The Russian Problem (Darby Stansfield Thriller Book 2)

by John Charles

  “That’s good to hear.” But what the hell does that have to do with me?

  “Capturing them is easy. Conviction is hard. The judicial system in Ukraine is broken. It’s very hard to prosecute Mafiya.”

  Mafiya? This just got serious.

  “We need for you to testify against the gang. Your testimony will be looked upon highly for both the kidnapping case and the execution of Tatiana.”

  I had heard all about witnesses that testify against the Mafiya or organized crime. They end up dead. Plus it was sort of an area of conflict for me. My clients were the Mafiya—organized crime. They called me for help with their organizations. I mean, I was the telecommunications consultant to the criminal world. This was a conundrum of gigantic proportions. Shit!

  An hour later I was sitting in my room at the Four Seasons with my dilemma hanging on my neck. I told Mr. Buchko I needed time to think about his proposition, and he gave me three days. He also bumped the payment up to $50,000. Add the $10,000 I got just for coming out here, and this was a tidy profit.

  My cell rang. It was Tav.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “My apartment’s flooded. Can I crash at your place?”

  “What happened?”

  “Pipe in the apartment above me broke and it rained on my crib for six hours straight. Everything is soaked. Totally unlivable.” He sounded exhausted.

  “Yeah, make yourself at home. I’m not there though; I’m in New York. Something important came up at the last minute.”

  “New York? Let’s see… New York… Was it a Gambino lead?”

  Tav never will approve of my consulting business and I don’t blame him. But damn, he needs to get over it.

  “No, it has absolutely nothing to do with that believe it or not.” I realized then that I hadn’t had a chance to tell Tav about what went down in the last forty-eight hours. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in when I get back tomorrow.”

  “Okay, dude. I just hope you don’t tell me you’re back in the middle of a heap of shit.”

  30

  San Francisco, California

  The next morning I hopped on the first flight out of JFK. It would put me in SFO a little after eleven local time. I thought of spending the weekend in New York—Mr. Buchko had paid for my room through Sunday—but I had a lot to think about and I wouldn’t get much done in the city. Plus, I needed a sounding board. I needed Tav.

  When I got back to my place, Tav was still sleeping in my bed. I always admired how he could sleep for hours on end. He was very sloth-like in his ways.

  Ralphie, his pet pug, was curled up on the recliner. He opened his eyes and raised his head in an effort to say hi. Much like his owner, Ralphie was lazy. He didn’t move much.

  “Hey, Ralphie. How you doing?” I gave him a good scratching behind the ears before heading to the bedroom. Tav was still deep in Sleepland when I pulled the drapes open and said in a booming voice, “Let there be light.”

  Tav lay there, ignoring my God complex. So I yanked the covers off the bed, sending him into a fit.

  “Damn, Darb,” he groaned. “What’s the rush?”

  “Up and at ’em, Tav. We’ve got things to do today.”

  “Nothing needs to be done. It’s Saturday.”

  “We’re finding a new place for me. Apartment hunting.” I had been thinking of moving for the last two months, and now that I had some crisp, clean cashola burning a hole in my pocket, I really had no excuse. Plus, I saw a really cool Victorian on Craigslist a few weeks ago. It was amazing: completely refurbished, four bedrooms, three baths, two levels. Plus it had a terrace out back and a hot tub. If that wasn’t a HAM magnet, then I didn’t know what was. A quick search on Craigslist showed that it was still on the market.

  “Why don’t you shower, I’ll get some coffee going, and then we can check out this sweet bachelor pad? You can stay with me until you figure out what you’re doing.”

  That was the trigger. Tav jumped out of bed and headed for the shower. “I’m taking that offer,” he said before closing the door.

  Thirty minutes later we were sipping coffee and walking up Fillmore Street. It was a beautiful day—no fog, crisp air, and sun shining bright. The neighborhood was up, dogs were being walked, and sidewalk cafés were brimming with hungry customers.

