Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Dmitri laughed. “Their budget must be pretty bad if they’re driving a van like that.”

  Anton glanced over his shoulder and gave Dmitri a look that clearly said Stop, don’t encourage him. But it was too late—Misha seized upon the possibility like a child reaching for a cookie. “Yes. Yes! Topolev could have called the police. He could be under surveillance!”

  “Even if someone were watching,” said Anton, “are you not going to go get the money? Are you going to tell Yuri that we didn’t get his money?”

  “I’d rather do that instead of getting arrested.”

  Anton sniffed in amusement. “You don’t know Yuri very well. Anyway, the cops are on our payroll. Look, just relax and do what I tell you to do. We’ve done this a million times.”

  For some reason unknown to anyone with a brain, Misha again began to channel his nervous energy back into the safety on his pistol. It was a Makarov PMM, which used the heavier-load cartridge and therefore had more muzzle velocity than the normal PM.

  Anton silently cursed the gods for orchestrating this clown going on the shakedown with them.

  Flick, flick.

  Anton considered the van. It was parked across the street, within line of sight of the entry to Cer. The paint was peeling off of the sides and it was missing all of the hubcaps. Anton wondered if it would even run. That was probably the reason it was sitting nearby.

  Flick, flick.

  Okay, that was getting annoying.

  “Give me the gun,” said Anton.

  “What?”

  “I said give me the gun. You need to calm down.”

  “I told you, I am calm,” replied Misha in a halting, agitated voice. “I’m not giving you the gun. What if there’s a fight? That van is trouble.”

  Anton took another deep drag on his cigarette.

  Flick, flick.

  While there was strength in numbers, Anton had learned in the Soviet army long ago that sometimes it was best to not have the squad’s loose cannon in the same foxhole as you.

  Flick, flick.

  Anton tapped out his cigarette on the car window and stared ahead out the windshield.

  In a smooth, sudden movement that flowed without warning, Anton snatched at the Makarov.

  The safety had been in the off position.

  BAM went the Makarov.

  Johan and Dmitri rocked the car as they both jumped in unison.

  “Aaaaaagh!” shrieked Misha. “My foot! Oh, God! You shot my foot! You shot my foot!”

  The car was filled with howling from its writhing passenger. Anton cradled the pistol in his hands and flipped the safety back on. He popped the clip out and put it in the outside pocket of his overcoat before handing the now-empty pistol over the seat to Dmitri. Then Anton fumbled out his pack of cigarettes. This time the flicking sound was from his lighter.

  “I didn’t shoot your foot,” Anton said calmly. “The gun went off. You shouldn’t have been playing with the safety.”

  Misha was clutching his left foot, which was oozing dark red pulses of blood all over the place as he struggled to remove his shoe. “It hurts! Oh, God!”

  Anton sighed and took another deep drag.

  “Misha, stop already. Look, you’re making a mess on my floorboard. Do you know how hard blood is to get out of fabric? This is a Mercedes, for God’s sake.”

  “Aaaaaagh!”

  “Here, take this towel.” Anton fished behind his car seat until he felt his bundle of tools he always took with him, for hotwiring a car or planting a bomb under a hood. He loosened the rag and let the wrenches and mini-drill fall with a dull thud to the floorboard by Johan’s feet. “Wrap it around your foot, then put your foot up on the dash so that it’s elevated.”

  “This rag is filthy! What’s all over it?” howled Misha.

  “Eh, probably motor oil. Maybe blood.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. What, are you a little baby?”

  Misha took the rag and started to bind his injured foot. He was crying now, in between sharp jerks of agony and hurtful glances at Anton.

  “It hurts! It hurts!”

  Anton just shook his head. He felt pity for Misha, much like he might have compassion for a dog too stupid to not know he shouldn’t eat another dog’s shit off the sidewalk. He decided to do his best and help the poor, insipid dolt. “Misha, you need to put pressure on and elevate your foot so that you don’t lose more blood and black out. No, wrap it the other way. That’s too loose. You want pressure... yes, like that. Can you hurry, please? You’re making a big mess. Yes, good, good. Now raise your foot.”

