by John Charles
Moscow, Russia
The door slammed shut, keeping the ugly weather at bay. But the biting wind knew the men would appear again and waited.
The four men took off their ushankas. Moisture beaded on the fur hats. They hung them, along with their heavy winter coats, on hooks in the entrance hallway. The small apartment, located just off of the Red Square in Moscow, was a favorite meeting place for them because of its unassuming nature. They were the Elders and they ran the Russian Mafiya.
The four men gathered around a small table in the kitchen while one of them, the Tea Maker, began boiling water. A plate of cookies sat on the table. The Oldest, and the one with the bushiest eyebrows, was the first to speak.
“What do we know so far?”
The Tea Maker answered, “Viktor is screwed. That means we could be screwed.”
“And the rest of the men?”
“The same,” he continued.
“Our entire operation is down?”
“It appears that way…for now.”
The Tea Maker poured each of them a cup of hot, black tea and then took a seat next to the Oldest and said, “Every day we are down we lose 500,000 rubles.”
“Viktor is one of the best. Who could have done this?” the Oldest asked.
“From what we know, it is an American. But Viktor has been sloppy lately.”
The Oldest raised an eyebrow. “Sloppy how?”
“He stopped in Minsk with the package to conduct some of his side ventures. His men got drunk and a girl escaped.”
“What happened to them?”
“Viktor killed the man responsible.”
The Oldest contemplated what the Tea Maker had told him so far. The other two Elders sipped their tea and nibbled on cookies, listening.
“How does a girl with no money and no transportation escape?” the Oldest asked to no one in particular.
The Tea Maker looked at the other Elders before answering. “The American. This is where Viktor made a mistake. He knew what hotel they had run to, but decided to return to the other girls for fear that more would try to escape. He discovered later, through a source at the hotel, that the girl left that night with two big men.”
“And the American?”
“Viktor swore he had hired some local men to take care of him, but somehow he survived. It doesn’t matter. The courts say Viktor and his men are guilty of kidnapping, torture, sex trafficking, and child endangerment… The charges go on. The American helped testify against Viktor and also provided video for another murder charge.”
“What charge?”
“Viktor killed the American’s girlfriend while she was on a webcam and the whole event was recorded live. Viktor is fucked. Valery Buchko, the Minister of Finance, is behind the arrest. It was his daughter that escaped. If he gets his way, Viktor will never see the outside world again.”
The Oldest slammed his empty cup down on the table. His eyebrows caved in over his eyes as he rested his forehead against his hand. “The American, he is a threat to us?”
“He is connected to a rival outfit in San Francisco––Odessa Mafiya. But we have a friend of a friend who can reach out and see what his involvement is.”
The Oldest frowned as he shook his head. Disappointment had spread from his eyebrows to the rest of his face. He picked up a cookie and took a bite, holding it in his mouth for a bit before chewing. “How soon can we have our operation running again?”
“Couple of weeks. What should we do about Viktor? He has a lot of information, still an asset.”
The Oldest turned to the other two men. “Any thoughts?”
The Youngest answered. “I think we already know what we must do.”
The Oldest looked at the other man, the Unreasonable One. Anger was spread over his face. He then turned back to the Tea Maker. “Do what you think is right.”
Three of the men got up and returned to their fur hats and heavy jackets in the hallway. The rigorous process of bundling their aging bodies always took a toll on them.
The Tea Maker sat quietly at the table and finished his tea. He knew what the Oldest wanted. The methods to achieving the results, however, were entirely up to him. Orders were given. Now it was time to execute them.
He already had a plan in place for Viktor Kazapov; that was the easy part. The American was the uncertainty. He wasn’t known and his involvement might be pure coincidence. Was it worth it to engage with the Odessa Mafiya? If he was involved with them, then what?
He picked up the phone and called his contact.
“Hello.”
“Your friend with the Odessa clan—he can be trusted?”
“Yes.”
“No one must know. What is your contact’s name?”
“Why must you know?”
“Insurance.”
There was a pause. “His name is Grigory Orlov.”
38
Paris, France
Right around the same time the Elders were discussing Viktor’s situation, a busy Parisian café was brimming with tourists and locals. The sun was shining bright and the skies were incredibly clear, perfect for people-watching on Paris’s left bank.
At the famous Les Deux Magots café on St. Germain, people-watching had become an extremely popular and wildly expensive treat for many. Customers often waited on the outskirts for a table to open and would then pounce upon it the second its previous users had vacated.
It’s no surprise that English financier Barry Woodward and his mistress were enjoying cappuccinos and pastries at one of the heavily sought-after tables. They, of course, were on holiday.
Another gentleman on holiday was also enjoying the same people-watching thrill, except he wasn’t sitting at one of the sidewalk tables. He was sitting in a hotel room about one hundred yards away from the café and he was watching only one person: Barry Woodward.
For the last two days, he had followed Barry Woodward to Notre Dame, to the Eifel Tower, to the Louvre, even into the bathroom at the opera—all while having a wonderful time devising clever ways that he could kill the arrogant businessman. Poison? Bomb? Electrocution? All of it fun, but not quite right.