  Unfortunately, I was about to become the dark cloud over us as I told Tav what happened to Tatiana and how I had a front row seat to her murder. Then there was the mysterious caller and meeting with Mr. Buchko—not to mention the lucrative proposition to testify against the Russian Mafiya.

  Tav took a couple of minutes to process it all. It’s not like I had told him Ralphie left a land mine in the kitchen, so I could understand the silence. I just gave him the mother of all updates.

  Finally he cleared his throat. “First off, I want to say I’m really sorry to hear about Tatiana. I can’t imagine what watching that was like.”

  “You don’t want to know. I wish I hadn’t. Now I have to live with that memory being the last one I have of her.”

  “You know, Darb, you probably experienced more drama in the last three days than the average person does in a lifetime. It’s as if you’re living a life of a secret agent.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “No, really. You know it’s true.”

  “Your point?” I said, even though I knew where he was going with the thought.

  “I can’t help but think whether all of this, directly or indirectly, isn’t a result of your consultancy. Would you still have ended up in the same predicament?”

  “I keep trying to point this out to you, Tav. This girl Natasha, Tatiana’s death, the Russian Mafiya in Minsk—it has nothing to do with my business. It’s not connected at all. I didn’t go to Minsk for work. It’s pure coincidence.”

  “Yeah, but you never would have stumbled across that flier for the tour had you not been in business with the Russian mob. End of story.”

  Sonofabitch. He had me on that one.

  “Okay, but I also would not have discovered the wonderful world of beef stroganov, Russki style.”

  Tav tilted his head back and drained the last of his coffee, ignoring my last comment. “So what does Mr. Buchko want from you?” he asked.

  “He wants me to testify against the gang.”

  “Yeah, but what exactly does that entail? Having a lawyer take a deposition? Do you have to go there? Will you testify in front of the gang?”

  “All good questions. I’m assuming I would have to go there. I don’t know how their court system works, so I can’t answer your last question.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a chance to avenge Tatiana’s death,” Tav said.

  “The entire premise of Get Organized, my consultancy—it all relies on doing business with the criminal world. And if I testify against a criminal, what does that say about me?” And my consultancy.

  “It says you did the right thing. That sicko killed your girl.”

  I cared about Tatiana. And then it dawned on me. “That’s it, Tav. That low life crossed me, so I’ll deal with him. This is business. If I crossed one of my clients without good reason, they would deal with me, right? He killed my girl without good reason. This is tit for tat. Well, in my book anyways. Problem solved.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you completely, but I’m guessing somehow in your head you rationalized all of this.”

  “What’s equally good is Mr. Buchko is paying me $50,000 to do it.”

  “Fifty grand? Just for testifying? Seems like plenty of reason to me.”

  “Tav, I’m thinking long term about my business. That’s just a one-time payment. I need to make sure I have growth and a sustainable client base. If I stop, all the money I have will be gone in less than a year. And then what?”

  “You go legit?”

  I shook my head. Sometimes I felt like talking to Tav about this was pointless. He just refused to look at
this with an open mind.

  I was grateful for a break when we arrived at the Victorian. “Here it is,” I said, pointing. “The new pad. Let’s see if it lives up to its pictures.”

  The minute I set foot inside, I was in awe. The old Victorian was everything I hoped it would be right from the start. Hardwood floors, funky-sized rooms, long hallways, totally modernized kitchen with marble counters and stainless steel appliances. The bathrooms were decked out with a separate shower and tub and marble floors, plus faucets that looked like art. But the best was the deck out back. It had an awesome view with a hot tub to boot. Tav couldn’t shut up about signing the lease and turning this Victorian into our own player mansion.

  The only hiccup was I had to take on the lease immediately. This meant I would be paying rent for two places for one month. Big deal. I signed away and we immediately started to move the essentials in so we could start living there.

