The Russian's Greed

by Cap Daniels

  “We don’t have time to stand by, Legal. I need that truck moved, now.”

  The attorney keyed her mic again. “I said stand by, Command-One. I’ll get back to you.”

  White threw the radio onto the seat and cursed the necktie army. He threw open the door of the van and leapt from the seat. Two hundred strides later, he was standing in front of a heavy tow truck in the process of repossessing some poor sap’s Mustang. “Hey, buddy!”

  The tow truck driver looked up. “Look, man, I’m just doing my job. This ain’t personal, but you gotta make your payments, man.”

  White stopped a few strides in front of the burly driver and held up his badge.

  The driver threw up both hands. “Look, man, I don’t know what that crazy broad told you, but I didn’t do nothin’ to her.”

  White shoved the four hundred bucks back into his pocket, suddenly realizing he had a much better negotiating tool. “Oh, yeah. That’s what she said you’d say when we picked you up, but look . . . I can probably look the other way on that thing. Who needs that kinda headache anyway, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, man. But I know cops don’t do nothing for free. What do you want from me?”

  White hid the smile, but inside he was doing the happy puppy dance. “There’s a broken-down garbage truck in the alley back there, and I need it moved.”

  “Is it one of them big ones, or the little community trucks?”

  “What difference does it make? I only need you to move it ten feet. That is, unless your little truck can’t handle it, in which case, I guess you’ve got the right to remain silent.”

  The tow truck driver threw his gloves into the toolbox and laid his meaty arm across a series of levers, sending the Mustang banging back to the ground. “Just ten feet, you say?”

  “That’s right. Just pull it out of the alley enough to get a few guys in there.”

  The driver wiped his brow. “If I do this thing, you’re gonna look the other way on that other thing, right? And I got your word on that?”

  “You got it. I swear I won’t be looking for you, and I’ll make sure nobody in my precinct is coming after you. But you gotta leave that girl alone, you hear me?”

  He yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel. “Trust me, man. I don’t want nothin’ else to do with that crazy chick.”

  Five minutes later, the agent in command of the perimeter team keyed his mic. “Nice going, Command. Perimeter is a go.”

  White picked up his radio. “Roger, Perimeter.”

  Almost before he’d stopped talking, the radio squawked to life. “Command-One, this is Legal. Stand down. Sanitation says they’ll have the truck removed within an hour.”

  White couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Roger, Legal. You’re breaking up a little. Go to channel two, and stand by.”

  “Roger. Legal will be standing by on channel two.”

  “Hey, SWAT. Are you guys ready to have a little fun?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  White checked his watch. “Commo, say interior condition.”

  “Interior is condition two. Your girl is inside the interior, and the driver is sitting on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette. No obstructions, no security, no problems. Hit ’em at will.”

  “Roger, Commo. Did you hear that, Entry?”

  The Entry Team commander motioned for helmets on and face shields down, then keyed his mic. “Rock and roll.”

  White took a long breath and keyed up. “Okay, Entry, knock on the door nice and polite, and SWAT, you go ahead and do the same.”

  “Entry, rolling!”

  “SWAT, rolling!”

  White pulled the old-fashioned stopwatch from his pocket and pressed the single button on the crown.

  The mirror of White’s van provided a six-inch square view of the action, but he wanted a wide-screen high-definition view. A spin of the wheel and a size eleven boot on the accelerator spun the van and changed his perspective.

  The solid black armored entry vehicle with the triangular cow catcher on the front accelerated down the street with black diesel smoke boiling from the stacks. The SWAT van with eight heavily armed commandos hanging off the sides followed less than one car length behind the Entry Team.

  The Commo officer yanked the fiber-optic camera lens from beneath at the same instant the entry vehicle collided with the steel roll-up door. Sparks, flying debris, and radio calls filled the air.

  “Entry Team is in!”

  “SWAT’s in!”

  White hammered the accelerator to the floor, sending white smoke pouring from the rear tires of his van. He fell in behind the SWAT vehicle and braked hard as soon as the full length of the van was inside the warehouse. Sliding the van into place, he blocked the exit door and leapt from the vehicle with his pistol drawn and ballistic vest in place.

  The point man from SWAT set a pair of charges on the doors of the office and yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

  Almost before he’d taken cover behind the van, the doors exploded from their hinges, filling the entryway with dust and debris.

  One of the entry team officers pinned Volkov’s driver to the floor of the warehouse and secured his wrists with flex-cuffs. “Don’t move, and you won’t get hurt. Got it?”

  The driver nodded in a silent, knowing reply.

  White pressed his left hand against the back of the last SWAT officer and made entry into the office space right on their heels.

  The lead SWAT officer yelled, “Get down! Get down! Get down!”

  As the chaos calmed and the dust and smoke parted, one of the SWAT team members called out, “Right office, clear!”

  “Lobby, clear!”

  “Left office, clear!”

  “Interior, clear! Stand by to blow the vault!”

  “Blow it!” White commanded.

  The breaching officer yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

  With a thundering roar, the heavy vault door caved inward beneath the force of the shaped charge, and the concrete pillars supporting its weight collapsed.

  “Vault, clear!”

  White coughed and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Nice work, guys. Count ’em down.”

  The officer from the warehouse yelled, “I’ve got one on the concrete. He’s cuffed and secure.”

  Special Agent Gwynn Davis pulled off her helmet, wiped the sweat from her brow, and yelled, “Two cuffed and secure in the right office.”

  No one else made any reports, and White felt his heart stop beating. “There should’ve been four!”

  Gwynn yelled, “We’ve got Volkov and Sascha.”

