Ganglands: Russia: Russia (10 page)

Suddenly, Marat fell silent mid-sentence, a look of hatred breaking out over his face like a storm cloud.
Two young Georgian girls passed them in the carriage, their arms linked as they gossiped with one another.
As they sat down, they looked over at Marat and Alexei and giggled coyly.
Alexei’s heart sank.

‘Bitches!’ spat Marat, clenching his fist.
He tried to stand up, but Alexei grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat.

‘Not here,’ he said softly.

‘Why not?’ hissed Marat.
‘They’re laughing at us!’

Alexei glanced around the carriage, his mind racing as
he tried to think of a reason.
‘Check out the guy behind us,’ he muttered. ‘I think he’s a cop.
He’s packing a weapon under his jacket.’

Marat looked back at the middle-aged man leafing through a newspaper. ‘Him?
You reckon?’

Alexei nodded.
‘Saw it when he got on the train.
Let this one go – there’ll be other opportunities.’

For a second it looked as though Marat was going to argue, but then he nodded sullenly.
Alexei thanked his lucky stars it had only been the pair of them on the train – if Medved had been around, there would have been no restraining them.
He dreaded to think what might have happened to the Georgian girls then.
As Marat continued to gaze hatefully across the carriage, Alexei wondered whether this was how things had happened with Lena: a tiny spark setting off a sudden explosion of violence.
Had Marat been there then, too?
His mood darkening, Alexei was glad when they finally got off the train.

Back at Okhotny Ryad station, Marat tried to persuade Alexei to hang out with him for the rest of the day, but Alexei made his excuses and left.
He waited until he was sure that the Eagle was out of sight, then pulled out Darius Jordan’s business card from his pocket.
Tapping the American’s mobile number into his phone, Alexei texted him requesting a meeting.
He had barely put down his phone when he received a reply:

Victory Park.
1500 hrs.

1455 hours: Alexei emerged from the metro and hurried
up a broad paved boulevard towards Victory Park.
A memorial to Russia’s struggles during World War Two, the vast park was built on top of Poklonnaya Hill, one of the highest points in Moscow.
Alexei knew his way around: on his first weekend in the capital, Stepan had insisted on taking his nephew and Lena around the museum, his arms waving as he talked them passionately through the exhibits.

A caustic wind whipped across the boulevard, troubling the fountains that lined the route.
It was bitingly cold.
In front of Alexei, a soaring obelisk pierced the sky.
A statue of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory, stared down impassively from its summit, over 140 metres into the air.
Alexei felt dwarfed by the obelisk’s solemn shadow.

Despite the unforgiving weather, Alexei had to thread his way through a bustling crowd of people: excitable schoolchildren, ignoring the stern commands of their teacher; foreign tourists, their faces glued to digital cameras; and ordinary Muscovites chatting to one another on the benches.
Roller-skaters zoomed lazily through the throng, while in one corner of the park a pack of skateboarders were rattling down a set of steps.
Irrationally, Alexei found himself looking out for members of the Moscow Eagles – as though any of the neo-Nazis would spend an afternoon paying their respects at a war memorial.

As Alexei came out on to the circular plaza at the obelisk’s base, he glanced at his watch.
It was 1500 hours.
Where was Darius Jordan?

‘Alexei.’

Suddenly, the head of Trojan Industries was by his
side, as though he had materialized out of thin air.
The American was dressed in a heavy fur-lined coat, a pair of white earphones poking out from beneath a grey beanie hat.

‘Where did you come from?’ asked Alexei.
‘I didn’t see you.’

‘You do now,’ the American replied enigmatically.

‘How’s Lena?’

‘Stable.
There’s been no improvement.’

‘I should be with her,’ Alexei said pensively.
‘She needs me.’

‘She needs you to complete her mission.
If her condition changes you’ll be the first to know.
I’ve given you my word.’

As they walked slowly around the plaza, Alexei could see the other visitors openly staring at the tall, dark-skinned American.
Westerners were not an everyday sight in Moscow – let alone men who looked like Darius Jordan.
But if he was aware of the curious inspections, Jordan didn’t show it.
Alexei had never been around anyone who had exuded such calm self-confidence – except perhaps his father.

Jordan pointed at the crescent-shaped building that curved around the back edge of the plaza.
‘Before you arrived, I took the opportunity to go round the museum.
It’s pretty incredible.
Do you know how many Russians died during World War Two?’

