No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  “Volkov.” Maxim was sitting on a sofa in the VIP room and stood up as Volkov closed Korolev’s door.

  “Haven’t you left yet?” Volkov asked, heading to the exit.

  Maxim blocked the doorway. “I told him he should kill you and cut his losses.”

  “I can tell he takes your advice seriously,” Volkov said.

  “I even suggested sending you to Monrovia.”

  “You haven’t been to Africa in ages,” Volkov said, tapping Maxim’s bald head. “You’d be burnt to a crisp. So, where have you been and why aren’t you still there?”

  Maxim bared his teeth again. “You know, you’d do well in Africa.”

  “I wouldn’t fit in,” Volkov said. “I don’t dress in drag and sing showtunes like the pussies you hang around with.”

  Maxim’s toothy smile faded and his cheek twitched. “But you do put on quite a show. Five armed men, all dead, and all for a whore.”

  The boyeviks’ coats were draped on hooks near the door. Volkov saw a holstered pistol poking out from under the folds of cloth. “Be careful what you say next, Maxim.”

  “Oh, please,” Maxim snorted. “All women are the same.” He noticed the unbuttoned holster too and stepped closer.

  “Your aftershave stinks, Maxim,” Volkov said, screwing up his nose.

  “Take your police constable, for example,” Maxim continued. “Waters, is it?”

  Volkov tensed.

  “She looks tasty, yes?”

  The pistol was just within his reach, Volkov thought.

  “I bet Anna tastes as sweet as honey.” Maxim let out a low whistle. “But nothing beats a blowjob from a police constable, am I right?” His laugh rattled and he lunged for the pistol.

  Volkov grabbed Maxim by the throat and lifted him off his feet, slamming his head into a table. Glasses and bottles rattled as the table shuddered and Maxim collapsed to the floor.

  “I told you to be careful,” Volkov said, stepping over him.

  Grigoriy drank the last of his milk and placed the cloudy glass on the counter, peering shyly at Anna. She held a cigarette between her fingers and was watching the smoke curl up into the air.

  “Are you okay?” Grigoriy asked.

  She nodded silently.

  “Do you want another glass of lemonade?”

  She shook her head and slowly looked up from her burning cigarette. She smiled.

  Grigoriy awkwardly returned the smile.

  Anna reached out her hand and ran her thumb across his top lip. “Milk moustache,” she said. “It’s gone now.”

  He blushed and Anna laughed. Her smile quickly faded and Grigoriy sighed. “Look, he only got angry because you got into trouble,” he said. “I think he was angrier at himself for leaving you unprotected.”

  “One day I’m going to get into trouble and he won’t be here to help.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s true, Grigoriy,” she said, slouching on her stool. “Some things are out of our control.”

  He reached for her hand. “Just do the best you can to stay alive,” he said. “Do as he asks, follow his advice.”

  “Like you did?” Anna asked quietly, contemplating his hand on hers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Telling Nikolay about—”

  “Anna, I already told you.” He pulled his hand away.

  “I know.” Her gaze settled upon the laptop bag propped against Grigoriy’s stool. “I’m sorry I got upset.”

  “You don’t need to apologise,” he mumbled. “You weren’t wrong.”

  “No, but I wasn’t right, either.”

  Grigoriy followed her gaze, looking down at his laptop bag. It was lovingly cared for, and the computer’s case was adorned with stickers of bikini-clad women and logos from surf-clothing companies. It gave him comfort. It was familiar, it was colourful, and it reminded him that there were places far away that were better and sunnier. He suddenly wanted to ask Anna if she dreamed of those places too.

  “It’s all about survival.” Grigoriy shook his head. “Nice guys don’t survive, Anna.”

  “Then how are you still here?”

  He stared at his glass. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. Every day, I wish I could be more like Volkov.”

  “You always said that we each have our part to play.” She butted out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Yes, but he walks through the club and the crowd parts to let him through. People don’t make eye contact with him because they’re afraid of him.”

  “Do you think he likes that?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Because he can never be happy. He may have people’s fear but that’s all he has.”

