Capture Me by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales

organization do you belong to?” Buschekov leans forward, his eyes trained on me with the intensity of a snake hypnotizing its prey.
    I stare back at the Russian official, barely registering his question. I can’t decide if his eyes are yellowish gray or pale hazel; whatever color his irises are, they manage to blend with the yellowish-gray whites around them, producing the illusion of a complete lack of eye color. In general, everything about Arkady Buschekov is yellowish gray, from his skin tone to the wispy hair plastered against his shiny skull.
    “Which organization do you belong to?” he repeats, his gaze boring into me. I wonder how many people have caved from that stare alone; if I believed in x-ray vision, I’d swear he’s looking straight into me. “Who sent you here?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, unable to keep my exhaustion out of my voice.
    It’s been over twenty-four hours since my capture, and I’ve neither slept nor had anything to eat or drink. They’re wearing me down this way, undermining my willpower. It’s a standard interrogation technique here. The Russians consider themselves too civilized to resort to outright torture, so they use these “softer” methods—things that mess with your psyche rather than cause lasting harm to your body.
    “You know, Yulia Andreyevna”—Buschekov addresses me by my name and fake patronymic—“the Ukrainian government has disavowed any connection with you.” He leans even closer, making me want to shrink back into my seat. At this distance, I can smell the salted fish and garlic potatoes he must’ve eaten for lunch. “Unless some unofficial agency in Ukraine claims you, we’ll have no choice but to presume that you’re a Russian citizen, as your false background indicates,” he continues. “You understand what that means, right?”
    I do. If treason is the charge they levy against me, I’ll be executed. That’s no reason for me to talk, though. Obenko won’t come forward to claim me, not even if I expose our off-the-books agency. One operative is nothing in the grand scheme of things.
    When I remain silent, Buschekov sighs and leans back in his seat. “All right, Yulia Andreyevna. If that’s how you wish to play it.” He snaps his fingers at the wall-wide mirror to the left of me. “We’ll talk again soon.”
    He rises to his feet and walks to the door in the corner. Stopping in front of it, he looks back at me. “Think about what I said. This can go very badly for you if you don’t cooperate.”
    I don’t respond. Instead, I look down at my hands, which are handcuffed to the table in front of me. I hear the door open and shut as he walks out, and then I’m alone, except for the people watching me through the mirror.
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    T he hours drag by , each second more torturous than the next. The thirst that torments me is comparable only to the hunger that gnaws at my insides. I try to lay my head down on the desk to sleep, but every time I do so, an ear-piercing alarm blares through the speakers, startling me awake. The screeching noise is impossible to ignore, even in my exhausted state, and eventually I stop trying, doing my best to zone out for a few precious moments while sitting upright in my chair.
    I know what they’re doing, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. People who haven’t experienced prolonged sleep deprivation don’t understand that it’s genuine torture, that every part of one’s body begins to shut down after a while. I’m nauseated and cold all over, and everything hurts—my stomach, my muscles, my skin, my bones... even my teeth. The headache from earlier is a blaze of agony in my skull, and my lips are cracking from lack of water.
    How long has it been since Buschekov left me alone? Several hours? A day? I don’t know, and I’m losing the will to care. If there’s any silver lining to all this, it’s that I don’t need to use the bathroom. I’m too dehydrated, and my