Blackmail

49 JASLYK, UZBEKISTAN

Jaslyk Prison, a penal colony in northwest Uzbekistan, is notorious for having the harshest prison conditions in the country. While it is well-known as “the concentration camp of death,” little is known concerning who is incarcerated and how the prisoners are treated; but this hasn’t deterred Western journalists from circulating reports of beatings, sexual assault, and torture. Some experts even claimed that several prisoners who died at Jaslyk were boiled alive. These allegations, of course, were all true.

CIA interrogator John Kaufmann sat at a scarred wooden table inside a small concrete-block room. With only a cot, a table, and one chair, the musty-smelling cell was the most hospitable room in the facility. As he skimmed through a folder, he stopped when he reached the most recent entry, containing new information discovered after their guest, for lack of a better term, had been extracted from his villa west of Moscow. After reviewing Anton Fedorov’s dossier, Kaufmann closed the folder and tapped his index finger on the table as he sorted through the data. He couldn’t connect the dots. Something critical was missing.

Kaufmann took the folder with him as he left the room, along with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After traversing a dingy, concrete corridor illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, he reached a guarded cell door. A burly, uniformed man unlocked and opened the door as Kaufmann approached, closing it after he entered the cell.

Seated on one of two metal chairs in the otherwise bare room was Anton Fedorov, naked except for boxer shorts, his hands tied behind his back and to his chair. Kaufmann settled into a chair across from Fedorov, who seemed none the worse for wear aside from a few bruises on his face. Kaufmann commenced the interrogation, speaking in Russian.

“I see you’ve met your Uzbekistani caretakers.”

Fedorov replied, “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. What do you want?”

Kaufmann offered the Russian a cigarette.

Fedorov shook his head. “You intend to kill me slowly, with lung cancer?”

Kaufmann slid the cigarette pack into his shirt pocket, then pulled a photograph of a detonator from the folder, showing it to Fedorov. “Do you recognize this?”

“Of course,” Fedorov replied. “I designed it.”

“We have an issue,” Kaufmann said, “that requires your assistance. Your detonators have been attached to explosives, and we need to remove or disarm them. A simple problem, yes?”

“Not exactly.” Fedorov grinned, a wide, toothy smile.

Under normal circumstances, the Russian would have started bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose right now, courtesy of Kaufmann’s fist. However, Fedorov wasn’t your average terrorist, and Kaufmann had already decided to take a more civil approach.

Kaufmann asked, “Can you elaborate?”

“They are the most sophisticated detonators ever designed,” Fedorov said. “They cannot be removed or jammed. They are truly tamper-proof.”

“It turns out,” Kaufmann said, “that our experts agree. You have done a masterful job.” Kaufmann waited a moment while Fedorov basked in the praise. “However, they also believe these detonators can be disarmed by sending an override code. All you have to do is give me the code, and after we verify it works, you will be released.”

“If I give you the code,” Fedorov said, “I’m a dead man.”

Kaufmann filed away the first important detail from his interrogation — there was indeed a master override code.

“I don’t know about that,” Kaufmann said. “But I do know that if you don’t give me the code, you’re a dead man.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “However, if you give us the code, we’ll release you and guarantee your safety.”

“You cannot protect me,” Fedorov replied with disdain on his face. “The Russian government does not look kindly on traitors. They will find me.”

Kaufmann evaluated Fedorov’s claim; whether it was true or not was immaterial. That he believed he would be killed was what mattered. Kaufmann shifted gears.

“Why were you a prisoner in your own villa?”

Fedorov didn’t answer.

Kaufmann decided to become more aggressive. Perhaps there was something the Russian would be willing to trade his life for. He pulled a second picture from his folder.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

Fedorov examined the photograph for a split second before rage flashed in his eyes. He surged toward Kaufmann, lifting his chair, bound to his hands behind his body, off the floor. Kaufmann lifted his right foot and planted a boot in Fedorov’s chest as the Russian tried to reach him. The muscles in Fedorov’s neck strained and his face turned red as he struggled against his bonds, but he uttered no words.

