“Their tattoos,” Ned said. “They all had ‘81,’ ‘Support 81’ or ‘Big Red Machine’ on them – that means they are a support gang for the Hells Angels, but are not allowed to have the actual words ‘Hells Angels’ on them.”
“Why ‘81’?”
“‘H’ is the eighth letter of the—I mean our—alphabet and ‘A’ is the first.”
“Our tattoos have meanings too,” Andrei said. “But nothing so lame as that.”
“Like what?”
“Real things based in our rich tradition, not crossword puzzles clues,” Andrei continued. “A cat is for a thief, a skull means murder, different symbols mean different things. I had to laugh the other day when I saw young girl in the mall with a barbed-wire tattoo on her arm. In Russia, that means she is in prison for life.” He laughed. “We have real artistry. You saw the cathedral on my back? And some tattoos are not what you would call voluntary. A prison slave may get crucifix. A child molester may get dagger over his heart.”
“I like your ‘rich tradition’ of thieves and murderers and child molesters, and I have to admit that we have something similar in ours,” offered Ned. “But we generally just sew patches onto our jackets for our accomplishments and affiliations.”
“You hear that Vasilly? Here, if you kill a man, you get to sew a little piece of ribbon onto your blouse.” Andrei now sounded disgusted with Ned. “We wear ours on our skin!”
“It’s not like bikers are afraid to get tattoos—they get lots of them,” Ned defended his culture. “But sometimes you don’t want to advertise exactly who you are in prison. Say you are in a Bandidos block and you’re a Hells Angel—there would be trouble.”
“Ours are the opposite!” Andrei sounded stunned. “If I walk into prison in Russia, the Virgin Mary says I started as criminal when I was too young to decide on my own, the cat says I am thief, two skulls say I have killed two men. I want the other prisoners to know this. It’s like a résumé. Besides, the quality of your tattoos shows how important you are. Mine are like fine art, Pyotr’s are like cartoons.”
“But what if a rival gang controls the prison?”
“It doesn’t work that way in Russia,” Semyon snorted. “Over there, criminals regard other criminals as fellow professionals—at least in prison. Your gang affiliation is not so important as your ethnic group.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, our system works more like Italians used to. Rival groups tolerate each other unless there is a problem,” he shrugged. “Then it gets solved.”
“What was that you said about ethnic groups, though?”
“Well, there can be a problem if two specific nationalities are put together if they hate each other,” Semyon said. “Like Armenians and Azerbaijans, that sort of thing. I’d really hate to see any Chechens in a jail with Vasilly—any Muslims actually. Hell, anyone with a beard.” For the first time, Ned saw a tiny curl of what could have been a smile on Vasilly’s lips.
For the rest of the ride, they spoke about the differences between Russian and American prisons and how, for many people from the former Soviet Union, life in an American prison represented an improvement over their lives back home. Before too long, they stopped at what appeared to be a Canadian military airfield. They were welcomed by two soldiers in fatigues at the gate, who took their names and then waved them through. They met up with Grigori and his men who were speaking with a Canadian captain in a green uniform. He welcomed them to his base and told them that their flight would be ready “as soon as they checked the passports and visas.”
Ned was paralyzed with fear until he saw that the paperwork was being examined by hand by a pair of disinterested privates. Then he grinned. A few moments later, they were walked out to the tarmac where a giant, bulbous jet with Russian military markings and the words “Atlant Soyuz” on the side was waiting. All of the men shook hands with the Canadian officer as he wished them a good trip.
The plane had two different classes inside, which Ned surmised were for officers and enlisted men. His group sat in the officer’s area. They were all talking in Russian, so Ned nodded off and went to sleep, as he always did in airplanes.
When he woke up, they were still in the air. There was nothing below him but darkness. He had no idea whether he was over the Atlantic Ocean or Europe. He asked Semyon. Delighted that his friend was awake, Semyon looked at his watch and told him they were likely over Norway or Sweden, and that it would not be long until they were in Russia.
