Ganglands: Russia: Russia (6 page)

Alexei turned his head away, then nodded, He closed his eyes as Yelena turned on the tattoo gun, which immediately began buzzing like a hornet.
As the needle bit into his chest, Alexei gritted his teeth to stop himself crying
out.
The tattoo seemed to take forever, every line of ink demanding another insistent scratch of the needle against his skin.
In an attempt to block out the pain, Alexei flooded his mind with happy memories of him and Lena back in Volgograd, when no dream had seemed impossible and the future offered only bright possibilities.

Afterwards, as he inspected the black symbol on his pink, raw skin in a mirror, Alexei had to blink back the tears.
Yelena touched his arm sympathetically.

‘I know it looks like it’ll be there forever,’ she said quietly.
‘But it’ll gone before you know it.’

It was all Alexei could do to nod mutely.

After dinner, Darius Jordan ordered Alexei to phone his uncle and reassure him that he was settling in.
Stepan bombarded him with so many questions about the university and his fictitious course that Alexei quickly began to falter.
In the middle of a stammering lie about his accommodation, Valerie Singer appeared at his shoulder and beckoned at him to pass her the phone.
She was soon charming Stepan, and in under a minute she had snapped the phone shut and tossed it back to Alexei.

‘You’re never that nice to me,’ he said.

‘Work on your lying,’ Valerie replied icily.
‘That was just your uncle.
Stutter like that in front of the Eagles and you’re a dead man.’

That night Alexei snatched three hours of sleep dozing in a cot in the corner of the hall.
He was awoken by Darius Jordan dropping a file on to his bed.

‘What’s this?’ Alexei asked sleepily.

‘Your backstory,’ the American replied.
‘The Eagles
are going to want to know about you before they trust you, so I’d advise you learn this thoroughly.
You can keep your first name – it’s common enough, and the fewer lies you have to tell the better.
Breakfast in five minutes.’

Looking up at the LED clock with a heavy heart, Alexei saw that there were only twenty-eight hours left.
Rozalina Petrova’s kidnap had shortened what little time there had been for his training – it felt like every time he turned around, Alexei was being fed new information by one Trojan operative or another.
He was dizzy with the speed at which people moved, their clipped efficiency betraying their military backgrounds.
Only Richard Madison maintained an easy-going facade.
Later that morning, Alexei was summoned to one of the monastery’s antechambers to find the Englishman reading a history book on Josef Stalin, his feet propped up on the table by a laptop.

‘Have a seat,’ he said breezily, snapping the book shut. ‘I was just doing some background reading.’

‘You interested in communism?’ Alexei asked.

‘A little,’ Madison replied.
‘How about you?
Ever find yourself hankering for the good old days of the Cold War?’

Alexei shrugged.
‘Before my time,’ he said. ‘Politicians are all the same, anyway.
Whoever’s in charge, they only care about lining their own pockets.’

‘You may have a point there,’ Madison said wryly.
‘I can’t help but wonder whether you’d have such a problem with neo-Nazi gangs in the old days, though.
When your country was still the Soviet Union, internal travel restrictions meant that immigration could be kept under tighter
control.
These days, it’s a lot easier for a poor man in the former Soviet republics – in Chechnya, say, or Tajikistan, or Azerbaijan – to come to Moscow in hope of getting a better-paid job in the big city.
Problem is, that spawns the kind of discontent that the Moscow Eagles thrive on.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘You know, Alexei, we’ve studied gangs all around the world.
Ninety per cent of the time, gangs get new members for the same reasons: people want respect or protection, or think it’s the only way they can make money.
In some of the hellholes I’ve visited, you can almost understand them.
The 88s aren’t like that.
The only thing they’ve got in common, the only glue that binds them, is racial hatred.
Every foreigner is a “black” to them, every “black” is inferior.
Street riots and punishment beatings are their stock in trade.
In conclusion: the quicker we can shut them down the better.’

Calling up a virtual map of Moscow on a laptop, the Englishman zoomed in on a building off Komsomolskaya Square – a rundown area in the north-east of the capital.

