by Ross Kemp
‘Enough, Svetlana!’ growled Medved. ‘Viktor’s said the boy’s OK.’
‘Who’s saying he isn’t?’ Svetlana replied, her eyes wide with mock innocence. At that moment, Alexei could have quite happily throttled her.
‘You’re such a shit stirrer,’ said Marat. ‘Why don’t you keep your gob shut?’
Svetlana gave Medved an indignant look. ‘Are you going to let him talk to me like that?’
For the first time since Alexei had met him, the burly skinhead seemed unsure of what to do. As Medved faltered, Svetlana snatched up her bag with a shriek of annoyance, and stormed out of the gym.
‘You’re in trouble there, Medved,’ grinned Marat. ‘Hope you weren’t planning on having sex tonight.’
‘You’d better hope he wasn’t,’ cut in Pavel, ‘or it’ll be your bedroom door he’ll be knocking on to make up for it.’
He slapped Marat on the back with a guttural laugh. Even as the rest of the gang joined in, Alexei felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Viktor was studying him intently, no trace of a smile on his face.
11. Surprise Package
Alexei stood over the Uzbek boy, who was slumped helplessly beneath him on the pile of rubbish bags. The boy looked up at him with pleading eyes.
‘I didn’t do anything!’ he whispered. ‘Please … !’
Alexei reached down and grabbed the boy by the hair.
‘Shut up,’ he said, and punched him hard in the face, as somewhere in the background a faint ringing sound began …
Alexei sat bolt upright in bed, stifling a shout of horror. To his immense relief, he saw that he was back in his uncle’s apartment. His mobile was chirruping insistently on his bedside table; Alexei reached over and picked it up.
‘Yeah?’
‘You still sleeping, you lazy bastard?’ a voice replied gleefully. Still recovering from his nightmare, it took Alexei a couple of seconds to work out it was Marat speaking. ‘Put some clothes on and come and meet me. We’ve got work to do.’
Alexei wearily rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Give me an hour.’
Reluctantly he hauled himself from the warm haven of his bed, pulled on a sweatshirt and padded barefoot towards the kitchen, relishing the smell of warm porridge floating towards him. Alexei had been prepared to spend another night in the monastery, but to his surprise Trojan had sent him home. Maybe it was a reward for taking part in the Eagles’ ambush – maybe it was just to stop Stepan from asking more questions. It was never easy to tell with Trojan. One thing was for sure: after two days in the unsavoury company of the Moscow Eagles, it was great to be back in familiar surroundings.
Stepan had taken up his usual position by the stove, where he was carefully tending to the kasha. He gave his nephew a cool stare as he entered the kitchen, ignoring Alexei’s cheery greeting.
‘That haircut university policy?’ said Stepan, pointing at Alexei’s skinhead with a wooden spoon.
Alexei rubbed his head ruefully. ‘It wasn’t my idea. A couple of guys from the course thought it’d be a laugh if we all shaved our heads.’
‘I see.’ Alexei’s uncle began stirring the porridge vigorously. ‘Did they also think it would be funny to get involved in a punch-up?’
Alexei glanced guiltily down at his swollen purple knuckles. ‘It was just training, uncle!’ he protested. ‘Sparring got a bit out of hand.’
‘You look like a thug after a bar-room brawl,’ Stepan said coldly. ‘You’d better grow your hair back before your mother sees you. I’ll be the one who gets into trouble for it, mark my words.’ For a second Stepan had once again become the forbidding military man Alexei remembered from his childhood. Then his uncle relented, and said in a softer voice: ‘Sit down and have some breakfast. You look tired. Any news of Lena?’
Alexei shook his head dumbly, sat down and began guiltily spooning the porridge into his mouth. It was the first time he had thought about Lena for an entire day. There was so much whirling round in his head that it was difficult to keep on top of everything. Still, that was no excuse, Alexei said to himself sternly, making a mental note to visit the hospital as soon as he had finished with Marat.
After breakfast, he showered and pulled on a tracksuit, covering his skinhead with a baseball cap. Telling Stepan he was going out training, Alexei headed out into the city. Marat was waiting for him in the main hall of Okhotny Ryad metro station, idly flicking through a tabloid as he leaned against the railings. A photograph of Rozalina Petrova was splashed across the front cover, underneath the headline ‘LAWYER STILL ON DEATH ROW: 5 DAYS LEFT’.