Unstable, Kaufmann noted. The picture was becoming clearer.

Fedorov’s rage subsided and he dropped his chair onto the ground, then slumped into it. Kaufmann left his boot on Fedorov’s chest but said nothing, waiting for the dam to break. Finally, Fedorov began talking.

“She meant everything to me. My only child. The bastard murdered her.” Fedorov surged forward in his chair as rage overtook him again, but it subsided more quickly this time. When the anger faded, Fedorov’s head sagged onto his chest, and he started weeping.

Definitely unstable, Kaufmann thought, noting the irony. An unstable engineer working with explosives. He dropped his foot to the ground and waited for Fedorov to regain his composure. When the tears ended, the Russian sat up in his chair.

Kaufmann pulled a third photograph from the folder, showing it to Fedorov. “Is this the man responsible?”

Fedorov spit on the picture.

I’ll take that as a yes.

Kaufmann was making progress, but a key piece of the puzzle was missing.

“There’s something I don’t understand. Your daughter is discovered strangled and her body dumped in a back alley, you think her boyfriend is responsible, and you end up a prisoner in a villa on the outskirts of Velikiy Novgorod. What am I missing?”

“I tried to kill him,” Fedorov replied.

Suddenly, the missing puzzle piece was in Kaufmann’s hand. But it still didn’t fit.

“There’s no evidence you tried to kill him. No arrest, not even a news article about the incident. An attempt on this man’s life would have been splattered across every newspaper in the country. But it was swept under the rug?”

Fedorov nodded. “He’s a powerful man, and the government didn’t want the issue to go public. So they gave me a pass and put me under surveillance so I couldn’t get near him again. But that didn’t stop me.”

“How’s that?”

“I hired the Russian mafia. They had him in their sights. One more second…,” Fedorov said, his voice trailing off. “After that attempt, they transferred me to the research facility at Velikiy Novgorod, where I was given a plush villa prison cell with no outside communication. I can’t get near him, nor hire anyone to do the job.”

Kaufmann mulled the new information over. Under normal circumstances, Fedorov would be in a wooden box six feet underground after two assassination attempts, but he happened to be a brilliant engineer developing stuff the Russian government really wanted. So they kept him alive and put him to work at a remote location, transporting him between the research facility and his villa prison each day.

“I know he’s responsible,” Fedorov said. “My daughter and I were close, and she confided in me before her death. Their relationship was deteriorating and she knew too much.”

“I see,” Kaufmann said. Now that the picture was clear, he realized an arrangement might be possible. He returned the photograph to the folder and tossed it onto the floor.

“Let’s assume you’re correct, and if you give me the override code, you’re a dead man. Let’s also assume you’re dead if you don’t give me the code. You’re in a pickle, as we say in baseball.” Fedorov gave him a blank stare. “I offer you a deal,” Kaufmann said. “Give me the code and we’ll take care of this matter for you.”

“You’ll kill him?”

Kaufmann nodded.

“I want him dead before I give you the code.”

Kaufmann hesitated. He knew time was critical. However, it was clear Fedorov wasn’t going to budge on his demand. “Agreed,” he said.

“I want proof,” Fedorov said. “I want to see his dead carcass.”

“We’ll provide a picture of his body.”

The Russian’s eyes bored into Kaufmann for a moment, then he said, “I have a better idea. I want to watch him die. And before he takes his last breath, I want him to see my face and know who is responsible.”

“You cannot leave this facility before you give us the code. You cannot be there to watch him die.”

“A video link will be sufficient,” Fedorov replied, “between two cell phones. After I watch him die, I’ll give you the code.”

“We’ll make the necessary arrangements,” Kaufmann said.

Fedorov leaned back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face.

Kaufmann was about to leave when a thought struck him. “Anton,” he said, “can we get our hands on some of your detonators?”

“Of course,” Fedorov replied. “What do you have in mind?”