Chapter 4
Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug
Russia
Andrei Malenkov strode toward the warden’s office with low expectations.
He moved down the hall quickly, frozen grit crunching beneath his boots. The overhead lights flickered as if someone was being electrocuted. He wrote it off to a dodgy power supply. A place like this doesn’t need such appliances when it comes to killing men.
The prison’s administrative corridor was filthy and malodorous, an ominous precursor of what surely existed in the blockhouses.
Thankfully, Malenkov’s time here would be brief.
Penal Colony 18 was one of seven “special regime” labor colonies in Russia, the equivalent of an American supermax prison.
It housed the worst of the worst: murderers, serial rapists, the criminally insane, all of whom were serving life sentences.
Malenkov had made forays into many prisons, some of them in equally far-flung regions.
The special regime colonies, however, were the bottom of the barrel.
Recruiting manpower for his pursuits had become surprisingly arduous in recent years.
The Federal Penitentiary Service of Russia had been largely emptied of volunteers—the “special military operation” in Ukraine had seen to that.
The front lines had degraded quickly in the opening months of that conflict, becoming a meat grinder on a scale that hadn’t been seen since the Great Patriotic War.
And much as Stalin had done then, President Yermilov turned to Russia’s prisons as a bottomless well for cannon fodder.
It worked for a time, but bottomless it was not.
As the incarcerated herds thinned, the recruiters moved on, switching to lucrative signing bonuses to lure middle-aged men to Ukraine.
Malenkov could only weed through what little remained.
He arrived at the door of the warden’s office and entered without knocking.
The warden, whose name was Borzov, was seated behind his desk.
A horseshoe of close-shorn black hair looked more a nuisance than a style, and there was an aloof cruelness in his gaze.
In the weak light an ebony reflection from the top of his head reminded Malenkov of shoe polish.
Borzov’s desk was covered with files, no doubt to project an industrious image.
He had surely been forewarned of Malenkov’s arrival.
“It is good to see you, General,” the warden lied.
Malenkov said nothing. His former rank was rarely mentioned anymore, and its use told him two things.
Borzov had tried to research who was coming to visit his facility on short notice.
And the feedback he’d gotten was dated and inaccurate.
A year ago, Malenkov had indeed been a general, the head of the SSD—a secretive new GRU offshoot that orchestrated mayhem on foreign soil, up to and including assassinations.
Today, however, Malenkov was something else entirely.
“You have assembled the men,” the ex-general said, not inflecting the words as a question.
“They are being mustered as we speak,” the warden replied. “I did not expect you quite so early.”
“Did you receive the paperwork for the releases?”
“Yes, everything is in order. You need only to make your selections, and the prisoners will be placed in your custody. It has been some time since we’ve seen such authorizations,” he said leadingly. “I am curious what enticements you might offer…and what these men will be getting into.”
It was natural that the warden would be curious.
His instructions had been to give Malenkov full access to the inmate population, and then process those chosen for immediate clemency.
Although Borzov didn’t know it, Malenkov no longer had the standing to generate such orders through official GRU channels.
His past command of the SSD, however, had given him contacts throughout the sclerotic Russian bureaucracy.
Even better, no questions would be asked—the avoidance of attribution was at the core of everything Malenkov did.
In today’s Russia, pulling the right strings was easy.
The trick was to never be seen pulling them.
He said to Borzov, “I can tell you what I will tell them. I am seeking workers for a special project. Those who volunteer will receive a full pardon and two hundred thousand rubles. That, I am quite sure, is the best offer any of them will ever get.”
“No doubt,” the warden agreed. It was a tidy sum, the equivalent of thousands of U.S. dollars.
“How many men are available?”
“At present, we have seven hundred eighty-six men in the facility. We don’t allow too many to go outside at once, so I mustered A Block to begin.
That will give you roughly eighty of the healthiest to choose from—a nasty respiratory illness has been sweeping through some of the other wings.
If that proves insufficient, we can call up as many as you like. ”
“Very well. Shall we?” Malenkov was ready to get it over with.
“By all means.” Borzov rose and pulled his coat off the rack.
Five minutes later they stepped outside and were greeted by a frigid November morning.
Being on the cusp of yet another brutal Siberian winter, Malenkov mused, would be an added incentive.
The exercise yard was a portrait of misery, a half acre of beaten earth under a gunmetal-gray sky.
High bays of sodium floods cast the prisoners in a sickly yellow hue as they stood waiting, hands in pockets and stamping their feet against the cold.
Borzov introduced Malenkov, simply referring to him as “a visitor from Moscow.”
Malenkov took one step forward, then launched into his pitch.
“It is cold, so I will not keep you. I am here to issue an offer of redemption for three lucky men. Our glorious country requires volunteers to perform a vital service for the motherland. I will tell you that this work is dirty and dangerous, but it will take no more than three days. There is no combat involved. When the job is done, those participating will receive a full and immediate pardon, two hundred thousand rubles, and a transfer to your home of record. This offer exists only today and will not be repeated. If I do not get three heroes from your ranks, the next cell block will be assembled. If more than three of you volunteer, I will make my selection based on the advice of Warden Borzov. You have one minute to make your choice.”
Malenkov checked his watch theatrically. Then he waited.
He could almost see the risk-benefit analysis churning in their heads.
These were street-smart convicts. Yet they were also desperate men who faced interminably bleak futures.
They understood that no more information would be given, and also that the task to be performed was hazardous—probably exceptionally so.
No promise of freedom was offered here without corresponding peril.
Those who had been here long enough, which was the bulk of the population, had declined comparable offers from the army—survive six months on the front in Ukraine, and a pardon could be had.
They had watched cellmates and rival gang members climb onto those buses.
In the intervening years, naturally, they’d sought out reliable accounts of what had happened to those volunteers.
Not surprisingly, many of those who’d gone to Ukraine had been killed or terribly wounded.
Others had survived, only to commit further crimes and end up back behind bars.
Yet a select few had grasped the dream. They had escaped Ukraine with their lives, if not their limbs, and reentered Russian society.
It was a gambler’s choice, life itself being the wager.
For a time, no hands went up. Yet Malenkov sensed a stirring. A vision of freedom, for men like this, was a powerful thing. Far more compelling than the two hundred thousand rubles.
After thirty seconds, the first hand raised slowly, a man well into his sixties who stood like a crooked tree in the wind. Two more hands followed.
Malenkov said, “Ten seconds.”
Two more hands shot into the air. And that was all.
Five out of eighty, Malenkov thought. Not bad.
“Time is up! You five step forward.”
The men pulled ahead of the formation, escaping the gallery of broken souls.
Malenkov turned to the warden and said in a hushed tone, “Who are they?”
Borzov gave a quick rundown on each man. He knew three well, the other two being relatively new arrivals. There was little between them—the usual bunch of killers and degenerates. Borzov’s only recommendation was to avoid the old man, whose mobility was failing.
Malenkov turned and pointed immediately to the old man, then the two to his right. “You three are chosen. The rest of you may go.”
Borzov opened his mouth as if to say something.
Malenkov cut him off. “Have them ready to transport in thirty minutes. And put them in irons.”
And just like that, the former head of the SSD had the work detail he required.