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<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n26.<\/strong> London, 2010s<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n [\u2026]<\/p>\n\n\n\n Whenever I change SIM cards, I always stubbornly keep my old Moscow number on one of the messaging apps: if anyone needs to get hold of me, here I am, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. So when Titov and his people wanted to find me, they did. They put me on their list, one of the sixteen. I heard they took it to Putin himself for approval. It didn\u2019t seem like a set-up, a carrot to lure me out. But I had my doubts. I pondered it. I never fully believed them, and there was absolutely no one to ask for advice. Nobody I knew was still inside the system, in the mainstream. I kept trying to get in touch with Roman, but, of course, to no avail; I\u2019m used goods to him. The only person I could talk to was myself. And when you want to convince yourself of something, sooner or later you will. And so I\u2019d almost agreed, I wrote what I thought was a carefully crafted text stating that I was ready to consider the proposal. Then I put it aside. Who would give me guarantees, who\u2019d take responsibility? I reworked the draft once more, trying to anticipate everything, to cover all the bases from a legal perspective.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A legal perspective is all well and good, though, but apart from a legal education, I also have an intuition the size of a seasoned alco\u2019s liver. So there I sat, hovering the cursor over the \u2018send\u2019 button, for quite a while, and eventually moved the email to the drafts folder. Why not wait a little longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A week later, after refreshing the news page, I saw that my guts hadn\u2019t let me down. One of the other invitees had let them talk himself into flying to Moscow. Right at the airport, he was presented with charges, detained, and a day later the court, with obvious relish, pronounced him guilty. Business as usual. Titov\u2019s cowardly comment was: \u2018No one automatically guaranteed an acquittal to the participants, this matter falls within the court\u2019s jurisdiction.\u2019 Everything was crystal clear now, thank you very much. My hopes of returning to Russia were over. It was time to cut the umbilical cord.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A ball rolled passed me and into the woods. Soon some poor bastard will come running to look for it, but it\u2019s gone. A brand-new premium ball, too. Well then, I could use a couple of pounds. Besides the pleasure of watching the game, I suddenly also had a practical use for it. That certainly beat collecting bottles! I\u2019ll wash, dry, and sort the balls I find at the edge of the pitch, then sell it to their former owners for half the price. They\u2019ll be buying the same ball twice, the losers!<\/p>\n\n\n\n This thought unexpectedly cheered me up; I even winked at a passerby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A notification popped up in my messenger. I grabbed my cheap supermarket glasses, haven\u2019t been able to read without them for ages. An unknown number, country code +38. Where on earth was that? Latvia, maybe, but no, Latvia, I seemed to remember, was +37. Definitely spam. But right now even an advert would be better than nobody writing at all. I opened the messenger. My phone may be old, but it got face ID, though it does play up when you haven\u2019t shaved for a while, and with these glasses on top. It didn\u2019t recognise me, wouldn\u2019t let me in, the sod. I typed in the password, read and reread the message: \u2018Hi! It\u2019s Vitya Popov. Not sure this is still your number but if yes, give me a call when you get a chance. Hugs.\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n I shoved the phone deeper into my pocket, fastened the button, even. A prickly sphere was growing inside me, making it hard to breathe. I wiped my face with my crumpled baseball cap and headed home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 27. London, 2010s<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I badly want to call Vitya. I don\u2019t know how many times I\u2019ve reread his message. Sure, I had sometimes, not very often, wondered where he was, how he was. I\u2019d left him alone in Riga, I\u2019d just run off. And there he is, sending me hugs. Yep, I\u2019d betrayed my only friend \u2013 cause that\u2019s what he is, my only real friend, as it turns out \u2013 like the worst kind of bastard. What can I say to him? Vitya, I\u2019m a total write-off, forgive me, bro. But to do that, you need courage, and I\u2019ve lost mine somewhere on the way, turned into a fucking pussy. A loud clap will send me running.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Hey, Vitya, is that you? You wrote so I thought I\u2019d call.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Great, mate! Wow, so you\u2019ve actually turned up. I knew you would! Yak tvo\u0457 spravi?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018How are you? I\u2019ve been in Ukraine for ages now, moved here as soon as I got out. I\u2019ve got tons of stuff to tell you! But, come on, how are you? Must be an oligarch by now!