‘You like?’ she asked, pointing to the brown bottle he raised to his lips.
‘Yeah’, he assured her. ‘It is early for me to start drinking, but I need it.’
‘Problems?’
‘Sort of.’ Then he added, ‘Sometimes people will do anything to stop the truth.’
‘For some people, the truth hurts!’
Tom shrugged. ‘Look, Grigori’s going to raise an army to confront the Bloc.’
‘I have heard the rumours.’
‘Can he do it?’
Ekaterina thought carefully. ‘Yes, there are many sympathisers.’
‘But it will lead to a pitched battle.’
‘It is the natural consequence of what you are doing.’
‘What I’m doing?’
‘Thinkers like you talk. Others fight!’
• The EU, UN, and USA declare the exiled Alexander Dugin a public enemy and move to seize any assets he holds in countries where they have legal jurisdiction;
• Plans to develop industrial-scale food production in the liberated zones of Ukraine are announced;
• The Qahal, the Assembly of God, meet in the reconstituted all-Jewish town of Budaniv on the banks of the Seret River in Ukraine;
• All traces of Ruthenian culture are deemed anti-Semitic and draconian sentences are imposed to end politically incorrect activities in the Carpathians.
Stepping out as a dark cowl of cloud slipped over the Cathedral’s cupola, Tom was in an exuberant mood. He was telling Ekaterina about London, his life and work. They turned a blind corner, hurrying back to the Astoria, when by pure chance he caught sight of Arkady’s face in a crowded black limousine on the blue bridge. Revving its engine impatiently, the occupants were locked in earnest debate, deciding who to intimidate next. Tom lowered his voice, raised his collar, and slipped his arm around Ekaterina’s waist, walking on stiffly, turning his head away, trying to blend in with other pedestrians.
Despite his best efforts, Arkady spotted them, lowering the window to shout.
‘English’, he called. ‘English!’
‘Keep walking’, Tom advised.
‘What is it?’ she asked, hearing his name being called, surprised by the force he used to guide her away. Arkady kept calling as Tom led her across the square, twisting his neck just in time to catch sight of shaven-headed Bogdan opening the passenger door, while Arkady sped off, intending to cut them off before they could reach the Astoria.
‘Keep going’, Tom insisted.
‘Where?’
‘Away from the hotel.’
‘What is wrong?’
‘Those people don’t like to hear the truth!’
‘Our truth, you mean?’
Tom smiled confirmation.
They rushed towards Nevsky, bouncing along wood planking that had been built for commuters to bypass the construction work. Behind, moving stiffly, but with quiet determination, Bogdan followed, reaching into his pocket, ready to call Arkady on his mobile. Traffic was congested. Arkady was struggling to turn the car onto Bolshaya Morskaya when his mobile rang.
‘Da’, he said, then listening intently. ‘Ublyudok!’ he spat, big knuckles drumming on the steering wheel. In the back, two other Bloc men sat in silence. ‘Get out and follow’, he commanded. ‘Don’t lose them.’ The rear doors swung open, dispatching fresh attack dogs into the metropolitan centre of the former Leningrad.
Tom and Ekaterina reached Nevsky junction, turning right toward Kazan, rain lacerating them like iced grapeshot. They pushed on over the first canal bridge, looking back to see if they were still being followed. Their predators were clearly visible, wolf-like eyes intent on their prey. Bogdan was 30 metres distant, talking breathlessly into his mobile, giving directives to the foot soldiers. His stride widened as he strove to close on them. His accomplices had successfully circumnavigated the Admiralty and were now on the opposite side of Nevsky.
Poised on the curb, waiting for gaps in the hurtling headlights, Tom and Ekaterina began running, bolting between oncoming cars, slipping between the shadows cast by the Cathedral’s colonnades. Consumed by narrow passages, Tom felt that familiar uneasiness which always overcame him in enclosed spaces. He was straining to keep up, thigh muscles choking on lactic acid. Torrential rain fell as Tom stopped, slumped against a wall, bracing himself, the nausea overwhelming. Ekaterina waited.
‘You shouldn’t have drunk so much!’
He rolled his eyes and vomited. ‘I’m too old for this’, he confessed to himself. Some 20 metres on, an archway gave to the left. The entrance was partially cordoned off by concrete slabs. Ekaterina handled these hurdles with relative ease, whilst he stumbled through them, heavy-legged, just making out the girl’s pale features refracting in the air blowing west from the streetlights on Nevsky.
‘If we go this way’, she was saying, ‘we go back to the street and come behind them. They will never know.’ Tom nodded numbly. Ekaterina began clambering over some railings. Tom, gasping, copied her, heart thumping, spitting bile.
For a moment they stood side by side, cars chasing light snakes over the tarmac. Crossing to the eastern side of the Gribeodova to catch a lift, Arkady’s black car skidded to a halt in front of them. He was hitting the horn, yelling for them to get inside, but they had already taken off down the canal bank, past the Sakura, slapping steps weaving around a growling motorbike. Bogdan and the others emerged from the crowd of onlookers and gave chase in a flurry of hats and coats.
Ekaterina grabbed Tom’s damp sleeve, pulling him towards the entrance of the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood. Disappearing into the congregation, they joined pilgrims squeezing through the narrow doorway, shuffling into a vestibule where carved figures flew about the walls. The smell of sodden wool permeated the air. Within the candlelit sepulchre, a circle of crow-robed priests stood in silent contemplation, their beards black, cloth veils falling from their headgear. The low mutter of prayer began resonating in the gloom. Tom stared upwards, clouds of blue incense obscuring the mosaic of the Christ Pantocrator, wondering if this was a sanctuary or a gilded trap. He noted that Ekaterina’s face was flushed with exertion as they approached Alexander II’s shrine, self-conscious footfalls resounding on Italian marble. She slid her hand into his.
‘Who were those people?’
‘Bloc partisans.’
‘More like gruppirovka.’ Tom looked blank. ‘Gangs!’
• Behind the scenes, nationalist sympathisers in the Russian High Command were taking control of the new military command structure, at strategic, operational, and brigade level;
• Vitaly Milonov, a former St Petersburg Councillor and lawmaker for Vladimir Putin, makes a return to the public sphere, advocating for the celebration of St John of Kronstadt, a man connected with the Black Hundred;
• Thousands flock to Tolyatti where Mary’s icon is raised, symbolically offering protection against hostile forces;
• ‘Resistance’, Vitaly Averyanov, President of the Institute of Dynamic Conservatives, repeated again and again, ‘is a sign of life.’
Grigori paced back and forth, eagerly awaiting the call from Federal Security headquarters in Lubyanka Square, Moscow. ‘Hydra goes green’, was the message. ‘We are sanctioning the assassination of President Babel’, a dry voice confirmed after giving the appropriate Syny Otechestva, Sons of the Fatherland, authentication code. ‘Spetsnaz units will be deployed to assist the operation.’
‘Date, time, and location?’
‘Babel will be attending a dinner party organised by his fellow tribesman Mikhail Mirilashvili at a private house on Bolshoy Prospekt tomorrow. He will take the Blagoveshchenskiy Most crossing, following the university embankment route and liniya.’