by Graham Potts
“You don’t have to defend them, Grigoriy.”
“Yes, I do.”
Grigoriy had two degrees, including honours in mathematics, and his hacking skills frequently frustrated the world’s cyber-security experts, earning him notoriety in dark corners of the internet. He was living proof that the Organizatsiya knew how to mix intelligence with muscle to make their business work.
The muscles, the boyeviks, were the public face of the organisation. Tattoos, gym-weary bodies, large knives, and big guns were usually enough to deter journalists and law enforcement officers. Sometimes, however, the boyeviks were a little too keen to impress their superiors and their fists became loose. The boyeviks provided physical protection for thinkers like Grigoriy, but the thinkers protected them from their own stupidity, defending them to the bosses when things went wrong.
“Can he still talk, at least?” Volkov asked.
“Da. He can talk. And see. And hear as well, I think.”
“I’ll have a word to the men.” Volkov closed the laptop.
“Does that mean you’ll talk to them?” Grigoriy asked. “Or that you’ll kill them?”
Volkov didn’t reply and Grigoriy fell silent, returning his attention to the road ahead.
People always die when Volkov is in town.
Anna bent over and placed the bucket of glitter in the cupboard under the stage. She closed the door and felt a sweaty hand grasp the inside of her bare thigh.
“My, my, my,” a gruff voice said. Even over the pounding music, the voice was clear in her ears.
Anna turned around and saw Dmitri, one of Korolev’s smugglers and a man who liked being rough. He reclined in his seat, rubbing his hand on his t-shirt and removing a cigar from his mouth. She smiled the way she’d been taught, a fake smile designed to disarm a man’s aggression. Dmitri smiled back and puffed a lungful of smoke into the air.
“You have one tight arse, devotchka,” he said. “What do you think?” he chuckled, turning to the men around the table. They leered at her with hungry eyes.
“Dmitri!” A man stood up from a stool nearby and bent over until his mouth was close to Dmitri’s ear. “Don’t you know who she is?”
“Bah!” Dmitri waved his hand dismissively. “I only care what she is, and what she can do with her tongue.”
The men at the table chortled and one slapped Dmitri on the back.
“What’s your name, devotchka?” Dmitri asked.
“Anna,” she replied, still smiling.
“See,” Dmitri said over his shoulder. “Only a first name. They’re not people, they’re cuts of meat.”
The man behind Dmitri straightened up, his eyes darting around.
Dmitri chomped down on his cigar. He reached out and ran his hand up her thigh. “How about you and me go into a private room so you can make me smile, Anna?”
Anna wanted to slap his hand away but knew that she’d be punished for fighting back. “I’m sorry, I can’t, but I can get one of the other girls for you.” She felt his hand tug at her underwear and her mouth went dry.
“I don’t want another girl,” Dmitri said.
Anna continued to force a smile, wringing her hands behind her back.
Dmitri pulled her on to his lap. “I’m going to put something in your mouth and you’re going to love it,” he whispered in her ear.
“Hey!” a bouncer shouted.
Dmitri’s bodyguard elbowed his way between his boss and the bouncer. “Mind your own business, buddy.”
“Nobody touches that girl,” the bouncer said, folding his muscular arms across his chest. “Understand?”
Dmitri pushed Anna off his lap and drew a pistol from his belt. “Sure, I get it.” He nodded to his bodyguard.
Anna flinched when the gun went off and the bouncer fell to the ground. He clutched his hands to his chest and blood flowed between his fingers. The music stopped and everybody in the club turned and stared at Dmitri.
“Anyone else got something to say?” Dmitri asked through a cloud of cigar smoke. He turned the pistol on Anna. “We’ve got business to finish.”
Grigoriy knew that the Chechens had named Stepan Volkov. It was easy to see why. Volkov was 100 kilograms of fibrous muscle and springloaded sinew, just like volk, the wolf. His movements were fluid, his eyes always hunting, his intentions simple.
Volkov had served Nikolay Korolev in Chechnya after being recruited into the Organizatsiya. Nobody knew where he’d come from or who he was. His sole purpose had been providing security for arms sales to the Chechen rebels, killing competitors and Russian soldiers. He’d never complained, never asked for reward and, in fact, had hardly ever uttered an unnecessary word the whole time he’d served in Grozny.