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Almost\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I\u2019m so fricking glad! Shall we videochat?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018No, Vitya, sorry, video doesn\u2019t work well for me right now. So tell me your story, how did you end up with the dill-eaters?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Listen, so much has happened! In a nutshell, I met this guy in the Riga detention centre. He\u2019d ended up there for some hot snails.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Hang on, is that Ukrainian again? Or prison speak? Like, is snails drugs, or weapons, or what?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Snails are snails. Escargot, people in Europe eat nine hundred thousand tonnes of them a year. And they aren\u2019t exactly cheap, either. So this guy was absolutely obsessed with these snails. Cause the climate in Ukraine turns out to be perfect for them, plus the cheap labour. The only problem\u2019s the bloody customs clearance in the EU. So he was smuggling them into Latvia, declared as a mollusc exhibition. And then reselling them as EU-grown. They nabbed him at exhibition twenty-five.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Fu-uck\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But then the EU and Ukraine signed something, so now it\u2019s legal to farm them and ship them directly to Europe. That\u2019s when I got out, and he offered me to join his farm. Now we\u2019re running this whole kolkhoz together, thirty tonnes a year, and that\u2019s just the start.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018That\u2019s great, Vitya! It really is, I\u2019m happy that things have worked out for you. For one of us at least\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Hang on, hang on, I don\u2019t get it (half-switching into sympathetic-sounding Ukrainian again), why this pitiful tone?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Vitya, forgive me, brother, I let you down back then, ran off like a piece of shit, like a fucking rat. Someone up there sees everything, you know. I\u2019m so fucked-up, Vitya, totally fucked-up. Penniless, no home, no money, no family\u2026 A lonely hobo, that\u2019s what \u2013 \u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Right, stop, shut up right now. First off, you didn\u2019t let anyone down; if you\u2019d stayed, they\u2019d have locked us both up, and you get more time for a gang. And anyway, if it wasn\u2019t for Talivaldis, everything would have been fine. It was him, the bastard, who got us all fucked. I hold no grudge against you, none whatsoever. Got it? I\u2019ve got no reason to. If it weren\u2019t for you, the worms would have gobbled me up ages ago in some Moscow suburb. So, if you don\u2019t mind getting your hands slimy, get a move on and come over \u2013 we\u2019ve got enough snails to last a lifetime.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Thank you, Vitya.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I hung up. I couldn’t speak any longer. The prickly sphere had been pressing at my insides, and finally, the wall ruptured, the contents spilling out in a burst of suffering and relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 28. London, 2010s\u20132020s <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019ve got an interview in one of the skyscrapers at Canary Wharf today. I get there via the Jubilee Line, changing at Victoria. This stretch of the grey \u2013 no, silver! \u2013 line is new to the London underground. The stations are bright, spacious, Moscow style, with plenty of room to spare. The trains are comfy, too, with high ceilings and fresh blue panelling. The escalator carries me up into a sparkling concourse. Sunlight floods the polished space through the vast glass dome. Worth going back down just to come up again! A shame I\u2019ve arrived at the last minute\u2026 <\/p>\n\n\n\n The district that has sprung up above the Dog Island docks was conceived as a new City. Perhaps it will renew my life, too. Ah, there we are. I slip past the security guard, hoping that fashion has come full circle and my jacket, tailored to the latest trends five years ago, looks more or less the part. No worries, guys, soon I\u2019ll be walking past you with my chin held high, nodding like I own the place: \u2018How\u2019s it going, John? Why don\u2019t you wear a shorter skirt, Jean!\u2019 You\u2019ll be spotting me in the crowd of visitors, greeting me warmly, asking how I\u2019m getting on. For now, it\u2019s good enough that my ID made it on the applicants\u2019 list. I\u2019ve been asked to wait. All the better, I\u2019ve got time to freshen up in the men\u2019s room \u2013 brush the dust off my lapels, comb my hair, polish my boots. It\u2019s a hell of a loo, too! Theatre begins with the coat rack, they say; well, an office begins with the urinals. I\u2019ll be making at least a hundred grand a year, that\u2019s for sure. And I\u2019ll bring in Vitya, too. He\u2019s got no business wallowing in snail muck. My appetite for life had returned after his call.