  “I can’t!” groaned the Ukrainian.

  Anton was starting to get a headache from all the noise.

  “Here, I’ll help you. Not so loud, you want to draw attention? There you go. Now tilt seat back. Good. Is that better?”

  “Oh, ow... a little, I guess...”

  “Okay. Perfect. Now, there’s one more thing I want you to do, okay?”

  “W-what? Oh, Goddamn it, ow... w-what is it?” Misha panted.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Y-yes, yes, w-what is it?”

  Anton put his face next to Misha’s ear and spoke with icy forcefulness. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll put the next bullet in your forehead.”

  The interior of the Mercedes was suddenly, totally silent. The Ukrainian looked completely stunned, and even afraid. But he had stopped shrieking.

  Johan pointed out the window past Misha’s ear. “There he is.”

  Three sets of eyes—everyone’s but Misha’s, which were still glued on Anton—momentarily turned to see the short, pear-shaped man with well-coiffed dark hair picking up a menu placard near Cer’s front door and taking it inside.

  “Good,” said Anton cheerfully. He finished off his cigarette with a smile and tapped out the smoldering butt in the ashtray. “Let’s get started then. Now look, Misha. The three of us—Johan, Dmitri, and myself—we’re going to go ahead and go. You just stay in the car. That injury looks pretty painful and I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Anton glanced out the windshield. “You can even sit and watch the van if you like. I was wrong—just look at it, it definitely seems suspicious. Don’t you think? You watch the hell out of it, okay? But just stay here while you’re doing it, and keep quiet.”

  Misha stared silently at Anton, too afraid to move. His eyes were like saucers.

  Anton patted him on the thigh. “Be right back,” he said with a wink.

  Their mark had gone into his restaurant. Anton, Dmitri, and Johan all climbed out of the car and straightened their coats, especially Dmitri, given what he had under it. There was still no pedestrian traffic—partiers had gone home, and most of the establishments had closed up at this point. That was a good thing. They crossed the street and walked up to the entrance of Cer. Topolev had left the door unlocked, but even if he hadn’t it would have been easy to make short work of it. Anton opened the door and strode in carefully, followed by his men. A little bell mounted to the door announced their presence.

  The restaurant was not particularly large, but a series of mirrors down the left wall gave the illusion that it was bigger than it really was. Small round tables with white linen tablecloths were arranged in neat rows front-to-back. The right wall had oil paintings of the Romanian countryside, and the ceiling was high with exposed beams to give everything a rustic look. The bar was at the back next to the door to the kitchen. A second door at the back leading to the business office swung open, and Topolev emerged from the sound of the bell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding annoyed and distracted. “We’re not open. I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “How about a drink, then, to start off the morning?” said Anton.

  Topolev froze.

  It was dim inside, and Anton realized that he was probably difficult to see. He walked further into the restaurant, Johan following, Dmitri staying by the entryway as planned. Anton picked a table by the bar and
pulled out a chair, then sat down in the one opposite. He stared expectantly at Topolev, who was watching the Russian as carefully as a giraffe might watch a leopard stalking her calf.

  “Anton,” Topolev said with surprise.

  Anton was pleased that the restaurant owner had recognized him. It wasn’t every day that he got to visit the little people. Anton glanced purposefully at the open chair, then back to Topolev.

  Topolev hesitated, then walked slowly to the little table and sat down. He glanced nervously at Johan. “W-what brings you gentlemen here this morning?”

  “Oh, I think that’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re behind on your payments.”

  Topolev took a long, deep breath. Anton watched him silently and lit another cigarette. Topolev had a dark complexion—dark eyes, olive skin, jet black hair with a few streaks of gray. His face was lined from years of running his own business. Anton knew that the man had a wife and two daughters who helped wait tables and entertain guests.

  “Times are rough, Anton,” he said finally. “Fewer people are eating out.”