Alexei nodded at the front page. ‘I see everyone’s still going on about that woman,’ he said. ‘She was the one who put Borovsky away, wasn’t she?’
‘Bitch,’ muttered Marat. ‘She’ll get what she deserves.’
‘You think?’ Alexei asked. He paused. ‘Or you know?’
Marat pointedly folded up the newspaper and tossed it on to a nearby bench. ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ he said, with icy deliberateness. ‘I only read the paper for the football, anyway.’
In silence he led Alexei on to a train heading south on the Red Line. Marat refused to say where they were going, clearly relishing being in charge. Alexei had the feeling that the other teenager was something of a loner – he didn’t command the respect that Viktor or Pavel generated, or the fear that greeted Medved’s every appearance. If anything, the opposite was true: the rest of the Eagles often seemed to be mocking Marat. At least taking Alexei under his wing allowed Marat to feel more like a leader.
They finally got out at Universitet station, far to the south-west of the city. Hurrying under slate-grey skies, they made their way to the top of Sparrow Hills, every step revealing more and more of Moscow’s skyline: Novodevichy Convent; Luzhniki Stadium; the sweep of the Moscow River as it curved through the capital. But Alexei’s attention was focused squarely on the building looming up in front of him.
Moscow State University looked more like a giant cathedral than a place of learning, a towering construction rising hundreds of metres into the air. Two huge wings flanked a central tower, topped by a soaring spire with a Russian star that must have weighed tonnes by itself. The university, Alexei knew from his schooldays, had been one of a group of enormous Moscow skyscrapers known as the Seven Sisters. They had all been built under the orders of Josef Stalin, who wanted to dwarf New York’s Empire State Building. As Alexei trudged up a broad, tree-lined avenue, the building seemed to grow ever larger and more intimidating, until the crowds of students milling around its entrance looked little more than ants.
‘Didn’t think you were the student type,’ Alexei murmured to Marat.
‘Ha ha,’ the Eagle replied sarcastically. ‘If anyone asks, we’re visiting my cousin, right?’
They passed through a row of giant neo-classical pillars and entered the university lobby. As he looked around at the knots of students laughing and joking, Alexei couldn’t help but be reminded that this was where he had planned to come and study in the autumn, before Lena had been attacked and his world had been turned upside down. Alexei wondered whether this would be the closest he would ever get to being a student here.
Marat led him through a marble hall and up a grand staircase, before following a path through a maze of long corridors and smaller flights of steps. He didn’t pause once – this obviously wasn’t the first time he had come here. Finally reaching the end of one of the corridors, the boy banged loudly on a door, not waiting for a response before opening it. Following him inside, Alexei stopped and stared.
They had entered a cramped student bedroom, where only a narrow stretch of red carpet separated the bed from a work desk. The walls were dominated by bookshelves and a corkboard plastered with photographs. Pale light slanted in through the open windows across the figure of a girl sitting reading on her bed. She was slim and in her late teens, her blonde hair trimmed into a neat bob. She lo
oked up shyly as the boys entered her room.
‘Alexei, this is Nadia,’ Marat said proudly. ‘She’s responsible for our internet content. Thanks to her, people across the world have heard of the Moscow Eagles.’
Nadia smiled at Alexei, who was too surprised to do more than nod back. It was fair to say that she didn’t look like any of the other Eagles he had met. Nadia put down her book and went over to her desk, where she opened her laptop.
‘What have you got for me?’ she asked.
Marat pulled a memory stick out from his pocket and tossed it on to her desk. ‘Another classic Moscow Eagles’ production,’ he said proudly. As Nadia inserted the memory stick into her laptop, he explained to Alexei: ‘Svetlana films our fights, and Nadia uploads them on to the internet. So you see, even though girls cannot fight alongside the Eagles, they can still help us in our struggle.’
They pulled up chairs next to Nadia and watched as she began to play the footage. Suddenly they were back outside the Uzbek cafe, watching from a distance as the Moscow Eagles charged. Alexei had seen videos of himself fighting in kickboxing tournaments, but that was sporting competition. This was something much worse. Watching now, he could see the shock and fear on the Uzbeks’ faces as the Eagles came out of nowhere to attack. Sickened, Alexei saw himself throw a punch.
