by John Charles
The Russian Problem
Darby Stansfield Thriller #2
John Charles
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Darbytastic Extra
Holiday With A P.I. Excerpt
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A Note from the author
Also by John Charles
Get a Free Starter Library
Details for this offer are at the end of The Accidental Criminal.
1
Odessa, Ukraine
The gray, windowless van chugged along the single-lane road, occasionally braking only to speed up again. Inside, four men avoided conversation—it was not needed. As they headed into the concrete valley, their eyes focused on the colorless apartment blocks that stood side by side, lining both sides of the road. Each building had a number as an identifier; building 14 was their destination. When the Ukrainian government first issued these apartments to its citizens, it was widely known that preferential treatment was given to young couples with at least one child. Most of those young children were now teenagers, making this district the perfect hunting grounds.
The van slid to a stop in the slushy mix of icy-dirt and road. The diesel engine gave up a few smoky coughs before it went silent. The passenger door creaked open and a burly man dressed in bulky black clothing, complete with a skullcap, exited the vehicle with a toothy grin.
“Privet,” he called out with a wave.
The couple standing near the entrance to the building waved back. Their teenage daughter was much more excited to see the man than they were; her giggling was proof of that. She was finally leaving for a work-abroad program that many of her friends had already enjoyed.
“Be careful, Oksana.”
“Papa, I’ll be working at a hotel in Greece, not a factory. Don’t worry,” she said as she kissed his cheek. “I’ll miss you, Mama,” she said, turning to the woman. “I promise to call once a week. It’s only for three months and then I’ll be home.”
Her mother gave her another long embrace and showered her with kisses.
The man from the van held out his hand. “My name is Sergei. I’m from the International Work & Travel program. Your daughter will be fine. She’ll have a good time.”
Smiles finally appeared on the parents’ faces. Yuri turned to his wife. “Don’t worry, Galina. This will be good for her. It’s worth the expense.” A tearful Galina nodded as she grabbed a hold of his arm. The cost of the program required most of their savings and that they borrow from relatives, but it was worth it for their daughter to have this experience.
Sergei picked up the teenager’s luggage. “Come, Oksana. It’s time.”
Oksana gave each of her parents one last hug and then hurried to catch up with her chaperone. “Sergei, where are we going now? Are there others or is it just me?” She couldn’t believe her journey was about to begin.
Sergei looked back at the teen trailing him. She was looking off into the distance, her eyes already dreaming big adventures. “There are other girls. You will meet them soon.”
Oksana focused back on the big man. “I’ve been wishing and hoping to go on a work abroad program for years now. Do a lot of people do it more than once?”
“Very rarely. Once is enough.”
“Not for me. The chance to see other countries and meet people from the west; how could anyone get enough of that?” Oksana fell behind again as she drifted away.
“Oksana,” Sergei called out, snapping her out of La La Land. “It’s easier to enter the van from the door at the back,” he said, motioning to the rear of the van.
When she knocked on the back door of the van, the thin metal slabs squeaked open and a friendly face appeared with an extended hand to help her inside. Sergei tossed her belongings into the van behind her and slammed the doors shut.
Right away Oksana noticed things were not right and started to back up, but one of the men grabbed her coat and yanked her towards him, slamming his hand over her mouth at the same time. Their faces were now inches apart and his sour breath was unavoidable. Oksana twisted her body from side to side hoping to loosen his grip, but he was stronger. The sudden screech of duct tape near her face caught her attention. Before she could react, her mouth was sealed shut. That alone would be enough to frighten anybody, but that’s not what had Oksana trembling, unable to let out a quick scream while she had the chance.
Lying on the floor of the van, partly covered with a tarp, she saw two other girls whom she recognized from the neighborhood. Their mouths were sealed and she could see that one had her hands tied behind her back. Their bulging eyes screamed one word: Run!
2
The back tires spun out in the soupy mess before the van gripped a hold of the asphalt. Sergei smiled on
ce more and waved to the parents. Oksana was already helpless on the floor of the van with the other girls. No doubt her parents were smiling outside and waving back, completely unaware of the horror that was happening. The wide-eyed girl searched for answers. Why me? Why these other girls? What have we done wrong?
The driver turned to Sergei. “Viktor, we have three. Should we head back?”
Viktor unclipped the fake nametag he had been wearing on his jacket and threw it into the glove compartment. “Let’s see if Igor has caught anything.”
“What do you think so far?” the driver asked.
Viktor shrugged. “They’re young and the right age.”
“You don’t think we have the prize? We collected eight girls over the last two days.”
“We must catch a special one. Only then can we get a premium price for all the girls.”
The cold snap that whistled through the seaside town of Odessa, Ukraine was unusual for the spring, but it wasn’t enough to keep people holed up inside their apartments. The owners of the outdoor café had stretched a large tarp above the plastic tables and chairs to provide shelter for its customers. It mostly worked.
Underneath, tucked away in the far back, were four obnoxious teenage girls, oblivious to others around them. Their shrill laughter drew the ire of the three babushkas sitting only two tables away. They were trying to have a conversation while sipping black tea and eating chocolates. One of them scowled as she tried to ignore the girls. Her huffing and puffing did nothing to curb the behavior of the girls.
Gathered next to a table of empty Coke bottles, the four girls were busy striking poses straight out of a fashion magazine for the tiny Canon Elph camera that one of them received as a birthday gift. They pouted lips, flicked their hips to the side, and whipped their hair around, letting the camera document it all.
The blond one checked the time on her watch. She was late. She pushed her lips out one last time and then gathered her purse and put on her heavy winter coat. “Paka,” she said as she waved goodbye to her friends. They barely noticed, too consumed with becoming the next face.
