by Keith Short
There were less than twenty mourners at this funeral, with no children among them. Close acquaintances of the Chekhov family lined the grave alongside invited senior members of the bratva, waiting to show their respect to their outgoing and incoming leaders. At the arrival of the chief mourner, Malkin sensed the wave of relief within their ranks but could see that Chekhov was already looking around impatiently for the officiating minister. At last, the Russian Orthodox priest emerged from his shelter under a nearby acer and took his place at the head of the grave. He took a whole minute to study those who had gathered, as if he was reading everyone’s private thoughts, before finally nodding his approval to the closest pall bearer. The coffin was lowered, the priest rattled out his incantations without once looking up from his prayer book and after ten minutes, it was all over. He solemnly shook Chekhov’s hand, acknowledged the rest of the mourners and left the Highgate cemetery. A thankless duty − and executed with no compassion whatsoever.
He caught the eye of Illyich Slomensky, the Chekhov bratva’s most experienced brigadier, who’d been watching this terse burial service a few paces back from the others. Slomensky acknowledged him with a stern nod but Malkin could never read this old warrior. He’d been at the bedside with Slomensky a week earlier and listened as he informed the old pakhan that the bratva was becoming a laughing stock. He’d suggested that he, Illyich Slomensky, was the right man to whip it all back into shape before the whole organisation collapsed around their ears. But Anatoly Chekhov was too tired and too ill to take much notice of his brigadier’s counsel and by then it was clear he no longer cared.
The ceremony over, it was no surprise to see Vladimir Chekhov conversing with Slomensky before he left. After all, Slomensky was a long-standing loyal comrade of Chekhov’s father, working for him for over forty years and heading up his various brigades for the past two decades. For five minutes, he studied the two men sitting out of earshot on the remembrance bench under the old acer, leaning within touching distance to exchange their words in private. At one point he was sure that Slomensky pointed briefly in his direction. A cold electrical spasm welled in his stomach − was that responsive turn of Chekhov’s head aimed towards him?
No one dared to leave the cemetery during this time. The mourners huddled together in tight groups to gain what little warmth and protection from the rain they could. The gravediggers watched from a distance, waiting in the incessant rain for the opportunity to complete their job.
‘So, that’s Vladimir Chekhov?’ Malkin heard one of them say.
Up to now, Chekhov’s courtesies had consisted of little more than brief murmurs. Even as he prepared to leave, all he seemed to offer his fellow mourners was an empty thank you or a condescending handshake here and there. At last, his new pakhan marched towards the car. Thank God, we can all go home. But, to Malkin’s surprise, Chekhov’s final words were for him.
‘My father’s office, nine thirty tomorrow morning.’
Taken aback, Malkin could do little else but stand speechless and gawp as he opened the car door. Why me? I’m only the bookkeeper. Could this unexpected invitation be a turning point in his life?
Two in the morning, wide awake and mind racing, it was becoming a losing battle. There would be little sleep for Malkin tonight. What sort of man is he? Would Vladimir Chekhov, like his ruthless father before him, sweep aside those who stood in his way? Would he ever go as far as his father by having them killed if it suited his purpose? He rolled in his bed with unrest. How much does he know about me? Did Chekhov already know that his father’s bookkeeper was a pacifist, a hater of violence, working in a violent and merciless environment? Would he consider him suitable for such a role? Is it only me he’s seeing today? What about Slomensky – was he going to offer the old brigadier his job? That would make sense, he conceded. It would remove Slomensky’s fading talent from the front line and provide Chekhov with a right-hand man who had decades of valuable field experience. The aggravating questions swirled around his head as he turned over and back again, trying to dispel the heat from his body. But the sheets were like hotplates and his overheated skin was becoming sore. Anatoly Chekhov always knew of his bookkeeper’s abhorrence of violence. Malkin was only twenty-two when the old pakhan discovered his pacifism. And, to this day, he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing down in the lower basement when he stumbled across the scene.