  It was completely furnished, so I didn’t need anything but my clothes from my old place. Even the entertainment system here blew mine away. It was a no-brainer to have all my old stuff hauled away by a junker at the end of the month.

  In the meantime, Tav, Ralphie and I moved in to what we dubbed “The Vic.” This actually worked out well for Tav because his landlord was being difficult and didn’t want to pay for any relocation expenses. It would take at least a month and a half to repair the damage to his place. That was fine by us because The Vic was the mother of all pads.

  31

  Odessa, Ukraine

  Two days after moving into The Vic, I found myself on a Lufthansa flight en route to Odessa, Ukraine, the pearl of the Black Sea. When I visited Mr. Buchko in New York, he told me he would have the proceedings in this tiny resort town in hopes that a different location would ensure a proper and fair trial. Kiev, the capital city, was wrought with corruption, and even government officials could not guarantee a trial where the judge wasn’t on the take. Mr. Buchko grew up in Odessa and felt like he had the best shot of putting the gang away on his own turf.

  A few days earlier, the mystery voice had called me on my cell to let me know the gang was in custody and that I should arrange travel immediately. The anonymous orders that came over the phone irritated me. But then I would think of Tatiana and realize I had to do this—that I wanted to do this. I imagined her family needed closure—I knew I did. I tried to think about what her parents must have been going though. They’re hurting as well.

  I remembered telling the caller that I hadn’t heard anything about this in the news. Sex trafficking is a big deal, but according to Mr. Gravelly Voice, it was all part of the plan—the less media attention, the better. Coincidentally, this also worked in my favor. I didn’t need anyone at Teleco knowing I was a witness in a sex trafficking trial in Ukraine.

  I wasn’t sure what help I would be on the kidnapping and trafficking charges for Natasha’s case, but for Tatiana’s murder, it was a slam dunk. On the night Tatiana was murdered, I recorded our video chat on Skype for memories. As difficult as it was to keep the footage of her thoughtless murder, I wanted those men to suffer in a hideous Gulag for life.

  The airplane touched down at Odessa International Airport a little after one. While small, it buzzed with travelers even during the off-season. Visitors were both coming and going—a big change from what I experienced in Minsk. During the warmer months, I imagined this place was a madhouse while Russians from all over descended on the popular seaport to enjoy a little R&R from their daily lives.

  After I exited my plane and cleared passport control, I immediately saw an imposing man in a black suit; I assumed he was there for me. Same as it was in New York, a driver was supposed to meet me at the airport. Igor wasn’t my driver this time around. This driver was Misha. Same M.O. though. “I drive; you shut up.”

  It was around half past two when we arrived at the Buchko compound. I say “compound” because that’s exactly what it looked like. A fifteen-foot gray wall surrounded the entire property. The entrance was secured by a single heavy, steel door that mechanically rolled back to allow us access. Once inside, I saw a two-story, colonial-style mansion with a roundabout in front. A water fountain was the centerpiece. Can we say “opulence”?

  More and more I realized the power this man wielded. I also wondered why he was even bothering with bringing these men to justice. Surely a man of his stature and power could have this street gang disposed of in some other way. Say there was an unfortunate accident or someone took some time off in the countryside, indefinitely. But maybe Mr. Buchko was an honest man. An honest politician in the former Soviet Union? Line up, folks. See the unexpected. Tickets are only two bucks a pop.

  The first to welcome me was Natasha. She was standing outside on the steps. No sooner had I stepped out of the car when she threw her arms around me, giving me the biggest Siberian bear hug she could manage. “Darby, I so happy to see you again.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.” I was a little taken aback by the greeting considering we only knew each other for a couple of hours and she was under some serious duress. But I liked it. It was cute. I reached into my pocket and took out the bracelet, dangling it from my fingers.

  Natasha’s eyes widened and she let out a squeal. “My bracelet. I thought I lost it forever.” Natasha gave me another fantastic hug. “Thank you for coming. It means so much to me.”

