Ganglands: Russia: Russia (8 page)

Alexei was stung by the sharpness of Jordan’s voice. ‘It’s easy for you to say,’ he said bitterly.
‘You’re not the one who has to attack people.
You’re not the one who has to get his hands dirty.
You don’t have to do anything.’

‘You think I like that?
You think it’s easy to ask young people like you to put themselves in danger?
Don’t forget I
know
what this is like.
I’ve seen things you couldn’t begin to imagine, and I’ve done things you wouldn’t want to.
If there was any way I could infiltrate the Eagles I would, but I can’t.
This is the only way we can stop them – no one else is going to do it for us.’

‘That still doesn’t make this right.’

‘You chose to join Trojan, Alexei,’ the American replied calmly.
‘We didn’t force you.
So what’s it going to be, son: are you in or out?’

Alexei bit his lip, then nodded.

‘Good.
Before you go to sleep, one of our operatives will interview you.
Give them all the information you can.’

Jordan strode out of the hall.
Without looking back, he called out over his shoulder: ‘You did well today.
Keep it up.’

Alexei’s head was spinning.
All he wanted to do was go to bed, but first he had to spend two hours giving detailed descriptions of the members of the Moscow Eagles.
Exhausted and still drunk, when he finally crawled into his cot he instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, the Eagles’ gym was taut with anticipation.
The skinheads spoke in low, terse sentences as they adjusted their rings and belt buckles, knife blades and screwdriver points glinting in the grimy half-light. Svetlana scurried around them, capturing the preparations on a digital camcorder.
The girl’s expression of sulky disdain had vanished – she kissed Medved excitedly on the face and neck, looking tiny in his tree-trunk arms.

By contrast, Alexei felt dreadful.
His mouth was dry and his head was aching, his hangover only intensified by the dawning realization of what he had agreed to do.
He wandered over to Marat, who was working one of the punchbags, the dragon tattoo on his neck seeming to lunge in time with his jabs.
At the sight of Alexei’s pallid face, the blond teenager smiled.

‘I was nervous the first time too,’ he said airily. ‘You ever hear about the Construktko riot – the one at that guy Lebedev’s place?’

Alexei nodded.

‘I threw up in the van on the way there.
Medved nearly killed me. But once we got stuck in’ – Marat punched into the bag for emphasis – ‘I was OK.
I was better than OK.
I loved every second of it.’

Before Alexei could reply, Pavel clapped his hands together and led the Eagles out of the gym.
Viktor was nowhere to be seen.
As they marched through the streets, Alexei felt overwhelmed by a wave of fear and adrenaline.
No laughter broke the grim silence.

They didn’t have far to walk: rounding a street corner, Alexei’s heart sank at the sight of a group of Uzbek youths milling outside a cafe, laughing and joking with one another as they smoked and drank coffee.
Pavel turned and faced the rest of the Eagles, his fist clenched.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘For Mother Russia!’ bellowed Medved.

The gang let out a primeval roar as they crashed into the Uzbeks, weapons brandished and fists flying.
Holding back at the rear of the charge, Alexei froze.
This was nothing like fighting in the ring – the Eagles descended upon their victims like a pack of wild dogs, breaking noses on knuckledusters and cracking bones with hammers, bars and chains.
A man appeared out of the melee before Alexei, and swung a wild punch in his direction.
Alexei ducked out of the way, instinctively responding with a left hook that knocked the man off his feet.

Stunned by the ferocity of the ambush, the Uzbeks scattered like antelope.
One or two lay prone in the road, helpless as the Eagles pummelled them with kicks and
punches.
The air rang with shouts of rage and alarm.
Caught up in the confusion, Alexei was nearly knocked over by an Uzbek sprinting past him.

‘Get that bastard!’ Pavel barked at him.

Alexei turned and gave chase, his heart pounding in his chest.
The Uzbek darted left, down a narrow alleyway that ran alongside a restaurant.
The path was littered with rubbish; hurdling a pile of wooden crates, Alexei nearly stumbled to the ground.
Ahead of him, the Uzbek slipped on a piece of rotten food, and went sprawling into a pile of rubbish bags.
Closing in on his target, Alexei saw that the boy was the same age as him, perhaps even younger.
Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead down into his eyes.
As Alexei stood over him, the Uzbek shielded his head with his hands.