This was the exciting part of the job, the part the assassin liked best. Twice he had to resist the urge to kill old Barry Boy. He so wanted the perfect assassination. Two requirements were needed to achieve this: there must be an audience and it must be visually spectacular. Only the best, thought Ghostface.
At two hundred yards, the Dragunov SVD sniper rifle can pierce half an inch of armored metal easily. At one hundred yards, it can turn a head into an exploding water balloon—just the theatrical effect he was looking for.
Ghostface continued to watch Barry through the PSO-1 scope. Barry didn’t move his head very much. This was just too easy. A challenge would have been nice. The hitman waited a few more minutes figuring he had at least until Barry finished his cappuccino.
Fingering the trigger, Ghostface watched Barry take another sip. When you put that coffee cup down, I’m going to put you down. But Barry didn’t put the cup down. He held it just below his chin. Motherfucker.
Ghostface waited another ten seconds, but still, Barry held on to the cup. Time was up. Patience had run out. I’m going to make you put that cup down now. He let out a breath and then pulled the trigger.
Barry’s head exploded like an overripe cherry tomato under a thumb. Brain matter and fragments of skull erupted in a ten-foot radius, showering the audience. This was stellar people-watching material. This was a show they would be talking about for a while. Gather ’round, children. This is the stuff nightmares are born of. What made this one extra special, extraordinary even, was that it was a double feature. Barry’s mistress moved at the last minute and lined her head up with his. After annihilating Barry’s head, the 7.62mm bullet continued on to pulverize hers.
Two-for-one special. Today only. Seating limited.
39
San Francisco, California
Grigory Orlov sat at the kitchen
table in a one-bedroom apartment not too far from the Russian Tsar restaurant. A half-eaten sandwich lay on a plate in front of him while he sipped his black tea. He lit a cigarette while waiting for a phone call arranged through a trusted friend in Kazan, Russia.
Orlov grew up in Kazan, a large industrial town about a two-hour flight east of Moscow. Since he was twelve, he had been working for the Vory. They became the family he never had, and the code of the Russian Vory was instilled into his thinking at such a young age that it was the only way he knew how to live. Orlov took the Vory v zakone seriously. He was proud of his background and what he was: a thief.
The Russian Vory are different from the Russian Mafiya. Both are organized, but the Vory are the oldest form of organized crime in Russia. Some Vory, like Orlov, end up working in the Russian Mafiya. But they never really acclimate to the ways of the Mafiya. That’s why he had a big problem with Ivan Renko’s befriending the phone salesman, Darby Stansfield.
As far as Orlov was concerned, Darby wasn’t one of them and therefore had no business knowing the inner workings of the gang. He had said as much to Ivan, but the man wouldn’t hear of it. The phone salesman was helping Ivan to make the gang more profitable, and money was all big men like Renko cared about. He has no respect for tradition, Orlov thought.
A few days earlier, Orlov’s friend had called him for help. He had some contacts in Moscow who were looking for information on a certain American from San Francisco. As planned whenever Mafiya organizations work together, Orlov didn’t know the gentlemen who would be calling for the information. A mutual friend of both parties set up the call so if for any reason something went wrong, neither of them could identify nor confirm the other.
The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“You know Darby Stansfield?” asked an unfamiliar Russian voice.
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me?”
“He consults with our organization. His business is wireless products. He is allowed access to our operations so he can make recommendations on how his product can improve productivity.”
“What else?”
“He is untouchable by anyone in the organization. We must work with him.”
“What about outsiders?”
“What about them?”
“How would someone not associated with the gang get to him?”
“I can help.”
The line went dead.
A broad smile spread across Orlov’s face. The angry crinkles in his forehead softened. He took one last drag on his stumpy cigarette and left the smoking tombstone buried in his sandwich. Life for the salesman was going to change, Orlov was certain of that.
40
Moscow, Russia
“Untouchable?” the Oldest repeated.
The Tea Maker nodded. “No one in the Odessa Mafiya can touch Mr. Stansfield, and we don’t know why.”
“He’s a salesman, no?”
“It makes no sense,” the Tea Maker said, throwing a hand up in the air. “What does he do that makes him so important to the organization? He sells phones.”
The Unreasonable One leaned forward, pointing at the others. “Something important is being left out. I don’t want any surprises.”
“He is right,” the Oldest motioned. “This American helped convict Viktor. He is associated with Odessa. We cannot let this go.” The Oldest looked at each one of the Elders. “We must send a message and remind them that we are in charge.”
Getting rid of the American could also serve as an opportunity to throw a kink in the Odessa operations. Either way, it was clear that the Elders wanted Darby dead, his punishment for upsetting their business. Of course the easiest way would have been to find an unhappy member in the Odessa clan and have that person do the deed for a nice fee. But that was no longer an option.
The Tea Maker clasped his hands together and rubbed them slowly. “If we are to take care of this ourselves, we must think—is it worth it? This American is a nobody. We are angry at the disruption of our operations. It’s understandable we should want someone to pay.”
