The Gangster

‘People seem good while they are oppressed,
but they only wish to become oppressors in their turn:
life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim.’
                Bertrand Russel.

I run and bustle all the time
as if my home is the train station
I don't live by my own life
but the one they made me …



Chapter One
June 30, 1996 — Kehl, Germany
From mid-May through late August, southwestern Germany settled into long stretches of cloudless skies. Winter here was little more than a brief inconvenience — a dusting of snow that rarely lingered beyond a day or two. Unlike neighboring Switzerland and Austria, the region had no famous ski resorts, yet every weekend the rolling slopes of the Black Forest filled with mountain bikers from across Baden-W;rttemberg, their trails snaking through the trees.
On a moonlit night, Greta Laufer steered her trusty blue Volkswagen Golf along a dark autobahn cutting through the forest. Two mountain bikes rode securely on the roof of her five-year-old hatchback.
A graduate of the Strasbourg School of Public Administration, Greta took quiet pride in her achievements — and, at the moment, in the boy asleep beside her. Alex had dozed off half an hour earlier, right after figuring out how to mount the bikes in less than five minutes — a task that had defeated her for years.
A faint smile touched her lips.
Three years, she thought. Three years of scratching the roof, wrestling with straps, watching the bike wobble loose on the highway. Someone had once suggested removing the front wheel and fastening the fork, but that ordeal took forever.
And then this kid simply flipped the bicycles upside down and taped the handlebars and seats to the rack with a roll of black PVC tape he’d pulled from his pocket.
Practical. Efficient.
Very Russian.
She was six years older, yet sometimes he seemed far more capable than she was — even more than Hans, her forty-year-old former partner. And those hands of his…
Greta exhaled softly, amused at herself.
Blinding headlights from an oncoming car swept past them. Alex stirred.
“Where are we?” the groggy teenager asked.
“Just passed Offenburg. Twenty minutes and we’re home.”
“When we get to Kehl, drop me at the tram stop on Stra;burger Stra;e.”
Greta frowned slightly. Was that a request — or an order? Had he deliberately skipped bitte, or simply forgotten?
Too often she caught herself treating him like a pet… or worse, like a child.
“After a full day on the trails, haven’t we had enough excitement?” she said with a tired sigh. “It’s past midnight.”
“And inside the car?” Alex muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Isn’t it twelve-thirty in your car too?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t confuse me. English isn’t exactly native to either of us. Why do you need the tram stop?”
“I want cigarettes. There’s a vending machine right across from it.”
“Don’t buy cigarettes from those machines — they’re overpriced. And the Marlboros always come up one short. Wait until morning and get them from a kiosk. Cheaper.”
Still, she pulled over.
Alex shot her a skeptical look, stepped out, and crossed the cobblestoned street toward a large iron vending machine with a glass display.
“Four Deutschmarks per pack,” he read aloud in German, already fishing a coin from his sweatpants.
He checked his palm and scowled.
“Damn. Only three. And these greedy Germans want one more for a decent brand.”

Disappointed, he drifted toward the Rhine, memories of his first girlfriend, Tatyana, rising unbidden as he hummed an old American tune under his breath:
Sylvia’s mother says Sylvia is busy,
Too busy to answer the phone.
Sylvia’s mother says Sylvia is happy,
So why don’t you leave her alone?
Fits perfectly, Alex thought. She left her boyfriend and the city. I left my girlfriend — and my country.
Two slender figures appeared ahead on the sidewalk. Early twenties, maybe. They spoke loudly, passing a beer bottle between them. After a long pull, they kissed — unhurried, unapologetic — then moved on.
“Two guys in love,” Alex muttered, watching them approach the cigarette machine.
They stopped beside it, studied the display, pressed their selection.
Why not just take their cigarettes? The thought flashed across his mind, absurd and electric. And tomorrow every cop in town would be looking for me — all for four Deutschmarks.
He slowed.
Then his expression shifted — surprise first, then a thin, crooked smile. To anyone watching, it might have looked like the instant a solution snapped into place. Something sparked in his eyes. He pivoted sharply and slipped into the nearest courtyard.
________________________________________
“Why are you so worked up?” Greta asked, stepping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her hair.
“I have an idea,” Alex said, already moving toward the closet, sneakers still on.
“Care to share it?”
She planted herself in the doorway, feet apart, hands on her hips.
“Maybe after it works,” he shot back, digging through a canvas tool bag.
“What are you looking for? I know where everything is.”
“A backsaw. Fine teeth, wooden handle. I saw it here.”
“There it is.”
He straightened, lifting the saw with quiet triumph.
Brushing past Greta — her nakedness barely registering — he nodded toward the bedroom.
“Go to bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
________________________________________
Minutes later, Alex was hurrying toward the vending machine again, glancing around before sliding the backsaw from beneath his leather jacket.
At the entrance to the Bundespolizei station, halfway between him and the river, several service Mercedes sat parked in a neat row. Across the Rhine, the dark silhouettes of Strasbourg Cathedral and St. Paul’s rose into the moonlit sky.
“These German cops are probably glued to the Olympic broadcast from Atlanta,” Alex muttered with a malicious grin. “Nothing ever happens in this sleepy, prosperous town. I’ll give them a surprise — wreck their crime statistics.”