  “And that will keep him alive,” Grigoriy observed. “We’re judged for what we are and by what we do.”

  “Is that how you judge Stepan?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re his friend.”

  He snorted. “Nobody has any friends here.”

  Anna stared at the cigarette butt smouldering in the ashtray. “Perhaps that’s true here, in this world, but what about the other world?”

  Grigoriy tilted his head.

  “What about if Stepan wanted to rejoin the human race?”

  “I can’t imagine him working as an accountant in a biscuit factory or a bricklayer on a building site,” Grigoriy said.

  “But he was a person once. He had family, friends, a job.” She cleared her throat. “A lover.”

  “I guess,” Grigoriy said slowly.

  “Imagine being like Volkov,” she said. “Could you bear it if a woman you loved hated you for what you were?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  She took a deep breath. “Don’t change, Grigoriy.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  Grigoriy stared at the table for several heartbeats before reaching up and touching his cheek. He started when he heard a loud bang, and he turned towards the VIP room to see Volkov march into the bar.

  “Get your shit, Grigoriy,” Volkov ordered. “It’s time to go.”

  “What about Anna?”

  “She’s coming too.”

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 1:18 AM MSK

  “Stop here, Grigoriy,” Volkov ordered.

  “Sure thing, Boss.” Grigoriy pulled over, leaving the engine running.

  Volkov shuffled forward in his seat and peered through the windscreen. The factory was two storeys of pale bricks that jutted out of the mud, the walls cracking as the foundation sank into the earth. The building stood in a puddle of faded light and shared a frayed wire fence with a scrap metal yard. The leaning lattice was crowned with rusted barbed wire that whipped around in the wind. A yellowed newspaper skipped along the potholed road, the scattered pages swirling into the fence and flapping restlessly.

  Volkov turned around and saw Anna watching him. He faced Grigoriy. “Go ahead on foot. Leave the keys. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “But, Boss,” Grigoriy protested.

  “Just go,” Volkov ordered. “Anna, give Grigoriy his coat.”

  Grigoriy retrieved his coat and grabbed the American’s envelope from under the seat. He shouldered his laptop bag, wrapping his coat tight around his body before walking towards the factory, hunched into the wind.

  Grigoriy faded out of sight and Volkov stepped out of the car. He shrugged out of his coat and opened Anna’s door, helping her put the coat on as she climbed out.

  “I need to talk to you,” Volkov said and pointed to a huddle of trees that hung beside the road.

  “Why?”

  Volkov stopped in front of a tree and glanced towards the factory to see if they were out of sight. Satisfied, he retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He squatted at the base of the tree, his back against the trunk, and dragged deeply on his smoke. “Why were you at the club?” he asked.

  “I had to go, Stepan,” she said, frowning. “I know you don’t like it wh
en I’m there but one of the girls was beaten the other night and ended up in hospital. They were short on numbers.” Anna shrugged. “I just wanted to help my friends.”

  “You care too much. It’s going to get you killed.”

  “Hopefully for a good cause.”

  “The cause never matters.”

  “I’d like to think—”

  “I know, Anna,” Volkov said firmly. “But they will take everything from you until there’s nothing left. You have to look out for you.”

  Anna nodded before kneeling in front of him. “Grigoriy has already told me.”

  “It’s good advice.”

  “If Nikolay were to ask me—”

  “Tell him everything you know,” Volkov said. “If you don’t, he’ll kill you. What good is that?”

  She pulled the collar of the coat higher and folded her arms across her body.

  Volkov sucked on his cigarette. “It’s up to you, but it might be a good idea to apologise to Grigoriy,” he said quietly.

  “I did,” she murmured.

  “Good. He was feeling really bad about it.”

  Anna’s face fell. She cleared her throat and pulled at the grass in front of her, plucking it out by the roots. “You didn’t bring me out here to talk about Grigoriy.” She tossed a handful of grass into the breeze, watching the blades scatter across the darkened road.

