by Ross Kemp
‘Miss Petrova, what are your thoughts about this conviction?’
‘Death to the fascists!’
‘Nikolai was a Russian hero, you bitch!’
From out of the crowd, a tattooed face twisted with hatred appears. The skinhead spits at Rozalina; she flinches as a policeman steps in, pushing the man back. As the crowd roars angrily, a punch is thrown, and a violent scrum breaks out on the court steps. The policeman bundles Rozalina from the throng, pausing to check that she is unhurt before running back to help his comrades.
Shaken, Rozalina hurries away down the road, wiping her face with a tissue. Shouts and screams still ring in her ears. It starts to spit with rain, and she is relieved when her battered Volkswagen comes into view. As Rozalina unlocks her car door, she notices that her hand is shaking. Safely inside her car, she slumps back against the seat, and closes her eyes.
There is a loud knock on her window.
Rozalina starts violently, looks up to see a young man in a suit standing by her car, his journalist credentials pressed against the glass. She puts a hand over her heart in a sign of shocked relief, and winds the window down. The man gives her an apologetic smile.
‘Sorry to scare you,’ he says. ‘I was stuck at the back of the crowd at the courthouse, and I wanted to try and speak to you before you drove away. My name is Oleg – I’m a reporter from the Moscow Times.’
‘Rozalina Petrova,’ she replies, shaking his hand.
Oleg nods back at the mayhem still raging on the court steps.
‘Ugly stuff. Are you OK?’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Rozalina. ‘Tensions always run high in these sorts of cases.’
‘I was wondering whether I could ask you a few questions about the trial …?’
Rozalina taps her steering wheel uncertainly. ‘Can we do it tomorrow? It’s been a long few weeks, and all I feel like doing is going back to my flat and curling up on the sofa.’
Oleg makes a helpless gesture. ‘Today, this is a big story. My editor will put an interview with you on the front page. Tomorrow?’ The journalist shrugs. ‘Maybe a bomb goes off in Chechnya, or the President has an official trip abroad. Maybe my editor doesn’t care about you so much then.’
Rozalina isn’t interested in seeing her face on the front page of newspapers. However, she knows all too well the struggles her clients face in trying to get justice – the intimidation from their attackers, the occasional apathy of the police. Success stories like Borovsky’s conviction need to be heard by as many people as possible.
‘OK,’ she says, reluctantly. ‘But it’ll have to be in my flat, and I can’t remember the last time I cleaned it.’
Oleg laughs as he climbs in the car. ‘Don’t worry – you should see my place.’
They drive through Moscow back towards Rozalina’s flat, making awkward small talk about the traffic and the weather. The rain picks up in intensity, hammering on to the roof and streaming down the windshield. In the cramped confines of her Volkswagen, Rozalina is suddenly very aware of the stranger’s proximity. Up close, there is something naggingly familiar about Oleg’s face – but then she presumes he has been reporting from the courtroom throughout the trial. Though the man is unfailingly polite, Rozalina is beginning to regret agreeing to the interview.
It takes them half an hour to navigate back to Rozalina’s apartment block. Pleased to escape the car, she gets out, retrieving a bag full of groceries from her boot.
‘I bought these last night,’ she explains. ‘What with everything going on, I completely forgot about them.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ laughs Oleg again.
Rozalina enters the block and climbs wearily up the stairs to the fourth floor, propping her groceries against her apartment door as she unlocks it. After the ugliness outside the courthouse, and the miserable weather, her flat feels as warm and inviting as a bath.
‘Lock the door behind you, will you?’ she calls out over her shoulder, placing her groceries carefully down on to the kitchen table. ‘Tea?’
‘Thanks,’ answers Oleg. As Rozalina puts on the kettle, he looks inquisitively around the flat. ‘Nice place,’ he says.
‘You’re very polite,’ replies Rozalina. She makes two cups of sugary tea and carries them over to the sofa, where Oleg sits inspecting a photograph of Rozalina’s nephew on the low table in front of him.
‘You must be pleased to see Borovsky behind bars,’ he says.