The smile faded as he slid the narrow blade into the gap between the cigarette box and the payment terminal, easing the backsaw downward. There was no resistance. The blade slipped in a third of the way before striking metal.
First obstacle, he thought. There have to be at least two.
He tightened his grip and began sawing with long, practiced strokes — the way Algis, a Lithuanian burglar, had once taught him to cut through barn locks. Within five minutes the steel bar gave way. Another five, maybe seven, and the first payment terminal would come free.
Cut the lower pin and voil; — jackpot.
Impatience quickened his rhythm.
What he couldn’t see was the bundle of wires clamped neatly between the rods, feeding power to the terminal and carrying each selection back to the shelves. Had he examined the machine first, he might have guessed they were there. But Alex pressed on, and when the saw’s teeth tore through the wiring, a sharp electrical surge cracked inside the machine.
A small explosion snapped the night open.
Alex recoiled, staring at the broken blade jutting from the wooden handle. The vending machine went dark.
He glanced toward the Rhine. Strasbourg’s lights still shimmered across the water; the police cars remained motionless.
No alarms. No shouting.
As the shock ebbed, he turned and hurried back to Greta’s apartment.
________________________________________
Rifling through her tool bag, the fair-haired teenager replaced the blade, his thoughts still buzzing from the failed attempt.
Meanwhile, a cat padded up to the lifeless vending machine. Cigarettes meant nothing to it; darkness meant nothing either. What mattered was the new scent bleeding from the iron box. Tail raised, the cat stamped once, then marked the machine with solemn indifference — a silent declaration of ownership.
Territory secured, it slipped back into the shadows moments before Alex returned to finish what he’d started.
________________________________________
The partially dismantled payment terminal lay on Greta’s beige carpet. Its side had been peeled open like a tin can, exposing lock pins and a steel cash box. Alex crouched beside it, a drill, backsaw, metal shears, screwdriver, hammer, and pliers scattered at his feet as he studied the stubborn mechanism.
Greta sat in a modern armchair in the corner, a circular lampshade pooling soft light over her hair. A king-size bed dominated one wall beneath a reproduction of a Renaissance painting. Near the kitchen stood a wine cabinet; a dining table with four chairs faced a window overlooking the Rhine. The television was mounted on a modular wall unit, a blue sofa positioned before it — its cushions faintly molded by Greta’s passing parade of boyfriends.
She filed her nails, a fashion magazine spread across her lap. Fine white dust drifted onto the glossy pages — Calvin Klein, Prada, impossible bodies in impossible poses. Now and then she turned a page, her gaze lingering on the bikini-clad models.
Finished with her left hand, she set the magazine on a low table, placed a deep saucer of warm water on top, and slipped in the fingers of her right.
Admiring the fresh curve of her nails, Greta glanced at Alex.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to give us a comfortable life,” he said without looking up.
She studied him with cool amusement, the hint of a smirk touching her lips.
“And how exactly do you plan to manage that? By ripping payment terminals out of every vending machine in the city? Kehl alone has twenty. Across the river in Strasbourg — eighty more. Which one do you think the French and German police will start with when they come looking for you?”
The young woman gave a sarcastic remark as Alex inserted a set of wires of different lengths into the key slot and gave it a gentle nudge. The wires pressed the lock mechanism, shifting the latch onto the lid.
“No, Greta, this is the first and last terminal I’ll ever cut open,” Alex said calmly. “I know what the key should look like. Once I get a metal plate of the right thickness, I can craft a key in 30 minutes and unlock similar terminals. You said there are about a hundred vending machines in Strasbourg and the suburbs. We’ll collect the money a day before the cashiers do. Greta, I’m absolutely sure the Deutschemarks will flow like a river.”
Greta thought, observing him, *It’s an odd mix—simplicity and stubbornness. Is that a Russian thing, or just this guy? History is full of tenacious minds solving problems, even when average. Alex reminds me of Arminius—confident as ever, like an ancient leader. He never says 'if.' Everyone else would say, 'if I make the key, then…' But Alex just says, 'I can...' 'I will...' 'We will...'. His confidence will take him far.”
With his tongue poking out, Alex deftly guided the bundle of wires deep into the terminal.
“If everything goes as planned, we’ll be spending more time together than I thought,” Greta said, wiping her hands. She admired her nails and added, “And that’s reason enough for a drink.”
She fetched two glasses and a bottle of Riesling from the bar corner. While Alex wrapped up his work, she uncorked the wine and poured it. He stared at the reproduction painting above the bed.
“Since we met, I’ve been so wrapped up in you that I never asked about the painting,” Alex said. “It looks like a masterpiece. An expensive canvas. Did you inherit it?”
Greta laughed, handing him a glass. “It’s a cheap reproduction in a pfennig frame.”
“It looks real! Who painted it? Rembrandt? Raphael?”
“You know those names? I’m surprised. You like art?”
“Yes, I do. Especially paintings. I’ve been to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg and twice to the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. I loved it.”
“I don’t know much about the Moscow museum, but I’ve heard a lot about the Hermitage in Berlin,” Greta said, hesitating. “Have you been to the capital?”
