The Russian Problem (Darby Stansfield Thriller Book 2)

by John Charles

  “Nice. You backed him up against the ropes.”

  “I don’t think it takes much.”

  “Did he buy your sad pout?”

  “Yeah. I told him I was super psyched when you got the heavy promotion. But now that you were having client problems, I was a little worried.”

  “He bite?”

  “Like a hotdog being held above his mouth as a treat. He pretended he liked you, Darby, and expressed his concern. He said he was proud of every sales associate that left his floor for bigger and better things.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “I told him the upside was that you now had three months of vacation, plus a week at Gerald’s ranch in Montana. It’s something all the heavies and those in sales management get.”

  I started laughing. When I told Izzy she was free to make up shit, I hadn’t taken the time to dream up the delightful possibilities. With Harold being considered sales management, this would surely drive him mad, wondering why he never got an invite. “That’s a good one.”

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  “And then what?”

  “I told him that he probably didn’t care since I heard he took vacations in exotic locales.”

  “Did he give up any info?”

  “The guy couldn’t wait to brag about it. He went on and on about how many women he had and how they were all dying to be his girlfriend. He even showed me pictures.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. I snagged one when he wasn’t looking. Here you go.”

  Sure enough, there was a picture of Harold surrounded by women. They were in a nightclub. Sonofabitch. This guy actually had game. How could he? What do these women see in him? And then I spotted her in the background: Elana Voronova, puffing on a cigarette. I was sure of it. Harold had taken one of her trips to Ukraine. He must have gotten her information off of the flier he took from me. His discovery about me testifying there—it was all by coincidence.

  “This is great information, Izzy. You have no idea how much this helps.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I’m glad I could help. But I still don’t understand why you care so much about a trip he took or what that has to do with him blackmailing Hillary.”

  “I know I’m leaving you in the dark. One of these days, I might be able to tell you why, but I can’t right now.”

  Izzy was now next to me with her butt half on my desk. It took everything I had to remain professional and not give her legs the quick up and down. “Thanks for being understanding.”

  “Okay,” she said. She took her time standing up. “Was there anything else you wanted me to do?”

  “No, I’m good for now.” Hmmm. There she goes again. She’s lingering. Why? I wish I could read women. Wait, what’s this? She bent over slightly to look out my window. I wonder if she’s enjoying the view. I know I am. Is Izzy really flirting with me? Hmmm, she knows I’m with Hillary.

  Small Brain: Yeah, but Hillary doesn’t know Izzy is here.

  Me: Shut up down there. I don’t want to hear what you have to say.

  Small Brain: Fine, but she’s bending over.

  Me: No, she’s resting her hands on the windowsill. There’s a difference.

  Small Brain: Yeah. It’s called doggie style.

  Me: Shut up.

  Small Brain: Look, pal, I’m tired of getting a massage from you. I want what’s over by that window.

  Me: Too late; she’s leaving.

  Small Brain: Only because you can’t take a hint.

  Izzy walked over to my door. “Well, let me know if you need any more help figuring things out. Maybe we can brainstorm later, in the hot tub.” She gave me a quick smile and left.

  I already knew my next step wouldn’t require Izzy’s help, but it did require the help of another blond I knew: Elana.

  68

  I spent the rest of the day thinking about my predicament, breaking the monotony with e-mail and Facebook. I noticed that Hillary had put kisses on my wall. Are we official now? Does sending a virtual kiss in public say we’re together? These are questions I felt the need to ponder, but couldn’t because the wildebeest is screwing with my life.

  Earlier, I had decided I would visit Elana’s Travels. But as the day wore on, I began to get anxious. Suddenly a phone call would do just fine.

  Before I could dial her number, my Skype chat started to buzz. It was a little confusing because I could have sworn I deleted my account after Viktor contacted me the first time. But here it was, ringing me. Chills ran up my spine, porcupining my hair. Could it really be? Would Viktor be that stupid? It’s impossible. I deleted my account. I’m almost sure of it. “Almost” was the kicker in this dilemma.

  All of this supposing was giving me a headache. I oughta just answer the damn call and see who it is. The ringing continued. As fearful as I was, I had to see if it was Viktor. Of course I would record the whole thing just in case. It’d been a lifesaver so far.

  I clicked on the “accept” button and my viewer window flicked on. The screen was black at first and then eventually some color started to come through and an image appeared. It was the Golden Gate Bridge.

  What the…?

  And then the image was pulled away from view and revealed the icy pale blue eyes that I had come to recognize. Viktor Kazapov.

  There he was with a big grin on his face, his head tilted back, increasing the width of his stump-like neck. He stared and stared, saying nothing. And then he held up the picture of the bridge again. It was a postcard. He laughed uncontrollably at my realization, at my ability to put two and two together. Viktor was here, in San Francisco.

  The image went black. Viktor had disconnected the call.

  I sat at my desk dumbfounded, wishing I had done more than just talk to people. He left Ukraine undetected. He entered the U.S. undetected. Would he enter The Vic undetected as well? What about my workplace? Everywhere I go is a possibility. Nobody can stop this guy.

