Danni was standing next to Roman now and hissed back at Getmanov: ‘Go sit on a dick, head-fucker!’
‘Fuck yer mother!’ Getmanov spat back.
‘Shut up in there!’ screamed Sergeant Kuzembaev from the edge of the crowd of prisoners, raising his whip. Guards quickly unslung their assault rifles and Kuzembaev waded into the ranks with the heavy butt of his whip raised. The machine-gunner on the platform swung the barrel towards them.
Kuzembaev lashed out at a few people but the noise died down so he returned to his post at the end of the line.
They didn’t need to use much force on the prisoners. Even minor misdemeanours could be met with the threat of the izbushka or ‘the little hut’. It was a small wooden building by the side of the parade ground. Prisoners were dragged off there after evening parade if they had committed any faults during the day.
Inside was a line of tiny bare cells with no windows. Each was set behind two doors, one behind the other. If a prisoner was deemed to have been particularly bad then both doors were shut so that absolutely no light penetrated the cell. This was known as ‘getting the dark’. Prisoners who did days in the pitch-black soon became disorientated and unhinged.
More importantly, in winter the guards could also control the temperature in the cells by the amount of fuel fed into the stoves set in their walls at the back of the building. ‘Getting the cold’ meant little or no fuel was allowed to the prisoner, leading to hours of excruciating pain as the man was racked by shivers in an effort to stay alive.
Once the disturbance had settled down, Commandant Bolkonsky spoke into the microphone in front of him on the platform, his voice booming out over the parade ground, flexing in the wind.
‘So, men, I hope you are continuing to enjoy your stay here. It’s another beautiful day in Camp Honolulu. Whatever you’re doing today—if you are at the beach, on the golf course or in the Jacuzzi—I want you to remember one thing: work hard or you’ll get the cold and the dark!’
He chuckled heartily and the siren wailed, signalling the end of roll call.
Sergey was entertaining again.
In the usual Russian manner everything was completely overdone. There was no way that everyone could possibly eat as much food as was laid out, but the display of generosity was what mattered.
This time the party was a more restrained buffet supper of zakuski: small, colourful dishes of food crowded onto side tables—smoked fish, caviar, cured meats, salads, cheeses, everything and anything pickled. About twenty people were milling around picking at the food in the large function room downstairs. Alex thought a number of the guests looked very jaded from the night before.
Sergey bounced up to him. ‘Have some of my pickled mushrooms!’ he said, and thrust one into his hand. ‘I pick them myself on my estate outside Moscow! And here, have a shot of my raspberry liquor—my secret recipe!’ He laid a finger alongside his nose, his blue eyes twinkling under his shaggy fringe.
Then he was off again glad-handing his guests and business partners. After making sure they were all catered for and drinking heavily, he winked at Alex and they made their way up the stairs to his office.
‘So, you want to know who is on our faction?’ Sergey grinned as he swung open the door. ‘Well, you will meet them,’ he said as he swept into the room.
Two men were sitting on the far side of the large boardroom table. Alex was not surprised that he had seen them the night before; he was beginning to understand the way Sergey worked. More food and a tray of vodka glasses were laid out on the table.
‘This is Grigory Bezukhov, head of my TV stations in Moscow.’
Alex leaned over the table to shake hands with him. ‘Alexander Devereux,’ he said formally.
Grigory gave a friendly smile. ‘Hello.’
He was in his forties, medium height, slightly tubby, with a few days’ stubble and long curly black hair under a trendy Kangol flat cap worn backwards. He was dressed in a crumpled black Armani suit. A green Russian army surplus satchel sat on the table next to him with a laptop and his BlackBerry sticking out of it. His broad face had a trusting, open look.
Sergey turned to the next man. ‘And this is Lieutenant-General of the Airforce, Fyodor Mostovskoy.’
Mostovskoy was also in his late forties but otherwise he and Bezukhov were chalk and cheese. He was thin, pale, like some deep-sea fish that lived away from the light. All colour had been leached out of him, his hair was fine and translucent and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. He was quite tall and stooped, with a thin nose that was crooked to one side. As a military man he had a more formal, reserved manner, and bowed his head slightly as he shook hands. Alex noticed that his hands were fine-boned but the grip was strong. His eyes had a watchful look that spoke of a greater intelligence than he would ever express openly.
‘Fyodor is our key man,’ said Sergey, coming around the table behind him and slapping him on the back. ‘He is in charge of Moscow Military District air defences and has organised a lot of support for us in the airforce as well. The only problem is, he doesn’t drink!’ He opened his arms wide in astonishment. ‘I sometimes wonder—is he Russian or a foreign spy?’
Fyodor’s lips twisted a little in what passed for a smile.
‘We are also waiting for one other person, who is helpfully late,’ Sergey said sardonically and looked at his watch. ‘This is as many of the team as I could safely get together in London at one time without arousing suspicion. There are a lot more backers in Moscow on the media side and others who will contribute financially, plus politicians who will declare for us when the time comes. A lot of people don’t like Krymov’s aggressive line against the West. We’re all proud of the Motherland but we don’t want to blow up the whole world in order to prove it!’
He picked up a small glass of vodka and proposed a toast.
‘So, my friends! To the new Dekabristi!’
Alex dutifully slammed his drink back and winced at the kick. He would have to get used to starting meetings like this. He didn’t, however, know the word in Russian and queried it with Sergey; Sergey hastened to fill in the blank. ‘In English you would say “The Decembrists”, you know, like Shaporin’s opera?’
Alex was a confident enough character not to mind admitting that he didn’t, and shook his head.
‘They were a bunch of idealists back in 1825. They rebelled to try to liberate Russia from tsarist dictatorship. Funnily enough they ended up in the same labour camp as Raskolnikov is now in.’
Grigory and Fyodor both looked down at the table when he said this, and Sergey suddenly realised that this last point wasn’t actually very funny at all.
‘Well, you know,’ he shrugged, ‘let’s be honest about the risks. Life is a fatal condition—no one has survived it yet. Anyway, this time we are trying to get someone out of Krasnokamensk and take them—’
The double doors burst open and everyone jumped.
‘Sergey Stepanovich!’
The stunning woman from the party last night came sweeping in.
Alex sat bolt upright—what the hell was going on? Sergey’s security could not be very tight if just anyone could burst in on them.
‘I know! I’m late! I’m sorry.’
Sergey seemed very pleased to see her, though, and opened his arms to embrace her; she kissed him demurely on both cheeks instead.
‘Ah! Now we are complete!’ Sergey turned to Alex, puffed out his chest with pride and