The Englishman

by David Gilman

  From one of the seven investigation departments of the Central Administrative District of Moscow, orders were issued for the prisoner to be taken directly to CID headquarters. The intimidating building had existed since the nineteenth century and served the city as a barracks and police station. As they drove Raglan past the front of the building he saw the bust of Felix Dzerzhinsky gazing out from a plinth facing the busy street. The father of the old Russian secret police and inspiration for the KGB represented the time of the terror under Stalin. The massive statue of him that had once stood outside the old Lubyanka KGB headquarters had been pulled down when Communism ended twenty-odd years before. Now there was a movement to have the old statue reinstated. Many Muscovite families had suffered the terror of Stalin’s purges a century before. In those days the executions of enemies of the state often took place in churches or banks where solidly built basements deadened the sound of gunfire. The victims’ bodies were then taken on trucks to Butovo on the city outskirts where they were buried in mass graves. That statue of Dzerzhinsky symbolized repression and fear. The self-same fear clung to many inhabitants of the city now, as surely as the winter fog clung to the Kremlin’s domes.

  Raglan was hauled into the rear of the building, up three floors and past dozens of closed doors. He hoped he had not fallen into the wrong hands. These drab painted walls were as thick as a bank’s, more than solid enough to smother the sound of a gunshot. The corridors ran in straight lines along the length of the building and beneath its high ceilings footfalls echoed on old parquet flooring. By the time he reached the interview room and sat down opposite Sorokina the bleeding from the cuts to his lip and face had stopped. Raglan checked the walls. No sign of cameras.

  She gazed at him for a moment, her back to the two-way glass window, and then lowered her eyes. ‘You resisted arrest,’ she said, examining the prepared documents in the folder that lay open on the table in front of her. Raglan looked at the old table’s scuffs and scratches. Formica. How long had it been since anyone had a Formica table? The graffiti in the holding cell suggested the fixtures and fittings had been in place since Soviet days. Russian police station decor had not moved with the times.

  ‘Of course I did,’ he said, smiling through his cut lip. In fact it had taken determined self-control not to defend himself; had he done so he would still have been walking the streets and two of Moscow’s finest would be lying crumpled and bloody in that doorway.

  She was cold and businesslike, more so than he remembered. There had been warmth and sensuality in the Russian detective only days before when they slept together, but now she was playing a new role, looking every bit the part of a CID major in the Moscow Police. He glanced around the stained green walls, the peeling paint the only hint of colour in the bare room. Old blood dries like ochre. Although he had determined that there were no cameras recording the meeting, without doubt though there would be hidden microphones. She studied him for a few moments, noticing the tattoos on his hands and arms and the coiled snake that seemed to slither from beneath his collar up on to his neck. He gave her a questioning look and she nodded to the two heavyweight cops, who hauled him to his feet and roughly pulled aside his shirt, exposing his torso and revealing not the usual thieves’ spider tattoos, but Russian gangland symbols: the oskal, an image of a skull with bared vampire-like fangs that told the world that he bared his teeth at authority. The double skulls hovering over coffins proclaimed the man sitting before her was a murderer. For a moment she couldn’t hide her shock at how his muscled body had been transformed. Then she nodded again and the two cops pushed him back down into his chair, checking that his manacles still restricted any movement and exited the room, leaving their senior officer alone with the man they believed to be a wanted killer. She lowered her eyes and glanced at the open folder with its falsified details.

  ‘The fugitive warrant from when you escaped detention two years ago has now been executed. Your original sentence stands. Twenty-five years,’ she intoned.

  The proceedings were exactly as she had explained they would be when he had sat with her in the hotel room in London. The trumped-up charge was going to give him the opportunity to hunt down and kill JD.

  She passed over a sheet of paper. ‘This is the official court order for your detention.’