  They all told me not to worry. Guess what? The worrywart in me was right. I tried to remain calm, but my chest started to tighten as my breathing grew labored. Panic attack? Heart attack? More like a I-fricking-told-you-guys attack.

  I slammed the laptop shut and immediately dialed my cell.

  “Detective Sokolov? He’s here. Viktor’s here!”

  69

  Orlov had just returned from the deli with dinner for the two of them. He had pork cutlets, boiled potatoes, Russian salad, and bread. Orlov was thrilled to have Turov in the States. He was the answer to Orlov’s problem. Sent here by a contact in Russia, Turov would get rid of Darby and Orlov would assist him in any way he could.

  Turov requested a briefing on the target. While listening to the details Orlov so obligingly provided, Turov reached behind his head, grabbed a hold of his hair, and pulled. His entire scalp moved back off of his head.

  At least, that’s how it first looked to Orlov. The descalping caught Orlov off guard and he stopped talking.

  Turov placed the wig on the table. “Please, continue.”

  Orlov had seen some strange things in his life, but this ranked right up there. He had a disguise—so what? Maybe this was part of the plan. If there were witnesses, they would be describing a man who did not exist.

  Turov then started to fidget with the corner of his mustache. He tugged on it methodically before pulling up, slowly pulling and pulling until the mustache lifted up off his face. He pulled clear across his lip and the mustache followed in one piece until the last part. The final edge held on to the other corner of his lip, stretching the skin as he tugged. He gave it a quick jerk and the mustache freed itself from his face, swinging back and forth between his fingers.

  This time Orlov took the demasking in stride. He felt like Turov was testing his professionalism, trying to see if he could get him to break. Well, Orlov wasn’t about too. He continued with the briefing as though the mustache incident never happened.

  Turov scratched the tip and side of his nose with his thumb. His finge
rnail caught a piece of skin and he picked at it until the side of his nose appeared to have a flap of loose flesh.

  This time Turov used his other hand to pick at the other side of his nose until he had a piece of loose skin flapping there as well. He pulled at both sides and the tip of his nose lifted right off, leaving a stout, bulldog-like nose. He threw the rubber prosthetic onto the table.

  Orlov finished what he needed to say and now wished he knew what to say. As much as he tried to show that this didn’t matter to him, it did. He eventually managed a question. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t recognize me?” Turov asked pleasantly. “You should know I only work alone.”

  Orlov took a long, hard look. Studying his eyes, his nose, his bald head, his now apparent muscular physique…

  Suddenly Orlov’s eyes widened as he sucked in a deep breath. “You’re…”

  Viktor was on him before he could finish. Orlov had served his role. He no longer needed him. He would only get in the way now. Plus, Viktor didn’t trust him.

  70

  I thought it was best that Sokolov and I met somewhere other than my office. We agreed on the Lion Coffee Cafe on Fillmore and Sacramento. The detective walked in just a few minutes after I arrived and I waved him over to where I was. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “Can I get you something? A coffee? Tea?”

  Sokolov declined. He took out a pen and a small notebook. “Let’s get started. Tell me everything.”

  “Well, there’s not much more to tell. I thought I deleted my account, but I guess I didn’t because suddenly it started to ring. I answered it and an image of the Golden Gate Bridge appeared.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else? Just the bridge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, after a few seconds the image disappeared and there was Viktor staring at me, laughing. In his hand was a postcard of the bridge. He’s here; I know it.”

  “We don’t know for sure that he’s here. He can get this picture at other place…”

  I shook my head. “Trust me, he’s here. I can sense it.”

  “Can you reverse call on Skype?”

  “Well, he’s obviously using Tatiana’s computer, so I can just call her number.”

  I opened my laptop and gave it a try. I had it on speakerphone, so we both heard the ringing, but nobody was picking up.

  “Try connecting again,” Sokolov said.

  I disconnected and tried again. This time someone answered.

  The video window dipped to black for a few seconds and then an image appeared. It looked like we were staring at a white wall. We continued to watch the window, waiting for any sort of movement, but there was none. I tried typing a note. “Viktor, are you there?”

  A typed message appeared seconds later. It said, “Enjoy your coffee, there’s no coffee where you will go.”

  “Can he hear me?” Sokolov asked softly.

  “I’ll mute it.”

  “Type you’re not afraid. Tell him to show himself.”

  I typed the message. A few seconds later, we received an answer.

  “Tell your stupid Russian friend to shut his mouth.”

  “How does he know I’m here?” Sokolov said.

  “The webcam on my laptop is on. He can see both of us. That’s how he knew we were in a coffee shop.”

  “Tell him we know he’s here and we’re watching him.” And then Sokolov pulled his badge out and showed it to the camera.

  “Good. Then we are both warned,” Viktor typed back.

  And then the connection disconnected.

  “I told you he was here.”

  “This feed could be coming from anywhere. But better not to take chances. I’ll take the laptop and get some tech guys on it.”