‘About twenty-five million,’ Alexei replied automatically.
He smiled wryly.
‘Too many soldiers in the family.
It’s not the kind of fact they let me forget.’

‘
Twenty-five million
. Jesus, Alexei!
All those deaths, all those sacrifices just to stop the Nazis, and now, sixty years later, Russian kids are heiling Hitler and saluting swastikas.’ Jordan shook his head.
‘It baffles me.’

‘You have racists in America, too,’ Alexei pointed out. ‘It’s everywhere.
People are poor, they can’t get a job, they want someone to blame.
It’s easy to pick on immigrants.’

Jordan raised an eyebrow.
‘You telling me about racism, son?’ He barked with laughter.
‘Can’t say you’re wrong, though.’

He stopped at the base of the obelisk, where a stone statue depicted a man on horseback wielding a spear – St George, the patron saint of Moscow, slaying the dragon.
To an impatient Alexei, it seemed that the American was more interested in a history lesson than learning about his mission.

‘Any news on the lawyer?’ he asked pointedly.

Jordan shook his head.
‘The authorities are maintaining a firm line – they don’t negotiate with terrorists.
I can understand their point.
If they let someone as dangerous as Borovsky go free, it sends out the wrong kind of signals.
God knows who gets kidnapped next.
Besides, we’ve got a man inside the police department, and he’s informed us that finding Ms Petrova isn’t exactly top priority.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Over the years Rozalina Petrova’s been fighting pretty hard to get certain assault cases classed as race-hate crimes.
That tends to complicate matters – and some
policemen are more interested in an easy life than getting justice.
And maybe some of them don’t
entirely
disagree with the Moscow Eagles anyway.
Didn’t you say that you saw policemen cosying up to Medved after the attack on the Uzbeks?’

Alexei nodded.
‘Put it this way: he wasn’t in handcuffs.’

Jordan sighed, and looked out across the park.
‘Wish I could say that I was surprised,’ he said.
‘I’ve been around the world, and Moscow’s no different from anywhere else.
It doesn’t matter what uniform you’re wearing, or which side you’re supposed to be on, there’s only one rule: there are good men and there are bad men, and you sure as hell gotta know which are which.’

‘There aren’t any good men in the Moscow Eagles,’ Alexei said darkly.

‘Damn right,’ the American replied.
‘Which is why we need to break them up.
It’s up to us, Alexei: if we can’t locate Rozalina Petrova in the next five days, she’s a dead woman.
So what have you got for me?’

In a low voice, Alexei told Jordan about his conversation with Marat, their trip to the university and meeting with Nadia.
At the mention of Viktor’s email, the American’s brow furrowed.

‘Tsar?
Means nothing specific to me.
It’s sure not the handle of a second-in-command, though.
Sounds like Viktor’s reporting to
someone
.
You know, since I started studying the Eagles I’ve had a nagging feeling that there was more going on here than met the eye. Take the gym – it’s in Viktor’s name, but we’ve checked his employment records and he hasn’t worked for years.
Someone had to
buy it; someone who didn’t want it made public.
Problem is, the money trail doesn’t seem to go anywhere.
If this Tsar is funding the Eagles, he knows what he’s doing.’

‘Guess I should go and find Marat – see if I can get any more information out of him.’

Jordan shook his head.
‘You’ve taken enough risks for one day.
Don’t push your luck.
We’ll run Tsar through some databases, see what we can come up with.
Meantime, you take the night off.’

Alexei laughed humourlessly.
‘Thanks, boss.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Jordan replied, refusing to rise to him.
He paused.
‘Oh – I nearly forgot.
Richard Madison wants me to ask whether you’re taking care of that bug of his.’

Alexei had completely forgotten that he was still carrying the miniaturized listening device around.
Patting his wallet pocket, he felt the familiar outline of the metallic disc.

‘Tell him it’s safe,’ he replied.
‘I’m just waiting for the right place to use it.’

‘He’ll be a relieved man.
I know he’s Technical Support, but sometimes I think he worries more about his gadgets than his kids.’

Alexei looked surprised.
‘He’s got kids?’

‘We are actual human beings at Trojan, you know,’ Jordan said, his voice laced with amusement.
‘We’ve got kids, husbands and wives. Some of us are even lucky enough to have particularly demanding girlfriends …’ His voice trailed off.
‘We don’t take this work lightly, son.’