Uniformed soldiers and boyeviks liked to sit and drink and share stories about Stepan Volkov. Most were gross distortions but they had been potent enough to follow Volkov to Moscow.
Grigoriy knew that most of the stories were nonsense but it was easy to dismiss the Devil until you stood before him. Over time, he’d realised that Volkov wasn’t a beast: he was a machine.
Passion prompted men to kill one another: jealousy, revenge, greed, fear, humiliation, and anger. Everyone felt them, but Grigoriy had his doubts about Volkov. The Wolf ’s kills were calculated, an exercise in pure mathematics.
Dmitri was taunting the crowd when they entered the club, his pistol aimed at Anna. Grigoriy felt angry, seeing Anna cowering against the stage, but he felt useless too. He jumped when Volkov tugged his sleeve.
“Stay here,” Volkov said. There was no anger in his voice, no emotion at all.
Grigoriy nodded and watched the crowd part for Volkov, each boyevik wordlessly stepping aside as the Wolf stalked towards Dmitri.
But Volkov didn’t care about Dmitri’s name, Grigoriy thought. He and his men were objects, mathematical abstractions, a set of five elements occupying space that Volkov plotted as points on a plane. The Wolf ’s mind was calculating statistical likelihoods and probabilities, estimating outcomes through a series of sweeping arcs and intersecting lines. He would find the solution that provided the highest likelihood of success and follow a logical series of steps to obtain that solution. It was quick and simple, grotesque but elegant.
Opponent One was facing away from Anna, waving his pistol at the club to protect Dmitri. Volkov seized the man’s outstretched arm and ripped the slide from the pistol. He grabbed the man by the hair and plunged the slide into the nape of his neck, the remaining pieces of the pistol clattering to the floor. All eyes turned to Volkov and the dying man gurgling at his feet.
But Volkov didn’t pause. Opponent Two raised his pistol but Volkov slapped the man’s hand away, pulled his knife, and plunged the blade into the man’s chest. Volkov pivoted on one foot, withdrawing his knife from the dead man’s body and severed Opponent Three’s radial artery with one precise cut. Opponent Three dropped his weapon and clutched his wrist, falling to his knees as he tried to stem the bleeding.
Opponent Four was Dmitri and he was slow to shift his aim from Anna. Volkov slashed the back of Dmitri’s hand and the pistol thudded on to the table. He grabbed Dmitri by the back of the head and smashed the smuggler’s face into the empty beer bottles and dirty plates. Volkov’s arm swept skyward and he plunged his knife into Dmitri’s shoulder, pinning him to the table.
By this time, Opponent Five had navigated around the furniture and lunged towards Volkov. The Wolf turned quickly and threw the man to the floor. Volkov snatched Dmitri’s pistol from the table and shot Opponent Three, who had managed to stagger to his feet. He then turned the pistol around in his hand and raised it above his head. The people in the club seemed to hold their breath as Volkov brought the butt of the pistol down like a hammer, crushing Opponent Five’s windpipe. There was an audible crack and the man flailed his limbs, choking for air and slapping the floor with his hands. Volkov unloaded the pistol, tossing the weapon and the magazine away before turning his attention to Dmitri.
Dmitri was whimpering, p
inned to the table with a broken cigar stuck in his teeth and broken glass jutting from his cheeks. He tried to grab the blade in his back but he couldn’t reach it, and nobody was coming to help him.
Everybody in the club stood very still, Grigoriy saw. There was no music and the girls had stopped dancing. The only sound was the dying ring of a gunshot. Anna was propped against the stage, her fingernails digging into the timber surface. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, and her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her attention was fixed on Volkov. Everyone watched Volkov. He sat on a chair and drew his own pistol, the polished chrome flashing under the lights as he placed it on the table where Dmitri could see it.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you, Dmitri.” Volkov casually lit a cigarette and raised his boots to the footrest of a neighbouring stool, inhaling deeply. He blew smoke at the ceiling and studied Dmitri. “Now, what were you saying to Anna?”