A couple of the other guys had fallen asleep, and Vasilly was staring at Ned. It was the first time since he’d been sent to clear his identity with the Ocean City Lawbreakers that Ned felt nervous about being with these guys. Logic told him that they would not go to all this expense if they wanted to get rid of him, they’d just kill him in Wilmington or Detroit. If they were taking him to to Russia, they must have bigger plans for him. And Grigori had asked the Swede to talk to Dave about the time off for a conference (although he said it was in Anaheim). But he still couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. He’d been told that fear came from the unknown, but the more he knew about Vasilly, the more afraid he was.
But he couldn’t dwell on it. Semyon wouldn’t stop talking to him about Russian etiquette and table manners. He also tried to teach him a few conversational Russian phrases, but none of them stuck.
The entire group was awake now, and talking in Russian. Semyon was still chattering at Ned as they hit the tarmac. The giant plane landed in what appeared to be a commercial airport, but there were a few other military-looking planes and helicopters there as well. They waited calmly on the runway until the pilot and co-pilot came out of the cockpit to say good-bye. Ned did as the others did, getting up on cue and shuffling over to greet the crew. It surprised him (not to mention Semyon) to hear do svidaniya come out of his mouth. It was the first Russian he had ever spoken other than the halting and poorly received lesson Semyon had tried earlier in the plane. The pilots also looked stunned and took a moment to recover before laughing and patting Ned on the back.
Semyon told him that his accent was so thick that the words he said were barely recognizable, but that the pilots appreciated that he was trying. He added that other Russians would too.
As they walked down the staircase from the plane, Ned could see that there were three Hummers waiting for them right on the runway. And they were not military vehicles, but civilian models like you might see on the streets of Los Angeles. The lights of the airports revealed how thick and glossy their black paint was and the chrome touches gleamed. Each had a driver in a black suit who was standing beside the vehicle with the passenger door open. The Russians from the plane piled into the SUVs without acknowledging the drivers. Ned followed Semyon into the last one, with Evgeni.
“Where are we?” Ned asked.
“We’re on our way to see Viktor,” said Semyon. Evgeni just stared out the window.
“Is he the boss?”
“He’s a boss,” Semyon said. “You’ll understand when we get there.”
The powerful SUVs raced down well-paved but largely untraveled roads. Cruising at what Ned estimated at about eighty-five miles per hour, the three big trucks stayed in formation, often passing slower vehicles. Suddenly, the first swerved wildly into the oncoming lane, followed by the others. “What the hell was that?” asked Ned.
“Sometimes the locals will set traps or homemade roadblocks for luxury cars,” Semyon said absent-mindedly. “Rob people, steal car. That’s how they do business.”
“Fuckin’ Uzbeks,” added Evgeni in English. Semyon yelled a mad tirade at him in Russian. Evgeni snorted his disapproval and went back to looking out the window.
Semyon smiled at Ned. “Don’t worry,” he assured him. “We are the last people they want to stop.” Then he reached into a compartment in his door and handed Ned a Sig Sauer handgun and pulled out what looked like an Uzi for himself. Evgeni protested something loudly in Russian. At first, Ned thought he was upset that Semyon had give
n him a gun, that the Russian still did not trust the American interloper. But then he saw Evgeni rummage dully through the compartment full of weapons until he came upon a sawed-off shotgun. He smiled, put it in his lap and went back to staring out the window.
Before long, the little convoy slowed and turned down a smaller gravel road. It was in heavy woods and so dense that Ned could no longer see any stars or the moon. After about a half-mile they came upon a wrought-iron gate and a fieldstone wall that looked to be about twelve feet high. At the gate, there were two guards with AK-47s. One guard spoke with each driver while the other took up a firing stance. When the guard approached Ned’s vehicle, Ned could see that he was short and stocky with a round face. Ned took him to be Korean. He spoke amicably with the driver for a moment or two, then had him roll down the rear window. He stuck his head into the back and looked directly at Ned with his AK-47 pointed at him. “Beng! Beng! I shoot you, cowboy!” he said to Ned. “Velcome to Russia, G.I. Joe.”
Ned gave a little chuckle to show he wasn’t scared. Semyon sighed. “Fuckin’ Kyrgyz,” he said. “They always think they are funny, but nobody else does.”
