Ganglands, Russia

by Ross Kemp

  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.

  With a cajoling smile, Viktor beckoned Svetlana towards him. She reluctantly allowed the leader of the 88s to pat her on the cheek.

  ‘You need to help us sort this little problem out,’ he said. ‘Tell Viktor the truth – did this boy come on to you? Don’t lie to me now.’

  Svetlana looked at Alexei for what felt like an eternity, then shrugged and looked away.

  ‘You see?’ said Alexei. ‘I didn’t do a thing!’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Medved growled. ‘No one talks to my girl – especially not runts like you.’

  ‘Go outside and calm down,’ rapped Pavel. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

  Shooting a final murderous glance at Alexei, Medved wrapped a protective arm around Svetlana’s shoulder and they walked out of the gym. Viktor waited for the skinhead to leave, then turned back to Alexei.

  ‘Right,’ he said sharply. ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’

  ‘My name’s Alexei. I came here because I wanted to train and I wanted to fight. Then that crazy guy came out of nowhere and tried to beat the shit out of me. I didn’t mean to cause any disrespect. I thought I’d be welcome here. I thought this gym would have my kind of people in it.’

  ‘Really?’ said Viktor, raising an eyebrow. ‘And what sort of people would they be?’

  Alexei puffed out his chest, displaying his swastika.

  ‘White people,’ he said. His words hung in the stale air.

  ‘I see,’ Viktor said slowly. ‘Well, you may think you know us, Alexei, but we don’t know you. And maybe this isn’t the best time for us to be inviting strangers into our house.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Alexei replied. ‘All I know is us whites have got to stick together.’

  Viktor glanced over at the blond teenager in the baseball cap.

  ‘You know this guy, Marat?’

  Marat shook his head. ‘He’s only been here ten minutes. Looks like he can take care of himself, though. And you know what Medved’s like around Svetlana. He thinks anyone who looks at her is trying to bone her.’

  The teenager wilted under a caustic look from Viktor. Alexei could taste the tension in the air as the Eagles waited for their leader to pass judgement. After what seemed like an age, Viktor smiled thinly.

  ‘OK, Alexei. We’ll say this is all a big … misunderstanding.’ The gang laughed. ‘Let’s go and have a talk over a drink. There is much to discuss. And someone go tell Medved to leave Alexei alone. For now,’ Viktor added, his eyes glinting.

  Alexei followed the Eagles out of the gym, tenderly checking his nose. It had been broken before in the ring; mercifully, given how hard Medved had hit him, that didn’t seem to be the case now. His stomach was still aching, but he was just relieved to be alive. Ahead of him, the gang swaggered through the deserted streets like a pack of hyenas, their laughter echoing off the scarred factories that lined the route. A train rattled along the tracks past them, heading to one of the stations at Komsomolskaya Square.

  A cry went up from the Eagles: someone had spotted an African man on the other side of the street. Seeing the gang of skinheads, the immigrant scurried away to a chorus of jeers and insults. One of the Eagles picked up an empty bottle out of the gutter and hurled it after him. As the glass shattered against the wall, Viktor stopped the man from giving chase.

  ‘Another time,’ he said. ‘Now we eat and drink.’

  They cut down a narrow alleyway and descended a flight of stone steps into an underground bar. The only person inside was a bored-looking bartender, who nodded at Viktor as they entered. Looking around the dirty, gloomy interior, Alexei doubted that the place was going to get any busier.

  As the gang settled around a long wooden table, Viktor ordered a bottle of vodka from the barman, and with great ceremony poured out a glass of the colourless liquid for each of his men.

  ‘Drinks!’ Viktor called out. He turned to Alexei. ‘And why don’t we let our new friend propose a suitable toast?’

  Alexei coughed nervously. The rest of the table turned expectantly as he rose to his feet, his mind working furiously. Then, it came to him. He raised his glass.

  ‘To Nikolai Borovsky!’ he shouted. ‘The hero of White Russia!’

  The Moscow Eagles roared with approval. Alexei threw back his head and drained his vodka, feeling the liquid chart a burning course down his throat. As he slammed his glass back on to the table, one of the men barked ‘Sieg Heil!’ and made a Nazi salute.