“Of course. I got off the Moscow–Berlin train and took the Berlin–Strasbourg bus at the Hauptbahnhof — where we sat side by side for seven hours,” Alex emphasized.
“That’s funny — a Russian joke. What’s next, your grandpa stormed the Reichstag in ’45 and raised the red banner over it, huh?” Greta chuckled, then waved it off. “Anyway, as the French say, revenons ; nos moutons. Museum Island is at the center of Berlin on the Spree. It’s home to four of Germany’s major museums: the Bode, the National Gallery, the Pergamon, and the Altes. In each one, the audio guide mentions either the Hermitage or the Pushkin Museum.”
“Why is that?” Alex asked, intrigued by the German interest in Russian museums.
“Because Germany has no originals left. Only copies of paintings, sculptures, and jewelry. Your countrymen seized everything of value and sent it back to the USSR.” Greta said, taking a sip of Riesling.
“The Hermitage displays only a small fraction of what it keeps in storage. My father once told me they have about three million artifacts in their vaults,” Alex said, the Amber Room drifting back to him from a long-ago tour of Catherine Palace with his father. For a moment, he considered mentioning the German troops who had carried it off from the Peterhof Museum, but thought better of it. There was no point arguing with a university graduate with whom he shared bed and board.
Returning to his original question, he asked, “Tell me about the painting.”
Living in a German woman’s apartment, Alex understood the risk of defending the victors’ right to compensation. Though he might not have known the proper words for it, his natural intelligence compensated for his lack of education. He avoided disputes whenever he saw no practical advantage in them—a trait he had inherited from his parents.
His father, an accountant, possessed a calculating mind and spent his life navigating between the letter of the law and the lure of profit, while his mother, a teacher, had endless patience for unwilling teenagers.
Greta’s didactic tone reminded Alex of his father’s manner of speaking. “I’ll repeat it once again—this is not a painting. It’s a cheap replica of Melancholy by the German Renaissance artist Lucas Cranach,” she said.
“Why did you choose it for your room?” Alex asked.
“The painting reflects a state that often overtakes me,” Greta explained. “In the right corner, a winged woman seems to be looking at the children, yet she doesn’t see them. Her eyes are blank as she shaves a stick with a knife. The children try to roll a ball through a hoop, but she shows no interest. A similar mood comes over me whenever I lose a boyfriend—or a girlfriend. I wonder why it happened. I keep busy, yet I can’t focus on anything. Still, it isn’t the worst thing I’ve experienced. My depression is always deeper when my partner bores me. I know I should tell the person who trusts me, but I’m afraid of offending them. So I wait for the right moment—and grow depressed.”
“Don’t be afraid to offend me. Tell me as soon as I make you uncomfortable,” Alex said evenly. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”
“All right, my dear boy. I will, when the time comes. But for now, I’m very comfortable in your company, and I have no intention of leaving. My only concern is the mystery of your past. We’ve been living together for almost a month, and you still haven’t told me anything about yourself,” Greta said, pouring herself a glass of wine.
“Will you please tell the woman you sleep with where you’re from, what you did back home, and why you ran away from Russia?” she continued.
“It’s a sad story, Greta. I don’t think you’ll like it,” Alex replied, reluctant to speak about his past.
“Don’t evade the question. I insist.”
After the night spent robbing a vending machine, Greta wanted reassurance that she was not sheltering a habitual thief in her studio. Sitting comfortably in an armchair, legs crossed and hands resting on the armrests, she waited for the melodramatic tale of a young Russian man’s first unhappy love.
Alex sat in the center of the room beside the open suitcase, stuffing his tools into a vintage carpetbag. As he weighed the consequences of telling his girlfriend the truth, he thought, If I tell her about my life, our chances of staying together will be slim. But if I refuse to answer, they’ll be none at all.
He snapped the old briefcase shut, looked thoughtfully at his girlfriend, and began:
“I grew up in Reutov, just east of Moscow. My parents owned a grocery store. I went to school, trained at a boxing club, and worked with a tutor to improve my English. Sometimes I fought boys from other neighborhoods to defend our territory. I skipped classes I didn’t like and started smoking when I was twelve. My plan was to attend Bauman Moscow State Technical University—the aerospace faculty is two blocks from our apartment building. I still had two years left, and I didn’t expect anything in my life to change.”


Chapter Two
July 28, 1995 — Reutov, Moscow Region
A small grocery store called Irina’s occupied the ground floor of a five-story apartment block. That morning it held only three customers: two women nearing retirement age in faded satin dresses and an elderly man whose jacket sagged under the weight of his war medals. Two hours earlier, a dozen people had crowded the narrow aisles of the three-room apartment converted into a shop. Now the rush was over; neighbors had stocked their refrigerators, and the store had fallen quiet.
Irina Zafiros—co-owner, cashier, and sole clerk—wore a red uniform coat and a blue cap that failed to contain her dark hair. She moved quickly through the cramped passage between humming industrial refrigerators and glass display cases, gathering items for the woman waiting at the counter. She set the groceries beside the scale and rang them up while the second woman complained about her meager pension to the old veteran. He nodded in weary sympathy but offered no complaints of his own.