‘I’m always pleased to see a murderer behind bars,’ she replies, taking a cautious sip of hot tea.
‘Naturally,’ Oleg says casually, picking up the photograph. ‘Though you’re aware that not everyone shares your opinion. Some Russians think that Nikolai Borovsky is a hero.’
‘A hero?’ Rozalina laughs incredulously. ‘I don’t know that murdering innocent people simply because they’re a different nationality counts as an act of heroism. Men like Borovsky are fascist bullies, and they give ordinary Russians a bad name. Someone has to stand up to them.’ She pauses. ‘Don’t you want to write this down?’
Oleg places the photograph back on the table and shakes his head very slowly. The cosy atmosphere in the flat takes on a colder edge. Rozalina suddenly realizes that something is very, very wrong.
‘You’re not a journalist,’ she says quietly. Not a question.
Oleg smiles dangerously.
As he springs to his feet, Rozalina hurls her tea in his face, but the man doesn’t even flinch. Oleg is on her in a second, wrapping a hand over her mouth, staunching her screams.
‘Marat!’ he shouts.
The door to Rozalina’s flat flings open, and a blond teenager with cropped hair strides inside. Her heart sinking, Rozalina remembers she had asked Oleg to lock it.
‘Help me with this pig, will you?’ he shouts to the boy.
Marat pulls out a hypodermic needle from his pocket and flicks off the cap. Rozalina’s eyes widen in terror – frantically she tries to squirm free, but Oleg’s grip is as tight and remorseless as a vice. The teenager grins as he approaches.
‘Sweet dreams,’ he says mockingly.
Rozalina feels a stabbing pain in her thigh, and slowly her fear ebbs away and the world drifts out of focus.
If any of the tenants of Rozalina Petrova’s apartment block had been staring out of the windows that afternoon, through the teeming rain they would have seen two men hurrying from the building, one carrying the slumped form of a woman in his arms. Maybe they would have thought it odd; maybe they would have rung the police. But the windows of the nearby flats were all empty, and so there were no witnesses as the woman was dumped in the back of a white van, and the vehicle was hurriedly driven off with a squeal of tyres.
5. War Heroes
As soon as he woke up in the spare room of his uncle’s flat, Alexei’s mind was flooded by a series of images from the previous day: the barrage of punches overwhelming him in the ring; Lena in the hospital bed, her beautiful face battered; Darius Jordan’s dark proposal. His heart heavy, Alexei rolled over and pulled the covers over his head, but his mind was working too frantically to let him fall back to sleep. Reluctantly he dragged himself out of bed.
Alexei pulled on a tatty T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, where his uncle was stirring a pot of kasha on the stove. Stepan Zhukov was in his sixties, his hair silvery and his imposing frame beginning to sag. As a child, Alexei had been intimidated by his uncle’s burly physique and his gruff manner; now he was older, he could appreciate Stepan’s dry sense of humour and quiet compassion.
Stepan winced at the sight of his nephew’s face. ‘I take it the fight didn’t go well, then?’
‘Not for me.’ Slumping down at the table with a sigh, Alexei watched as his uncle doled out two portions of porridge from the saucepan.
‘You must have got in late last night,’ Stepan said. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘Yeah.’ Alexei ran a hand through his ruffled hair. ‘Uncle, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is monstrous – what kind of animals would do such a thing? Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alexei replied truthfully. ‘Everything happened so quickly, I wasn’t thinking straight.’
He decided not to tell Stepan about Trojan Industries. In the cold light of day, the idea that he had been asked to become a secret agent seemed ridiculous. His uncle would probably think he was making it up, or that the shock of Lena’s assault had somehow affected his mind.
‘Have the police said anything?’ asked Stepan. ‘Are they going to catch these thugs?’
‘They haven’t spoken to me yet. I’m going back to the hospital today – maybe they’ll be there.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Alexei shook his head. ‘Not today. I need some time alone with her.’
Stepan patted his hand. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ he said softly. ‘Give her my love.’