‘I guess,’ Alexei replied, uneasy at the sudden change
of mood.
‘I’m heading back now.
Are you going to the metro station?’

Jordan thrust his hands deeper into his pockets.
‘I think I’m going to stay here for a while.
This is the kind of place you shouldn’t rush visiting.
Stay in touch – and be extra careful from now on.
The deeper you go, the more dangerous it’s going to get.’

Alexei nodded briefly, then turned and walked away.
Halfway down the boulevard, he looked back to see the American still standing alone on the windswept plaza, neck craned upwards as he stared at the statue of the victory goddess.

13. Assault Course

Take the night off
, Jordan had said.
Easy for him to say, Alexei thought to himself bitterly.
Having been totally immersed in his mission for five days, it wasn’t as though he could just go to the cinema and forget about everything.
The ironic thought occurred to Alexei that almost everyone he knew in this city was from either Trojan Industries or the Moscow Eagles – and he certainly didn’t want to spend any more time with the latter.

In the end Alexei spent a sombre couple of hours at Lena’s side in the hospital, then returned to his uncle’s flat for dinner.
Stepan was in a convivial mood, knocking back glasses of vodka as he attacked a plate of beef stroganoff and dumplings.
Sitting in their warm kitchen, listening to Stepan’s tales of youthful misbehaviour as the deep aroma of their meal swirled up around them, Alexei felt the first knots of tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
Then his mobile phone buzzed in his pocket.

Assemble 0930 tomorrow at gym.
Do not be late.
Come prepared.
V.

Alexei’s heart sank.
Come prepared for what?
Another
street fight?
He wasn’t sure he could go through that again.
He had just about managed to avoid doing any real damage last time, but the Eagles would be watching him now: he was certain of that.
Even more unsettling was the fact that Viktor Orlov had his mobile number – presumably Marat had given it to him.
Even though Alexei was trying to win the Eagles’ trust, he didn’t want to be any closer to their sinister leader than necessary.
The fact that Viktor could contact him whenever he wanted bothered Alexei more than he could let on.

As he put his phone away, Alexei caught Stepan giving him an enquiring look over the rim of his vodka glass.
‘Anything wrong, nephew?’

‘Just more university stuff.
It’s no big deal.’

Stepan drained his glass and slammed it down on to the table. ‘Maybe I’m just an old soldier,’ he said, unscrewing the top off the vodka bottle, ‘but this engineering course sounds distinctly fishy to me.’ Suddenly there was an edge to his voice.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?’

Alexei looked down at his food.
Although part of him was desperate to confide in his uncle, he knew that Stepan would hit the roof if he heard the truth about Alexei’s mission.
Wartime heroics were one thing, but teenage black ops were something entirely different.
Stepan would be on the phone to Alexei’s parents in a heartbeat, and who knew what would happen then.
What would Trojan do to keep their activities a secret – would Valerie Singer come knocking on their door again, this time with a gun in her hand?

Alexei shook his head.
‘No.
Thanks, though.’

His uncle harrumphed, and refilled his glass.
The warmth had ebbed from the atmosphere in the kitchen, and they finished their meal in awkward silence.
Stepan polished off his bottle of vodka in front of the television, getting so drunk that Alexei had to help him to bed.
Next morning, as Alexei quickly showered and dressed, the apartment reverberated to the sound of his uncle’s snores.

Any brief relief Alexei had felt the previous evening had been replaced by a sense of impending dread that only grew as he neared the Eagles’ gym.
He arrived just before half past nine to see the skinheads clambering into three white vans parked at the pavement.
There had to be nearly thirty men in total – twice the size of the group who had attacked the Uzbeks.

Pavel was standing in front of the lead van, dressed purposefully in crisp combat fatigues.
He broke off from shouting orders at the gang as Alexei approached, and glanced meaningfully at his watch.
‘Just in time,’ he said. ‘Don’t think we were going to wait for you.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘No questions.
Get in.’

Pavel gestured curtly at the third van and turned his back on Alexei. Trying to ignore the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach, Alexei jogged over to the vehicle and jumped inside.
The dingy confines were crammed with skinheads, none of whom Alexei recognized.
The van reeked of body odour and bad breath.
Deafening thrash metal pounded out from the car stereo at the front
of the van, where Medved was hunched in the front seat, his hands drumming on the steering wheel.
Alexei had barely taken his seat when someone slammed the van door shut, and they were moving.