  “No, I didn’t,” Volkov said, flicking his cigarette away. He looked up as an old rusty bus rattled past, a late-shift express heading to the manufacturing district. The passengers stared out with glassy eyes, the bus groaning and coughing black smoke. Volkov waited until he heard the wail of the bus fade away, its brake lights disappearing around a corner. “I need to ask you a favour,” he said finally.

  “What is it?”

  “When was the last time you visited the cherry orchard?”

  “At the Novodevichy Cemetery?”

  Volkov nodded. “I know you’re a fan of Anton Chekhov.”

  “He’s one of my favourite writers,” she admitted, smiling. “But I haven’t been to his grave since…” Her smile faded. “I don’t really remember anymore.”

  Volkov took his used plane ticket from his pocket. He grabbed a pen and scribbled some notes on the paper.

  “Stepan, what is this about?” Anna asked.

  He handed her the ticket.

  “Directions?”

  “Starting at Chekhov’s grave. Follow those and you should end up standing in front of a tree that looks like it doesn’t belong in the cemetery. Borrow a small spade and dig. About two feet down, you’ll find a small wooden ammunition crate with Russian army markings. Take it, fill in the hole and cover your tracks. Take the box home and leave it under the bed in my room.”

  “Tonight? But what if—”

  “Do it, Anna,” he said. “I’ve made the arrangements, but you have to get there before dawn.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “Take the car. Drive to Novodevichy and be home before the sun comes up.”

  She nodded again.

  “One more thing,” Volkov said, standing up.

  He held out his hand, helping her up.

  “Never set foot in that club again.”

  “But Nikolay—”

  “Let me deal with him,” he said. “Just promise me you’ll never go back.”

  She gently squeezed his hand and his face softened. “That will be an easy promise to keep.”

  “Good.” He pulled his hand away. “Now, what’s this I hear about koala bears?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Is that what Grigoriy told you? I told him they were talking about a bear in Australia, not koalas.”

  He tilted his head. “Did they say a bear or the bear?”

  “Where’s your coat?” Grigoriy asked. He stood at the entrance to the factory, rubbing his hands together and rocking from side to side.

  “Never mind.” Volkov dismissed Grigoriy’s question with a wave. “Who are we waiting for?”

  “Yuri,” Grigoriy replied.

  The Organizatsiya was full of men and women known only by first names or nicknames. A patronymic meant a family, a surname meant a past, and the Organizatsiya did not pay people to have either. People became what the organisation made them.

  It was worse for the women, Grigoriy thought. Even Anna’s name wasn’t widely known. The men just called her “Volkov’s girl”. Nothing else mattered, not her identity, her past, her future, nothing. It made her vulnerable.

  Grigoriy hated it. Someone should care about people like Anna. All of her, a random series of mistakes, good intentions, regrets, and hopes that had left her sitting cross-legged on the sofa in the hotel room, laughing at old British comedies while practising her English, her bright eyes searching for him while he hid behind his laptop.

  “What are you smiling at?” Volkov asked.

  Grigoriy cleared his throat. “This YouTube video I saw today. It had this cat and—”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” Volkov muttered.

  “You didn’t make Anna feel worse, did you?”

  “She’ll be fine, but she says you need to improve your listening skills.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nikolay sent ‘the Bear’ to Australia.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Bear is a man, Grigoriy,” Volkov explained, kicking a rock over with his boot. “He was a Chechen freedom fighter in the early days, but he lost faith in the cause when what he called ‘foreign fighters’ started to take over the insurgency. He joined the Organizatsiya because he saw it as a way to get back at the Russian government.”

  “You know him?”

  “We worked together a couple of times. We haven’t been allowed in the same room since.”

  “Meaning?”

  Volkov’s face darkened. “During an arms theft in Ukraine, he used a busload of high school students to clear a minefield as a diversion.”

  Grigoriy felt his stomach turn. “You didn’t stop him?”

  Volkov shrugged. “I tried.” He kicked the rock away. “Principles only get you so far in this job, and then they get you killed.”

  “He sounds insane.”

