Ganglands, Russia

by Ross Kemp

  ‘Alexei! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Had a fight with my girlfriend,’ Alexei replied dully. ‘She kicked me out. Can I stay here for a bit?’

  ‘Women,’ said Marat, shaking his head. ‘They’re all bitches. Come in, my friend.’

  He opened the door wide, and Alexei walked reluctantly into the skinhead’s apartment.

  It was worse when she was awake.

  Rozalina Petrova had no idea where she was, or how long she had been held captive. She barely knew her own name. Her captors had drowned her system with drugs to keep her docile – not that she could have escaped even if she had been thinking clearly.

  Her senses had been numbed to the point of unconsciousness, but she was still aware of certain things: the cold stone floor on her bare legs, the handcuffs biting into her wrist, the radiator digging into her back, the heavy metal music that pounded through the walls. In the brief interludes when the drugs wore off, as Rozalina peered around the dark surroundings, pangs of terror assailed her and she struggled to breathe. In some ways, it was a relief when they returned to inject her again.

  Now she was dimly aware of bolts being slid back outside her cell door, and a masked man entering the room. All the gang members wore balaclavas when they were around her. The man pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward to inspect Rozalina so closely that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. He held her by the chin; sluggishly, she shied away.

  The man laughed, then sat back and pulled up his balaclava. Even in her dazed state, Rozalina recognized him – it was Oleg, the man who had pretended to be a journalist. There was still something naggingly familiar about his face, even as it twisted into a hateful grin.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. ‘Let … me … go,’ she said slowly, making a great effort to frame the words.

  ‘Aren’t you having fun here?’ the man asked mockingly.

  ‘People will come looking. They will find me.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ he said, briskly shaking his head. ‘Very safe here. Long way from Moscow. No one is going to stick their nose in.’

  ‘People will find me,’ Rozalina insisted. ‘They have to.’

  ‘Do you even think the police are looking for you? There are only four days before our deadline expires. If the authorities want to keep you alive, they have to free Nikolai Borovsky. Yet the police have barely asked us a question. We have many friends, Rozalina Petrova. Friends in powerful places who agree with our aims.’

  As the man spoke, Rozalina suddenly remembered where she had seen him before. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘There was a photograph of you in Borovsky’s case files. You’re a Moscow Eagle too, aren’t you? And your name isn’t Oleg.’ Rozalina frowned. ‘Pavel someone?’

  The man broke into a slow round of applause. ‘Well done. Pity you didn’t remember that before you let me into your car, you dumb slut.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who you kidnap – they’ll never release Borovsky.’

  ‘Of course they’re not going to free him!’ Pavel exclaimed. ‘But do you want to know a little secret?’ He whispered behind the back of his hand. ‘We don’t give a shit. That was never the point.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘You’re here because we’re going to wait until the deadline is reached, until all the media is focused on your whereabouts, and then … we’re going to shoot you in the head.’

  Rozalina’s blood froze.

  ‘Your execution,’ continued Pavel, ‘will serve as a powerful symbol to this country as to the fate of traitors like you – the Jews and the blacks who sully the name and glorious history of White Russia with their malignant presence. It will be the wake-up call to a generation. That will be your legacy.’

  With that, Pavel leaned forward and jabbed a needle into her arm, pumping more drugs into her veins.

  ‘Sweet dreams,’ he whispered, planting a fetid kiss on her cheek.

  Rozalina cried out, but her mind was already sinking back into the abyss, and by the time Pavel had walked out of her cell and slid the bolts back across her door, her eyes had gone glassy and her head sagged lifelessly to one side.

  16. Bitter Rivals

  Being in Marat’s apartment was like being locked in a frozen cupboard. There was no furniture, only a sleeping bag laid out on a grubby mattress. A door half-hanging off its hinges revealed a cramped toilet beyond. The walls were covered in a dark sea of graffiti – a mixture of lewd drawings and racist slogans – while the ceiling had a giant swastika flag pinned to it. As he entered the room, Alexei nearly tripped over an electricity cable snaking across the floor, linking a battered CD player to the socket.

