36 Righteous Men

by Steven Pressfield

  As the inspector is testifying to this on-camera, a side door to his office can be heard to open offscreen. Koverchenko turns toward this entry, as do his two associates. Immediately all sound ceases on the video. A discussion ensues between those on-screen and off, but we, at the other end of the transmission, can hear none of it.

  When sound returns, which it does after an interval of about thirty seconds, Inspector Koverchenko explains to the camera, i.e., to Gleason and Silver, that he was perhaps premature in certain of his conclusions, which should not, he declares, be taken as the official position of his department. He is, he says, not at liberty to discuss the details of this homicide further until he has spoken with and received clearance from some entity that he names but that the software refuses to translate.

  Gleason lets the video run but mutes the sound.

  GLEASON

  We got the same horseshit from Rooskies #2—the Moscow cops investigating their other murder.

  Gleason kills the video and turns up the lights in the room. Our boss is about ten years younger than Manning, forty or so, with a shock of Kennedy-esque hair and a sturdy Auld Sod jaw. It’s impossible to be in his presence and not project him as a future mayor-slash-governor-slash-senator.

  Gleason has his own theory, he tells his teams now, on these “LV” cases.

  He believes that all four homicides were planned, financed, and carried out, either through contract operatives or outsourced assets, by the FSB, the Federal Security Service, i.e., the Russian secret police, the successor to the KGB of Soviet days.

  Why has DivSix been permitted to continue to participate in what is obviously a multi-jurisdictional, in fact federal/international, investigation?

  GLEASON

  Because the first U.S. body dropped on our turf. Because we got the tools and we got the chops. And because if these murders ain’t “special case,” I don’t know what the fuck is.

  What Gleason doesn’t say is that he and the New York County DA, not to mention the mayor, smell a big one here, and they’ve called in all markers to keep DivSix in the game.

  I’ve only been in the division for five months, but one thing I’ve learned: anytime there’s a task-force-style investigation like this one (four of the division’s nine teams have been assigned to these murders as Priority One), every team conspires nonstop against every other and competes without scruple to make its own theory come out on top.

  From the meeting room’s wings, Gleason’s tech sergeant brings forward a quartet of easel-mounted whiteboards. The first is headed “LV SIGN.” Bullet points hand-scrawled in grease pencil read:

  LV = ?

  Terrorist signature? Political? Satanic?

  Why does killer leave sign? To communicate what?

  Why subcutaneous? Why between eyes?

  I snap pix of all the whiteboards, but take notes by hand as well. Another Manning mandate.

  Gleason begins by addressing the significance of the “LV” sign. It’s just weird enough, he says, and creepy enough to point in a very specific direction and at a very specific criminal entity.

  He spells out his working hypothesis.

  Gleason believes, he says, that our two U.S. murders were subcontracted by the FSB to homegrown operators, specifically professional assassins of the Russian Mafia, also known as the Solntsevskaya Bratva, “the Brotherhood,” based here in our own five boroughs. These were the killers, Gleason believes, who took out Nathan Davis and Michael Justman.

  It goes without saying that Gleason would like nothing better than to be the law enforcement official responsible for taking this notorious outfit down, not just for the points he would score within the NYPD but because it would ace the Feds, the CIA, even the NSA.

  The second thing I’ve learned in my months at DivSix is that when the skipper puts forth his own theory on a case, you the individual investigator have two choices—ride along or ride into the sunset.

  Up front Gleason has stepped to a second whiteboard, this one headed “RUSSIAN CONNECTION.”

  Victims #3 and #4 killed in Russia. Both anti-Kremlin activists.

  U.S. Victim #1—Russian-born, did biz w/Russia

  U.S. Victim #2—State Dept (Russian affairs)

  “LV” = Roman numeral 55 = FSB code for political murder

  Gleason circles this in red.