  “Maybe, but he’s no idiot,” Volkov said. “He makes bombs. He lost a few fingers along the way but he was a fast learner. That was how he fought the Russians. That was why Nikolay bought him.” He sighed. “And now he’s in Australia.”

  “Maybe he’s on holiday.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Grigoriy held up his hand. “Wait, you said he’s from Chechnya. Is that why Maxim has been visiting the Caucasus?”

  Volkov opened his mouth to ask a question but was interrupted by the screech of the factory door as it was wrenched open. A small man emerged. It was Yuri, and he beamed a diamond-encrusted smile. “Boss, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting longer, Yuri. Where are we going?” Volkov asked, turning away from Grigoriy.

  Yuri gestured with a gloved hand.

  Grigoriy and Volkov followed the diminutive Yuri into a large warehouse. Inside, ranks of men were assembling office furniture for export around Eastern Europe. Yuri led them to a loading dock where a different group of men were packing assault rifles, also for export into Eastern Europe, as well as Africa and the Middle East. They vacuumsealed the weapons into plastic and stashed them in the bottom of tipper trucks. The weapons were then buried under horse manure and the tipper was covered in tarpaulin. Customs agents were reluctant to comb through the smelly cargo, especially when they were handed a wad of cash.

  Yuri pointed to a large door on the inside of the dock. “It’s an old meat freezer. It doesn’t work anymore but it’s still good, yes?” Volkov saw that the door was guarded by a large tattooed man with no neck: Vlad. Beside him was a trolley laden with blood-stained tools, including hammers, saws, and an electric drill.

  Volkov looked up from the trolley. “I hear you’ve been beating up the prisoner,” he sai
d.

  “We thought that’s what you wanted,” Yuri said quickly. “He was poking around and—”

  Volkov drew his pistol and worked the slide.

  “No, Boss! Wait!” Yuri cried.

  Volkov pointed the pistol at Vlad, who closed his eyes and cringed, holding his hands up in the air.

  “It was me, Boss,” Grigoriy said.

  Silence hung over the dock. Vlad and Yuri held their breath and didn’t dare move. Volkov slowly lowered his weapon and walked towards Grigoriy, his footsteps thudding loudly on the factory floor.

  Volkov halted in front of his assistant.

  Grigoriy swallowed and felt heat creep into his face. “I told them to beat the prisoner,” he stammered. “It was me. It was my fault.”

  Volkov ran his hand along his stubbled jaw. “Well, Grigoriy. I’m going to have to come up with a special punishment for that.”

  Yuri and Vlad shifted on their feet.

  “Yes, Boss,” Grigoriy said.

  “I hope you can type with one hand,” Volkov added.

  Grigoriy shuddered. “I’ll do my best, Boss.”

  Volkov grunted and holstered his pistol. He snatched the envelope from Grigoriy’s grasp. “Yuri,” he said. “Don’t beat the prisoners. I want to be able to talk to people before you cripple them. Sometimes, they want to work for us, remember?”

  “Of course, Boss,” Yuri said, nodding quickly.

  “Recruiting new sources makes Nikolay happy,” he added, offering Yuri a cigarette. “And that makes my life easier.”

  Yuri accepted the offered smoke. “Yes, Boss.”

  Volkov slapped him on the back. “Good.” He walked towards the door and Vlad opened it for him. “But if you do it again,” he said, looking up at the giant man before glaring at Yuri, “I will kill you.”

  Vlad fixed his eyes on an oil stain on the ground.

  A man was tied at the wrists inside the disused freezer, his arms outstretched above his head and the knotted rope strung over a meat hook. His feet were manacled to a D-ring in the floor and a length of tape sealed his mouth. He was stripped of his warmer clothes, his face was mottled with bruises, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. A small part of his ear had been cut off.

  Volkov closed the door behind him and the man raised his head slightly. A small steel chair had been left in the corner of the room and it screeched as Volkov dragged it across the concrete floor and placed it in front of the captive. He tore the tape from the man’s face but he remained silent. The man’s weight shifted and the meat hook creaked.