“Please, Volkov.” Dmitri wept. “I didn’t mean anything. It was just a joke.”
“Well, I love jokes. How did it go?”
“Please,” Dmitri sobbed.
Volkov glared at Anna while dragging on his cigarette. “What did he say?”
Anna was mute and Grigoriy willed her to speak. Say something, anything.
“Anna!” Volkov barked. Everyone jumped.
“He said he wanted to put something in my mouth,” she stammered.
Volkov lowered his lips to Dmitri’s ears. “Is that true, Dmitri?”
“Please, Volkov. I’m sorry.”
Nikolay Korolev’s bodyguards materialised from the crowd and Volkov waved them over. They hesitated briefly before they neared. Volkov whispered to them and one of the bodyguards reached into his jacket. He handed Volkov a small concussion grenade.
Volkov flicked his cigarette away and pointed to two girls standing on the stage. “Your stockings, now.” The girls didn’t hesitate, removing their stockings while Volkov ripped the knife out of Dmitri’s back.
The bodyguards seized Dmitri and dragged him on to the stage. Dmitri tried to wriggle out of their grasp, screaming and kicking, his shoes squeaking across the polished timber as he was towed along.
Volkov tossed three stockings to the bodyguards and kept one for himself. The two bodyguards tied Dmitri to one of the poles on the stage, binding him at the ankles and tying his wrists behind his back. Dmitri writhed against his restraints, shouting for mercy. The third stocking was tied around his forehead to hold his head against the pole.
Volkov climbed the steps to the stage and dismissed the bodyguards. Dmitri’s breaths were shallow and fast, and his eyes darted from side to side, desperately seeking help.
“Now, I want to put something in your mouth,” Volkov said, holding the concussion grenade before Dmitri’s eyes.
“No!” Dmitri cried. “Please, I’m sorry.”
Volkov forced the grenade into Dmitri’s mouth before gagging him with the last stocking. He pulled the pin and held it for Dmitri to see. “Swallow.”
Grigoriy looked away but he could still hear Dmitri’s muffled shrieks and sobs. In his mind, he could see himself tied to that pole. He imagined the whole club staring at him, the last thing he would ever see clouded by his tears as he pleaded with Volkov.
The grenade went off.
Grigoriy turned back to see Dmitri’s headless body crumpled awkwardly against the pole, the stockings holding him in place. He looked like a discarded marionette dangling from frayed string.
Grigoriy’s knuckles were white, his palms clammy. He was angry at Dmitri for taunting Anna and angry at himself for being afraid to help her.
Did Volkov feel that anger or fear?
He watched as Volkov descended the stairs and glared at Anna. She withered, staring at her shoes and bursting into tears.
No, Grigoriy thought.
The Wolf felt nothing.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 12:33 AM MSK
Stepan Volkov grabbed Anna by the arm and pulled her through the crowd, throwing her towards Grigoriy.
Anna turned to face Volkov. “Stepan, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” he said, poking her in the chest.
Nikolay Korolev appeared beside Volkov, a parade of his generals following him. “Are you quite finished?” he hissed. He turned to his generals. “I want everyone out of my club. Tell these dogs to go make me money and not to come back until tomorrow night.”
The generals nodded and went to disperse the crowd.
“And find someone to clean up this fucking mess,” Korolev shouted, pointing at the stage.
Buckets and mops were found in cupboards and men fell to their knees to scrub the blood out of the carpet. Others grabbed the bodies and dragged them away.
Korolev’s eyes bored into Volkov. “My office. Now.” He marched away, barking orders at his men.
Volkov turned to Grigoriy. “Get Anna some lemonade or something. It will help her feel better.”
“Sure, Boss,” Grigoriy replied, throwing his coat over Anna’s shoulders. She smiled weakly at him.
“And stay out here,” Volkov added. “I’ll be back soon.”
Volkov fell into step behind Korolev as he walked to the VIP room. They entered the office and Korolev immediately sat down in his leather chair, busying himself on his laptop. Volkov paused in the doorway and noticed a man sitting on the sofa.
“Hello, Maxim,” Volkov said.