After showering and getting dressed, Alexei walked slowly towards the hospital, unsure whether he could face seeing Lena hooked up to all those machines again. In the street, he passed a young couple walking hand-in-hand; the girl giggled as her boyfriend whispered something in her ear. Seeing them gave Alexei a dull pain in the chest.
The nurse behind the hospital reception desk was the same as the previous evening – she nodded at Alexei as he walked past. Half-expecting to find Darius Jordan waiting for him in Lena’s room, instead Alexei was confronted by the sight of Adrine Saroyan sitting at her daughter’s bedside, her pale face streaked with tears.
‘Hi,’ Alexei said uncertainly.
At first Lena’s mother didn’t reply. Then she sprang to her feet and began beating her fists on his chest.
‘Where were you?’ she shouted. ‘Where were you when they did this?’
Alexei stood dumbly, at a loss for words. What on earth could he say? How could he defend himself? He realized that Adrine had stopped hitting him, and had dissolved into tears on his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘But how could they do this to my daughter, my beautiful Lena?’
‘It’s OK,’ Alexei said softly, awkwardly putting his arms around her. ‘It’ll be all right. I promise.’
Eventually Adrine’s tears subsided, and they sat quietly by Lena’s side, watching her chest rise and fall as she breathed. The heart monitor continued its slow, metronomic bleeping.
‘What if she doesn’t wake up, Alexei?’ Lena’s mother whispered, at one point.
‘She’ll wake up. Lena’s a fighter – you know that.’
Even though he tried to sound confident, to Alexei his were hollow words. The horrible truth was that he had no idea whether Lena would wake up again. If only she hadn’t won that stupid modelling competition! Then they wouldn’t have moved to Moscow, and instead of being trapped in this airless hospital room they’d be messing around with their school friends back in Volgograd.
Alexei was keenly aware that Darius Jordan’s business card was still sitting in his pocket. The American had given him a day to give Trojan his answer. It would be madness to volunteer to work for him, but what would happen if he said no? What would they do to him? More importantly, what would they do to Lena?
Too many questions. Not enough answers. Alexei said farewell to Adrine and trudged home, feeling completely and utterly lost.
The first thing Alexei noticed as he returned to Stepan’s flat was the acrid smell of cigarettes. The sound of voices filtered through from the sitting room. Cautiously, Alexei peered round the door.
His uncle was sat in his favourite chair, leaning forward as he talked animatedly. A slim woman with a dark-brown ponytail was sitting opposite him, a pair of sunglasses pushed up on her head, curls of smoke rising up from her cigarette and out of the open window. Alexei’s eyes widened as he recognized her – the last time he had seen this woman, she had been sitting in the front seat of Darius Jordan’s people carrier.
‘Come in, Alexei, come in,’ urged Stepan. ‘This is Dr Valerie Singer. She’s come from Moscow State University to discuss your future. Isn’t that an honour?’
‘It’s a surprise, all right,’ Alexei replied carefully. He gave the woman a meaningful look. ‘But I’m not sure there’s that much to talk about.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Valerie, surprising Alexei by speaking in flawless Russian. ‘At least not until you’ve heard our offer. All through the spring we run short training courses at MSU – designed to give potential students an idea of university life. They’re only two weeks long – hard work, but very rewarding. Our engineering course has had a last-minute dropout, and we were sufficiently impressed by your academic record back in Volgograd to offer you the place.’
‘These courses sound very prestigious,’ Stepan added excitedly. ‘They could really help your chances of enrolling properly in the autumn, Alexei. What do you say?’
Alexei shook his head. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person,’ he said coolly. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘Manners, Alexei!’ scolded Stepan. ‘Please forgive my nephew,’ he said apologetically to Valerie. ‘There’s been a dreadful incident concerning someone very close to him, and as you can imagine it’s affecting him.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ replied Valerie. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Your uncle was telling me all about your grandfather, Alexei. I didn’t realize he was a war hero.’
