By Jess McGlothlin
The first rule of Murmansk: Don’t fuck with the FSB. The Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, formerly the Soviet-era Federal Counterintelligence Service, was created in 1994 to succeed the KGB. Functionally, it’s the KGB but with new branding.
And in the Russian Arctic town—which itself still feels very Soviet—it’s easy to pretend that branding hasn’t stuck, and not all that much has changed. Polyarny, home to roughly two-thirds of Russia’s nuclear-powered vessels assigned to the Northern Fleet, lies just over the hill, a mere 17 miles from Murmansk. The base’s military atmosphere carries through to Murmansk. For a city that spends half the year in darkness, Murmansk doesn’t necessarily celebrate summer, instead displaying a stoic front that feels oh-so-very-Russian. Everyone keeps to themselves, wary of strangers.
There’s a lingering we’ll-catch-you-if-we-can air permeating the town. Instead of a clock tower downtown, a Geiger counter looms over the aged buildings. Soviet-era apartment blocks fill the skyline, Ladas lined up tidily outside, babushkas bringing home bread, potatoes, and tvorog.
Walk into any nightclub (if you’re in the mood for the pounding thump-thump-thump rhythm of the Russian club scene) or bar and it becomes readily apparent that even when they’re assumedly off-duty, the FSB rules the town. Officers are given a wide berth; tables suddenly are vacated to accommodate them, wait staff don’t like to keep them waiting.
The looming FSB headquarters take up a full city block, and another FSB building is under construction down the street. I’d driven by the current building twice on my first day in town, a silent yet unsubtle warning to not fuck around in Russia. That someone’s always watching.
But sometimes they choose to turn a blind eye.
Not much goes on in Murmansk without the FSB knowing about it. But sometimes—with the right connections and the right bribes—black market businesses flourish.
One afternoon, a friend promises to show me something special. Some place I can’t bring a camera. We cut through town, winding into one of the massive residential apartment areas; this one looking decidedly more run-down than most in town.
Which is saying something.
The gears of his old blue Lada grind into park and we climb out, swiping at clouds of mosquitoes which immediately swarm, eager for new blood. I wonder if they find the taste of American blood novel. I’ve lived in Russia for months; surely I taste at least a little Russian by now. My friend leads the way toward the oldest of the buildings, literally crumbling before our eyes, a relic of the Soviet Union that likely won’t last five more winters.
But you never know. Russians have a funny way of preserving meager resources.
He knocks on a metal door at the bottom of basement stairs then shoots me a look over his shoulder. A quick grin. I don’t know what we’re doing, but I do know we’re not supposed to be here.
Which is promising.
The metal creaks, opening a sliver. Quick, low words are exchanged in Russian, then the door creaks and we’re welcomed inside. Just as quickly it closes behind us and I peer at the man before me. Lean, dark stubble covering his cheeks, missing a few teeth. Maybe late 50s, though it’s hard to tell. He eyes me then says something quickly to my friend, who answers, his tone easy. The two know each other.
The older Russian fires off a string of words so quick and heavily-accented that my minimal Russian doesn’t pick up much more than “Polyarny.” Another smile and a nod, and he vanishes between the rows of shelving filling the cold basement.
Shelves lined with all manners of marine and sea relics. Military items, old weaponry, fishing gear—some so old it’s barely distinguishable underneath the rust—fills the room. Old AKs, nearly rusted beyond recognition, take up two shelves. Salt, sweat, mold, and metal scent the musty air… a workshop hidden in the basement of this massive building. Bare lightbulbs flicker intermittently overhead, illuminating the goods.
I peer back at my friend.
“Explore,” he urges, making the most of his limited English.
I grin and head toward the first shelf. We’re in a not-strictly-legal workshop for not-strictly-legal salvage divers, tucked away in a basement of Soviet-era apartments. It feels like a treasure chest. I don’t know if the men are supposed to be here, but I do know I’m not supposed to be. I wonder what would happen if the FSB pushed through the door, but I shove the worry away.
Not much goes on in Murmansk without the FSB knowing about it. But sometimes they turn a blind eye.
Editor’s Note: Want an AK but don’t want to dig around in a seedy Russian basement? Check out our new collab with Kalashnikov USA, the Conflict Rifle