  Gee, I wish Mr. Buchko had told me that. It might have made the decision process a bit easier.

  “Come. I show you where you sleep.”

  Natasha led me into what had to be the largest foyer ever. A Picasso, or at least something resembling his work, hung front and center above a marble table—the blue period perhaps. On each side were sweeping twin staircases that led to the second floor. Hanging high above us was a chandelier with hundreds of sparkling crystal droplets.

  Natasha grabbed my hand and pulled me up the left staircase. At the top, we turned left and headed down a hall where Renaissance paintings hung and Asian carpeting lay. We turned left at the end and headed down an even longer and much more regal hallway. Near the end, she stopped in front of a set of double doors.

  She opened the doors and revealed a spacious room with vaulted ceilings, French doors that led to an outdoor terrace, Victorian sitting chairs, and the centerpiece: an immaculate king size bed, with what appeared to be a hand-stitched canopy. Mental note. Do not fart in this room.

  “This is where you sleep. Is okay?”

  “Yes, this is amazing,” I said, grinning ear to ear.

  She pointed to another door. “In here is your bathroom.” She opened the door a bit and I could just make out a claw-foot bathtub against the wall.

  Natasha pushed open the French doors and walked out onto the terrace.

  “This is my favorite part of the room. I begged Mama and Papa to let you stay here.”

  “They did not want me in here?”

  “No. Usually it’s reserved for dignitaries, but you are special, Darby. From here you can see my room.” She pointed across the courtyard to the other wing. The house, if you can imagine it, was shaped like the letter U. “See the open windows? That’s my room.” She smiled happily.

  “Darby, I have to leave now. I have my piano lessons, but in two hours I will come and get you. I will take you on a short walk and show you my town. Then we will have a dinner with Mama and Papa and the rest of my family. The cook is making my favorite: galumpkis.”

  “What about beef stroganov?”

  Natasha’s eyes popped open. “You know stroganov?”

  “Yeah, I eat it all the time.”

  “Is another favorite of me. I have the cook prepare it as well.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She giggled. “Your English is funny. A plan doesn’t make a noise.” With that, Natasha spun around and left.

  32

  Later in the evening, I was treated to a traditional Ukrainian dinner. From what I could remember, we stuffed ourselves with borscht soup, galumpkis
, pork cutlets, beef stroganov, Russian salad, pickles, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, freshly baked black bread, and a bucket load of caviar. Of course the vodka I drank generously in New York was on ice here and flowing freely.

  I also had a chance to meet the rest of the family starting with Irina Buchko, the hardened matriarch of the family. It was clear that she wore the pants in the house and everyone paid her the attention and respect that she commanded. She was a blond like her daughter and still held a figure that showed no signs of giving birth to three children.

  “I hear much about you, Darby, from Natasha and Valery. They say you are man of honor and integrity. It is important for me if you are to be near my family.”

  “Thank you. Natasha is a very brave little woman. Now I know where she gets her character…and her beauty.”

  A smile and the tiniest hint of blushing appeared on Irina’s face. I knew then I was on her good side.

  Natasha’s older brother, Denis, had just turned eighteen and was getting ready to join the Ukrainian military. All men in Ukraine are required to serve two years of duty. With Denis’ status and the military training he’d already received in school, he said he would be entering as an officer. “Every man in the Buchko family has served as an officer in the Ukrainian military. I’m proud to add to family legacy,” he said.

  Mr. Buchko raised a glass of vodka. “Na Zdorovie. To tradition.”

  Everyone but little Oksana raised their glass and toasted Denis. The little girl was only four—either a mistake or mom had panicked with the house going empty and cranked out another one. She was adorable and spoiled rotten.

  Eventually Mr. Buchko brought the conversation around to the trial. “Darby, tomorrow you will go to court proceedings.”

  “Already?”

  “Yes. The sooner the better. You will testify in the afternoon if all goes well. You will tell the judge what you saw, how the men chased you and my daughter and threatened your lives.”