The Elders nodded and pondered the dilemma. None of them wanted this to turn into a bigger ordeal then it needed to be, but it seemed to already be heading in that direction.
“What about Ghostface?” the Tea Maker said as he placed cups in front of the others and poured hot tea into each one.
“He is becoming a loose cannon,” said the Oldest.
“He is the best.”
“He was almost caught in Paris, showing off with the sniper rifle.”
The Tea Maker nodded. “That was stupid, but he can take care of this very easily.”
The Oldest leaned back in the hard, plastic chair. The cozy kitchen was just big enough for him to stretch out and give thought to the options. Ghostface was the greatest assassin to ever come out of the Soviet Union and easily transition with the new Russia. Nobody had ever actually confirmed a sighting of him. No one knew who he was or where he lived. But that wasn’t why he was called Ghostface. No, that was because the only people who had ever seen him were his victims, and once they saw him, they were dead. No matter who the contract was or how difficult, a dead body always appeared.
The Oldest took another sip of his tea and nibbled on a cookie. He turned to the Youngest and the Unreasonable One. They both nodded. He looked back at the Tea Maker. “It is done. Reach out and see if Ghostface will accept the contract.”
41
San Francisco, California
I was so excited about my date with Hillary that, in preparation, I rubbed one out.
A normal, let’s-have-dinner, no-drama evening was what I had in mind, topped off with some bootylicious dessert.
I spent an extra ten minutes scrubbing up in the shower. Then I put on black slacks and a hipster button-down and gelled my short hair to the right amount of stiffness.
“Dude!” Tav yelled as I was headed down the stairs. “I can already smell you.” I might have gone overboard on the aftershave. I sprayed my balls. Is that overboard?
Tav and Ralphie were sitting on the couch watching TV when I stuck my head in to say goodbye. “Don’t wait up for me. I got plans to mingle with all three bases and then party at home plate.”
Tav leaned in closer to the pug and started asking him questions. “What do you think, Ralphie? Is Uncle Darby going to get some action tonight? Will he knock boots with one part of HAM? Wait, what’s that? You find these questions preposterous? No, no, there’s no hidden camera. This isn’t a TV show. This man actually scored a date. ”
“Ha, ha, hee, hee, ho, ho,” I mocked.
Truth is, I didn’t mind Tav’s ribbing. I felt like a kid waiting for Christmas morning to come around. I even got ready way too early. Hillary had texted me earlier saying we have reservations at 7:30 p.m. and that I should pick her up at seven. I had a half hour to kill. I could drive slowly and take the long way to her place. I bought a Smart Car a couple of months ago. I don’t use it that much, but I needed a car. Parking in the city is a joy, that’s for sure.
About two hours later, we were five courses into the date and things were going well. The conversation flowed playfully between us. Hillary was looking smoking hot in her white skin-tight dress. She had extra-shiny hair and her complexion sparkled. I knew every man in the room was checking her out, but it was I, Darby Stansfield, who scored time with this beauty queen. With the way things were going, I was confident there would be end-of-date action.
It wasn’t that much later when an old friend walked into the main dining room. From the heads turning, I wasn’t the only one who noticed the big man. It was Pete Sokolov, one of the two detectives I met while they were solving the Chinatown Chop Chef killings.
“Detective, how are you?”
“Hi, Darby. Been a long time. Are you well?”
“Yeah, doing okay. Just enjoying dinner with the lovely Hillary.”
The Russian stuck his hand out. “Hello, Hillary. I’m Detective P
ete Sokolov. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said as her hand disappeared in his.
“And this beautiful woman is my mother, Alla,” he said, giving the diminutive woman a squeeze. “We are celebrating her birthday.”
Pete’s mother looked to be in her early fifties and nothing like Elana Voronova, who wasn’t that much younger. Alla appeared to be a sweet woman, who dressed conservatively and had a smile that never seemed to leave her face.
“Happy birthday,” Hillary and I answered.
“Thank you.”
“This is a special treat for her. Usually she only eats Russian food. I think it’s time she expanded the pallet. The food is good?”
“Excellent so far.”
“Okay, I will let you get back to dinner.”
“Enjoy your dinner,” I said.
Detective Sokolov turned away, but then stopped.
“Darby, I saw you in the Richmond district a few times, in the Russian neighborhood.”
Shit. He knows. He probably saw me eating with Ivan Renko. I knew I was pushing it by eating there three times a week. Stupid appetite. How could I be so careless? I suddenly remembered the Big Russian Curtain mentioning he lived in the Inner Richmond area. What does he know? Am I under surveillance? Is he feeling me out? Roll with it, Darb. Be cool. “It’s the beef stroganov. Ever since I discovered it, it’s my favorite food.”
“No more chow mein, huh?”
“Russian food is the best,” Alla chimed in.
I quickly changed the subject. “Hey, how’s your partner doing? Detective Kang, right?”
“Keeping busy. He travels a lot to discuss his experience profiling serial killers and catching them. Most of it revolves around the Chop Chef case.”
Pete’s mom interrupted him and motioned to us and then to their table.
“She’s hungry,” Sokolov said and waved.