  Anton just stared at Topolev, smoking patiently, not speaking. The restaurateur finally felt compelled to keep talking and dispel the awkward silence. “Anton, I don’t have the money. I’ve had to fire one of my waiters and cut back on the supplies my chef uses. I’m just trying to survive until things turn around. It’s not a question of want, it’s can’t.”

  More silence. Anton finished his cigarette.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” asked Topolev.

  “That’s a nice car I saw you driving yesterday.”

  Topolev glanced nervously at the other men. His forehead was starting to glisten with sweat.

  “Yes, it’s a nice car. A vestige from a happier time.”

  “Why don’t you sell it if things are so bad?”

  A long pause. “Who would buy it?”

  “There’s always someone when the price is right,” said Anton. “And then you’d have money to pay me—and your waiter.”

  Topolev shifted nervously around in the chair. Anton scrutinized his face, searching for the right levers. What would this man respond to? What would be the best way to get their payments? There was always money. The trick was to get your own cash stream prioritized over other expenditures to other people.

  “It’s an old car, Anton,” Topolev said finally. “It looks better than the condition that it’s really in. Everyone around here knows what a pain it is, always breaking down. No one would buy it. It looks nice, but you have to understand, I’m really struggling.”

  “I see. How about that drink? I’m thirsty.”

  “Oh. Of course. Let me—”

  “Johan can get it.”

  Johan hovered over Topolev and held out his hand expectantly. Topolev reached into his pocket for his keys and placed them in the meaty palm in front of his face.

  Anton’s burly companion clomped over to behind the bar and examined the liquor bottles locked behind a glass cabinet door reinforced with metal bars. He opened the cabinet and selected one of the more popular vodkas that sold locally. Then, grabbing two glasses out of an adjacent shelf, Johan walked over and deposited the bottle onto the table in front of Anton.

  Anton took the vodka and poured into the glasses until each was half full. Then he raised his glass, nodded to Topolev, and took a swig. A sour expression crossed his face as he put the glass back down.

  “That’s watered down a bit too much, don’t you think? Hardly tastes like alcohol.”

  Topolev shifted in his chair. “You should have let me choose the bottle. We use this brand for mixed drinks, to stretch it out. I’ve got to make every little bit last right now.”

  It was as Anton feared. Bad economy, lower revenues, squeezing things just to make ends meet. That was unfortunate. Part of him sympathized with the plight that poor Topolev was in.

  The unlucky thing for Topolev was that it was a very small part.

  The restaurant was silent for a few moments while Anton came to his decision. The only way to squeeze blood from a turnip was to make it personal—visceral—so that the desire to conform came from the most basic, animalistic level of survival that a human being possessed.

  Anton scanned the room and saw the swinging door back to the kitchen

  “Okay,” he said matter-of-factly.

  For a split second, Topolev seemed to think he was off the hook. But then in a lightning-fast move, Anton jumped from the table and grabbed the smaller man by his shirt, lifted him roughly off his chair, and started hauling him back to the kitchen. He heard Dmitri locking the front door and saw Johan following them out the corner of his eye.

  “W-w-what are you doing?” shrieked Topolev.

  Anton made no reply as they burst through the kitchen door. Johan hit the light switch and revealed two heavy stainless steel prep tables laid out in a row down the middle of the room. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling. The right wall was lined with two ovens stacked on top of each other, and a bank of stove burners sat next to the ovens.

  “Stop!” Topolev shouted. “Wait!”

  Anton slugged him in the stomach, hard. Then he did it a second time. Topolev hunched over, unable to breath and clutching his midsection. Anton heaved him to the ground and kicked him in the torso several times, while he looked around the kitchen for some creative ideas.

  “Do you like meatballs?” said Anton. “A fine, traditional Romanian dish. I feel like I’m in the mood for meatballs.”

  Topolev coughed and sputtered on the floor unintelligibly.

  Dmitri stayed in the other room to provide security while Anton and Johan dumped their coats onto the prep table. Anton set a large frying pan onto one of the stove burners, then spotted some cooking oil in a nearby carafe and poured it generously into the pan before flipping on the burner flame. With the pan beginning to heat up, he opened several of the storage drawers and rifled through the cabinets until he found an acceptable instrument for the symphony: a large, metal mallet used for tenderizing meat.