Irina accepted the payment and handed over the bags just as the shop door flew open and two young men stepped inside.
The first was known as Afghan. After graduating from a military college, he led a motorized rifle platoon in Afghanistan—and like many who came back, he discovered the war had followed him home. Of average height but broad-shouldered, he strained the seams of his leather jacket. A pale scar cut across his closely shaved scalp—too straight to be mistaken for a part. His gray eyes were dull and heavy, and he studied the room from beneath a permanent scowl.
The second man was harder to ignore. Nearly two meters tall and weighing close to one hundred fifty kilograms, Elephant had once been the USSR’s vice-champion in super-heavyweight weightlifting. A few years earlier, he had traded the singlet of the Spartak sports club for the leather uniform of a regional gang—and had never looked back.
Without a word, the intruders headed toward the back rooms.
The veteran drifted into their path, unaware. He was still listening to the woman’s grievances when she suddenly recoiled, bumping into the display case. Elephant shoved the veteran aside with casual force, and the graybeard hit the floor.
Clutching her groceries, the second woman hurried toward the exit—only to stop short. A thin, pimply-faced teenager blocked the glass doors, one hand clamped around the lock from the inside.
“Let me out! Now!” the old woman shrieked, her voice cracking.
Afghan’s gaze flicked toward the boy. “Den, open it. Let her go. And you two—move.”
The veteran scrambled to his feet and stumbled after the woman as the door released with a click.
“Afghan, there’s no one else here,” Irina said, her voice quivering as she stepped into their path. “My husband left for the tax office an hour ago. He won’t be back until evening.”
“Then we’ll take a look ourselves,” Elephant replied.
He seized her face in his massive hand, forcing her to tilt her head back. Leaning close, he exhaled the sour smell of tobacco and said softly, almost tenderly, “Keep your mouth shut, bitch.”
His right hand remained buried in his jacket pocket. When he raised his left, brass knuckles gleamed across his fist.
Irina froze. The fluorescent lights trembled overhead, and somewhere behind her a refrigerator compressor kicked on with a mechanical growl. She could only watch as the racketeer slowly lifted the metal toward her face.
The brass knuckles had been crudely carved from the heavy body of a water valve. Along the outer edge of the three fingerholes ran two rows of short, vicious spikes.
Elephant dragged the metal slowly across Irina’s cheek. At first, the wounds appeared as tiny beads, but within seconds they swelled into two thin, crimson lines. The giant grunted with satisfaction and, in a grotesque gesture of ownership, ran his tongue over the fresh blood. Irina recoiled, trying to twist away from the wet touch, but his grip held firm. His saliva smeared with her blood, leaving a pale pink streak from cheekbone to ear.
While Elephant worked to break her will, Afghan disappeared into the back office. Irina was forced after him, stumbling backward as the giant steered her by the jaw, his thick fingers digging into her skin.
The office was barely larger than a storage closet. Shelves sagged under the weight of canned goods, gingerbread, bagels, and boxed sweets. George—Irina’s forty-year-old husband—sat behind a cheap desk positioned in front of the window. An old safe squatted beside him like a silent witness.
Leaning over the small-business owner with predatory calm, Afghan spoke almost gently.
“We agreed you’d pay one thousand dollars on the third Thursday of every month. Didn’t we? So why isn’t the money ready? Did you really think I’d forget our arrangement?”
George said nothing at first. His eyes flickered between Elephant and Irina, as if searching their faces for a sentence that might save them all.
“I can’t raise that kind of money this month,” he said finally, forcing the words past a dry throat. He lifted his hand, unfolding his fingers one by one. “Four inspections. Tax, labor, sanitary, and fire. Inspectors are vultures—everyone wants a piece. Yesterday I paid off the fire inspector; he didn’t like the smoke detectors. Then the sanitary officer found cockroaches behind the refrigerator. I paid him too. Three days ago the district policeman stopped by and took his share.” George swallowed. “He even promised to protect me from your gang.”
Afghan gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Don’t dump that garbage on me. I don’t care who you paid. If you do business on my turf, you pay me first. Understand?”
“There’s no money,” George said. “The safe is empty. Look for yourself.”
Afghan turned slightly, resting a hip against the desk.
“Search her,” he told Elephant. “If the safe’s empty, we might as well entertain ourselves.”
The giant’s grin widened.
“Now you’re talking. Why stare into an empty box when we can see what’s under the lady’s uniform?”
“This is monstrous!” George shouted, pushing himself up from the chair.
Afghan didn’t even look at him. He flicked his palm forward, striking George lightly on the forehead—but with enough precision to drop him back into his seat.
Buttons snapped when Elephant seized Irina by the lapels. They skittered across the floor and spun to a stop under the desk.
Elephant didn’t raise his voice.
“You’re calling it monstrous,” he said almost mildly. “It’s business. Consider it interest on what you owe.”
He let his gaze travel slowly from Irina to George and back again.
“Unless, of course, you’d rather settle the account now.”
George lurched to his feet. Afghan moved without looking — a short, efficient punch drove into George’s groin. The air left him in a broken wheeze. He folded, hands clamped between his legs, and sagged back onto the chair.
