making no effort to pick up the handset. After a short time it stopped ringing, and soon after a shorter beeping tone announced that a message awaited him. He sighed and looked over his shoulder. Two women lay on the bed, naked and nubile, their long lissom limbs entwined. They were too young for him, he thought, smoothing back his dark hair. Lev Salko had seen better days. He was gnarled and hard-bitten by several grim years spent in terrible Soviet prisons. The tattoos that covered much of his naked body were testament to the travails of a hard and unforgiving past. They told a story of crimes and punishments and pronounced his status in the Vory, the criminal brotherhood forged in the gulags. The history and standing of a vory can be read from the pictures on his body, and Salko’s past was... colourful.
“Lev baby, come back to bed,” one of the girls whimpered, her arms outstretched.
He glanced back at her. She was probably not yet twenty years old and already an accomplished little whore. That’s how it was with these bitches. They were brought to the trade as naive girls, some voluntarily and others by force, and they all quickly became hardened harlots, ever-ready to fuck like rabbits for their pimps.
“Get up, get dressed and get out,” Salko said. He reached for the cell phone and glanced at its small display screen. Few people knew the number, for he bought a new one almost as frequently as he bought his expensive silk socks, and that was often. Raising his eyebrows slightly at what he saw on the screen, he punched in a single number and listened to the message. Glancing over his shoulder again, he said: “Just fuck off, the pair of you.”
“Lev, please, you promised...” the girl wheedled. “All day, you said. That was the deal. The boss will beat the shit out of us if we go back with less money. You know that.”
“I’ll pay you both for the full day,” Salko spat, listening to the terse Russian voice on the voice mail. “Now shut the fuck up and go.” Salko frowned and punched numbers into the phone’s small keyboard. Someone answered his call immediately. “This is Lev. What do you want?” he said quietly.
III
“Where is she?” Salko demanded as he sat astride the man’s chest and smashed the butt of his pistol into the already battered Slavic face.
Blood ran from the man’s lips and stained his teeth as he grimaced. “Who are you speaking about?” he asked in heavy tones. He was panting, hurt and scared, but his eyes flashed defiantly. “Who is she, this woman you seek?”
Seedy back-street sex clubs and clip joints are the same the world over in many respects. Poorly-lit, dingy, and sordid… This one in old Moscow wasn’t any different. However, the three men who had stormed the scarcely-disguised basement brothel were not typical of either the hoodlums or the customers that frequent such places. Neither did they look much like policeman, not even those shadowy and sinister police cadres who respect nobody. These three were much too professional for that, acting with military precision and with controlled and calculated brutality. Now, in a small backroom littered with women’s clothing and amidst tables laden with used paper cups and discarded cigarette cartons, the club‘s pug-faced thugs cowered wide-eyed under the threat of two confidently-held AK47 assault rifles as they watched their leader’s face being methodically beaten to a bloody pulp.
“Her name is Anna,” Salko spat, grasping his victim’s unshaven chin roughly between finger and thumb and wrenching so that he stared into the watery grey eyes.
The door opened. One of the rifle-bearing men shot a wary glance towards it as a young woman stood framed in the doorway, naked except for the briefest of G-strings and high spiked heels. She gasped and hastily withdrew, shutting the door again.
After a few seconds the man on the floor said hoarsely, “Thousands of whores call themselves
“Lev baby, come back to bed,” one of the girls whimpered, her arms outstretched.
He glanced back at her. She was probably not yet twenty years old and already an accomplished little whore. That’s how it was with these bitches. They were brought to the trade as naive girls, some voluntarily and others by force, and they all quickly became hardened harlots, ever-ready to fuck like rabbits for their pimps.
“Get up, get dressed and get out,” Salko said. He reached for the cell phone and glanced at its small display screen. Few people knew the number, for he bought a new one almost as frequently as he bought his expensive silk socks, and that was often. Raising his eyebrows slightly at what he saw on the screen, he punched in a single number and listened to the message. Glancing over his shoulder again, he said: “Just fuck off, the pair of you.”
“Lev, please, you promised...” the girl wheedled. “All day, you said. That was the deal. The boss will beat the shit out of us if we go back with less money. You know that.”
“I’ll pay you both for the full day,” Salko spat, listening to the terse Russian voice on the voice mail. “Now shut the fuck up and go.” Salko frowned and punched numbers into the phone’s small keyboard. Someone answered his call immediately. “This is Lev. What do you want?” he said quietly.
III
“Where is she?” Salko demanded as he sat astride the man’s chest and smashed the butt of his pistol into the already battered Slavic face.
Blood ran from the man’s lips and stained his teeth as he grimaced. “Who are you speaking about?” he asked in heavy tones. He was panting, hurt and scared, but his eyes flashed defiantly. “Who is she, this woman you seek?”
Seedy back-street sex clubs and clip joints are the same the world over in many respects. Poorly-lit, dingy, and sordid… This one in old Moscow wasn’t any different. However, the three men who had stormed the scarcely-disguised basement brothel were not typical of either the hoodlums or the customers that frequent such places. Neither did they look much like policeman, not even those shadowy and sinister police cadres who respect nobody. These three were much too professional for that, acting with military precision and with controlled and calculated brutality. Now, in a small backroom littered with women’s clothing and amidst tables laden with used paper cups and discarded cigarette cartons, the club‘s pug-faced thugs cowered wide-eyed under the threat of two confidently-held AK47 assault rifles as they watched their leader’s face being methodically beaten to a bloody pulp.
“Her name is Anna,” Salko spat, grasping his victim’s unshaven chin roughly between finger and thumb and wrenching so that he stared into the watery grey eyes.
The door opened. One of the rifle-bearing men shot a wary glance towards it as a young woman stood framed in the doorway, naked except for the briefest of G-strings and high spiked heels. She gasped and hastily withdrew, shutting the door again.
After a few seconds the man on the floor said hoarsely, “Thousands of whores call themselves
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