  He glanced down at the typed sheet and showed no sign of surprise. It told him where he was being sent, and also that his target was there. She had arranged everything. Right under the noses of the FSB, inheritors of the KGB ethos, who would have happily slammed her and the whole Moscow CID into one of their internment camps had they realized what she had done. He was being sent to a maximum-security prison in the middle of nowhere, a prison inhabited by serial killers, rapists, child murderers and organized crime hit men. These pin-up boys for maximum sentence crimes were lifers in a place from which there was no return. She reached across and turned over the page, pressing her forefinger on to the sheet of paper. Read on, she was saying. Her prose was blunt. No frills. The where and the why. Cause and effect. The people who used the man he was after had to make a show that he was being punished, while at the same actually protecting him. He was hidden from view. And, just as with Raglan, the mountain of bureaucratic paperwork was deep enough to cover their tracks. How soon would it be before the man he hunted was released or moved to an open prison and then put back on the streets? How much time was there?

  ‘You can see why you are being sent there,’ she said, choosing her words for the sake of those who were doing the recording.

  The final paragraph made it clear. The Moscow Police and a sympathetic judge – not necessarily her father but someone else in the judiciary as weary of the ongoing corruption and conspiracies within the state apparatus – had wrangled the paperwork and had the man known as Kuznetsov incarcerated in a place of their choosing, held long enough for whatever retribution could be inflicted on him. Those who controlled the killer believed it to be a safe haven while the heat died down, after which he would return to work for the powers-that-be. It was a hellhole, but he would only be there for a few months. If Raglan had any chance at all of getting out of that penal colony alive he needed at least one friend in place and that appeared to be the prison’s deputy governor. Those he would share a cell with were unlikely to extend the hand of friendship.

  Major Sorokina retrieved the sheet of paper, her hand briefly touching his. She tucked the sheet back into the government-issue folder and pushed back her chair. He thought he saw a flicker of emotion. ‘I doubt I will ever see you again,’ she said. He knew she meant it. She reached the door. ‘It’s a hard place to be sent to. It would be a miracle if you survived,’ she said, her tone non-committal for the sake of those who listened.

  And that time he definitely saw the look of regret in her eyes.

  43

  Penal Colony #74 (White Eagle)

  Sverdlovskaya Oblast, Ural Federal District

  1837 km east of Moscow

  They bundled him into a secure cage in an old windowless Volga prison bus. The authorities’ intention was to inflict sensory deprivation on any prisoner and ensure he had no awareness of the direction of travel, which helped quash any idea of escape. It was also a psychological ploy. Being trapped in a box like this was an introduction to a lifer’s confinement in a cell five paces long and two wide, with a light on every minute of every day. A single iron-frame bed and a latrine bucket would be the only furnishing. The Volga had only the bucket. Get used to the bars, locks, cages and guards with dogs, the authorities were saying. This box is better than the coffin we will put you in. Better to be executed with a bullet to the back of the head. Then annihilation would be instant, not a lingering torture. Perhaps that’s why they repealed the death penalty. To inflict a life worse than death.

  Exhaust fumes seeped through the rusted floorpan as the bus thumped and rolled over the unkempt road. Raglan hunched his chained arms across his chest and withdrew deep into himself. This journey was going to be nothin
g more than a longer version of the enforced interrogation exercise when he had volunteered for the commando special forces in the Legion. The mind games needed to be controlled. Shut them out. Find a place in your head and stay there. Elena had told him it was going to take the better part of twenty-four hours to get to the prison. As the cold gripped his limbs he knew it was going to feel longer.

  *

  Every few hours the bus stopped; Raglan figured the guard and driver needed to relieve themselves and although he couldn’t see them because of the steel walls on the cage, the sudden blast of cold air revived him as the men clambered down. He heard their feet crunch in frozen snow and smelt the rough cigarette smoke as the men lit up. He sucked in the refreshing air, forcing himself to stand and stretch despite the limitation of the chains. When the men got back into the cab the guard opened a flap in the door and pushed through a metal billy can with a lid that held hot watery soup with bits of potato and cabbage floating in the greasy liquid. Like any soldier, Raglan was immune to food being too hot and he drank the fluid, feeling its warmth creep into his muscles. He dug his fingers down into what had settled at the bottom of the can and pushed it into his mouth. Every time the bus stopped they fed him but as the journey wore on the soup became colder and greasier. His internal clock told him it seemed to be a fixed rotation, every five hours, and by the time he had swallowed the fourth offering, by now shivering from the cold, he knew he was only a few hours from the penal colony.