Afghan caught his nose between two fingers and bent his head back.
“Stay seated,” he said quietly. “We’re talking.”
Elephant tugged Irina closer. She fought him; he answered with a compact strike to her solar plexus. The sound that left her wasn’t quite a cry — more the startled gasp of someone shoved underwater. Her knees gave out.
The giant held her upright anyway.
Afghan watched George instead.
“You have a family,” he said. “That’s good. A man should have something to lose.”
George tried to speak. Nothing came out but a ragged breath.
“Listen carefully,” Afghan went on. “By closing time, the money is here. If it isn’t — tomorrow we come back when your boy is home.”
He let the sentence hang.
Elephant smiled faintly, smoothing a wrinkle from Irina’s uniform as if helping her dress.
“Children shouldn’t see certain things,” he said. “It changes them.”
George made a strangled sound.
“Quarter to eight,” he forced out. “Come at quarter to eight. I’ll get the thousand. I swear it.”
Afghan studied his face, measuring the terror, weighing it like currency.
“Now we understand each other.”
Elephant released Irina. She collapsed to the floor, dragging in shallow breaths, her hands instinctively reaching for the bra Elephant had torn from her shoulders.
The giant stepped to the desk.
“You mentioned the precinct,” he said. “Forget him. No one is coming through that door to help you. Starting next month, whatever you give the policeman — you give to us instead.”
George nodded rapidly.
“I understand.”
Afghan straightened his cuffs.
“One more thing,” he said. “Don’t make us look for you tonight. People who make us look for them usually regret it.”
He turned toward the door.
Behind him, Elephant added without emotion:
“And keep the phone line clear.”
The meaning took a moment to land. When it did, George’s eyes shifted helplessly toward the silent receiver on the wall.
Afghan paused at the threshold and glanced back at Irina, still curled on the floor.
“Take care of your wife,” he said. “She looks fragile.”
Then the two men walked out, leaving the office smaller than before, the air thick and unmoving — as if something vital had been carried away with them.


Chapter Three — The Same Day, Reutov
Fifteen-year-old Alex Zafiros was pounding a black leather punching bag in the corner of the hall. The heavy bag resisted him, chains rasping softly as it gave under the force of his hooks, jabs, and uppercuts. Across the room, two teenagers sparred in a ring. The trainer leaned over the ropes at the edge of the stage, his eyes sharp, commenting on every movement.
“Sergey, one punch isn’t enough,” he said. “You have to drive your bodyweight into the blow when you hit the head with your right and lean sharply when you hit the body with your left.”
He scanned the boxers; disappointment etched into his face. “Valeriy, where’s the speed? Every hit must snap like a whip. Hips and shoulders move together. Even for a fraction of a second, your fists have to lead the movement. I’ve been telling you this for three years straight. And the distance — close it! Speed kills, you know that!”
The trainer shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Waste of time…”
Finally, losing patience, he shouted from the corner: “Alex! Come here!”
Alex sprinted across the hall, slipped under the ropes, and jumped into the ring with fluid precision.
“Valeriy, stand next to me,” the trainer said.
Alex slid in opposite his older sparring partner, mouthguard in place, without warming up.
His technique was flawless. He ducked and weaved around punches, a graceful rhythm, before landing a sharp left to the liver. Sergey doubled over, clutching his side, the other hand raised in surrender.
“That’s enough,” he gasped.
The wall clock struck once, and the trainer sounded the gong.
“Fifty push-ups with claps, everyone,” the trainer commanded. “Then one hundred jumps on the ropes. Let’s move.”
Turning to Sergey, he asked, “Do you know why Alex’s liver shot hurt so much?”
“He hits hard,” Sergey replied.
“Not just that. Think — he’s a year younger and about 22 pounds lighter than you. How can he hit harder?”
They had known each other since kindergarten, so Sergey shrugged. “He’s fast.”
“Yes,” the trainer said, nodding. “And he uses his legs. When he struck from the left, he drove his weight onto the right leg, opening the left side of his body. That punch didn’t just use his arm — he added at least twenty kilograms of body weight, multiplied by the square of his fist’s speed. Without gloves, he could have torn your liver. Now go, finish your push-ups.”
As Sergey rejoined the others, the trainer turned to Alex.
“Listen carefully, sonny. Next month, the Moscow Region junior championships are at Dynamo Stadium. I’ve listed your name among the competitors born in 1978.”
Alex shook his head. “Trainer, I was born two years later.”
“I know. But you have no worthy rivals in the region. You won gold last year. You don’t get better fighting easy fights. Now it’s time to set real goals. A gold in your age group doesn’t mean as much as a bronze among the older boys. Your target — the semi-finals. This is good for you. Trust me on this, alright?”
Alex nodded, determination settling into his chest like steel.
“Got it.” Alex slipped between the ropes and headed for the locker room.
“Alex,” Victor called after him. “Last time I told you—quit smoking. It’ll ruin you.”
The teen smirked. “I don’t inhale.”
Victor studied him for a moment, disappointment tightening his face.
“Ignore me, and the older boys at Dynamo will beat the hell out of you. Just wait.”
Alex held his gaze a second too long, then nodded. He knew he’d pushed it.