  GLEASON

  LV is the Roman numeral for fifty-five. “Fifty-five” is FSB code for political murder. Not only that, but FSB protocol is to cite codes not in numbers but in Roman numerals.

  This stirs a murmur.

  Even Manning reacts.

  Gleason notes that the FSB has been notorious since the end of the Cold War for the brazenness of its assassinations of foes of the Kremlin, both in Russia and on foreign soil. It has hit civilian targets including journalists, politicians, businessmen, even religious leaders, in England, France, Germany, and the States. It has poisoned them, asphyxiated them, caused them to die in car crashes, tumble from rooftops, expire of heart attacks, all in highly public ways and all clearly intended to send a message.

  Gleason, up front, steps to a third whiteboard. This one holds mug shots, arrayed in the form of an organizational chart, of about a dozen Slavic-looking individuals, with names, aliases, etc. Board title:

  RUSSIAN MAFIA—“BRATVA”

  Atop the chart Gleason pins an MTA map of South Brooklyn with the neighborhood of Brighton Beach, the territorial province of the Brotherhood, circled in black grease pencil. He adds three photos—one NYPD drone surveillance shot and two Google Earth pix—of an urban compound, about a block square.

  This, he tells his teams, is Bratva’s home field and its starting lineup.

  A fourth board is headed:

  MAP PROXIMITY

  This board includes MS’s, movement scenarios, for various known Bratva gunmen in relation to the New York decedent Davis and the D.C. victim Justman. Charts trace the whereabouts, determined by cell GPS, street-corner surveillance cameras, and so forth, of three specific operators, including the notorious Alemany “Yoo-hoo” Petracek (nicknamed for the soft drink he favors), the American-born hit artist reputedly responsible for twenty-seven murders, six with his bare hands. Petracek’s profile is so high he has his own Wikipedia page.

  Gleason reviews the map intersects for Petracek. They put him practically in the lap of the New York victim, Nathan Davis, on two of the nine days preceding the murder.

  I find myself writing “WOW” on my notepad.

  Gleason wraps his presentation. His tech sergeant distributes assignment envelopes to the four teams. The detectives stand, tucking their packets under their arms. The mob migrates to the Nespresso machine and the departmental kitchen. I fall in at the rear with the other Third Graders. Up front Lieutenant Kiriakin [Donat C., “Don”], one of the up-and-comers in the division, is saying something to Manning about the “LV” sign—that it indicates that the killer “is fucking with us.”

  DETECTIVE KIRIAKIN

  A special-case murderer wants to be caught. That’s what you always say, ain’t it, Manning?

  Kiriakin is about thirty—twenty years younger than Manning. Manning draws up amid the group.

  MANNING

  No, that’s not what I say, Kiriakin.

  Outside the Bunker we’re allowed to turn our phones on.

  MANNING

  A special-case killer wants to be known. He wants to be understood. He wants his suffering to be appreciated and his point of view to be granted respect.

  At this moment my cell pings with an incoming text. It’s for Manning. (All his calls are routed through me.) Caller ID: UNKNOWN. A burner, no doubt. I tap the message icon:

  LV is Hebrew. The letters “lamed” and “vav.”

  Google it.

  I think instantly, The woman. The one who shouted to Manning outside the townhouse in Georgetown.

  I text back:

  Who R U?

  No response.

  I show Manning the screen.
A stranger watching him would notice zero change of expression. But I see.

  Manning’s glance to me says, Trace this ASAP.

  Gleason emerges from the Bunker. He comes up to the group. He has seen me show the phone to Manning.

  GLEASON

  What’s this grab-ass?

  I’m thinking, A drop phone is untraceable. But I can back-link to the cell tower. I can find the neighborhood where the text was sent from.

  As I’m thinking this, a second ping comes in.

  Don’t believe me? Note victims. All 4 R Jews.

  Gleason makes me show him the phone.

  GLEASON

  More bullshit.

  But Manning’s look to me says, Trace this too. Same sender?