  Judging by Marat’s enthusiastic welcome, the young Nazi didn’t get many guests. Alexei didn’t even know if the skinhead had any family – it wasn’t the sort of question to ask around the Moscow Eagles. After a few painful minutes sitting in silence Marat disappeared outside, returning with an armful of cheap beers. They spent the rest of the day sitting on his floor, necking the bottles.

  Even though Marat boasted that he was one of the biggest drinkers in the gang, it wasn’t long before he started to slur his words. He only had one topic of conversation: the Moscow Eagles. Whenever Alexei tried to change the subject, Marat quickly got bored, going off to the toilet or changing the CD. Listening to his drunken rants, and looking around the impoverished apartment, Alexei wasn’t sure whether he really did hate Marat, or just pitied him.

  Despite his low opinion of the company, Alexei was glad to be indoors. He drank quickly, desperate to forget the way things had turned out that day. But no matter how much beer he tipped down his throat, two things kept nagging away at him: the horrible, morbid fear that Lena was never going to wake up, and the fact that he only had four days left to find Rozalina Petrova. As Marat clumsily knocked the top off another bottle, drenching himself in foam in the process, Alexei decided to take a chance.

  ‘You ever met this guy Tsar?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Marat replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just heard a couple of the Eagles talking about him. Sounded like a pretty important guy.’

  ‘Sounds like something you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on,’ countered Marat, his eyes narrowing. ‘And what’s with all the questions, anyway?’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it,’ Alexei replied, taking another sip from his bottle. ‘Just curious, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re too curious,’ Marat slurred. ‘Can’t you see the Eagles don’t like it when people start asking questions? Why d’you think Viktor did all that shit to you at the training day? I told him, “Viktor, you can trust Alexei. I know him. He’s one of us.” But he’s one suspicious bastard. He doesn’t listen to me.’

  This was bad news. It sounded as though Viktor was on to him. If Alexei hadn’t been sure he was on dangerous ground with the Moscow Eagles, he was now. Before he could try and get anything more from Marat, the skinhead put down his bottle and slumped out on the mattress. His mouth yawned like a cavern as he snored.

  Alexei spent the longest night of his life huddled on the floor of Marat’s apartment, his extra layers of clothing failing to ward off the cold. It was getting light by the time he finally fell asleep; he woke up what felt like seconds later with a throbbing headache and a sour taste in his mouth. He was vaguely aware of a toe poking him in the ribs.

  ‘Piss off, Marat,’ mumbled Alexei.

  ‘Get up, you lazy black!’ the skinhead crowed back. ‘We’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You gotta ask me? CSKA are playing Dynamo today! I’m not missing that! Get up and let’s go.’

  Marat was in an irritatingly chirpy mood, apparently unaffected by all the beer they had drunk. As the alcohol drained from his system, Alexei felt dark clouds of doubt descending around him again; he got groggily to his feet and went and splashed some water o
n his face.

  On their way through town, they stopped off at a fast-food restaurant; Alexei nearly gagged on his Coke as he watched Marat bolt down his burger meal. The prospect of the match did little to cheer him up. Back home, it had been Lena who had dragged him to watch Rotor Volgograd play – Alexei had spent many afternoons looking on wryly as his girlfriend lost herself in the game: jumping up and down with excitement at every near miss; cursing loudly every time the opposition scored; chewing on her nails as the seconds counted down to a hard-fought victory. For her part, Lena could never understand how Alexei could remain so indifferent.

  The CSKA game was taking place at Dynamo Stadium, a low-slung arena in the middle of Petrovsky Park. With Dynamo and CSKA both Moscow teams, and fierce rivals, the atmosphere outside the ground was as sharp as a Stanley knife, and rows of policemen in riot gear lined the roads leading up to the stadium. Alexei and Marat followed a group of men dressed in blue and red – CSKA’s colours – through the turnstiles, and pushed their way to the back of the stand, where the team’s hard-core Ultra fans had gathered. Most of the grim-faced men there seemed to recognize Marat, though a brisk nod was the warmest greeting he got. Alexei spotted a couple of familiar figures from the Moscow Eagles, despite the hoods pulled up over their heads and the scarves wrapped around the lower half of their faces. Even though Alexei wasn’t much of a football fan, the tension in the ground made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he joined in with the crowd’s roar as the teams made their way on to the pitch.