“I’ll quit,” he said. “Starting today.”
________________________________________
In the locker room, steam clung to the tiled walls and the air smelled of leather and cheap soap.
“What’d the coach want?” Sergey asked.
“Told me to quit smoking.”
“And?”
Alex pulled a half-empty pack from his backpack and showed it to him.
“I will. Soon as I finish these.”
Sergey snorted. “So you surrendered just like that?”
“Not usually,” Alex said. “But he entered me in the Moscow Regional Championships when I was your age. I could outfight anyone to the quarters — then gas out before the semis.” He tapped the pack against his palm. “Keep this up, and I’ll die in the ring with a bronze medal around my neck.”
“The coach say that?”
“I don’t need him to.”
Alex zipped his bag and walked out.
________________________________________
Alex lived with his family in a modest two-room apartment in a five-story walk-up. Ten minutes later he was home, stepping out of his shoes in the narrow corridor before quietly retreating to his room.
The living room doubled as his bedroom — orderly, almost austere. A foldout sofa faced a wall unit that ran the length of the room, its polished surfaces reflecting the late-afternoon light. Near the tall window that opened onto the balcony stood a narrow desk and a straight-backed chair.
The Romanian wall unit — every Soviet family’s quiet status symbol — held a wardrobe, a mirrored cabinet, shelves of books, and glass compartments reserved for special occasions. Behind the glass sat untouched crystal, dinner sets, and carefully nested serving bowls.
Classic literature filled the top shelves. Below were harder-won books, picked up through trades and lucky finds.
On the lowest shelf stood Alex’s English textbooks — and three boxing trophies, spaced just far enough apart to matter.
________________________________________
He dropped his backpack on the table, took out his cigarettes and matches, and stepped onto the balcony.
Leaning against the painted metal railing, he lit one and looked out over the yard, already drifting toward thoughts of the upcoming tournament. Smoke curled into the cooling air.
Movement below caught his eye.
A neighborhood cat crouched beneath an overgrown lilac, perfectly still, its gaze locked on a cluster of pigeons pecking at the dirt.
One bird — bright, arrogant, chest puffed — circled a muted gray female, too distracted by courtship to sense the danger gathering a few yards away.
The cat waited.
Patient. Certain.
Alex felt a flicker of disgust and spat toward it.
“Damn. Missed.”
The wind.
He adjusted and tried again, oddly satisfied each time the cat shifted, its careful geometry ruined.
So absorbed was he in the small cruelty of the game that he didn’t hear the car pull up.
A door slammed below — sharp, final.
George stepped out first, already steering his younger son toward the entrance. Irina hurried after them, her own door echoing through the courtyard.
Alex froze.


Spotting his parents below, Alex dropped into a crouch, shrinking behind the balcony railing.
“Oh, fuck. Why’d they come home this early?”
There was no time to finish the cigarette. As the entry door slammed and his parents vanished inside, Alex flicked the butt away with a snap of his fingers.
He never saw the cigarette butt drop — a faint, glowing ember falling in a slow arc — before it landed on the burgundy velvet tablecloth covering an aging bedside table on the balcony below his family’s. The fabric darkened where it touched. Alex, already tasting the stale smoke on his tongue, noticed nothing.
________________________________________
On his way back from the sports complex, he bought a paper cone of roasted sunflower seeds from the old woman who sold them at the bus stop. Even with a cigarette between his lips, he always needed something to chew.
He hadn’t planned to eat before training — bad for a fighter — but now the logic was simple: kill the smell of Bond Street smoke. He cracked the shells between his teeth and chewed a handful at a time.
Good enough camouflage.
________________________________________
Perched on the balcony, Alex worked through the seeds while his parents moved down the hallway and into the bedroom. Seeing them home in the middle of the workday unsettled him.
A stray, awkward thought crossed his mind — why not hide somewhere during a lunch break instead of rushing home?
He immediately pushed it away.
Still, something felt off.
He kept chewing until he heard his father’s steps approaching.
George entered the living room fast and hard, tossing his plastic attach; case onto the sofa. Without removing his coat, he yanked open the bottom drawer of the wall unit. Papers spilled across the carpet as he dug out two passports, their marriage certificate, and his son’s birth certificate.
He stuffed the documents into the case, then noticed Alex’s backpack on the table.
George turned toward the balcony.
“Alex.”
“Come here. Now,” he ordered.
“Coming!” Alex shouted back, spitting a gray paste of sunflower seeds into the flower bed.
He missed again, but neither his father nor the cat seemed to notice.
Alex had long since stopped expecting much from George.
Why is everything always about him? he thought. The only time he talks to me is to lecture — school, fights, ripped jeans, smoking. Be better, be smarter, be disciplined.
And yet George was none of those things himself — not law-abiding, not faithful, barely a father.
So fucking unfair.
________________________________________
While George waited, his impatience hardened into motion. He pulled four identical black-bound volumes from the shelf and lined them up on the desk with surgical precision.
From the balcony, Alex watched.
One by one, George opened the Conan Doyle books and removed thick bundles of American dollars from cavities carved deep into the pages.
“Why are you standing there like a statue? Move. Pack your things,” George barked through the double-glazed door.