The guards waved the convoy through. Ned noticed that the gravel changed to cobblestones once through the gate. They drove up a semicircular lane that was illuminated by a series of gaslights. They stopped beside a towering mansion whose size and grandeur Ned could have only imagined before he had seen it. As he stepped out of the car, he could hear the gushing of the many fountains that lined the driveway, as well as some men greeting the rest of his party. A peacock lazily strutted by as it investigated the commotion. Ned also heard what he thought could have been a lion or a tiger roar.
The group was moving inside. Semyon motioned for Ned to follow. When he came close, Semyon whispered, “Good thing you slept on the plane. These guys are going to stay up all night.”
Chapter Eleven
The house was even more impressive inside than out. It was cavernous and decorated so lavishly that Ned considered it more of a castle than a residence. He was particularly impressed with the large fountains in the atrium.
But he didn’t have long to stand gawking. Ned’s party was escorted quickly through the atrium and down a long corridor. Rooms branched off it, lavishly decorated and painted in lurid colors. Ned took in the oil paintings, huge canvases with ornate frames, and realized they told some kind of heroic story, each featuring the same man, but each depicted him in a different role—barbarian, knight, commando. As the group made its way out the back doors, Ned saw that there was a helicopter parked on a large paved area on the other side of a large swimming pool. He surveyed the grounds. Despite the darkness, he could make out the area around him as a magnificent patio of sorts, almost like a piazza. Beyond that, the grounds were dominated by rolling hills with manicured lawns leading up to a densely wooded forest. There was a big, low-slung building that looked to be a multi-car garage.
His group was greeted by two men in black suits and matching ties. Ned couldn’t keep his eyes off their guns, which appeared to be gold-plated AK-47s. They welcomed the group and led them to the helicopter. Once they were seated and the engines began to rev up, Ned asked Semyon, “Is all this Viktor’s?”
“All this and a lot more,” Semyon answered. “Wait and see.”
“Where are we going now?”
“Viktor’s nightclub,” Semyon answered. “It’s just outside Moscow.”
“I thought we were just outside Moscow?”
“We are.”
Semyon started talking with Evgeni, and Ned looked out his window. He was shocked at how huge Moscow was. It first showed up as an illuminated circle far below them, but as the helicopter flew low over the city, Ned was astounded by mile after mile of poured-concrete apartment blocks. He marveled at how many people—millions—lived in what appeared to be exactly the same building duplicated over and over for miles. As they turned northwest, the buildings began to spread out and trees and parks became more common. As the helicopter descended, Ned could see that they were at a small airport and there were, again, three Hummers with uniformed drivers parked close to where they landed.
Hustling off the helicopter and into the car, Ned noticed the drivers’ exertions in opening and closing the doors of the Hummer. Semyon saw Ned staring, and said, “Bulletproof, blast-proof—you can’t be too careful when you’re Viktor, or friends of Viktor.” Ned managed a smile.
They drove from the airfield through a suburb with a few apartment buildings and professional or government buildings. Ned thought he heard the distinctive bud-bud-bud of automatic weapon fire in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure. As they drove, the area became more commercial, more Western-looking. Some even had signs in English.
Despite the thickness of the windows in the Hummer, Ned could hear the thumping of the Eurodisco even before he saw the building. It looked like it had been an old warehouse, but was now painted a lurid purple and covered in neon. Flashing above the entrance was a sign that said “Club MegaSexxxy.”
There were two gargantuan men out front with AK-47s. Beside them was a lineup of young men in their best outfits, clearly hoping to get in the building. The drivers led Ned’s group past the line—Ned could hear them grumbling and groaning—and up to the big men. They spoke with one another and laughed. One of the bouncers opened the metal door, releasing an almost deafening blast of music.
Inside, it was hot and barely lit. As they made their way through the crowd, Ned began to think that he’d never seen so many beautiful women in one place. Most of the other partiers seemed to be middle-aged men—some in suits, others in workout wear, all of them covered in gold. They were drinking and laughing and more than a few were smoking cigars. The dance floor, lit from below, was packed with young girls dancing, drinking and laughing.