Sarco was bound naked to a little wooden chair. His cheeks were red, obviously from the hard slapping he must have just received from Anatoly Chekhov’s security officer.
‘Ah, Oleg, glad you could come,’ Chekhov said as he grabbed Sarco by the hair and violently shook his head. ‘We simply cannot tolerate treachery like this. Would you agree, Karlov?’ The security officer pulled his leather glove up tight and nodded his agreement with a sardonic smile. ‘What do you think his punishment should be, bookkeeper? After all, you found the anomaly in his return, you discovered that he must have pocketed the majority of the money.’ He looked Sarco in the eye and added another slap to the previous barrage. ‘Money, which by now has been squandered on the whores provided by our rivals, no doubt? What shall we do with him, Oleg?’
Malkin remained silent – it was up to Chekhov what to do next. Chekhov hissed through gritted teeth into Sarco’s face, tilted the hapless prisoner’s head back using a single finger under the chin and struck his face with the palm of his hand. Sarco’s nose broke with a sharp snap. He groaned as his head fell forward on to his chest and the blood from his crushed nose streamed down his torso into his groin.
‘I can see you’re having trouble deciding, bookkeeper. Well, let me make your mind up for you.’ Chekhov nodded to Karlov, who pulled a pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to Malkin.
With reluctance, Malkin took the gun by the handle and turned towards his pakhan, urging him with despairing eyes to stop this violence. Please don’t make me do this.
‘Go ahead, Oleg. Shoot the bastard.’
Sarco looked up at Chekhov with a dazed expression. He broke down and cried for mercy. ‘Please − spare me!’ The blood from Sarco’s nose spattered off his lips. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll find the money and return it, you have my word.’
‘Too late for all that and your word isn’t worth the shit in your pants. Look at him, Oleg, he’s pissed himself like a dog. You need to put this filthy animal out of his misery. It’s all he deserves.’
Malkin put the gun to Sarco’s temple and his hand began to shake. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Do you want to be next in the chair, bookkeeper? Just man up, for God’s sake, and get on with it.’
There was no choice, the threat to kill him was real. His own punishment would be carried out there and then if he refused his pakhan’s order; they had no mercy, no scruples, these people. He squeezed the trigger with his trembling hand. Although he was squeezing with all his strength, the trigger wouldn’t move.
Sarco was shaking and started sobbing again. ‘Please − don’t!’
What am I doing here? ‘I can’t!’
‘Just fucking do it!’ Chekhov yelled.
With one last effort, Malkin overcame the psychological stiffness in the trigger and the gun went off in his hand − with a loud click. Sarco grimaced and screamed out. Chekhov and Karlov burst into coarse laughter, hollering deep belly laughs as they fell about each other and as Chekhov leered into Sarco’s blubbering face.
Rubbing the tears of laughter from his eyes, Chekhov eased the pistol from Malkin’s hand and passed it back to Karlov, who was still chuckling away to himself. ‘Come, my humble bookkeeper, we have important financial matters to discuss, you and I.’ He placed his arm around his shoulders and turned him towards the door.
The ear-splitting gunshot sent an echo ringing around the cellar. Malkin lurched to one side. The arm around him tightened like an instantly applied tourniquet and prevented him from falling. Chekhov spoke softl
y into his ear. ‘Don’t look back, Oleg. Never look back on a decision.’
The ringing in his ears persisted as his tortuous thoughts were disrupted by his bedside alarm. The alarm’s red digits were flashing, telling him it was seven o’clock, and he felt an icy cold. How could that be, when he’d been so hot during the night? Oh God, the sheets are drenched in urine. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised it was the sweat from his body evaporating in the cool morning air that poured in through the open window. The thought of his forthcoming meeting with Anatoly Chekhov’s son sent a surge of fear through his body and he began to shiver. Would he be like his father? What will he do with me?
‘The pakhan will see you now, Mr Malkin.’
