Ganglands, Russia

by Ross Kemp

  The men hauled Alexei to his feet, manhandling him out of the apartment and down into the car park, where he was bundled into the back seat of a vehicle. He collided with another body – presumably Marat’s – as he was thrown alongside him.

  ‘Move and you’re dead,’ a voice hissed, and then the car door slammed shut.

  Alexei tried to stay calm as the vehicle drove away. The biggest danger was that his cover had been blown – but if that was the case, why had the men kidnapped Marat too? Alexei shifted uncomfortably in his seat, every breath only forcing the balaclava’s stale odour further down his throat. As the car mapped out a silent path through unseen streets, Marat whimpered quietly.

  Then, without warning, someone ripped off his balaclava. Alexei blinked in the morning sunlight. Looking out through tinted windows, he saw that they were travelling along a broad, tree-lined highway in the middle of the countryside. Moscow’s grand sprawl was a distant dream. Viktor Orlov was sitting in the front passenger seat, watching the startled teenagers with undisguised amusement.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Marat blustered. ‘Where are we?’

  Viktor smiled. ‘We thought the pair of you had earned a little drive. You must forgive our rather elaborate caution. We’re going to meet someone who guards his privacy fiercely.’

  Pulling out a small knife, Viktor leaned over and cut Alexei and Marat free. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘it’s always good to test your men’s mettle. An Eagle has to be prepared for anything. I was pleased to see that neither of you begged for mercy.’

  ‘Though you may want to mewl a little more quietly next time, Marat,’ Pavel said pointedly, from behind the wheel.

  Alexei glanced around the car in surprise. ‘It’s only us four?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Medved?’

  ‘Busy explaining his hangover to Svetlana,’ the ex-soldier replied. ‘Today is a day for business, not action. Not Medved’s speciality.’

  ‘You should be flattered,’ added Viktor. ‘This is the most exclusive of invitations. Occasionally our rendezvous likes to run his eye over our foot soldiers – make sure that they are up to the task. After your clash with the Uzbeks, we felt you should represent the fresh new wave of the Moscow Eagles.’

  ‘Do not make us regret that decision,’ Pavel said ominously.

  As the car continued along the highway, Alexei caught a glimpse of a turret poking out from above the treeline. The trees began to thin, and he saw that the highway was lined with houses set back from the road along sweeping driveways. Many ordinary Russians had modest dachas they used as countryside retreats, but these houses were a different world altogether – state-of-the-art mansions with swimming pools, satellite dishes, and garages the size of aircraft hangars. Through gaps in electrified railings, Alexei saw chrome flashes of expensive foreign cars: Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis.

  He jumped as a sleek black sports car appeared out of nowhere, its bodywork gleaming in the sunlight as it screamed past them. Before Alexei could blink, it had disappeared over the brow of the hill and out of sight.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Marat said excitedly. ‘That was a Bugatti Veyron! One of the fastest cars ever made! There’s only about 200 in the whole world!’

  Alexei shook his head. It was hard to believe that only a couple of hours ago he had been sleeping on the floor of Marat’s derelict apartment. They continued along the highway for another ten minutes before Viktor tapped Pavel on the arm and pointed towards a gated driveway. Two men were standing guard outside, sub-machine-guns slung over their backs. As the car pulled up beside them, one of the guards handed Viktor a portable scanner. The Eagles’ leader pressed his thumb down on the pad, and a tiny LED flashed green. The guard nodded at Viktor, and the gate swung open.

  Pavel steered the car up the long driveway, past a small wooden banya – a traditional steam bath – and up towards an imposing redbrick house with high gabled windows. Two figures were visible on the veranda in front of the dacha. One was a small, powerful man, with a bristling beard covering his square jaw. He was wearing a pair of jeans and the Russian national football shirt. At the man’s side sat a slim, beautiful brunette in a jumper and black leggings, her arm draped through his. A silver samovar and tea set were laid out on the table in front of them.

  As Pavel parked the car next to a grey, open-top Porsche Carrera, the man in the football shirt rose to his feet. Viktor got out of the car, hurried up to the veranda and embraced him, before kissing the brunette’s elegantly extended hand.