  Someone patted Alexei on the back; another put a beer in front of him. He had passed the first test. As the Eagles began rowdily talking with one another, Alexei cautiously sized up the different gang members. He couldn’t help wondering which of them had been responsible for the attack on Lena, had callously punched and kicked her into unconsciousness. One thing was certain: no matter what happened with Trojan or Rozalina Petrova, one way or another Alexei would have his private revenge.

  The anger was good for him – helped subdue his nerves. He didn’t even blink when Medved reappeared. The burly man ignored him, buying a jug of beer before sitting pointedly at the other end of the table. Thankfully Svetlana was nowhere in sight.

  Alexei drank quickly, wanting to fit in with the rest of the gang. It was getting harder to stay alert. He noticed that Viktor had barely touched his vodka – the leader of the Eagles seemed content to watch his men get drunk. After a couple of hours Alexei staggered to the bathroom and splashed water on his face in an effort to sober up. He returned to the table to find Viktor refilling his glass.

  ‘So, my young troublemaker,’ the man said expansively. ‘What brought you to our gym this morning?’

  ‘I told you: I wanted to train.’

  ‘But why a gym run by the Moscow Eagles?’

  Trying to clear his head, Alexei thought back to the file Darius Jordan had made him memorize. ‘My father died during the war in Chechnya,’ he lied.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The filthy bastards got him with a car bomb. That was the only way they could have touched him. He was a hero. Like Borovsky is a hero. Men like him should get medals, not prison sentences.’

  Viktor nodded in agreement. ‘Wise words for a young man, Alexei. I am sorry to hear about your father – I wish it were an isolated case, but …’ He pointed at the wiry man in camouflage trousers. ‘You see Pavel, there? My right-hand man, my lieutenant. He too fought in Chechnya; lost many good men, many brothers-in-arms. Pavel survives, only to return to Moscow and there is nothing. No work, no respect. And yet he sees all these blacks, these half-humans with jobs and money. That is why men like Pavel and you come to us. The Moscow Eagles understand: we are the only family left for White Russians.’

  ‘A family I want to be a pa
rt of,’ Alexei interjected. ‘Borovsky is gone – but maybe one day you’ll let me take his place.’

  As the leader of the 88s inspected his face thoughtfully, Alexei prayed he had sounded convincing.

  ‘Judging by the bruises on your face, Medved hasn’t been the only person punching you recently.’

  Alexei shrugged. ‘I got into a fight with a couple of bastards from Dagestan. If it had been one-on-one I would have kicked their asses.’

  ‘The foreigners are not stupid. They know that in a fair fight with a white they could not hope to win. Which is why we have to play them at their own game.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  Viktor settled back into his chair with a serpentine smile. ‘Hang around, and you might well find out,’ he said.

  9. Street Fighter

  They spent all afternoon underground – the cramped bar reverberating with caustic jokes and rough laughter. Drinks were clashed together in toast after toast, sending waves of beer ebbing across the table. In keeping with the Russian superstition, empty bottles were left off the table, forming a small glass platoon on the floor. No one else came down to the bar, and when Alexei helped Marat bring back a round of beers, he noticed that the bartender had the numbers 88 tattooed on his bicep. Just like the gym, this place was clearly for Eagles only.

  Eventually Pavel banged on the table for silence. As the conversations broke off and the laughter died, Viktor rose to his feet. He sombrely surveyed the Eagles for several seconds before speaking.

  ‘My friends,’ he said finally, opening his arms. ‘My white brothers. These have been dark times for us. This week, we have lost a great man, one of our bravest and most steadfast soldiers. Yet again the authorities – overrun by dirty foreigners; infiltrated by sly, deceitful Jews – have betrayed the true Russian heroes, the whites whose struggles and sacrifices provided the foundations for this great nation.’

  A murmur of assent rumbled around the table. Even though Alexei disagreed with Viktor’s every word, he couldn’t deny that there was something powerful about the way he spoke. The entire bar was hushed in rapt attention.