  When they eventually arrived at their destination and he saw the desolation he knew Elena’s final words might be prophetic. He was going to need a miracle to get out alive.

  *

  Shuffling between the guards, he moved as quickly as the manacles would allow. There was already snow on the ground, whipped up by the wind through mesh wire fences topped with rolled barbed wire. The wind’s bite scratched his face like flying rusted barbs. It was less harsh when they escorted him through a solid wooden gate that opened when the guard rang a bell. He glanced back and saw the bus had stopped between a reinforced mesh wire fence and a high wooden outer wall. The lime-washed wall was pitted and grooved from the same punishing winds over the years. Telephone and electricity wires swayed precariously across the fences and walls. His eyes watering from the assaulting temperature, he calculated there were four perimeter walls or fences around the complex. It was eighty-nine shuffling paces to the next sentry post. Another fifty to the next guard post. So far he reckoned 150 metres would take him from the first building ahead of him to the open space where the bus had stopped. There were obstacles to overcome, but if he ever got to where the bus had stopped there was only the outer palisade wall that stood between him and freedom on the road. It was a short run across the dispersal area to that wall. A run that would have him under the guns on the watchtowers that loomed on this side of the compound. Then he dismissed these first thoughts of an escape route. Once inside he would determine how to get out. They passed more guards as they took him through a succession of doors that led deeper into the buildings. As every door was opened and closed, the jangle of keys and the clang of metal taunted him with their echo.

  Unseen by Raglan, the deputy governor, Anatoly Vasiliev, his shoulders hunched against twenty years of being stationed at Penal Colony #74, watched through the grime-encrusted window of his office. He drew cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. He was a religious man, strengthened by the resurgence of the Orthodox Church since the fall of the Communists, and he prayed that he would pass unscathed through the coming days or weeks. This new prisoner being brought into the prison represented great danger to him personally should anything go wrong. People in Moscow had planned the man’s incarceration, and the earlier arrival of the other inmate. Neither were serial killers or rapists; they did not, as far as he knew, torture and kill children; they were professionals in their own right, working for people he had no desire to know about. But he had agreed to go along with the plan because his family would see a better part of the world than this frozen wasteland. As the rough tobacco’s smoke bit into his lungs, he thought of a sheep being tethered as bait for a predator. The difference being that Kuznetsov was no docile creature being readied for slaughter – he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, more dangerous than any of the other violent inmates because he did not kill through drunkenness or insanity. Kuznetsov killed efficiently and without emotion. If this man shuffling in his manacles was to kill him then Vasiliev had to make sure that it would be only their blood spilled on the snow, and not his own. He would do everything he could to facilitate the desired result but with the power struggle going on in Moscow he would make sure he protected himself too. If the execution was successful then he would have to make certain that this man, Regnev, also died.

  *

  Inside the administrative building, the guards removed Raglan’s manacles and ushered him into the deputy governor’s office, itself hardly the height of luxury. A rug lay across the worn flooring; a wood-burning stove offered warmth. From high above a bookshelf the President of Russia stared out of a framed photograph, his cold eyes saying, Fuck you, scum. Raglan stood looking over the head of the balding man who studied his case file. Raglan kept his eyes fixed on the wall. You don’t make eye contact until you’re told to. Ask any soldier brought up on a charge in front of a senior officer and he’ll tell you the same thing. To stare with any kind of intent is called dumb insolence and always antagonizes. And this was not the time to piss off the man who held your life in his hands.