‘Now, this is the dragon’s lair,’ Madison explained. ‘It’s a gym run by the Eagles.
We’ll take you there tomorrow morning. Remember: first impressions count for a lot around these guys.
It’s not just about skinheads and tattoos; it’s about attitude.
Don’t think – don’t doubt.
I know we’re asking a lot of you.
But if you complete this mission, it’ll be worth it.
Never forget that.’

Alexei nodded.
‘I won’t.’

‘Good lad,’ said Madison.
‘I’m sorry we don’t have
more time to get you ready.
This might help make up for it, though.’

The Englishman pressed a tiny metallic disc several millimetres in diameter into Alexei’s palm.
Alexei turned it over in his hand.

‘What’s this?’

‘This, my friend, is the height of miniaturized technology. It’s a bug.
Not only will it record everything it picks up with superb sound quality, but you can even phone it and listen in live over your mobile.
It’s quad band, so you could call from the Amazon jungle and it’d sound like you’re in the same room.
If you can find somewhere to plant it around the Eagles, we’ll hear exactly what they’re saying in private.
This is a bloody high-tech piece of kit – so for God’s sake don’t drop it down the toilet, or something stupid like that.’

For the first time in what felt like an age, Alexei smiled. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, slipping the disc into the pocket of his wallet.

That evening, he insisted on being taken back to the hospital.
In the stillness of Lena’s room, Alexei felt the doubts temporarily close in over his head, but one glance at the marks of abuse on her face stiffened his resolve.
Deep down, he knew that she would have said he was doing the right thing.
Knowing Lena, she would probably have wanted to do it herself.
Alexei leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ he whispered.
‘I promise.’

He was driven back to the monastery, which continued to hum with activity through the night.
Unable to sleep,
Alexei read his backstory over and over again, his eyelids finally falling shut as the sky was lightening, and the LED timer had clicked down to six hours.

A backstreet off Komsomolskaya Square: zero hours until mission commencement.
In the back seat of an unmarked Lada, Alexei felt his gut turn another somersault.
He had already been sick twice that morning – and even though his stomach was empty, he wanted to throw up again.
Accompanied by Valerie and Madison, he had been watching the gym across the street for nearly an hour.
In that time, ten Eagles had entered the building.

Madison checked his watch, then looked back from the driver’s seat.

‘Ready?’

Alexei took a deep breath.
‘Guess so.’ He looked over at Valerie.
‘Any last-minute words of advice?’

The Israeli woman gazed levelly at Alexei, then answered in Russian: ‘If you get a chance to kill any of them, don’t hesitate.
I’ll cover you with Trojan.’

Richard Madison gave Valerie a questioning glance, but she didn’t elaborate, coolly selecting another cigarette from a battered packet.

It was time.
Alexei picked up his kitbag and got out of the Lada.
As he crossed the street, he saw a teenage girl leave the gym and sit down on the pavement by the door.
She was dressed in a short purple dress and ripped black tights, and her hair was streaked with blonde highlights.
Pulling out a mobile phone, she began texting, a look of sour boredom on her face.

‘You going inside?’ she called out as Alexei walked past her.

He stopped.
‘Maybe.
Why?’

‘Maybe you’re not welcome.’

Alexei looked pointedly up at the sign above the door, and then back at his kitbag.
‘It is a gym, right?
It’s got weights, punchbags, that kind of thing?’

‘
Private
gym,’ the girl corrected him tartly.
‘They don’t like strangers.’

Alexei gave the girl what he hoped was a winning smile.
‘Then how about you put in a word for me?’

She looked away, uninterested.

With a shrug, Alexei walked through the door and into the gloomy interior.
The Moscow Eagles’ gym was dominated by a raised ring in the centre of the room, surrounded by square blue training mats.
Punchbags hung down from the ceiling like slabs of beef in a meat locker.
Old posters advertising boxing matches were peeling away from the walls, and dumbbells and weights were scattered across the floor.

It looked like every other gym Alexei had spent time training in – with one major difference.
No one was actually working out.
Instead, a group of burly men had congregated around the benches at one side of the room, talking in low guttural tones.
There was an edge to the atmosphere in this room that went beyond concentrated physical training: a suppressed air of violence thicker than the smell of body odour. The men stared at Alexei as he entered, their conversations ending abruptly.