The uniformed Russian opened the grand eight-foot-high door and Malkin strode with confidence towards the mahogany period desk behind which Vladimir Chekhov sat perusing a document. He’d steeled himself for this moment, arrived determined to show he was the epitome of self-assurance. However, before he could bid his new pakhan a good morning, he was cut short. Without looking up and with faultless timing, Chekhov gestured towards the single chair in front of the desk.
‘Take a seat, Malkin.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, wondering whether he was about to be praised or reprimanded.
Chekhov removed and folded his spectacles, looked up from his reading and smiled. ‘Thank you for coming.’ The smile left Chekhov’s face. ‘Now, to business.’
He’s just like his father.
‘I spoke many times with my father in the weeks before he died,’ Chekhov said, in a deep and eloquent English accent. ‘He spoke highly of you.’
‘I’m very grateful, sir. Your father looked after me well.’ He’d heard much about Chekhov’s powerful personality but hadn’t expected this to be matched by his physical presence. Muscular frame bulging from his open-neck shirt, spiky blond hair shorn flat, he could have been one of Russia’s top field athletes. It was time to grovel. ‘Now that he’s no longer with us, how can I be of assistance, Mr Chekhov? Is there anything you want me to do for the bratva?’
‘I can do things for myself, Malkin. That is why I am a successful man. I make good decisions and part of the reason for that is my ability to judge character. I can tell at a glance, for example, why my father trusted you.’ Chekhov replaced his reading glasses and turned the pages of the document in front of him. ‘I’ve been looking over his accounts and I see you’ve done a thorough job under what were difficult circumstances. But I need you to explain to me why you think the bratva’s finances are in such a state. Only one brigade within the whole bratva is maintaining a steady income stream, the rest are showing a continuing monthly decline. Given the scale of his operation, he should surely have made more money than this?’
He felt the heat as Chekhov continued to study him. The untraceable offshore accounts included some in his own name. Oh shit! Have Chekhov’s own accountants looked at these figures? He could tell his cheeks were turning red, as they always did when he came under stress. ‘I have to agree with your findings, Mr Chekhov. The books do show a poor turnover during this past year. But I can only record the money I collect in person from the brigadiers. Once they’ve handed it over, I enter it in the books then store it in the safe until it can be capitalised into our legitimate cash operations. Bars and restaurants, refurbishments of private dwellings, all of it receipted by reputable companies.’
‘Yes, yes, I have no doubt you are doing a fine job laundering the money. But if Slomensky’s brigade can retain profitability, why can’t the others?’ Chekhov leaned forward and spoke in a soft but menacing tone. ‘Do you think they were withholding cash from you?’
It was Anatoly Chekhov in those intelligent grey eyes. And he’d seen, close up, Anatoly Chekhov’s vicious retribution for any brigadier who concealed money. He swallowed hard. ‘Sir, your father would no doubt have informed you about the difficulties we were encountering. The brigades were performing badly in the field and our warriors were being intimidated by other organisations of mafiya origin.’ Glancing up and seeing no obvious sign of offence in Chekhov, he continued with eyes averted. ‘We were losing men and giving up estate. I saw it all happening on paper but I was powerless to stop it. All I could do was give your father my opinion. But I’m your father’s bookkeeper, I have no authority over the manner in which his brigades operate.’
‘No authority!’ Chekhov barked. ‘But you were the pakhan’s right-hand man. You were responsible for advising him, not just offering vague opinions. What were you doing to prevent this happening?’
Malkin recoiled at Chekhov’s stark demonstration of how he could make a man shake with fear. And he was afraid now − afraid for his job, afraid for his future, for his life even. None of this was his fault. He merely provided an administrative interface. All he’d done was cream off a bit of the money that the brigadiers were already dipping into. ‘I did inform him that we were operating under significant risk of a meltdown, but your father deliberately chose to ignore the warning signs. He—’
Chekhov held up his hand to stop him. ‘Are you suggesting he was incompetent? Let me tell you, my father built this organisation in a country that was foreign to him. He recruited well and, until he fell ill, he had the unreserved loyalty of every warrior and every brigadier. They respected him because he’d been out on the streets alongside them, shed blood with them and if they were wounded, he would always care for them.’
