‘A skazka’, Yuri’s eyes glistened. ‘A fairy tale of Moscow!’
Alexei inserted the disc and hit play. For the next two hours the room was filled with skinheads. Their leader, Sasha, known as Blade, was a role model for his young companions. ‘We want to be partisans like Sabine and Luc in France’, Yuri admitted.
‘A regular Bonnie and Clyde’, said Tom, adding, ‘Or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.’ They had never heard of either outlaw duo. It made him feel old. He was wondering if he could ever connect with these people. Sure, they were laughing, but was it with him or at him? He could not tell.
Later, they drank more vodka and talked politics. Yuri was very active in the pagan underground. ‘Vulcari!’ Ekaterina explained. Tom shook his head.
‘What?’
‘Wolf men!’
‘Like Patrol 35 or the Sychev Faction!’ Alexei exclaimed. He pulled out a book entitled The Slavic Gods by Pavel Tulaev, and passed it to Tom, who flipped through the pages, noting the depictions of legendary Rus heroes like Svarovich, Lada, Svarog, and Bereginya surrounded by runic inscriptions. Alexei was a big fan of Repin and explained in great detail the significance of folklore in works like Sadko in the Underwater Kingdom. ‘We are all iazycheskii natsionalizm, like animals and tribal’, he said. ‘It is a great shame that the Orthodox followers of Vladimir toppled the statues of Perun into the Dnieper and raised the holy cross over Kiev.’ Ekaterina, listless but engaged, talked about Masha ‘the scream’, archaeology, and Emelyanov’s paganism.
‘Gladiator!’ Yuri screamed, ‘I have a copy on disc.’ staggering to his bookcase, he waved another DVD in the air. ‘This is great. Did you see the part where the legionnaire’s missile cuts Herman’s head right off?’
After viewing Gladiator, they took him to a shabby tenement on Lesnoy Prospekt to introduce him to Alyosha, the head of the local Vulcari. The White Rex patrol leader stood straight-backed in a Rammstein t-shirt, hand on hip, explaining in clear English that his gym trained street fighters to take on the foreigners who were gaining ascendancy on the streets.
‘Our people are ideologically sound’, Alyosha said matter of factly. ‘Good brains control strong muscle!’
‘And your coaches?’ Tom asked as they entered the fitness room to the sound of Molodyozh Tule.
‘Most are ex-army.’ then, pointing towards a square-shouldered guy in a green vest, ‘Dimitra is currently serving!’
‘Reliable, then?’
‘Very. But we also have international specialists to help us.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, we have a very good guy called Piter Janssen.’
‘I’ve met him. How good is he?’
‘They say he is the best!’
Tom acknowledged a mixed group of trainees, gathering about them. ‘New recruits?’
‘Just last week’, Alyosha confirmed.
‘They look fit’, the Professor mused out loud as his eyes fixed on a girl in khaki shorts and a crop top, pounding a punchbag.
‘Saniya is a Masters student at the Finance and Economics University.’
‘I wouldn’t want to fight her’, Tom breathed.
‘Don’t!’ Alexei warned from behind. ‘She floored me yesterday with one kick!’
Alyosha sat down with his guests under a double-headed eagle flag.
‘The situation here is becoming critical’, he admitted. ‘Survival skills will be vital in the future. The Tajiks, Turkmen, and Uzbeks are everywhere. Muslim gangs run the drugs and the girls. They don’t hesitate to kill and neither should we!’
‘And the military?’
‘Mixed experience’, Alyosha said sardonically. ‘Some, of course, are sympathetic, others, like the cops, can be bought.’
‘But at least political correctness is weak here. You are freer than us to push back.’
‘Yes’, Alyosha laughed. ‘I have seen how your rulers impose laws that mean you cannot fight. It is crazy!’
‘Such pain is self-imposed.’ The Russian shook his head.
‘We will have none of that shit here!’
‘So I see.’
‘Our patrol is very united’, Alyosha insisted. ‘Alexei and Yuri will tell you. Close physical contact creates deep bonds and weapons training builds confidence.’ At that point he slipped an OTS-38 revolver out of his combat trousers and released the safety. ‘We will fight to the finish.’
When Tom returned to the Astoria, a receptionist thrust a bundle of messages into his hands. His telephone was jammed with incoming calls, a little red light winking in the darkness. He bent down to pick up a calling card that had been slipped under his door. It read Tom Hunter RIP.
Sitting on the corner of his bed, he flicked through the concierge’s hand-written notes. One was a coded message from the League of St George in London requesting his immediate return. He knew it must be important so picked up his mobile phone and keyed a response. His head was full of the girl. Her ever-changing expression, the way she paid attention as he spoke.
He kicked off his shoes, pondering the text reply he subsequently received from the UK, lying silent for many hours. Outside, a damask shroud hung over St Isaacs. Glass in hand, he was weighing up his options. Staying and speaking was certainly risky. But it also gave him the chance to make his name. He would also be furthering the Russian cause and show support for the intellects of Evraziiskoe obozrenie. He pondered the odds of him making a difference and why after all these years of emotionless sex this young woman should appear on the scene, just when he needed a clear head? He poured himself another scotch, swirled the ice, and took a deep, satisfying gulp. The hours passed.
A pale sun rose over the eastern shoulder of the Dome, the Cathedral’s heavy head propped on granite forearms. Tom caught hold of the curtains. His mind drifting, he had been dreaming about Yesenin slashing his wrists, composing those last verses in his own blood. The Professor rolled off the bed, wandering into the bathroom. Looking at his face in the mirror, it struck him as particularly vulnerable and forlorn. He was in in need of a strong shot of coffee. Splashing cold water on opaque eyes, he looked over his shoulder, feeling self-disgust at the sight of discarded clothes and soiled tissues strewn on the carpet.
Ekaterina woke and almost immediately asked herself why she was so interested in this man? He was not especially good looking, nor rich. Turning over on the pillow she pondered, I am a modern woman, I can do whatever I desire. So what if he was old enough to be her father? What if he was a foreigner? His politics attracted her. His intellect drew her like a moth to the flame.
Leaping out of bed and taking a shower, she looked at her narrow waist and long legs. She touched her breasts and the dark triangle between her legs. His face was in her mind, his aftershave in her nostrils. Afterwards she towelled herself dry, fixed her hair, and pulled on her panties. Standing bare-breasted in front of the mirror, she applied a little make up, not so much that it looked like she was trying, but just enough to add some haphazard elegance. The world around her began to wake. First, the familiar door slammed, then the radio stations broke that morning’s news:
• Teip head-hunting clans tighten their grip on the former Soviet-Orient, characterised by patronage and nepotism on a colossal scale;
• The rate of extraction of hydrocarbons in Central Asia escalates to feed unprecedented growth in the Chinese economy;
• Immigrant shanty towns spring up around Suzdal’s Golden Ring, Kostroma, and Myshkin. The M8 motorway is log-jammed by carts and wagons rolling westwards;