  The deputy governor wore the same sturdy boots and disruptive pattern combat fatigues as the two guards who flanked Raglan. He tapped his cigarette on the rim of an overfull ashtray and sipped at a glass of clear tea. The small bowl of sugar lumps implied he was a secret sugar-sucker, with or without the tea. It might be the only pleasure in this godforsaken place, Raglan thought.

  ‘Daniil Regnev, I am conducting this interview because Governor Lichevsky is on four weeks’ annual family leave,’ said Vasiliev.

  Raglan heard the real meaning behind the words. The deputy governor was briefing him. Information: the governor cannot be part of the conspiracy to kill JD which is why Raglan had been sent here at this precise time.

  ‘Do not think I am any less sparing in my condemnation of your crime. Do not expect pity or understanding from me. You are a murderer. You will serve your full time. Do not think of escape. There is nowhere to go. The nearest town is eight hours away. The nearest city fourteen. Forests surround us greater in scale than the country of Germany.’

  Information: He’s declared his neutrality and described their location and surrounding area.

  The deputy governor rapped the end of his cheap pen on the desk. Tap tap tap. It was a summons to look at him. Raglan lowered his eyes. ‘You will be in a dormitory of six. You will be given work.’ He paused, his eyes full of meaning. ‘You will be under constant guard as part of the forest detail. The weather will be clear for a short while longer. The nearby lake is already frozen and snow will arrive in days. In two weeks this prison will be cut off. Winter is earlier than usual. You will bring the felled timber to the yard and work under the orders of a long-term prisoner and trustee. Prisoner Yefimov.’

  Information: there is only a brief window of time before the winter shuts down any chance to kill and escape. Yefimov might be friendly.

  The deputy governor nodded and the two guards grabbed Raglan’s arms, forced him to bend double and handcuffed him. Bent at the waist, he was marched along the corridor, arms pinned straight behind his back. The painful manoeuvre made any kind of resistance impossible. They pushed him into another room, bigger than any office, with a closed-off grille, exposed rafters and shelving where neatly folded dark grey uniforms were stacked. There was a woodstove in the corner, its pig-iron metal as pitted as the face of the guard who held his neck down. The warmth that seeped from it barely made an impression on the cold air in the hut. It must have been minus twenty outside.

  One guard punched him in th
e stomach; Raglan wheezed out air and fell to his knees. They hauled him up and the second guard struck him hard in the ribs. The pain from the sudden flurry of blows doubled him over again. Best to try and stay on his feet because if he went down this time those stout winter boots could break his skull or put out an eye. All this physical exertion must be what kept the guards warm. Their intention was to weaken him and then remove the handcuffs. One of the guards gripped his neck, forcing his head on to the counter. He complied without resisting. Once he had been allowed to stand upright again a guard appeared on the other side of the hatch and without a word passed through a folded bundle of prison clothes. Raglan pulled them to his chest, using the effort to tighten his stomach muscles to help keep him upright.

  If this was their welcoming committee he wasn’t looking forward to the main event.

  44

  Muscle had cushioned his ribs but he could already feel the soreness that heralded bruising. At least the pain was not as severe as a broken rib: he’d had that before – this was a minor beating from guards who knew how to inflict misery without causing serious damage.

  He yielded to the prison barber who sheared his hair to little more than a shadow, then stripped and changed into the dark grey prison clothing. He pulled a feska, the prisoners’ black cap, snugly on to his shorn head. One of the guards pushed a card bearing Raglan’s new name, crime and sentence into the clear plastic pocket stitched on the uniform’s jacket, to tell the guards whom they were dealing with and remind them of the heinous crimes the prisoner had committed. These killers and rapists were not to be treated with respect or compassion. They were there to serve their time, their full term without remission.

  The guards escorted him past the double-storey building that held the lifers, men who had been convicted since the death penalty had been repealed and who were kept in cells little more than an arm’s width wide. Men who could not even join others in the fresh air of the compound. The only time they saw the sky was in a walled yard twenty paces long with a caged roof. The penal colony was harsh enough but the state wanted these prisoners to rot in a living hell.