Free The Wolves by Alex Berenson Page B

name at the time? Where her money came from?”
    “She wouldn’t tell me either one. I asked a few times and then dropped it.”
    “This is how you do business.”
    “I only met her on my terms, in Moscow or Volgograd. She wasn’t a threat to me or Russia. The weapons she wanted were small. She was obviously setting up a cell of some kind. To be honest, I thought they were high-end thieves—jewel thieves, maybe. I hadn’t spoken to her in a while and suddenly she called, brought up Wells.”
    “When?”
    “Maybe ten days before he came. She said he might approach me and that if he did, I should play along, find out what he wanted, then call her. She said she would give me a million euros. I thought the whole thing was strange, but I said fine.”
    “Did she say why?”
    “Only that he was causing trouble. I didn’t know about the uranium or Duberman until Wells asked. As I said, I didn’t believe any of it. It seemed impossible.”
    “Did you know Wells?”
    “Only that he was former CIA. Never come across him before. He’s tough, though.”
    “Spare me the
pedik
talk. Wells came. And you called this Salome as she asked.”
    “She told me to keep Wells at my mansion overnight. She had an idea for a way to take care of him. Tell the Volgo police he was smuggling drugs. A kilo of heroin.”
    “Which you would provide from your stash.”
    “Yes.”
    “You didn’t ask why she was so anxious to be rid of him. If maybe his story was true.”
    “I didn’t see any advantage in knowing.”
    “And she agreed to this brilliant plan?” Nemtsov sarcastically emphasized the word
brilliant
.
    “Sure. But it didn’t work. Wells got rid of the heroin before the police came. I never did figure out how. When they couldn’t find it, they put him on a plane to Moscow. Salome said I had to call up here and make sure Wells didn’t leave the country. But she told me not to mention Duberman.”
    Buvchenko wondered if he was as stupid as Nemtsov said. How had he deluded himself into believing this episode would disappear?
    “So you came up with another stroke of genius. Telling Colonel Fyodorov that Wells had come to you to buy weapons to smuggle to the jihadis in Syria.”
    “As I said, Salome—”
    “I don’t care what the Jewess told you.
You lied to us.
Take off your suit coat, gorilla. Lay it on the table.”
    Buvchenko didn’t ask why. When he was done, Nemtsov whistled, a single piercing screech. A big man stepped into the room, with a blue nylon bag a meter long. He unzipped it, pulled a dark wooden rod with a black leather strap wrapped around it.
    A whip.
    Nemtsov unrolled the leather lash from the whip’s handle, and when he was done held up the tip to show Buvchenko the steel barbs studding the leather.
    Now Buvchenko knew why the room had a drain.
    “Will you take this like a man or does he have to stay?”
    Buvchenko leaned forward, pressed his arms against the table, exposing his broad back. Suddenly he was ten years old, in Volgograd, his father staring with blank, furious eyes as he unbuckled his belt, angry because he was down to his last bottle of vodka. Because Buvchenko was home too late or too early. Or for no reason at all. Buvchenko begged for mercy while his mother and Dasha hid in the bathroom. He was as powerless now as he’d been then. He reminded himself to clench his jaw, press his tongue into his mouth, a trick he’d learned as a child.
    Nemtsov circled behind him—
    Buvchenko heard the snap of the whip and felt its sting at once. These barbs went deeper than his father’s, into the meat of his back. Truly Buvchenko was glad for the pain. Otherwise, his rage might have overcome him, sent him for Nemtsov’s throat.
    “One.”
    The whip cracked again—
    “Two.”
    Buvchenko choked back a howl. He wouldn’t give this man the pleasure.
    “Three.” Each cut a centimeter or two from the next, rising toward his shoulders. Nemtsov an artist. Buvchenko wondered how many men he had