Alex nodded, dumped the cigarettes and matches from his pocket after the mouthful of seeds, and stepped inside.
He grabbed his backpack and began stuffing it with essentials — underwear, T-shirts, jeans, gym shorts.
Papers littered the carpet where his father had ransacked the drawer. Among Alex’s sports certificates lay two folders documenting ownership of both their apartment and a grocery store.
Cash taken. Property left behind.
They weren’t preparing for a trip.
They were running.
A dull regret settled in as he looked at the dozen medals hanging above the desk and the three trophies beside them. The upcoming Moscow championship — gone. So was any shot at the youth national team.
He swung the backpack over his shoulder and headed for the hallway, George close behind.
________________________________________
George caught Irina stuffing her down jacket into a large travel bag.
“Leave the winter clothes. Summer only. I can only fit two suitcases in the trunk.”
“Can’t we put the bag on the back seat?” she pleaded.
“Alex rides there. Otherwise every checkpoint will stop us.”
No one argued after that.
________________________________________
Reutov was already dissolving in the rearview mirror when flames began licking across the balcony below their apartment.
George merged the Lada onto the Moscow Ring Road without slowing.
Irina kept looking back.
“Leaving like this… it breaks my heart. Will we ever come back?”
“If we do, not anytime soon,” George said. “Elephant and Afghan are already on our trail.”
“What about my mother?” Irina asked quietly. “We traded the Odessa apartment for this place because of her.”
“We don’t have a choice,” George replied, each word clipped. “We lie low in Odessa first. Then we bring her over. A couple of years — and after that, we leave for the States. Through Greece.”
Realization hit Alex all at once.
So that’s why they pushed English on me for four years.
They were planning this — planning to leave for the States after the Soviet Union collapsed — and never said a word.
Afraid I’d let it slip.
If we weren’t running now, they would’ve kept me in the dark.
________________________________________
George changed lanes and merged into the southbound traffic on the Moscow Ring Road. Behind them, Reutov faded into the distance, the fire on the balcony one floor below their apartment dissolving into the gathering dusk.

Chapter Four — Evening, Same Day. Reutov
At 7:45 p.m., a black Mercedes rolled to a stop a few meters from Irina’s grocery store. Elephant was driving.
People were already pouring out through the wide-open door.
Drunks, vagrants, street kids — arms loaded with food and bottles, pockets bulging. Others were still inside, stripping the shelves.
Afghan picked up a Glock 19 from the passenger seat and leveled it at a homeless man.
“Don’t move.”
The unshaven man — ageless, filthy — clutched several bottles to his chest, his hands trembling.
Afghan lowered the pistol slightly.
“Was the store open when you got here?”
“I didn’t open it,” the man stammered.
“The clerk — was she here? The owner? Guy around forty?”
The calmness in Afghan’s voice steadied him.
“No one was there. Doors open, shelves full — but the register was empty. Shame, really.” He swallowed. “Far as I know, none of us touched the cash.”
Afghan returned to the car and slid into the front seat. For a long moment he stared at the neon sign above the shop without blinking.
“They played us,” he said at last. “Should’ve leaned on the clerk from day one. Wouldn’t be this pissed now.”
“Let’s grab some vodka from the store,” Elephant offered.
“You feel like going blind on counterfeit booze?” Afghan muttered. “Come to my place. We’ll drink something real.”
________________________________________
Half an hour later the racketeers sat down to dinner at Afghan’s bachelor apartment.
Sausages. Fried potatoes. A bottle of imported Absolut.
The kitchen was barely large enough for a sink, a gas stove, a refrigerator, and a small table with two stools.
There was no room for a portable TV or even a proper phone stand — the television sat on top of the refrigerator, while the phone hung from a nail above the kitchen table. A wall clock ticked over the gas stove.
On the screen, Sviridov’s Time, Forward! thundered beneath the evening headlines.
“Coming up tonight: Boris Yeltsin at the G7 summit in Halifax, the return of Soyuz-18 with cosmonauts Afanasyev and Usachev, and the collapse of the MMM financial pyramid.”
“Put on Reutov TV,” Afghan said irritably. “I’m sick of Yeltsin.”
Without getting up, Elephant lifted a massive hand and switched the channel.
A young presenter in a gray suit and red-and-white tie appeared on the small screen.
“Today our town marks the fifty-fifth anniversary of receiving city status. Reutov is now home to more than seventy thousand residents. The festival Bell of Our Life took place across five venues. At the Palace of Culture of Mechanical Engineering displayed rocket and space technology for the first time in its forty-year history…”
The wall phone rang.
Afghan snatched it up as Elephant lowered the volume.
“Yeah.”
“Anton, I’ve been trying to reach you since lunchtime. Where have you been?” a nasal female voice complained.
“Busy, Olga. What do you want?”
“I hoped we could spend City Day together. There were concerts everywhere — both the North and South districts. The administration says it’ll become a tradition.”
“Great. We’ll go next year.”
“I miss you. Come over, please.”
“I can’t promise anything. I’m in Moscow right now. If business brings me your way, I’ll stop by. Don’t wait for me — just be ready.”
He hung up.