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And soon after, something else had happened for which I\u2019d been waiting all these years. My son got in touch. He told me he\u2019s got a state-funded spot at Moscow State (a Bachelor\u2019s, he wrote), and wants to do his diploma (his Master\u2019s, as he put it!) in the UK. I rang him straight away, of course. Vanya said he\u2019d been scared to contact me before because Mum had been really<\/em> pissed. At first, after returning from that holiday in Turkey, she would literally shake at the mere mention of my name. When he tried to find out what had actually happened, she\u2019d give the standard \u2018you\u2019ll get it when you grow up\u2019 line and withdraw into herself for days. But little by little she thawed up. One evening, she asked him to look for something on her ancient laptop, and, rather surprisingly, it came to life. Amongst all the clutter on the hard drive, there was a bunch of our family photos. As Vanya began flicking through them, she first pretended she wasn\u2019t interested but couldn\u2019t help glancing over, giving a surreptitious smile every now and then. Vanya saw that it was safe to talk about the past \u2013 and they recalled how happy we\u2019d been during my visits from Riga. And thus, the unspoken rule forbidding the mention of my name was cancelled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n In my excitement I invited him over straight away, suggesting he\u2019d stay with me for some university open days. It was only after I\u2019d hung up that it began to dawn on me. Stay in my grubby Croydon bedsit? No way! The lad should be proud of his father, happy to look him in the eye. And then, perhaps, Ira might join as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So all at once I needed work \u2013 proper, well-paid work, not some Uber job. And sure, on the one hand, I\u2019m an emigrant with a useless Russian degree and barely adequate English. But on the other, I know how to make money where no Exec MBA would spot a penny. They don\u2019t teach you that sort of thing. I\u2019m needed where people are valued not for their certs and quals and LinkedIn profiles but for their ability to think for oneself and to sink others on the fly. And that\u2019s where I excel! But to show that, I\u2019ll need an employer capable of embracing my ideas. Ideas that the locals won\u2019t comprehend (and if, God forbid, they do, they\u2019ll call the cops straight away). <\/p>\n\n\n\n So, I googled companies with Russian roots. There turned out to be over a hundred of them in London \u2013 from Milhouse to Revolut, from nouveau-riche attire to hoodies. This filled me with optimism, but when I dug a bit deeper, I realised that fintech firms are run by the children of oil-and-gas fathers. If Big Daddy doesn\u2019t take me on, his son or mistress won\u2019t, either. So I decided to stick to the main players, the grown-ups. Besides, it was getting a bit hard for me to keep up with all these crypto-startups, to be honest. I\u2019m an old-timer after all, though still in good shape. I put together a smart CV, stuck on a ten-year-old pic. I haven\u2019t changed that much, though these days, my neighbour cuts my hair, not a trendy hairdresser.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So here I am, giving my shoes a final polish with a piece of toilet paper. Shining like a tomcat\u2019s bollocks, they are! And now, out onto the stage. Just in time, too \u2013 I\u2019m immediately invited upstairs and enter the lift, accompanied by a knuckle-dragging hulk. Where on earth do they find people like that? Part of the infrastructure or something. As we step out, the cyborg finally hands me over to a human. A man in a good shape and a pricy Italian jacket, probably about ten years older than me, though he looks ten years younger. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Good day, please do come in! My name is Ivan Kuzmich.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n He smiles warmly and holds out his hand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Yes, sir!\u2019 I blurt out for some reason and barely keep myself from saluting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Well now, welcome in my office. What would you like \u2013 tea, coffee? Let\u2019s have some tea, shall we? That\u2019s the Russian way! I\u2019ll ask Susanna Yuryevna to make us some of her special blend. She takes this bland local stuff and mixes it with proper willowherb, Ivan chai, you know? No idea where she gets it from\u2026 Do sit down, make yourself at home!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n While I settle into a deep leather armchair, he takes a thick folder bearing the company logo out of the safe, sits down at his desk, and starts leafing through it. Oho! That\u2019s not just any old ring binder; the reports and extracts are stitched through with heavy-duty thread, just the way the Soviet authorities did it. Judging by the thickness, a whole team of filers has been working on my file. I try not to crane my neck toward the papers, surveying the office instead. Expensive furniture, a stunning view from the window\u2026 On one wall, a photo of a drilling rig amidst Siberian snows. On the other, a racing catamaran is rearing up on an ocean wave. The crew are pulling ropes in unison, furiously cranking handles. May good Siberian gas fill your sails, lads! <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Ah, I see you\u2019re interested in yachting,\u2019 he says, suddenly looking up from his reading. