winter. When anyone spoke, his breath formed clouds in front of his face.
Karpov took Dakaev to the last cell on the left. It contained a metal chair bolted to the raw concrete floor, an industrial-size stainless-steel sink, a toilet made of the same material, and a board projecting from one wall on which was a thin mattress. There was a large drain situated beneath the chair.
"Tools of the trade," Karpov said as he pushed Dakaev into the chair. "I admit to being a little rusty, but I'm sure that won't make a difference to you."
"All this melodrama is unnecessary," Dakaev said. "I have no allegiance, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"Of that I have no doubt." Karpov began to run the water in the sink. "On the other hand, a self-confessed man of no allegiance can hardly be trusted to tell the truth willingly."
"But I - "
Karpov shoved the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth. "Listen to me, my agnostic friend. A man without allegiance to something or someone isn't worth the beating heart inside him. Before I hear your confession, I will have to teach you the value of allegiance. When you leave here - unless you do so feet-first - you will be a loyal member of FSB-2. Never again will people like Dimitri Maslov be able to tempt you. You will be incorruptible."
Karpov kicked his prisoner out of the chair onto his hands and knees. Grabbing him by his collar, he bent him over the sink, which was now filled with ice-cold water.
"Now we begin," he said. And shoved Dakaev's head under the water.
Soraya watched Arkadin dancing with Moira, presumably to make her jealous. They were in one of Puerto Penasco's all-night cantinas, filled with shift workers coming and going from the nearby maquiladoras. A sad ranchera was bawling from a jukebox, luridly lit up like someone's bad idea of the UFO in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Soraya, nursing a black coffee, watched Arkadin's hips moving as if they were filled with mercury. The man could dance! Then she pulled out her PDA and studied the texts from Peter Marks. The last one contained instructions on how to lure Arkadin to Tineghir. How did Peter come up with this intel?
She had hidden her shock at seeing Moira behind her professional facade. The moment she had climbed aboard the yacht she'd felt the floor fall out from under her.