  As they followed on behind, Marat nudged Alexei, and nodded at the Porsche. ‘Not bad!’ he whispered.

  Alexei shrugged. He had never been that interested in cars. Then he caught sight of the Carrera’s personalized number plate.

  It was Tsar.

  Alexei looked away, praying that the recognition hadn’t shown on his face. The Eagles had led him straight to Tsar! Could this dacha be the fortress – was Rozalina Petrova held captive somewhere within these walls? Alexei silently cursed the fact that the Eagles had taken his phone, and that he had been blindfolded for most of the journey. Depending on the route they had taken, he could be a hundred miles from Moscow, or ten.

  His mind was racing as he walked up to the veranda, where the bearded man was shaking Pavel by the hand. The soldier turned around to the two teenagers.

  ‘Marat, Alexei – this is Mr Lebedev.’

  Things were starting to make sense now. Darius Jordan had suggested that Tsar might be someone with money and influence – who fit that bill better than a tycoon? Perhaps the riot at the Construktko plant had been a smoke-screen. One thing was for sure – Boris Lebedev didn’t look like he was holding any grudges now.

  The tycoon sized up Alexei and Marat with a single glance, then nodded with apparent satisfaction. He leaned down and kissed the brunette woman on the cheek. ‘Run inside now, little bunny. We have business to discuss that you will only find boring.’

  The brunette rose gracefully from her chair and sashayed barefoot inside the dacha, a diamond-studded chain sparkling on her bare ankle. Viktor watched her leave with open admiration.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ he said.

  ‘Lilya is a former gymnast,’ replied Lebedev. ‘An expensive gift I bought myself.’ He looked reflective. ‘If I had known quite how expensive, perhaps I might have reconsidered.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s worth every rouble,’ said Viktor.

  The tycoon made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Save the silver tongue for young girls and vain men,’ he said sharply. ‘Let’s get down to business. I take it your boys can keep their mouths shut?’

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ Pavel replied laconically.

  Lebedev pointed at the door. ‘Then come inside,’ he said.

  The tycoon led them on a lengthy tour of his dacha, a seemingly endless maze of corridors and rooms; through an opulent dining-room, where a long mahogany table stretched out beneath a row of chandeliers; a conference room, complete with leather swivel chairs and banks of television screens; and an indoor swimming pool, a mosaic of a mermaid on its tiled floor visible through the still blue water. Priceless oil paintings seemed to hang on every wall. But – much to Alexei’s disappointment – of Rozalina Petrova, there was no sign.

  Upstairs, the bedrooms were expensive hymns to tastelessness: four-poster beds covered with pink and cream drapes and teddy bears. Looking at the burly figure of Boris Lebedev, Alexei guessed that Lilya had been left in charge of the decorating in these rooms.

  As they headed down a flight of backstairs to the ground floor, Alexei noticed a further set of dingy steps leading on to a basement door.

  ‘What’s down there?’ he asked innocently.

  Lebedev stopped in his tracks. He turned round slowly and eyed Alexei with contempt.

  ‘It’s a cellar,’ he said. ‘What do you think is down there? Wine bottles and rats. If you’d like to spend some time down there I’m sure that could be arranged.’

  ‘That won’t be
necessary,’ Viktor said smoothly, as Pavel shot Alexei a vicious look. ‘Please forgive Alexei’s interruption. He suffers from an excess of enthusiasm.’

  Lebedev grunted, unconvinced, then continued on his tour. He didn’t brighten up until he entered the games room, a luxurious hideaway boasting two American pool tables and a row of arcade machines. The only things framed on the walls in this room were football shirts, signed by players from some of the biggest teams in the world: Real Madrid, Manchester United, AC Milan.

  ‘Now you see my real pride and joy,’ Lebedev said, outstretching his arms. He turned to the two teenagers. ‘Now I have matters to discuss with Viktor and Pavel. You can wait for us here. Tonight you will all stay. There is more than enough room.’

  Viktor inclined his head. ‘You are too kind, Boris.’