Leaving the shelter of the tarp, Natasha pulled the hood over her head and tightened the coat around her slender physique. Strands of flaxen hair whipped around her face despite her best efforts. This April seemed worse than last year’s. It always felt that way. The teen pressed forward, fighting the wind that seemed to gain strength with each step. In her mind, she was determined to only be a little late for her afternoon piano lesson.
A few feet ahead of her, she watched a hunched old man struggling to pull his small cart full of fruit and vegetables, his cane of no real use.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
The crooked shape turned his head to the side and gave her a once over. Wordlessly, he pointed to an alley.
Natasha grabbed the little cart and pulled it for him.
“Spasiba,” he said.
Natasha followed the old cripple down the alley. His movements were rigid and slow at first, but they turned fluid and stronger now that he didn’t have a cart to maneuver. The old man stopped and straightened his back, increasing his height by another whole foot. Without warning, he spun around with surprising speed and delivered a backhand straight to Natasha’s face. The force sent her tiny frame to the frozen ground. Pain rocketed through the right side of her face and then zipped throughout her entire body.
She tried to blink the floaters from her sight, but was too dazed and breathless to do much of anything. Natasha was so incapacitated by the hit that she couldn’t move. She could only lay there moaning as the sting in her face began to throb.
Igor stepped out of the alley to remind him of his bearings before pulling out his cell phone and dialing. “Viktor, I got lucky. I’m near the McDonald’s. Come quickly.”
He moved back into the alley and then reappeared with the girl. He held her tight against his body, as though they were keeping each other warm.
The gray van slid to a stop just outside the alley. The timing could not have been better.
Igor walked the girl to the back of the van. She did not kick and she did not scream. How could she? She was barely conscious.
Viktor made his way to the back of the van just as the doors were opened. He knew the instant he saw the latest catch that they had something special. The girl’s golden tresses fanned out across the floor of the van as her hood fell to the side. “Such beauty for a young girl,” he said. This is what he was searching for—the prize.
3
San Francisco, California
The rattling Muni bus, the workhorse of San Francisco’s very own public transportation, sped down Geary Avenue with gusto. The traffic was light and the bus driver had a lead foot. He also had no patience for slow or stupid riders.
A lady with a pull-cart complained that we passed her stop. “Driver. Driver,” she called out. “My stop. I need to get off.”
Geesh, what’s with these people expecting the driver to read their minds? You gotta pull the cord, lady.
Finally Ms. Throw-A-Fit wised up and signaled for a stop. A lot of these riders sit here daydreaming, expecting the driver to know when they need to get off. I can’t help it, but sometimes I secretly laugh at them when we pass their stop.
I yanked on the cord myself once the bus driver threw the steel monster back into overdrive. My stop was 17th and Geary, and my destination was the Russian Tsar, a staple for authentic Russian food and home to my favorite dish in the whole wide world: beef stroganov.
Ever since Ivan Renko introduced me to this sautéed mixture of beef cubes, mustard, and bouillon topped off with sour cream, my appetite wanted nothing to do with anything else. I’ve scheduled more unnecessary business lunches in the Inner Richmond area than one could imagine. I doubt Mr. Renko objected either, since I always paid.
By the way, Ivan is my client. He runs the San Francisco chapter of the Odessa Mafiya or Russkaya Mafiya. While often referred to as Mafiya, the Russian mob is really the Vory v zakone or thieves in law. They originated and existed throughout the Soviet era. Not until the fall of communism did they branch out. Which is great, because now we’re in business together.
I exited the bus and took a deep breath. I smelled grill in the air. The restaurant was only a few doors away, but I was a little early for our meeting. I decided to walk around the neighborhood and kill some time.
If you’re not familiar with the Inner Richmond area, west of downtown San Francisco (more specifically the area from 14th Street to 26th Street on Geary,) then you wouldn’t know the population here is mostly Russian. It’s San Francisco’s own Little Russia.
Seriously, it’s the Brighton Beach of the West Coast. The entire street is lined with Russian delis, grocers, video rental stores, lawyers, dentist, chiropractors, and whatever else a community would need. Everything is Russian: the signs, the advertising, the old babushkas gossiping up and down the street. With a little imagination, one could easily believe it was some Russian town.
Me? I’m Darby Stansfield, telecommunications consultant to the criminal world. Dig it. I’ve been a consultant to organized crime ever since my successful entry almost eight months ago. As far as I know, I’m the only one to ever exist. Dig it again.
The Fan Gang was my first client. They were a wannabe Triad gang in Hong Kong. With the Darby touch, they went from laughing stock of the neighborhood to respectful competitor to the bigger factions.
All of this was thanks to my Darbytastic idea to sell wireless business solutions to organized crime. The way I saw it, if wireless business solutions could increase the bottom line of organizations like McDonald’s, Apple, and IBM, why couldn’t it do the same for organizations like the Yakuza, the Mafiya, or the Triads?
You’re probably wondering if what I do is legal. The way I see it, I provide a service like a doctor or a lawyer. I sell wireless business solutions that help organizations become more productive and profitable. What’s the big deal, right?
4
I took no more than ten steps before I noticed a sign: “DATE RUSSIAN WOMEN.” What? Really? My neck yanked me back a few steps for a closer look. Yup, that’s exactly what the large red lettering across the flier read. The rest of the flier flirted glamour style photos my way of some of the most beautiful women on earth. Hold up now. I want to date a hot Russian woman.
I took a step back from the storefront. The large pane window was plastered with posters hawking exotic destinations around the world by way of cruise ships or flights from San Francisco. None of that interested me though. The flier that caught my eye was the tiny one tucked away in the lower left-hand corner of the window. That told my left hand and me something––time to see other people.