Semyon snapped his fingers in front of Ned, who was clearly ogling the dancers. “Don’t worry, man,” he shouted. “You’ll get your chance later. But we have work to do—after a drink.”
The group collected around a table that had clearly been reserved for them. Ned was listening to a story of Andrei’s about his own time in Chechnya, when he heard someone ask, “American?”
Ned swung his head around. The man who asked was dressed nicely but casually. He looked like he had a $200 haircut and an easy smile that revealed perfect teeth. Ned told him that he was American. The man smiled again and asked him to join him and his friends at his table. Ned looked over to Grigori, who nodded.
The man introduced himself as Damian Hewitt and told Ned he was from just north of Chicago. Ned followed him to a table with two other men. “This is Don, from Tallahassee,” Damian said, pointing at a gray-haired man. “And this is Robin, he’s a tea bag.”
“Tea bag?”
“From England.”
Ned shook their hands and the four of them talked about some of their experiences in Russia and with the Russians. Before long, they were laughing and having a good time. Ned found out that they were sales managers from a Seattle-based soda company and they were in the club trying to convince Viktor’s people to allow them to distribute their product in Russia.
“So Viktor’s going to sell your soda?”
“Nah, man,” Robin said. “We already have a distributor set up. Viktor just has to okay it.”
“Okay it?”
“Yeah. It’s how business is done here. You know . . .”
“Not really.”
“Well, what business are you in?” Don asked. “Why are you here?”
“I’m in HVAC. I just work for these guys.”
“What’s the scam then?” Robin asked.
“No scam, it’s all legit,” Ned said, and immediately wondered how convincing he sounded.
The three other men laughed. “They’re keeping you in the dark then,” Don said. “Every business here is a scam one way or another. It goes all the way to the top.”
“You mean Viktor?”
The three men laughed again. “No,
the top,” Damian told him. “You know, Putin.”
Ned was sincerely shocked. “What?”
“It’s true. The big guy gets a cut of everything,” Damian replied. “Nothing major happens in the whole country without his say-so.”
“So you’re telling me that the president is nothing more than the top gangster?”
Damian looked exasperated. “Do you remember when Putin stole Bob Kraft’s Super Bowl ring?” he asked.
Ned did remember. “But he said it was all a mistake,” he said. “That he thought it was a gift.”
Damian laughed. “Did he give it back?” he asked.
Just then, Semyon approached and told Ned it was time for their meeting with Viktor. He then led Ned to a staircase at the back of the club. At the top was another thick metal door, almost like a vault’s, guarded by two more armed men. Once behind it, Ned realized the massive din from the disco downstairs had been reduced to a low rumble. They continued to walk until they came to a huge room that was decorated in much the same style as Grigori’s office back in Detroit. But there was no desk here, no office chair. Instead it was outfitted for comfort with many sofas and a large, red velvet bed.
At the back, two men stood engaged in conversation. One was in a magnificent crimson-and-gold chair, the other on a matching, but much less impressive couch. The big man in the throne-like seat—whom Ned recognized as the man in the oil paintings in Viktor’s house—raised his thick eyebrows and looked over at them. The other man immediately jumped up and walked over to them. He was thin, with tight skin on his face. He was balding and had a very closely cropped mustache and round wire-frame glasses. Ned immediately thought he looked like a college professor.
The man greeted Grigori politely and then the other men. Saving Ned for last, he shook his hand and said, “Mr. Macnair, so good of you to come. Mr. Volchenkov will be so delighted to meet you.”
He didn’t look it. Viktor looked bored—as though he had been disturbed—and spoke only to Grigori. After a moment or so, he waved his big right hand around in the air. The guy in the glasses immediately stood up and motioned for everyone in the group except Grigori to join him. He then took them on a tour of the room, describing in both Russian and English some of the valuable works of art and historical artifacts Viktor possessed. One thing, in particular, caught Ned’s attention—a pair of gold-plated handguns with diamond-studded grips. Ned knew some gun nuts back home in the States, but it seemed to him that the Russians fetishized guns. The man in the glasses was still talking when Grigori stood up and told his group they had to go.
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