Maxim ran his hand over his bald head and bared his teeth in an attempt to smile, his eyes glaring at Volkov. “Stepan.”
Volkov walked to the bar in the corner and uncorked the scotch. “I haven’t seen you for a while,” he said, grabbing a glass. “Last time we met was Hotel Africa in Monrovia, right?”
“I’m still spending time in Liberia,” Maxim said. “Though I don’t travel to Antwerp as much, these days.”
“Is the hotel still a 300-room shithole?” Volkov asked, pouring a double.
“There’s a casino and a nightclub now.”
He corked the bottle. “So it’s a 302-room shithole.” He considered Maxim, noting his pale complexion. “Lots of time indoors?”
“Lots of sunscreen.”
“That’s enough,” Korolev said, closing his laptop and standing up.
Volkov rested against the bar and sipped from his glass. “You wanted to talk.”
“I just finalised payment for your job in Jakarta,” Korolev said, gesturing to his laptop. “My share is eighty percent.”
“Our standing agreement is sixty.”
“You want to haggle?” Korolev said. “Let’s haggle.”
Maxim pulled his pistol from his jacket and slapped it on the coffee table.
“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” Korolev asked Volkov, stepping closer. He was rolling his coin across the top of his hand, a US quarter, Volkov remembered. According to the stories, it was a trophy claimed from the first American operative Korolev had ever killed.
Volkov swirled his drink in his glass. “Why should you?”
“Because you are becoming increasingly difficult to manage,” Korolev said. “You’re insubordinate, unprofessional, volatile, and frustrating for business.”
“The Jakarta job got done.”
“You never leave your post,” Korolev snarled. “Especially for a girl.”
“Natalie Robinson was in trouble and I was in the area.” Volkov shrugged. “Nobody will miss the guy.”
“And what about Dmitri? Those trucks won’t move from the alley beside my club until I can find another crew as dumb as his men.”
“Dmitri was a pig. He raped two of your girls and beat another one so badly she ended up with brain damage.”
“That is beside the point,” Korolev seethed. “You do as I say. You wait for my orders. You are my instrument.” He punctuated his words by stabbing his finger into Volkov’s chest. “Do you understand?”
Volkov nodded once, staring vacantly at his glass of scotch.
“Your personal distraction
s have put you at unnecessary risk,” Korolev continued, his voice more subdued. “You burned a cover identity when you hired that jet. You left a trail. The Australian authorities are now sniffing around.”
“They won’t get anywhere,” Volkov said. “I took care of it.”
“There would be nothing to take care of if it wasn’t for your dalliances.”
“I held up my end.”
“That’s not the deal. You owe me your life. I am generous with what I provide in return and if I find that you are not focused on your role, then I will demonstrate how powerless you really are.”
“You wouldn’t,” Volkov said darkly.
“You know that I’m an avid vivisectionist,” Korolev said. “Anna would make a fine candidate for study.”
Volkov could hear his own heart pounding.
“Yes, that got your attention,” Korolev said icily. “Don’t forget your place again.” He turned to Maxim. “Get out.”
“But, Nikolay,” Maxim protested. He looked to Volkov.
“You heard him,” Volkov said, lifting his chin towards the door. “Go tell your yoga instructor I want my handcuffs back.”
Maxim grabbed his pistol and scowled at Volkov before leaving the office, slamming the door behind him.
Korolev studied Volkov thoughtfully, rolling his coin across his hand. The coin tumbled over each one of his fingers but this time it toppled over the edge, falling towards the ground. Volkov’s hand darted out, snatching the coin from the air. He held the US quarter in his fist.
Korolev’s laugh rattled the ice cubes in Volkov’s glass. “Do you know how many men I know with reflexes like yours, Stepan?”
Volkov opened his hand and Korolev retrieved the coin.
“None,” Korolev said. “You are that good, and that’s why I let you live. Just don’t forget who owns you.” He turned away. “Did Grigoriy make you aware of this American operative?”
“His cell is my next stop.”
“I want him working for us. My American sources aren’t what they used to be. I need new ones.”
“That’s up to him.”
“No, Stepan,” Korolev said, holding up a finger. “It’s up to you.”