He was also a huge Spartak fan, with the club emblem tattooed across his chest, and the combination meant that he had taken it as his life’s work to protect Roman.
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.
Chapter Four
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?’ Sergeygrinned 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.
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.
Chapter Four
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?’ Sergeygrinned 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.
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