‘Get out of here!’ hissed Alexei.

The youth stared at him, dumbfounded.

‘Are you deaf?’ Alexei shouted.
‘Get out of here or I’ll beat the shit out of you!’

He raised his fist threateningly.
The bewildered Uzbek scrambled to his feet and staggered away down the alleyway.
When he had disappeared from sight, Alexei let out a deep sigh of relief.
If he could convince the Eagles he had been in a proper fight, perhaps they would let him into the gang after all.

Alexei was weighing up his next move when he heard a siren wail, and a police car screeched to a halt at the head of the alleyway.

10. Running Scared

‘Hey, you!’

Alexei froze as an officer in a thick leather jacket and fur hat climbed purposefully out of the driver’s seat.
This was the last thing he needed.
If the police thought he was a member of the Moscow Eagles and arrested him Alexei could be in serious trouble.
But then Darius Jordan had been clear that if the authorities found out the truth his mission was over.
Worse, Alexei had a nasty feeling that he would be left completely on his own – and without Trojan to back him up, who would believe his story?

‘Don’t move!’ warned the policeman.

But Alexei was already running.

He pounded down the alleyway, tipping over crates of mouldy vegetables behind him as he went.
The sound of running footsteps pursued him as he reached the wire fence at the end of the passage.
Alexei scrambled up the mesh, reached over to the other side and flipped his body over the top feet-first.
He dropped down to the ground on the other side, landing heavily on a patch of wasteland.
Without pausing, he sprang upright and dashed away through the straggly grass.
Alexei didn’t dare to look behind him – he didn’t need to.
He could hear the
policeman cursing as he tackled the wire fence.
Alexei prayed fervently that he wouldn’t pull out his gun and start firing.

He zigzagged across the uneven ground, heading for the shelter of a line of birches at the edge of the wasteland.
Alexei exploded through the trees, only to hurriedly skid to a halt on the other side.
Just in time.
He was teetering on the edge of a steep embankment, overlooking a busy highway that sloped down towards a tunnel. Cars were weaving in and out of the lanes at high speed.

Glancing back through the trees, Alexei saw that the policeman was catching him up, the man’s cheeks reddening with exertion.
There was nowhere else to go: Alexei grabbed hold of the embankment’s edge and lowered himself over the side, his legs scraping against the concrete wall.
When he had dangled down as far as he could, he let go, landing in a heap by the side of the highway.

As he picked himself up, Alexei was overwhelmed by petrol fumes and roaring engines.
There was no room to run either left or right, and the policeman had reached the edge of the embankment above Alexei’s head.
The only way out was across six lanes of busy traffic.

‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’ the policeman shouted.

Alexei took a deep breath, and stepped out into the traffic.

He danced across the first lane, feeling a whoosh of air as a car hurtled behind his back.
Waiting for a gap in the second lane, Alexei’s eyes met those of the female driver, and for a split second the world came to a halt as she stared at him open-mouthed.
Then a horn blared at
him, her car passed by, and Alexei was on the move again.
As he hared across the third lane, he heard someone slamming on the brakes – Alexei didn’t bother looking to see who.

At the central reservation, he hurdled over the barrier and rushed out into the second bank of traffic before he could change his mind.
The air was choked with a furious chorus of horns.
Alexei jockeyed back and forth, only just managing to scramble out of the way of a Mercedes as it changed lanes.
He dashed into the final lane – straight into the path of a blue van.

No time to get out of the way.
Alexei threw up his hands, his ears filled with loud screeching.
He tensed, waiting for the end.

One second passed, then another.
Cautiously opening his eyes, Alexei saw that the van’s bumper had halted inches from his knees.
The smell of burnt tyre rubber singed his nostrils.
Placing his hands against the vehicle for support, Alexei walked shakily off the tarmac and up the gentle slope on that side of the highway.
The driver in the blue van rolled down his window.

‘You bloody idiot!’ he bellowed after him.
‘Have you got a death wish, you crazy little shit?’

Dazed, Alexei held up an apologetic hand and hurried away.
On the other side of the highway, the policeman remained marooned on top of the embankment, his angry shouts drowned out by the traffic.

Alexei took the long way back to the gym, following a nervy, tortuous route through Moscow’s backstreets.
Unable to stop his hands trembling, he jammed them into the pockets of his sweatshirt, and pulled the hood over his head.
Every time he heard a siren wailing in the distance, he flinched.