  ‘Watch this, Alexei,’ Marat said, clapping. ‘We’re going to stuff these bastards. I just know it.’

  Things went very wrong very quickly. After only five minutes, CSKA’s marking fell to pieces at a corner, allowing Dynamo’s giant centre-back to crash home a free header. The goal was greeted with oaths and dark mutterings from the Ultras. CSKA had barely kicked off before Dynamo’s tricky winger jinked inside the full-back and curled a beautiful effort into the net. All around Alexei, people began jeering and hurling abuse; a couple of red flares were hurled on to the pitch in the direction of the CSKA goalkeeper. By half-time it was 3–0 to Dynamo, and the mood in the stands was turning violent. The Dynamo fans were gleefully taunting their rivals, who were straining at the wire fencing separating the two sets of supporters.

  ‘Screw the game,’ a man growled behind Alexei. ‘We’ll win the fight afterwards.’

  There were growls of agreement, and a chant of ‘Red! Blue! Warriors!’ erupted across the stand. Beside Alexei, Marat remained silent. He seemed completely flattened by the scoreline.

  ‘This is shit,’ he muttered suddenly. ‘I’m getting out of here.’

  He elbowed his way out of the stand, ignoring the cold stares of the other Ultras. Alexei followed almost apologetically on his heels.

  Outside the ground, the atmosphere was tightening like a garrotte. One of the policemen was struggling to keep control of an Alsatian, which was barking loudly at a group of CSKA fans gathering menacingly around the exits. Marat stormed past without a glance, walking in the opposite direction to the nearest metro station and into a maze of quieter streets flanked by large warehouses.

  ‘Useless bastards!’ The skinhead kicked out at an empty beer bottle, sending it smashing against a wall. ‘Footballers are just like everyone else – they don’t give a shit. All they care about is screwing us over.’

  ‘It’s just a game, Marat,’ Alexei said.

  Marat whirled round and grabbed two fistfuls of Alexei’s shirt, his eyes wild. ‘It’s not just a game! It’s important!’

  For a second Alexei thought the boy was going to try and hit him, but Marat hesitated. Then, with a sound of irritation, he let go of Alexei and stalked away. Normally Alexei would have been happy to let him go, but he still didn’t have anywhere else to stay and there was no way he was contacting Trojan again. Instead, he followed a safe distance behind Marat, hoping that the Eagle would eventually cool off.

  Still audibly muttering to himself, Marat disappeared down a narrow alleyway that cut between two rundown factories. Alexei tracked him to the mouth of the passageway – and was nearly knocked off his feet by Marat, who was running headlong in the opposite direction.

  ‘Run for it!’ the skinhead shouted.

  Alexei barely had time to react before a group of men came hurtling round the corner towards him. At first he thought they were Dynamo fans, but then he caught a glimpse of their faces, and realized it was much worse than that.

  It was the Uzbeks the Eagles had assaulted in the street.

  The lead man was on him in an instant: Alexei wrenched his left shoulder out of the way just in time, as a screwdriver slashed wickedly through the space it had been occupying. Grabbing the man’s extended arm, Alexei moved inside and drove his knee into the man’s crotch. As his assailant crumpled in pain, Alexei threw a couple of short rights at the man’s head, and was moving away before he hit the ground.

  Hearing a cry of alarm, he saw that two men had caught up with Marat, who was lashing out in a vain attempt to keep them at bay. Alexei raced over and punched one of the Uzbeks in the back of the head, knocking him to the floor. The second man whirled round, only to receive a powerful side kick in the ribs. He clutched at his side, winded, unable to protect himself from a flurry of clubbing punches from Marat.

  Alexei looked back behind him, adrenaline coursing through his system. Although they had dealt with the first wave, more Uzbeks were sprinting towards them.