  ‘So many people have told me,’ the tycoon replied, without any visible pleasure.

  As Marat eagerly racked up the pool balls, Alexei watched through a gap in the door as the men filed into the conference room.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘The Eagles trashed Lebedev’s place a while back, didn’t they? So why’s he so friendly?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Marat. ‘If we need to know then Viktor will tell us. Haven’t you asked enough stupid questions already today? Now are you going to break or not?’

  Keen not to arouse further suspicion, Alexei picked up a cue and broke. But throughout the afternoon – as he lost game after game to Marat, much to the boy’s evident satisfaction – Alexei couldn’t get the thought of the cellar door out of his mind, nor what might lie behind it.

  The men didn’t emerge until the early evening; Viktor, Alexei noted, looked particularly pleased with himself. Dinner was an awkward affair. Boris Lebedev sat at the head of the dinner table, regaling everyone with stories as he drained glass after glass of champagne. Lilya was nowhere to be seen. Viktor and Pavel listened attentively to the stories – as usual, the former’s champagne glass lay untouched in front of him. Further down the table, Marat looked uncomfortable as he wrestled with his oysters, while Alexei thought Lebedev was nothing more than a boor. As the tycoon got more and more drunk, his stories got more repetitive and self-aggrandizing, until even Viktor was struggling to show amusement.

  It was a relief when the meal finally ended and Alexei could head up to the room he was sharing with Marat. After his late night at Orbit and the long day at the dacha, Alexei was shattered, but he forced himself to stay awake until Marat’s breathing had become deep and regular. Pulling back the covers of his bed, Alexei crept soundlessly from the room.

  The dacha was drenched in a pregnant quiet. Alexei sneaked along the hallway past Boris Lebedev’s room – where the sound of thick snoring was emanating through the door – and headed down the staircase, wincing with every creaking floorboard. He prowled through the ground floor, barely breathing, until he reached the cellar at the rear of the building.

  To his surprise, the door swung open at the faintest touch. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Alexei could make out the contours of a series of wine racks. Inching deeper into the cellar, he brushed a cobweb out of his face. A drip was splashing down from the ceiling somewhere.

  Behind him, there was the faintest squeak of a door hinge.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  There was a blur of movement in the shadows. A strong hand wrenched his head back by the hair, and Alexei felt a blade press against his throat.

  20. Hot Water

  ‘What the hell are you doing down here?’ snarled Pavel. Alexei cried out as the Eagle yanked his head back further, the edge of the knife poised a millimetre from his throat.

  ‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Alexei, through clenched teeth. ‘I was thirsty so I got up to get a drink from the kitchen. I thought I heard someone down here, so I came down to check.’

  ‘Check for what?’ Pavel shouted, pressing his blade against Alexei’s skin until it dug into his Adam’s apple. ‘Lebedev told you there was nothing down here!’

  ‘I know he did. But I did hear something, Pavel, I swear!’

  If either of them slipped, Alexei knew that his throat would be sliced clean open. He stood there, eyes closed, for what felt like an eternity. Then he felt the grip on his hair relax, and the knife withdraw. With a gulp, he looked at Pavel, who was tucking his blade back into a sheath on his belt.

  ‘Be grateful it was me who caught you,’ the man said grimly. ‘If it had been one of Lebedev’s men you’d be dead for sure – Eagle or not. This is a dangerous place to go snooping around.’

  ‘I wasn’t snooping, Pavel! Honest!’

  ‘It looks like I believe you. But no more night-time wandering, you understand me?’ He cuffed Alexei across the back of his head. ‘I don’t care if you need a piss – do it in your bed.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alexei said mournfully.

  Pavel shook his head. ‘I thought there was a chance Marat might do something brainless, but not you. Get out of here.’

  Alexei stumbled away up the cellar steps, rubbing his throat.

  Back in his bedroom, as Marat snored softly, Alexei tossed and turned in his bed, unable to shake the feeling of the knife at his skin. Just as he was finally drifting off to sleep, the sound of tyres crunching softly across gravel floated up to his window. Alexei crept to the window and peered outside.