  Silver, Kiriakin, and the others all note this wordless clash between Manning and Gleason. Gleason notes that they note it.

  GLEASON

  (to Silver)

  Ready to roll?

  Gleason’s second-in-command confirms. Gleason turns to Manning and me.

  GLEASON

  You two. Take a ride.

  6

  CAESAR’S SANCTUARY

  THE CAESAR’S SANCTUARY STEAM BATHS sit at the corner of Surf Avenue and West Twenty-Seventh Street in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

  Brighton Beach, aka “Little Russia.”

  Gleason has ordered Manning and me to accompany him and Silver, in Gleason’s car, with our own AV deadheading behind, trailed by a backup team in a blue-and-white. It’s 1330, less than forty minutes after the meeting in the Bunker.

  I haven’t had one second to trace text #1 or #2, to run an info search on “lamed” and “vav,” or to shoot Manning the even bigger questions:

  Why did the sender send these to Manning?

  And how did he (or she) get the address?

  The only thing I’ve been able to accomplish, feigning a trip to the loo before we left, is to ID the phone that sent the two texts.

  It is indeed a throwaway. Text #2 was the last message the phone sent. The caller no doubt chucked it in the trash the instant he or she hit SEND.

  The phone’s final message was relayed by cell tower 18706, Canarsie (actually an antenna array mounted on the top-floor facing of a tenement building), meaning the caller was somewhere within a block or two when the call was placed.

  Our DivSix group, led by Gleason, dismounts now from its vehicles onto a sweltering Brighton Beach sidewalk, one long block from the beach, and troops up to the warped and paint-peeling doors of the steam emporium.

  Gleason leads us in. Manning takes off his dark glasses, squinting into the gloom. I follow. Is it my imagination, or did some species of glossy rodent just scamper along the entryway floorboard? I feel a noxious drop of liquid strike my forehead, as if falling from a ceiling stalactite.

  Caesar’s Sanctuary? The place is the skeeviest, most unsanitary hellhole I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t touch a wall or a doorknob without rubber gloves.

  Gleason, flashing his gold shield, blows past the reception desk, if such a term may be applied to a trio of pseudo-Roman columns glistening with condensation, topped by a faux-marble slab that looks like it was stolen from a Hollywood prop house, and manned by a white-haired Slavic gentleman, clad in a terry-cloth toga, who looks exactly like Charles Laughton as the Roman senator in Spartacus.

  I look up and we’re entering a locker room.

  A men’s locker room.

  MANNING

  (to me)

  Wait outside.

  GLEASON

  No. She goes in.

  I smell steam and male sweat. From a cloud of vapor emerge two burly pink humanoids, both bald as cue balls, shod in flip-flops, with towels wrapped around their bellies. One looks like Winston Churchill, the other like Nikita Khrushchev.

  MANNING

  Dewey’s a woman, Gleason.

  GLEASON

  She’s a law enforcement professional.

  Gleason leads our party through the changing area and down a dingy tile-walled runway that opens into a slightly brighter (from a skylight) steam room.

  Half a dozen Roosky-looking gentlemen sit naked in various postures on multileveled, mold-infested tile platforms. One rises immediately to confront us.

  RUSSIAN MAN #1

  What the fuck is this?

  The man clearly recognizes Gleason.

  GLEASON

  How’s it hanging, Yoo-hoo?

  I’m cringing. Manning has stepped in front to shield me from this sight that, once seen, can never be unseen. The denizens of the steam room, realizing a female has entered their sanctum, without haste tug towels over their privates.

  “Yoo-hoo” is Alemany Petracek, the assassin with his own Wikipedia page.

  We have invaded the Russian Mafia at lunchtime.

  YOO-HOO

  What bullshit are you pulling, Gleason? If you ain’t got a warrant, take a fucking hike.

  Gleason orders Yoo-hoo to sit. The Russian in no hurry pulls a towel around himself. He nods in my direction.