  ‘We can’t take all of them!’ Marat shouted.

  Not on open ground, they couldn’t. Scanning the surrounding buildings, Alexei spotted a metal door standing slightly ajar.

  ‘This way!’ he shouted.

  Half-dragging Marat behind him, Alexei crashed through the door, and into the unknown beyond.

  17. Dead Meat

  A thunderous rumbling overwhelmed Alexei. Blinking, he saw that he was standing at the edge of a factory floor, amid hulking steel machines that gleamed in the unforgiving illumination of the strip lights. Conveyor belts were ferrying lumps of raw meat into the machines’ maws, where they were sliced and ground down. Lines of men dressed in white aprons and hats oversaw the frenzied feeding – even from this distance, Alexei could see that they all had Asiatic slants to their features.

  Marat swore loudly. ‘More of the bastards!’

  ‘They’re not the ones we have to worry about,’ replied Alexei, nervously glancing back at the door. ‘Come on!’

  They ran across the factory floor, splashing through shallow pools of water. The workers barely looked up from their work as Alexei and Marat charged past them, their heads dutifully bowed as they concentrated on processing the meat. Behind them, the angry shouts of the Uzbeks carried above the machinery as they burst inside the building.

  Alexei cut sharply left and then right, elbowing workers out of the way as he raced down a narrow aisle between one of the grinders and the far wall. With no exits in sight, he made towards a staircase leading up to a first-floor gangway and took the metal steps three at a time. Marat was hot on his heels, fearfully glancing back over his shoulder.

  The wide gangway ran around all four walls, offering a view of the entire factory. Alexei crouched down and peered through the guardrail. The Uzbeks had fanned out across the floor below, warily scanning the aisles for their prey. It was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to the gangway.

  ‘They’re cutting off the exits!’ Marat panted at his side. ‘We’ll never get out of here!’

  As Alexei watched, one of the Uzbeks grabbed hold of a factory worker and shouted at him, gesturing wildly, but the man in the apron silently shook his head and returned to his work.

  ‘At least the locals aren’t talking,’ Alexei remarked. ‘We’ll find a way out up here. But stay low, all right?’

  They scurried round the gangway, past a row of long processing tables covered in giant slabs of meat. Thankfully, there were no workers on this level to
impede their progress. Turning the corner of the walkway, Alexei caught sight of a door set into the far wall. If their luck was in, maybe there was a way out through there.

  Alexei had covered half the distance when he skidded to a halt, triumph turning to despair like ashes in his mouth. Another processing table had obscured the fact that another staircase came out on to the gangway – and an Uzbek had just appeared at the top of it.

  Startled, the youth tried to shout out a warning to his companions, but the clanking machinery drowned him out. Instead he snatched up a meat cleaver from the nearest table and waved it threateningly at Alexei.

  ‘He’s got a blade!’ cried Marat, backing away. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  ‘Where, exactly?’ Alexei replied, through clenched teeth. ‘We’ve got to get past him!’

  The Uzbek slowly advanced upon them, the sharp edge of the cleaver glinting malevolently. Alexei assumed a fighting stance, trying to block out the noise and the mayhem surrounding him as he concentrated on his opponent. The youth twitched, and suddenly the cleaver was whistling through the air. But Alexei had already dropped to the ground, and with a low sweeping kick knocked his assailant to the floor. He leaped on top of the Uzbek, grabbed the hand holding the cleaver and repeatedly banged it against the metal gangway. With a howl of pain, the youth let go.

  Alexei rolled to one side and drove his elbow into the Uzbek’s face – heard a sickening crunch as he made impact. As the youth clutched at his face, Alexei pulled him to his feet and hurled him over the guardrail. The Uzbek screamed as he plummeted downwards, landing heavily on one of the conveyor belts. His bloodied face contorted with dismay as he was carried helplessly away on a sea of raw meat.

  Before Alexei could catch his breath, a cry went up from one of the men on the factory floor. They had been spotted. Immediately the Uzbeks flocked towards the stairs.