  “How did he know you were Russian?”

  “We can always spot each other. It’s a Russian thing.” He stood abruptly. “I’ll alert the proper departments that an international fugitive has entered the country. I will also see what I can do about putting a few more patrols around your new house. Don’t contact him or answer his call unless I’m with you. Go straight home. Stay out of sight.”

  I sat there for a bit sipping my coffee contemplating how messed up my life was becoming when my cell phone rang. It was Tav.

  “Hey, where are you? I went up to your office and you weren’t there.”

  I breathed a heavy sigh. “Man, you would not believe what went down.”

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I just got home. I thought you bolted early.”

  “Good. I’m on my way there now.”

  71

  It was close to six when I barged through the front door of The Vic. Tav and Ralphie both jumped out of their seats. Tav had a crazed look in his eyes. Ralphie began barking at me.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Tav asked nervously.

  “Viktor’s here.”

  “Here in San Francisco? How do you know? I thought he couldn’t travel.”

  “You and me both.”

  I started telling Tav about everything, how Viktor contacted me on Skype again at work and showed me a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. I told him how I met with Detective Sokolov and together we contacted Viktor.

  “Did you get a hold of him when you called back?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I just dialed Tatiana’s number.”

  “And he answered?”

  “Not right away. We made the connection, but he never showed his face. He stayed away from the camera and just text chatted. But since we were sitting in front of my laptop and my webcam was on, he could see both me and Detective Sokolov.”

  “So now what?”

  “Detective Sokolov left to sound the alarm and figure out a plan. Oh, and he said he would try to get a few more patrols around here. Other than that, there’s not much more he can do right this minute.”

  Tav looked pissed. “What does he need, a dead body?”

  “I know, I know. But until they can confirm he’s in the city…. By the way, in keeping with full disclosure, I have to tell you that you could be in danger as well.”

  “Me. Why me? I don’t know Viktor.”

  This was delicate. I had to ease Tav into this. “Sokolov said the gang tends to go after family and friends if they can. The good news is he doesn’t know you exist. To help keep it that way, we need to stay out of sight. No going out—just work and home for the time being.”

  “Man, I can’t believe this is happening all over again. I’m the one who’s gonna get the short end of the stick again. Wait, you’ll see.”

  “I promise I won’t let that happen to you.”

  “How are you going to prevent it? Huh?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out. I need to get a hold of Ivan. I have to assume Viktor snuck in under his radar as well. It’s starting to get late. It may not be safe to head over to Inner Richmond at night.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to assume this Viktor guy had help and is with his own kind, Russians.”

  “Look at that. This cloak-and-dagger stuff is becoming second nature to you. You’re starting to understand how the underworld works.”

  “Relax, Tav. That’s common sense.”

  “Yeah, for people mixed up in that world.”

  I shrugged off Tav’s observation. So what if I was thinking more like a Mafiya mind? It’s a good thing. It can help to keep me from making stupid decisions. I grabbed my cell and headed out back for my call with Ivan. I didn’t want to aggravate the situation inside The Vic anymore than I already had.

  When Ivan answered, I didn’t waste any time and filled him in. His silence seemed like a good sign, like he was processing what I had said and formulating a plan. I was sure he had a better idea for handling Viktor.

  Unfortunately, he only had one thing to say.

  “Impossible.”

  I was desperate. I pleaded with Ivan to meet with
me. After about five minutes, he agreed, barely. It was a sharp reminder that these guys weren’t my friends and didn’t care about me. I could not forget that; it was one of my most important rules about the business.

  Ivan met me at our usual place. I had on an oversized jacket and a baseball cap in an attempt to stay on the down low.

  “I am surprised to hear Viktor is here,” he said somberly. “And disappointed I have to hear this from you, of course. Someone in my organization is not doing his job. I will put the word out. If he is in Richmond, we will find him soon.”

  “Not to change the subject, but let’s remember what just took place right now. I might have a wireless solution that can prevent this situation from happening again.”

  “Always looking to improve business even when you’re the one in trouble.” He favored me with a small smile. “I will put a few men outside your apartment.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I couldn’t take the chance of Sokolov running into one of Ivan’s guys outside my place, what with his uncanny ability to spot other Russians.

  “Fine. As you wish.”

  “But there is one favor you can do for me.”

  Ivan raised an eyebrow and leaned back in the booth.

  “I need a gun.”

  He took a minute to answer. Leaning in he said, “If you pull out a gun, you must be willing to use it. Do you understand this?”

  I nodded because that’s all I could think to do. I watched Ivan take out a pen and write something down on a napkin.

  “Go to this address. Tell the man there I sent you and you need a pooshka.”

  Pooshka? My brows furrowed as I shook my head.

  “It’s a gun.”

  “Thanks. I’ll head over now.”

  Ivan nodded and I got up and left the restaurant. Outside, I looked at the napkin. The man I needed to see was Grigory Orlov.

  72

  From outside the closed garage door, the only sound within was a dull, rhythmic thumping. Inside though, it was war.