"Have you reconsidered, Lebel?"

Sweat ran down Lebel's face. He saidhoarsely, "I told you you're making a dreadful mistake ... I'm an innocentman .. your superiors will hear of this ..."

Romulka stepped closer and grippedLebel's face hard. "Talk to me, you little Jew. I haven't the patience orthe time for games. You either talk or, I swear, what the Gestapo did to YOU isnothing compared to the little treat you have in store. In fact Lebel, I canpromise you that you'll never see daylight again."

"On my life ... I don't know whatyou're talking about."

"Then let's try and changethat."

Romulka stepped over to a table in thecorner. Lebel crained his neck and saw to his horror a selection of instrumentsand tools of torture which made his blood run cold.

"I always find concentrating on aman's weaknesses is the best approach."

Romulka selected an odd-looking implementwith two small cup-shaped metal scoops with leather pads inside and a screwhandle on the end.

"A little something we borrowed fromthe Tsar's secret police. They considered it most effective. It's a genitalclamp. Know what it does?

Enough turns of this handle here and itcrushes a man's testicles. Splits them wide open. But slowly, very slowly, andvery painfully. Let's give it a try, shall we?"

Romulka turned to the men and nodded. Onetied a gag around Lebel's mouth, while the other pulled down his soddentrousers and underpants.

Roniulka came forward and Lebel watchedin horror as the implement was slipped under his scrotum and secured.

He gritted his teeth as he struggledbehind the gag.

Romulka turned the screw handle and theimplement tightened around Lebel's right testicle.

There was an excruciating, sickeningpain, and Lebel felt as if a bolt of electricity had shot through his spine.His brain exploded with agony and he saw stars and felt the nausea to the pitof his stomach.

He screamed behind the gag and passedout.

The large house in the Degunino districtnorth of Moscow was built of wood and brick and had once been the home of awealthy Tsarist officer, but now it was badly dilapidated and the roof leaked.

Massey sat in the front room of a shabbysecond-floor apartment. It was sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs.An iron bed and a wardrobe in the small bedroom next door were the only otheritems of furniture, but there was a new valve radio sitting on a box near thebed. The place smelled of rot and damp and it was biting cold, despite the woodstove lit in the corner.

Massey had changed out of the uniform andnow he wore a cloth cap and a coarse, frayed suit under his overcoat. On thetable in front of him was a bowl of cabbage Soup and some fresh bread, but heignored the food and concentrated on the map of Moscow lying next to it.

The man seated opposite poured vodka intotwo glasses and said gruffly in Russian, "You want to tell me what thefuck's going on, Americanski?"

Massey looked up. The man was big andred-haired and powerfully built. He wore a filthy woollen scarf around his neckand his black suit was worn and shiny.

He was the former Ukrainian SS captainMassey had dispatched from Munich six weeks before. It seemed so long agoMassey had difficulty remembering the face when the man had ushered him intothe apartment. He looked older; his jaws were unshaven and his narrow eyes hadthe nervous look of a man under stress.

Massey said flatly, "You got thesignal with your instructions."

"On The Voice of America. It said togive you total assistance, that it was top priority ..."

"Then that's all you need to know.Tell me about the dacha."

A war spent in SS uniform had taught theUkrainian not to argue with an order. He nodded and pointed to a place on themap.

"Sergei's there now, covering theplace. So far it seems the occupants haven't moved."

"How many people?"

"Sergei saw two, he thinks the manand woman you're after, but the signal said there was another woman. He hasn'tseen her, but she could be inside."

"Can we contact Sergei byphone?"

The Ukrainian laughed. "Listen, thisis Moscow, not Munich. I was lucky to get this dump of a place a month agoafter I found work. It hasn't even got a fucking bath and I have to piss in thesink rather than walk to the downstairs toilet. The only way Sergei and I cankeep in touch is a communal pay phone in the hallway below. Sergei has to driveto a kiosk in a village five minutes from the dacha if he wants to contactme." The man shrugged. "An unhelpful situation, and hardly conduciveto surveillance, but there you have it."

Massey saw the tension on the man's face.He was living on his nerves, constantly in fear of being caught.

"How have you both been?"

The Ukrainian grimaced. "Munichseems like a lifetime ago, but we were lucky to get here. That crippled Finnishpilot of yours dropped us two miles from our target, in a fucking swamp that ittook us half the night to wade out of. I think the bastard did itdeliberately." He shrugged. "But we're still alive, and that countsfor something. We've both found jobs.

Lucky for you, Sergei as a deliverydriver, that's how he borrowed the van. So far, the papers your people suppliedhave worked and no one's bothered us."

Massey turned back to the map. "Tellme about the dacha."

The man took several minutes to describethe location and the layout of the property, then Massey said, "How far isit from here?"

"By taxi, over half an hour. But Isuggest we take public transport. It's more reliable and less conspicuous. Anhour ought to do it. Sergei can take us back."

"What if he telephones while we'regone?"

The man shrugged. "Can't be helped,I'm afraid. We'll have to take the risk and hope your friends stay put. But ifthey move I gave Sergei orders to follow them." He hesitated. "Youstill haven't told me why we're watching these people."

Massey stood and crossed to where he hadleft his duffel bag. He removed a large, heavy cotton cloth and laid it on thetable. He unrolled the cloth. Inside were two Tokarev pistols with silencersand spare magazines. There was also a disassembled Kalashnikov AK47 automaticassault rifle with a folding stock.

The Ukrainian looked at the weapons, thenover at Massey, and grinned. "We're going to kill them?"

"You've both had weapons training soI don't have to show you how to use these."

The Ukrainian picked up the Kalashnikovand expertly assembled the parts. He checked the magazine and clicked it home.

"My type of weapon-lethal. Youdidn't answer my question, Americanski. We're going to kill the people at thedacha?"

"Yes."

"You don't look too happy about it."

Massey ignored the remark and picked up aTokarev and silencer. As he slipped the weapon and a spare magazine into hispocket, the Ukrainian looked at him.

"I don't have to know why they'regoing to die, but this is Moscow. What happens if we run into trouble and getcaught?"

Massey held the man's stare. "Thedacha's remote so it's unlikely the militia will turn up. We ought to have thisover and done with and be back here in a couple of hours, Any problems with themilitia showing up and we still finish the job, no matter what it takes. Thenwe get out of there fast. I've got air transport out and I take You and yourfriend with me. After this, you both have your freedom."

The Ukrainian grinned. "That soundsbetter. This could turn out to be interesting. A little action won't be badafter a month flattening my ass sitting in this dump. I've got a feeling it'sgoing to be just like old times for Sergei and me, killing Russkis."