As he neared Komsomolskaya Square, Alexei began to calm down, his mind thinking clearly once more.
He may have been able to spare the Uzbek, but he still had to look like he had been in a fight.
Ducking into a doorway, Alexei gritted his teeth and punched the wall.
Pain flared across his knuckles – trying to block it out, he punched the wall again.
Suddenly, he felt all the anger and frustration that had been building up within him – the attack on Lena, Trojan’s harsh and mysterious dealings; the vileness of the Moscow Eagles – explode to the surface.
He wasn’t sure how many more times he hit the wall before he finally stopped.
Alexei inspected his right fist, breathing heavily.
His knuckles were now a purple mass of bruising, blood running down his hands.
Good enough.

He was about to cross the street when a police car pulled up outside the gym’s entrance.
Alexei gasped, and ducked down behind a parked Fiat.
As he looked on, a police officer appeared and opened the rear passenger door.
Medved hauled himself out.
Had he been arrested?
What was he doing back here?
To Alexei’s amazement, the policeman barked with laughter and patted Medved on the back.
The skinhead shook his hand warmly and then disappeared inside the gym.

Alexei waited until the police car had driven off before following Medved inside.
The pre-fight tension had been
replaced by a party atmosphere: the Eagles laughed and joked with one another as they smoked and drank beer.
None of them appeared to have sustained any serious injuries.
Viktor had reappeared, and was walking around slapping his men on the back.
To loud cheers, Medved shook up a bottle of beer and opened it over the rest of the gang like a victorious Formula 1 driver.

‘Alexei!’ called out Marat, a broad grin on his face. ‘Where’ve you been?
You get lost or something?’

‘I wish,’ Alexei replied.
‘Had a run-in with the police – it took me a while to shake them off.’ He glanced at Medved.
‘Guess I should have just got a lift back like you.’

The giant skinhead shrugged.
‘Policemen are just like other Russians.
They don’t like to see the immigrants dirtying our streets either.
They can’t say it in public, but they can show their support in other ways.
And it’s not just policemen, either –’

‘I think that’s enough,’ said Viktor, interrupting him. The leader of the Eagles said it quietly, but Medved immediately fell silent.
Viktor fixed his icy blue gaze on Alexei.
‘How did you get separated from the rest of the gang?’

‘One of the Uzbeks shit himself and ran away down an alleyway,’ explained Alexei.
‘I went after him.’

‘And did you catch him?’

Alexei gingerly displayed his swollen knuckles, earning a nod of approval from Viktor.

‘Did he put up much of a fight?’ asked Marat eagerly.

‘Not for long,’ Alexei replied.

‘This is good work,’ said Pavel, patting Alexei’s cheek.
‘These vermin have got to learn that they can’t just run away.
We will follow them down whichever rat hole they flee.’ He turned to the rest of the gang, grabbing Alexei’s bloodied hand and raising it into the air. ‘Let everyone take note:
This
is the fist of a warrior!
This
is the fist of a White Russian!
This
is the fist of a Moscow Eagle!’

The Eagles roared as one.
Alexei was submerged beneath a scrum of skinheads, roughly patting him on the head and punching him in the arm.
For once, Alexei didn’t have to fake his look of relief.
He was in.

‘It’s such a shame …’ a voice sighed.

The gang stopped and turned to look at Svetlana, who was sitting on a weights bench, curling a lock of hair around her finger like a little girl.

Alexei frowned.
‘What’s a shame?’

‘It’s just that your story sounded so exciting,’ Svetlana said breathily.
‘First you beat up this big bad Uzbek, then you shake off the police.
I’d love to include it in my film, but I didn’t see it happen. In fact, no one saw it happen.’ She grinned maliciously.
‘How very …
convenient
.’

‘Enough, Svetlana!’ growled Medved.
‘Viktor’s said the boy’s OK.’

‘Who’s saying he isn’t?’ Svetlana replied, her eyes wide with mock innocence.
At that moment, Alexei could have quite happily throttled her.

‘You’re such a shit stirrer,’ said Marat.
‘Why don’t you keep your gob shut?’

Svetlana gave Medved an indignant look.
‘Are you going to let him talk to me like that?’