An Interrogation Enhanced – Sexpionage 4

“Enhanced interrogation is a euphemism for the systematic torture of detainees”

This story is told from the perspective of the young, beautiful SVR Agent, Ekaterina Novikova …

SVR Headquarters, Moscow, Russia



It was supposed to be a brief trip home for me. A visit to the HQ in Moscow to unload my intelligence and take a short while to recharge my batteries, or so I was told. But here I was, taken from my dorm-room in the dark of night, allowed to throw on some basic clothes before being taken to the HQ’s underground car park and bundled into a large van.

What the fuck was happening?

With blacked-out windows either side of me, I can’t hear anything except the sound of the diesel driven engine starting up. I flinch when someone or something pounds against the sides, and shouts something that I cannot make out.

Driving slowly, it feels like it’s taken hours before the van begins to speed up, and despite my training, I’m a trembling wreck as the vehicle speeds up.

And then there is nothing.

The officers with me don’t speak. Preferring instead to watch me, or each other. I’ve been seated separately, my hands secured behind my back. I am not a threat, none at all.

Driving in silence, with only the occasional stop for traffic, the van halts before starting forwards once more. Stopping again, this time it’s longer. The third time is shorter. Then the van is swinging around, before reversing.

Activity from the officers, they’re checking themselves over, their weapons, the van jolts to a final stop, then the doors are opening.

“Stand … on your feet …” Rushing to comply, I stand up too fast, the top of my head bumping against the curved ceiling, and as I groan, my arm is seized. Walked to the edge of the van, then forced to jump down, I turn my head quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of where I’ve been taken. But before I can turn, with more guards streaming outside, taking up position around the van, and with more flanking me, I’m marched inside the large building that now looms ahead. I recognise it … they have brought me to … no … why … please …

Butyrka Prison!

Butyrka Prison, Moscow

Past a line of guards, wearing the uniform of jeans and shirt, there is another system of stops and starts as I’m taken further inside. Passing through a set of double doors, that require a fresh coat of paint, we enter a small waiting area-type space. Desks are lined up against one wall, there is a reception area, behind wired glass and a whole load of empty space.

Here there is a large number of sentinels. All standing around, it seems as if they do not have jobs to attend to, or prisoners to watch and control. It feels, as I’m left, standing alone, while the guard who brought me from the van moves towards the reception area, that their main reason for being here is me. But that is stupid thinking, right?

“Ekaterina Novikova?”

“Yes.” The voice comes from behind me.

“You have been charged with high treason, of sharing state secrets with both the Americans and the Belarusians. How do you plead?”

I can’t see who’s talking. It’s none of the guards standing and observing the proceedings, nor it is the officers who I arrived with.

I know what my answer should be. An attempt to plead my innocence. What were they talking about? I had always been loyal, always will be. I know what he, this voice, wishes to hear … my confession, they always want to hear my confession.

“I’m loyal to the Motherland, Comrade Governor … Not guilty,” I whisper, the sound barely audible.

“I’m sorry, I heard you wrong. So, I shall ask again. Are you guilty of these charges?”

“No,” I answer again. “No, I didn’t betray anyone or my country. I could never. I would never…”

“So you are innocent, yes?” The voice comes from directly behind me, so close I feel the tickle of his breath against the side of my throat.

Is the question a trick? A way to catch me out when I have already denied the accusations held against me. If I answer yes, but then if I say no …

Staying quiet, I sense that my response doesn’t matter here. There will be no trial. They will torture me and then find me guilty anyway. I am already dead. I felt sad. Comrade Colonel Tretykov’s advice from the institution comes back to me ‘Don’t resist any interrogation attempts …’

So I don’t.

Biting my lip, my hands clenched into fists behind my back, I don’t react beyond a slight flinch, my shoulders curling in, protecting myself when the Senior Officer, the one making the accusations, circles around me.

“Take Miss Novikova to interview and admittance. Begin the process, I will be along shortly.”

Butyrka Prison, Moscow

The notice on the door, ‘Приемная комиссия (Admissions office)’ proclaiming the use of this room, is another lie. The room is empty. No desk, along with no window. There is a stain on the floor, which I try not to look at as the handcuffs are removed, freeing my arms and as I draw them around myself, I turn just as the door slams shut.

There is nothing, not even a chair.

Only the one door, which swings open. I’ve moved to the back of the room, away from the entrance and now I turn as two guards enter. One is carrying a plastic bucket, which he sets on the floor just inside the door. The other guard is empty-handed, which right now, seems worse.

“Strip out of clothes. Fold and hand to me.” Understanding the instructions in my native tongue, but not the reason behind the request, I wrap my arms around myself, tugging my sleeves over my hands, before moving a step back.

“Strip out of clothes … bitch …” repeating the same set of words, the empty-handed guard, smiles to his friend, then moving a step closer. “Strip out of clothes, or help will be provided.”

It’s not the words, nor the meaning behind them. It’s the leer. The way he gawks at me as if he’s imagining completing the job himself.

Unzipping my pink and grey hoodie, I toe-off the trainers on my feet, before pulling it off.

Next the shirt, then the baggy jeans, folding each item until all I’m standing is a pair of small panties, with the guard taking each item, I look down at the floor, humiliated, before wriggling out of my underwear. Handing everything over, I’m naked.

“Tell me what you told the Belarusians to have yourself set free.” The accusation comes again.

“I … I … have told them nothing. I am Russian Agent only …”

Turning my body towards the wall, there is a gurgle, water filling an empty pipe. It’s my only warning.

Hitting me, middle of the spine, I lurch forwards into the wall, my hands breaking my fall, as the force of high pressured, freezing cold water, is blasted at me.

Coating the back of my head, then shooting down my spine, over my ass before travelling back up again, I’m gasping and panting, trying to regain my footing when my arm is grasped.