  “First,” Anton began cheerfully, “we need to prep the hamburger for our meatballs, yes?”

  Johan manhandled the restaurant owner up to his feet and pushed him backward over the prep table. Anton turned around with the mallet in his fist and pointed at Topolev’s right hand, which Johan instantly secured with both arms while pinning the rest of him with his body weight.

  “Wait, stop!”

  Anton raised the mallet.

  Wham, wham, wham!

  The mallet came down hard on Topolev’s hand, swiftly pulverizing the bones in his palm and fingers. The restaurateur screamed with a mighty roar and struggled to no avail against the ironclad grip of the blond giant holding him down.

  “Johan’s pretty strong, isn’t he?” observed Anton as he tossed the mallet aside. “Ex-weightlifter. He used to train for the Olympics, can you believe it?”

  Topolev moaned in pain.

  “He’s had a rough time with the economy too, my friend,” Anton continued in a bright, lecturing tone. “The state isn’t there anymore to support his training, his diet. You can imagine how much a guy like Johan has to eat to stay as big and strong as he is, yes? But unlike you, Johan adapts. He finds a way. In this case, that way is to work for me. A pretty good partnership, don’t you think?”

  There was only whimpering in reply.

  “Ah, of course you’re right. The meatballs. How inconsiderate of me to forget. Johan?”

  The big, blond giant lifted Topolev by his forearm off the prep table.

  “I think our oil is probably ready.”

  Johan hauled the restaurant manager over to the stove.

  “No time to waste—raw meat can spoil if left out at room temperature, yes?”

  Topolev screamed even before his hand was forced into the frying pan. He tried to pull it back, to break the grasp of Anton’s accomplice, to do anything to avoid what was coming. But he couldn’t. The flesh of his palm met the simmering oil and there was a
split second rush of sizzling before the howls of pain drowned out the sound. Johan, the great East German bear of a man, clamped Topolev’s hand flat against the scalding metal and held it there, impassively like a giant construction crane, as the smaller man in his grasp writhed and jerked erratically in a vain attempt to get free.

  “Hmmm. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

  Johan gave him a sidelong, somewhat sickened glance.

  Anton opened up one of the nearby cabinets, then another, and another. In the third one he found what he was looking for: a container of salt. He poured some into his own palm and then sprinkled it over the crackling flesh at the end of Topolev’s arm. “Let’s not forget the seasoning, now.”

  The shrieks and shouting had subsidized now; there were no functional nerve endings left alive to transmit any pain. Anton nodded to Johan to release their victim, who promptly stumbled backward and fell into a seated position on the floor. Anton kneeled down across from him about a meter away, cleared his throat, and spoke in an apologetic tone.

  “Mr. Topolev, I have to admit my own recipes probably won’t bring in much new business for you. I’m sure your cooking is better. But hopefully—”

  “Fuck... YOU!” Topolev grunted.

  Anton grimaced as if he had tasted something bitter. He shuffled forward in his crouch until he was next to Topolev. “Is that what you’re going to yell when I hold your wife’s face against that frying pan? Or what about when we dissect your daughter’s genitalia right in front of you? Perhaps you might have time to finish the thought of fuck you eight months from now when you start your car, in the split second between when you turn the key in your ignition and when the bomb under the hood goes off.”

  He leaned forward until his mouth was next to the restaurateur’s ear. He spoke in a whisper. “Topolev. Listen to me. Are you listening? This... all this? This is nothing.”

  Anton stood up. Topolev glared at him through clenched teeth, but Anton saw that he was afraid. Very, very afraid.

  Which was good.

  “You have two days to make your overdue payment, plus next month’s, both together. If you’re late, I hate to think of what will happen. If you go to the police, same thing. If you try to run or hide... humph, well, the police work for me, so I’ll just send them out to hunt you down. So pay up, on time. Understand?”