‘He was given the Medal for the Defence of Stalingrad,’ Stepan said proudly. ‘Helped keep those bastard Nazis out of the city. Of course, there was a terrible cost – two million people died, Alexei! And not just soldiers, but ordinary people; men, women and children, joining together to beat back Hitler’s hordes. Heroes, all of them. I used to pester my father with questions about Stalingrad, but he’d never talk about it. No one who survived did. But I know how proud he was when Alexei’s father and I followed him into the army.’
Alexei had heard the story countless times before, but he knew better than to interrupt. Stepan was lost in his father’s story, a catch of emotion in his voice as he spoke.
‘My mother was born in Leningrad,’ said Valerie. ‘She lost her father in 1942. She ended up moving all the way to Israel to escape the memories.’
‘All those lives lost, and turned upside down, and for what?’ Stepan said bitterly. ‘After all that our forefathers sacrificed, today we have Nazis walking the streets – Russian streets! Like these … scum … who attacked Alexei’s girlfriend. If I was ten years younger myself …’
His voice trailed off.
‘It’s not your battle to fight any more,’ Valerie said. She looked pointedly at Alexei. ‘It’s down to the next generation to continue the struggle.’
Stepan harrumphed. ‘Kids these days. How could they understand?’
‘It’s up to us to make them, Stepan.’
There was a long pause. Alexei glanced at his uncle, his eyes misty with emotion, and then back to Valerie. ‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve made your point. I’ll sign up to your course.’
‘I thought you’d come round to my way of thinking.’ Valerie rose from her chair. ‘Lovely to meet you, Stepan,’ she said.
‘You’re leaving already?’ Alexei’s uncle asked, bewildered.
‘Time is against us, and there are a lot of forms to fill in before Alexei can start. Don’t worry – he’ll be very comfortable in university accommodation.’
‘He’s going to stay at MSU?’
‘It’s a very intensive course, Mr Zhukov,’ Valerie said smoothly. ‘I’d imagine Alexei’s going to be very busy for the foreseeable future.’
Stepan glanced at Alexei. ‘What about Lena?’
‘I’ll make time to see her,’ Alexei replied firmly. ‘Believe me.’
‘Well, if you’re both sure …’ Startled
into submission by the pace of events, Stepan waited for Alexei to throw some clothes into a bag and then showed them both to the door.
‘Call me when you get the chance,’ he instructed his nephew, giving him a quick encouraging smile.
Valerie kissed Stepan warmly on both cheeks, then accompanied Alexei out of the apartment building and into the weak spring sunshine. Alexei was unsurprised to see the people carrier waiting for them outside, the driver from the previous night still behind the wheel. Before they climbed in, Alexei grabbed Valerie’s arm.
‘If I agree to do this,’ he said, ‘I want constant updates on Lena. When she wakes up, I want to know about it.’
‘That can be arranged.’
‘And I don’t want to see anyone from Trojan at my uncle’s apartment again. This has got nothing to do with him, and I don’t want him finding out about it.’
Valerie Singer pushed her sunglasses down over her eyes. ‘About time you showed some backbone,’ she said, her tone icy. ‘Now let’s get to work.’
6. Dangerous Company
The people carrier crawled through Moscow, inching its way along motorway lanes banked up with cars. For twenty minutes, none of its inhabitants said a word, until yet another snarl-up made the driver blow out his cheeks with exasperation.
‘Bloody traffic!’ he exclaimed in an English accent. ‘This is even worse than London!’
‘Moscow traffic jams: best in Europe,’ Valerie replied laconically. ‘Why do you think the underground is so good?’
They headed south-east towards the Taganka district, where the traffic finally began to dissolve, and the driver was able to open up the engine. Roaring up a steep hill, the people carrier turned off the main road at the summit, bouncing through a stone archway on to a gravel track. As the track curved round through a small wood, a grand building appeared on the horizon, crowned by an onion-shaped cupola supported by a cluster of narrow bell-towers. A golden cross stood proudly on top of the dome. The people carrier crunched to a halt outside the front porch, and Valerie gestured at Alexei to get out. On closer inspection, the building had fallen into disrepair, its whitewashed walls covered in grime and graffiti, its arched windows boarded up.