  YOO-HOO

  Get this bitch outta here. This is a men’s steam!

  Manning strides a step closer to the assassin, still shielding me. I understand now why I have been brought along—to humiliate the mafiosi in their most occult sanctuary.

  As for Yoo-hoo, he is not particularly tall or muscular. But his Volga-boatman shoulders look like they could out-pull a pair of oxen, and his forearms, what I can see of them beneath a solid scrim of Iron Curtain tattoos, are as big around as most men’s calves.

  Clearly Yoo-hoo is capable of the physical mayhem performed in Michael Justman’s Georgetown kitchen.

  He sits. The other Russians glare at our party. Gleason sets a folded towel down onto the seating surface next to Yoo-hoo. He lowers himself, in his suit, onto it.

  GLEASON

  Brought you something.

  Gleason hands Yoo-hoo a square flat package, wrapped in brown paper. Yoo-hoo stares.

  GLEASON

  Open it.

  The Russian glances to his compatriots.

  He unbinds the wrapping paper without enthusiasm.

  The package holds a framed photo of Evgeny Karkov, the Russian president.

  YOO-HOO

  What the fuck is this?

  GLEASON

  For your wall. Like at the post office. To remind you who you work for.

  Yoo-hoo looks at Gleason the way a lion looks at a wolf. Strike that. Yoo-hoo is scarier. I’m eyeing Manning throughout this. He is clearly ready for anything.

  Gleason now tugs a photo—an eight-by-twelve glossy tucked in a manila folder—from beneath his jacket. He hands the photo to Yoo-hoo. I can’t see the picture, but I will learn later that it’s a chalk-outline shot of “LV” Victim #1, Nathan Davis, dead on the floor of the dining room of the Century Association in Manhattan.

  GLEASON

  Whaddaya know about this guy?

  Yoo-hoo drops the glossy onto the slimy seating surface.

  YOO-HOO

  I know he’s dead.

  GLEASON

  I bet you do.

  Gleason asks the assassin how he left the “LV” mark.

  YOO-HOO

  The what?

  GLEASON

  What’s the trick? How did you make the blood vessels rupture in just that shape?

  YOO-HOO

  I dunno what the fuck you’re talking about.

  Gleason tells the killer he’s got Verizon Wireless records of two phone calls from him, Yoo-hoo, to the home of U.S. Homicide Victim #1, Nathan Davis, from nine and six days prior to the murder. He says he knows that Yoo-hoo murdered Davis.

  YOO-HOO

  Then arrest me.

  GLEASON

  Don’t worry.

  (stands)

  I will.

  Gleason leads our party two steps toward the exit. The Russians glower after him. I see Yoo-hoo meet Manning’s eye, then look away.

  YOO-HOO

  (to Gleason)

&nbs
p; Whaddaya gotta come around here for, ruin our fucking day?

  I follow Manning out. The sun hits us. I realize I’m drenched.

  MANNING

  You okay?

  Gleason speaks apart with Silver as our driverless vehicles, which had parked themselves at the end of the block, pull up at the curb and stop. Gleason tells Manning he’ll speak to him back at the office. Gleason and Silver board their vehicle.

  Manning starts toward ours, but not before flashing me a look that says we’re not going back to DivSix just yet. Gleason and Silver’s vehicle pulls out into traffic.

  Manning boards ours. I follow. The engine is already on. The nav screen lights up.

  MANNING

  (to me)

  The cell tower. Where is it?

  7

  CANARSIE

  THE SKIMMERS are all black and young—fifteen at the oldest; many look eleven, ten, even younger. Plainly this is their racket. Their uniform is porkpie hats perched on outrageously oversized Afros, no shirt, torso (almost always gaunt) solid with tats, beneath which droop cargo pants lapped atop unlaced Doc Martens. Dangling from their belts are stevedore-type hooks, which the skimmers use to pop open subway and sidewalk grates.

  They’re hunting for junked phones.