This imposing man was beginning to show the first signs of distress. Everyone was aware that not only had Vladimir Chekhov recently lost a father but, less than two months ago, his wife Natalia died giving birth to their first child. And with this thought came the first strains of pity.
‘But I accept that my father could be a fool at times,’ Chekhov continued, in a calmer voice. ‘He was of the old ways. And yes, I suppose you are right, Malkin. You were merely his bookkeeper. You had his respect but he wouldn’t give you his authority. That’s how it was always going to work in an organisation like his.’
Chekhov stood and turned his back on him. He seemed to be gazing upwards as if to admire the stately room’s fine ceiling coving. Was he looking towards the heavens for inspiration − or was he hiding his sorrow? Considering this devastation in Chekhov’s life, how could he even contemplate setting about an analysis of his father’s business − so soon and with such poise? His new pakhan was to be admired, not feared.
‘This organisation is a mess,’ Chekhov growled; he turned and leaned on the desk. ‘Which is why I’m going to make some profound changes,’ he calmly said, before sitting back in his huge chair. ‘As someone who has been close to him, I want you to tell me this − what is your personal opinion of my father’s current organisation? Take your time and think about your answer. And please be so good as to continue in English. You speak the language well and that pleases me. We are based in Western Europe now and we need to speak their languages well.’
The question threw Malkin. After all, he’d only that morning resigned himself to the golden bullet. He couldn’t possibly have been invited here today to brief a powerful oligarch on how to run a business. Have I got this wrong?
‘Well?’ Chekhov asked again, clearly feeling that he’d allowed sufficient thinking time. ‘You did ask me if you could be of assistance. What is my father’s organisation really like?’
Their gazes locked and it seemed like minutes before Malkin could summon the gumption to step into the silence. ‘As you suggest, Mr Chekhov, your father’s organisation is in disarray. But we can correct these issues. I’ve thought about these matters at length and I have ideas I wish to discuss.’
‘Then tell me of them,’ Chekhov said, with a mixture of resignation and cynicism.
This was an unexpected opportunity. I must be assertive, just like Chekhov. ‘We need to urgently address the narcotics business. Turnover in this area is high but my analysis shows tha
t the gains are outweighed by risk of disruption from rival organisations. My view is we should terminate all drug dealing activities, shed unwanted personnel . . . I’ve studied our arms dealing operation . . . I’ve developed a business plan in the area of political extortion . . .’ He continued with his proposals for twenty minutes, systematically covering each business area in turn. There was no interruption and he was encouraged throughout by Chekhov’s body language. He was playing the right chords − a symphony hitherto unheard but apparently wonderful music to Vladimir Chekhov’s ears. At the end of his uninterrupted presentation, he could see that Chekhov was staring at him poker faced. Oh God, have I said the wrong things?
Chekhov pursed his lips and nodded his satisfaction. He got out of his seat and gave Malkin a friendly wag of the finger. ‘I’m delighted with everything you’ve said. You and I think along the same lines, Malkin. You know, I even tried to persuade my father to steer his organisation in a similar direction. Like you, I consider the mafiya concept to be suitable for use in our current lines of business. The military-style structure works well and there is nothing wrong with making money from activities the authorities traditionally consider to be illegal. However, times have changed. We need to provide more sophisticated services that people cannot avail themselves of elsewhere − and for which they will pay well.’
‘You speak wisely, sir,’ he said, hoping Chekhov wouldn’t consider this to be patronising, ‘but this will require a vast overhaul of our personnel. Most of the brigadiers contribute little to our day-to-day operations and their warriors are out of control.’