  A black limousine was creeping around the front of the dacha, as dark and stealthy as a panther. As it slowed halfway down the driveway, the door to the banya opened and two men hurried out, carrying a slumped woman in their arms. It was Rozalina Petrova. Of course, thought Alexei, kicking himself: Lebedev hadn’t taken them anywhere near the steam house! It would have been the perfect place to hide the lawyer. She didn’t struggle as the limousine’s boot clicked open and the men placed her roughly inside. They closed the boot and jumped into the back of the car, which purred away down the driveway.

  As the vehicle disappeared into the night, Alexei wondered whether that was the last time he’d see Rozalina Petrova alive.

  The next morning, the Eagles ate breakfast in the conference room, slurping coffee and munching on ham and eggs. Alexei studiously kept his head down, his eyes drawn to an architectural model of a skyscraper that formed the centrepiece of the table. ‘Moskva Heights’ – the tag read – ‘Moscow’s gateway to the future’. Although Pavel refused to catch Alexei’s eye, the boy took heart from the fact that Viktor Orlov seemed to be in a good mood, humming softly to himself as he cleared his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  As the gang began trooping back to their car, Lebedev and Lilya followed them out on to the veranda. The former gymnast was clad in a thick coat of pure white fur that must have cost a small fortune. Boredom was plastered across her face.

  ‘Thanks again for the hospitality,’ Viktor said to Lebedev. ‘It’s a truly amazing residence.’

  The tycoon shrugged. ‘It’s more Lilya’s place than mine. I rarely see outside of Moskva Heights these days. Don’t contact me until our most pressing business is completed.’

  With that, he turned on his heel and strode back inside, without bothering to say goodbye.

  For the journey back to Moscow, Alexei and Marat were ordered to put the balaclavas back over their heads, although thankfully this time their hands weren’t bound. Neither Viktor nor Pavel spoke, leaving Marat to prattle away in the back seat, apparently unconcerned whether anyone was listening or not.

  After only a couple of hours’ sleep, Alexei should have been dead on his feet, but his mind was alive with questions. Where had they taken Rozalina Petrova now? Did the fact that they had moved her in the middle of the night have anything to do with Alexei – had Pavel not believed his story after all?

  He hadn’t reached any conclusions by the time they had returned to Moscow, when he removed his balaclava to be greeted by the familiar sight of the gym off Komsomolskaya Square. The building was empty save for Medved and Svetlana, who were cuddling up to one another on one of the we
ights benches. Embarrassed, the giant skinhead hastily clambered to his feet as the other gang members entered.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ Viktor replied mildly. ‘Our sponsor is pleased with the way things are going. If things go to plan, the next few months could be very interesting indeed. It’s a great time to be an Eagle, Medved. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Pavel and I have some things to discuss.’

  ‘No one go anywhere,’ rapped Pavel.

  The two men disappeared inside the small office adjoining the gym and closed the door. Alexei grimaced with frustration. He was desperate to get back to the monastery in Taganka to talk to Trojan, but the tone of Pavel’s voice had brooked no argument. In an effort to occupy himself, Alexei began peppering a punchbag with blows. Marat lay down on one of the benches and dozed off, while Medved and Svetlana huddled back together.

  Eventually the door to the office opened, and Pavel strode out. He beckoned everyone over.

  ‘What is it?’ rumbled Medved.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ Pavel replied. ‘We’ve just received word from our good friends at Storm Hammer.’

  Marat pulled a face. ‘Those cocksuckers? What do they want?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Alexei. ‘Who the hell are Storm Hammer?’

  ‘Another White Power gang,’ Pavel explained. ‘They used to claim that they were the toughest skinheads in Moscow, until we stepped in and showed them otherwise. There’s been silence between us ever since. But now that Nikolai is in jail, it seems that they wish to talk with us. Maybe they want to bury the hatchet. Maybe they want to start another war. Either way, we need someone to meet with them.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Medved said immediately.

  Pavel shook his head. ‘No, you won’t.’ He turned to Alexei. ‘You will.’

  ‘What?’ screeched Svetlana.