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Everybody loved him.
No matter who, everyone loved the man.
The King of Men.
The one true leader he’d ever met. The one true gentleman.
And a total sadist. Through and through.
Chapter Twenty-Four
~ Caelan ~
He prowled the interrogation room in his combat clothes to appear like he was still part of the armed forces. Well, with what had happened recently, he’d have a hard time convincing anyone he wasn’t still in the forces. Does anyone ever really leave? The life has a way of imprinting so that even when out, you’re still in, taking all those lessons learned with you. For Caelan though it felt like he was on a rolling freelance contract, never truly able to clock off.
Ogarkov had been treated very well so far. Three square meals a day. Even Netflix. A comfy bed. A room with a window. A little shelf of books. A notebook. Even an in-room kettle to make himself hot drinks. So far they’d treated him like he wasn’t a filthy double crosser. A dirty liar, cheat and a man without any true allegiance. All that Caelan had determined having taken just one look at the fella. Now all he needed was proof.
Ogarkov had passed all the lie detectors. Had told them everything they needed to know. Or so he would have them believe…
Yet one of the interrogation specialists had requested Caelan come on board, see if he couldn’t dig up some new information pertaining to Eric Holmes. It was a hunch the woman had—that Ogarkov was hiding something.
So far, Caelan and he had discussed the weather, the state of things in Ukraine (including the cultural institutions destroyed irrevocably). It was the lack of sadness in the Russian’s eyes that told Caelan the man was an evil self-server. Even the most stoic of Russians hated the loss of cultural icons—and the two countries shared such close history, after all.
“So you are here to tell me I am being sent home or something?” the Russian finally asked, since Caelan’s prowling about the room had obviously had the desired effect.
“Can I no come here just to check the man whose life I saved is doing okay?”
Caelan shot a glance at Ogarkov and saw that the man was very much suspicious of Caelan’s visit. Not at all comforted. Good.
He finally sat down opposite Ogarkov at the interview table positioned in the middle of the dim, spartan room. Ogarkov wasn’t cuffed but the man knew he was in a secure building.
“Eric Holmes,” said Caelan calmly, letting the name hang in the air.
The Russian’s nose twitched. “I don’t know this man.”
Ogarkov’s story so far had been that the rough treatment he’d received from the Ukrainians had kept him pretty much out of it so that he wasn’t always aware of his surroundings or what was going on.
He claimed to not know who Eric Holmes was.
“He has verra light hair and the eyes of a wolf,” said Caelan, “is a tank of a man with tattoos down his arms, London through and through. He saved your life in Ukraine.”
The Russian attempted to appear incredulous he had ever met such a fellow.
“You two made a bargain. Eric himself told me of this bargain.”
Caelan let those words sink in, watching as the Russian worked through his choices.
Eric hadn’t confessed anything about a bargain; Caelan hadn’t let the man tell him anything since he’d found him in bed with his wife.
It was a guess. Caelan’s guesses were nearly always spot on.
“What you know of this alleged bargain?” Ogarkov asked, in his drawl, his hand gestures attempting to make him seem indifferent and beyond reproach. “This Englishman lies, whatever he has said. Lies.”
Caelan got up and tucked in his chair as slowly and as carefully as possible. He shot the Russian one carefully weighted grin, then turned and began heading for the door.
Those few seconds had to be counted precisely. Enough to give the man space to hang himself, not enough to let him complete—not that day. Let his doubt fester. His survival instinct take over. Caelan had perfected the art of silent intimidation over the years.
“I will talk, but I want immunity,” said the Russian.