Alexei was almost tempted to turn around and walk
straight out again, but then the thought of Lena came into his head.
It was two of these bastards who had attacked her – they could be watching him right now.
There was no way he was going to back down.
Instead Alexei walked over to the punchbag at the far end of the gym, trying to look unconcerned by the scrutiny.
Slowly, deliberately, he dropped his kitbag to the floor and took off his T-shirt, displaying the swastika on his chest.
He began working the punchbag, quickly losing himself in familiar combinations of lefts and rights.

As he built up a sweat, Alexei became aware of a teenager breaking away from the knot of men to approach him.
A baseball cap was pressed down on his head, half-obscuring his face, and his black-and-white checked shirt was buttoned up to the neck.
The teenager stood and watched him train, his arms crossed.

‘Nice work,’ he said eventually.
‘You know what you’re doing.’

Alexei ignored him, concentrating on throwing rights into the punchbag.

‘Mind if I ask you a question?’ the boy continued.

‘Knock yourself out,’ Alexei replied.
‘You’re in the right place.’

‘Are you crazy or retarded?’

Alexei stopped hitting the bag, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s just, you’ve walked into this gym like you own it, and this is the
worst
place to show that kind of disrespect.
I reckon you’ve got about two minutes before you get the shit beaten out of you.
My friend reckons you’re
crazy, but you look pretty sane to me, so I figure you’re just retarded.
So which one is it?’

Before Alexei could reply, there was a sudden explosion of noise behind them; he turned round to see a muscular man in a sleeveless sweatshirt bursting into the gym, his bald head gleaming in the light.
Even from this distance, Alexei saw that the newcomer was built like an ox.
The man snarled something back towards the doorway and then stalked across the gym.

‘Hey, Medved!’ the teenager in the baseball cap called out. ‘What’s going on?’

The giant skinhead barged past him, nearly knocking the teenager to the ground.
Before Alexei could react, Medved strode up and punched him squarely in the face.

8. Hate Figure

Alexei crumpled to the training mat to howls of laughter from the Moscow Eagles.
The teenager moved hastily out of the way as the muscular skinhead roared like a bear, and swung a boot at Alexei.
The blow caught him flush in the gut; groaning, he clutched at his midriff.

‘I’m going to kill you, you little shit!’ Medved bellowed.

Through watering eyes, Alexei saw the skinhead raise his boot to stamp down on him – instinctively, he shifted his body position and swept Medved’s standing leg from under him.
As the skinhead toppled to the ground, Alexei rolled away and struggled to his feet.
Immediately the Eagles stopped laughing and ran over to back up Medved.
Forcing himself upright, Alexei clenched his fists and prepared himself for the onslaught.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’

Everyone stopped.
Two older men were standing by the entrance to the gym: the speaker was a small, wiry man in combat trousers, a heavy gold necklace hanging over his green T-shirt.

The second was Viktor Orlov.

Even though Alexei had only caught a glimpse of him at the back of a blurry photograph, there was no
mistaking the lean, intelligent face and horn-rimmed glasses.
Unlike the rest of the Eagles, a burly army clad in jeans and white T-shirts, Viktor was dressed in a suave black suit and long overcoat, his short hair trained into a neat side-parting.
He walked calmly into the centre of the ring of men, his companion following a pace behind.
The gym was so quiet that the only sound Alexei could hear was his own ragged breaths.

‘Pavel asked you a question,’ Viktor said quietly. ‘I’d appreciate an answer.’

‘This bastard tried to hit on my girl!’ Medved blustered, pointing an accusatory finger at Alexei.

‘What girl?’ panted Alexei incredulously, his hands on his knees.
‘I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about!’

Viktor tapped his cheek thoughtfully.
‘It seems we have one man’s word against another.
Only one person can help us resolve this. Pavel?’

The wiry man turned round and called out: ‘Svetlana!
Get your ass in here!’

There was a few seconds’ pause, and then the girl Alexei had seen sitting outside the gym walked sulkily towards them.

‘Her?’ he said.
‘I didn’t –’

‘No one asked you to speak,’ snapped Viktor.

Alexei fell silent.
He might have been spared for the moment, but the danger was far from over.
If things went wrong here he was outnumbered twelve to one.
It looked as though the only way out of the gym was through the front door, and there were at least three burly
skinheads standing in his way.
He didn’t fancy his chances of fighting his way out.