  From the warehouse, another yelled, “I’ve got the driver!”

  “Where’s the woman?” White shouted. “Find the woman!”

  He drove his thumb into his push-to-talk button. “Perimeter, Command-One, we may have a runner. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Roger, Command-One. Looking for the runner.”

  The SWAT team scoured the interior of the offices in two-man search teams while Agent White knelt beside the driver. “Where’s the woman?”

  The officer still had a knee in the driver’s back, so White ordered, “Let him sit up.”

  The officer helped the driver roll over and sit up with his back against the Bentley.

  White grabbed the man’s shirt and stuck his face within inches of his. “I said, where’s the girl?”

  The driver smiled, leaned his face even closer to White’s, and shot his eyes toward the demolished roll-up door. “I’ve got a better question . . . Where’s your van?”

  EPILOGUE

  Fox Theater, Atlanta, Georgia

  Anastasia Robertovna Burinkova stood beside the stage surrounded by throngs of adoring audience members as the prima ballerina of the Bolshoi second company stood only inches away on pointe, posing for pictures with every would-be ballerina in the audience.

  In her native Russian, Anya, the elder, said, “Sometimes I pretend I can’t speak English.”

>   Anya, the younger, looked up to see the face of the beautiful, former Russian SVR officer standing in the shadows, and she released from pointe, landing on her heels and running to her American namesake. “Miss Anya, I can’t believe you came. Where is my uncle?”

  “He couldn’t come, but I am here. Do you have a change of clothes?”

  The ballerina’s eyes exploded in excitement. “I will meet you at door six in five minutes.”

  Two hours . . . and five minutes later, Anya and Anya pulled into the driveway of a simple ranch-style house near the University of Georgia in Athens.

  “What is this place?” asked the dancer.

  “This was my father’s house, and now it is your house.”

  “My house? But how can this be?”

  Anya slid her oversized purse containing ninety thousand dollars in cash across the seat. “It is your house because I say it is so, and this purse is for your mother.”

  The porch light illuminated the elevated concrete landing by the front door, and Irina Volkovna emerged from the house with tears streaming from her face as fifteen-year-old Anya ran into her mother’s arms for the first time on American soil.

  PRIMECHANIYE AVTORA

  (AUTHOR’S NOTE)

  Several months ago, one of the readers of my Chase Fulton Novels series emailed to share a wonderfully touching story. He told me the story of his granddaughter named Anya, and how much she enjoyed hearing about a character who shares her somewhat unusual name. Over the course of dozens of emails with this gentleman, he and I formed a friendship for which I am deeply thankful. In a bit of an off-the-cuff comment, I mentioned that it would be fun to work his granddaughter into a scene in an upcoming story. At the time, I thought I might create a scene in which the young Anya would make a passing appearance and offer a bit of lightheartedness and possibly serve as a trigger for a memory sequence for Anya Burinkova, but, obviously, that’s not what happened. As you read in the pages of this novel, Anya Volkovna, just like big Anya, has a way of taking over every scene in which she appears. She grew from a momentary character into the primary subplot of The Russian’s Greed, and something tells me we’re not finished with her. She managed to weave herself into the ending of this story, setting up her likely return in future novels. I hope you enjoyed meeting Ms. Volkovna “Little Anya” as much as I did.

  This story, circumstances, characters, and premise are entirely the products of my imagination. To my knowledge, there is no evidence of any degree of corruption in the diamond trade on New York City’s Diamond Row. I found no evidence of involvement of any faction of the Russian mafia in the diamond industry anywhere in the world. By all evidence and accounts, the diamond dealers of New York City conduct a reasonable, respectable, and honorable business, and none of my research for this novel produced any evidence to the contrary.

  The scene involving opening the cabin door in the airborne Hawker jet is purely fictional, and it is likely the events described in that scene are completely impossible. I took enormous liberties in the creation of that scene.

  Although the science of creating diamonds in a laboratory exists and is in practice today, I greatly exaggerated the capabilities of that science for dramatic effect in this novel. I have no evidence of anyone exchanging laboratory-created diamonds for natural diamonds in any setting anywhere in the world. Although almost impossible to discern with the human eye, there are laboratory tests capable of determining the difference between a lab-created diamond and a natural stone. The science fascinated me enough to construct a fictional story around the premise purely for entertainment value.

  To my knowledge, there is no Bolshoi Ballet second company, and the Bolshoi does not designate a prima ballerina. Their designations are principals, leading soloists, first soloists, and soloists. My representations of life in Russia, as well as involvement with the Bolshoi Theater, are purely fictional.

  Further, my depictions of field agents of the United States Department of Justice, their tactics, and procedures are purely fictional and have no basis in actual operations of the DOJ . . . unless, of course, they aren’t fictional and I made some lucky guesses.

  Ultimately, I made it all up and used the real names of some real places while doing so. My only intention in the creation of this work of fiction was to entertain the reader. I hope I pulled it off.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CAP DANIELS

  Cap Daniels is a former sailing charter captain, scuba and sailing instructor, pilot, Air Force combat veteran, and civil servant of the U.S. Department of Defense. Raised far from the ocean in rural East Tennessee, his early infatuation with salt water was sparked by the fascinating, and sometimes true, sea stories told by his father, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer. Those stories of adventure on the high seas sent Cap in search of adventure of his own, which eventually landed him on Florida’s Gulf Coast where he spends as much time as possible on, in, and under the waters of the Emerald Coast.

  With a headful of larger-than-life characters and their thrilling exploits, Cap pours his love of adventure and passion for the ocean onto the pages of his work.

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