Nadia watched the footage expressionless. As she began transferring the file on to her hard drive, Marat boasted to her about his role in the fight. The way he told it, he had been leading the charge single-handed. Nadia laughed politely in the right places, but didn’t encourage him. As the room fell quiet Marat got restless, and disappeared in search of a Coke.
Once the footage had transferred, Nadia clicked on an icon and logged on to a file-sharing program. Alexei watched as she began uploading the video.
‘Isn’t it a bit risky posting that on the internet?’ he asked. ‘I mean, the police can trace it back to you, can’t they?’
‘Not here,’ Nadia replied. ‘This is a darknet.’ She laughed at his baffled expression. ‘A private network linking users. It’s anonymous and unmonitored – so you can email and transfer videos in complete privacy. It’s tailor-made for the Eagles.’
‘I didn’t know you could do that.’
‘It’s pretty easy. All you need is the right software. People think they know about the internet, but they have no idea how big it actually is. Think of all the sites the search engines trawl – then times it by 500. That’s a lot of shadowy corners.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Nadia blushed. ‘I like computers,’ she said.
Sensing that the girl was beginning to relax, Alexei chatted to her about her course, seizing the opportunity to casually look around her room. Glancing up at the collage of photographs on the corkboard, he was surprised to see one of Nadia alongside Viktor Orlov. The leader of the 88s had his arm draped around her shoulders; the pair of them were laughing.
Nadia stopped talking mid-sentence as her mobile rang. She pulled a face as she checked the caller identity. ‘My grandmother,’ she explained. ‘If I don’t answer she’ll end up calling the police or something.’
She slipped outside, leaving Alexei alone in the room. As he watched the video continue to upload on to the darknet site, a new email flashed up on the screen. It was from Viktor. Hurriedly checking the coast was clear, Alexei opened it. The message consisted of two curt sentences:
Inform Tsar: the package is ready for delivery. Open the fortress gates.
Alexei frowned. Who the hell was Tsar?
‘What are you doing?’
Alexei whirled round to see Nadia standing in the doorway.
‘That’s a private email,’ she said angrily. ‘Why are you looking at it?’
‘I thought the video had finished transferring,’ Alexei apologized hurriedly. ‘I was trying to play it again but I guess I clicked on the wrong button. Sorry.’
Catching sight of the message, Nadia’s face paled. She hurriedly closed her laptop.
‘You should be more careful,’ she said softly. ‘People who make those kind of mistakes around the Eagles tend to get hurt.’
‘We’re dangerous people to be around,’ Alexei replied. He held her arm. ‘Makes you wonder why someone like you would hang around with us.’
Before Nadia could reply, Marat burst back into the room.
‘Are we done yet?’
Nadia pulled out the memory stick and handed it back to Marat. ‘I’ll take it from here. The video will be up within the hour.’
‘Better had,’ said Marat, jokingly wagging a finger at her. ‘I’ll be checking!’
‘It was nice to meet you,’ Alexei added.
Nadia smiled, but as she closed the door behind them, her face was shaded with doubt.
‘Nice girl, eh?’ leered Marat, clapping Alexei on the back. ‘Don’t get any ideas, though, my friend. You got into enough trouble over Svetlana, and Nadia’s a whole new level of danger, believe me.’
Alexei left the university in a state of bewilderment. He had been prepared for dealing with men like Marat and Medved, but Nadia had completely thrown him. What on earth was she doing?
He was sure of one thing, though: whatever that message had meant, judging by the look on Nadia’s face, it was important. Alexei had no idea who Tsar was, or where the fortress was, but he had a strong hunch what the ‘package’ was: Rozalina Petrova. When the message was added to Marat’s suspicious behaviour at Okhotny Ryad, Alexei was more convinced than ever that the Moscow Eagles were responsible for the lawyer’s disappearance. Walking back through Universitetskaya Square, Alexei felt a first small surge of triumph.
12. Victory Park
As the metro train thundered through the tunnel back towards the centre of Moscow, Alexei struggled to hide his impatience. He had spent as much time in Marat’s company as he could stomach, and he was desperate to contact Trojan. However, aware that he needed the Eagle as an ally, Alexei feigned interest as Marat babbled excitedly about football. It turned out that the only thing the teenager cared about more than the 88s was CSKA Moscow, and the big game with local rivals Dynamo was only two days away.
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 me
eting. 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.