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018No, not really, never got into it somehow. What I love is golf. Haven\u2019t been playing much lately, though.\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Golf, now that\u2019s fine! What\u2019s your handicap?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Used to be fifteen. You play, too?\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Hardly at all these days. But back when I was spending a lot of time in South-East Asia, we used to have quite the tournaments, yes. As for our boss, he\u2019s keen on sailing. There he is, at the helm, see? The Louis Vuitton Cup. Bermuda. Our pride and joy. If you\u2019re good at your work, you\u2019re good at everything, you know.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n The secretary brings in tea on a silver tray. By its side, there\u2019s milk, lemon, and a plate heaped with sweets beloved by Soviet children, fairytale maidens, little bears and squirrels on the wrappers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018There you are, enjoy!\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n Susanna Patronymicyevna gives her boss a tender look and pours the tea \u2013 first for him, then for me, nudges the plate of sweets towards us and backs out. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Well then. I won\u2019t torment you with questions, my people have collected all the necessary info for me here,\u2019 he said, lifting the folder with the logo. \u2018Your experience is impressive.\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Thank you. I\u2019m a lawyer by training. I\u2019ve worked in financial management, banking, the sports business \u2013 \u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Yes, yes, all very impressive indeed. There are some dark chapters, too, to be sure. Criminal ones. But that might even be a plus.\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n Ivan Kuzmich looks up and studies me intently, without a smile. I feel a shiver down my spine, as if I\u2019d suddenly found myself in the Siberian snows. My shirt grows treacherously damp on my back and under my arms. That\u2019s why I\u2019d greeted him so strangely. That was experience, intuition. He\u2019s one of them, and they never really leave their profession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I\u2019m not sure if I understand\u2019, I mumble, \u2018that is, if you understand, I mean, if we understand each other\u2026 But, you know, I\u2019m afraid I can\u2019t be of any use to you. I\u2019m not allowed to leave the Island. I\u2019m on Interpol\u2019s files.\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018No worries, you won\u2019t need to go anywhere; there\u2019s plenty of work here, too. As you know, Great Britain often behaves dishonourably towards our Motherland. For example, by welcoming and rewarding traitors. In exchange for state secrets, it gives them a comfortable life here. It is our direct task to neutralise such people. To find them and finish them off. To rub them out in the outhouse,\u2019 he quotes. For a split second, his face hardens and his eyes flash. But perhaps I only imagine it… \u2018And, as you are no doubt aware, that\u2019s what we do with a great deal of success.\u2019 By this time, his fatherly smile is back. \u2018I have carefully reviewed the files of your personal case, which was handled by operative Mescheryakov. He was skilled at recruiting informants, quite a decent officer overall. Got quite a few awards, too. But at the end, he wasn\u2019t good enough; at some stage, he lost his nerve or simply made a mistake. I don\u2019t know if you heard \u2013 he fell out of a window about a month after your escape from Moscow. While he was being questioned, he asked to go to the toilet and fell out of a window. Things happen \u2026\u2019 Ivan Kuzmich sighs. \u2018But let\u2019s get back to the matter at hand. I see great potential in you. I\u2019m sure that with your background, your experience, and under our guidance, you\u2019ll be not only useful but, without a doubt, successful. But you haven\u2019t tried a sweet yet! Has the tea gone cold? Drink up, drink up, and have some sweets!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I obediently pop an alyonka into my mouth. Then a mishka. A belochka. Without feeling the taste. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Ivan Kuzmich glances at his watch. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Take some home, too! I insist! I\u2019ll give Susanna Yuryevna a word right now, she\u2019ll pack some for you. I can see you, too, like our good Russian sweets. You\u2019ll probably need a bit of time to digest them. But don\u2019t drag your feet. And don\u2019t go chasing after other Russian investors. It\u2019s a dead end.\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n I stepped out onto the street. The countdown had started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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