Elephant chewed another piece of sausage.
“What’s with the girl?”
“Nurse at the Reutov hospital,” Anton said, tossing back half a glass of vodka in one swallow.
“How old?”
“About forty.”
Elephant blinked. “Why would you want someone that old?”
Afghan didn’t answer at once.
“If it were me,” Elephant went on, “I’d find an eighteen-year-old and have some fun.”
“Bring a teenager here and my hideout’s blown. Take her in the Mercedes and I’m scrubbing the back seat afterward. Lose-lose. Then there’s her father to dodge until it’s over.” He poured more vodka. “No thanks. A grown woman is simpler. I never bring her here. Turn it up — and let Olga stay where she is.”
Elephant raised the volume.
“Now to local news,” the presenter said. “Earlier today, a fire broke out on a second-floor balcony of a five-story building at 45 Peace Avenue. Fire crews arrived within ten minutes of the emergency call. Residents were evacuated safely, but the occupants of the apartment above did not answer their door. Their whereabouts remain unknown. Anyone with information about the Zafiros family is asked to contact police at 2-1-1.”
Elephant leaned forward.
“Well, look at that — our fugitives’ address. They live right above the burned place. Hear that?”
Afghan said nothing. He picked up the phone again and dialed from memory.
“Hey, pig. You awake?” he said when someone answered.
A torrent of curses burst through the receiver.
Anton smiled slowly, savoring every second of the cop’s outrage. Elephant watched and understood — his friend was enjoying this far too much.
“Easy, officer. No need to get excited. I’m calling about business. You heard about the fire on Peace Avenue?” Afghan said once the stream of profanity from the district cop finally died down.
He listened in silence as the officer spoke.
“I don’t need the details. The fire’s not my concern. I want the Zafiros family — they lived above the burned apartment.”
“Why do you want them?” the cop asked.
“They’re our clients. Same as yours. Understand?”
“What makes you think they’re mine?”
“Don’t play dumb. Zafiros told me he paid you for protection.” Afghan cut him off. “The shop owner screwed us and ran — took his wife and kid. Destination unknown.”
“Tough break,” the policeman said.
“Spare me the sympathy. Get to their building now. I’m opening their place — want to see what they left behind.”
Afghan hung up and looked at Elephant.
“Finish eating or forget it. The sausages aren’t going anywhere — unlike Irina Zafiros.”
________________________________________
The district cop met them outside the fugitives’ apartment.
Elephant glanced at the door. “We kicking it in?”
“Slow down,” the officer said. “Neighbors need to know we’re entering a missing family’s apartment.”
“Why warn them? You’re in uniform. Civilians should fall in line.”
“With you two beside me? They’ll think I’m a fake and call it in. Then a response team shows up with rifles, and we’re done before we get through the door.” He looked Elephant straight in the eye. “If anyone asks, you’re CID detectives.”
Elephant grimaced. “Hate pretending to be a cop.”
“Then you’re a locksmith,” the officer snapped.
________________________________________
He knocked.
“Police. Open up.”
Footsteps approached behind two of the three neighboring doors.
One opened a crack — a frightened middle-aged woman peered out.
Another swung wide. A gray-haired old man stepped into the hall.
“Evening, Popov.”
The officer showed his badge to the woman, then nodded to the old man.
“Looking for your neighbors. No one’s seen them since the fire.”
“They left before it started,” the old man said quietly. “Saw them through the peephole — two suitcases.”
“Appreciate it. We’ve opened an administrative inquiry. I’ll be entering with an investigator and a locksmith.”
“Need witnesses?”
“Normally. But this isn’t criminal — locksmith will do.”
The old man nodded and withdrew.
________________________________________
Ten minutes later, the door gave way under Elephant’s tools.
Inside was chaos.
Drawers dumped, the last of their belongings gone, the air hollow.
Even Elephant could see it — they’d fled fast.
Afghan moved straight to Alex’s desk and opened the four Sherlock Holmes volumes one by one.
“Smirnov. Come over.”
“I’m checking the bedroom.”
“Now. You’ll want to see this.”
The officer stepped into the living room.
“Well?”
Afghan opened one of the books and tilted it toward him.
A crude cavity cut into the pages.
Empty.
“Three bundles in each,” Afghan said. “Think they were hiding rubles?”
“Dollars,” the cop replied. “And not small bills — hundreds, most likely.”
Afghan smiled faintly.
“Then they ran scared.”



“I agree. George probably kept hundreds here,” Afghan said. “Pavel,” Afghan said without looking up, “how many American dollars come in a bundle with Franklin on the obverse?”
Pavel paused mid-search, a drawer hanging crooked in his massive hand.
“What’s an obverse?”
Afghan closed the book with quiet care.
“Never mind.”
A faint smile touched his lips — gone before it could be called one.
“Here’s the situation. George hid a hundred and twenty thousand dollars in these books — and took every cent with him.”
“So where do we start looking?” the big man asked.
Afghan rested a hand on the policeman’s shoulder, his fingers briefly pressing the captain’s epaulet.
“We don’t look for them. Smirnov will call his superior — Comrade Nosov, the head of the town police — and have the Zafiros family placed on the wanted list.”
“On what grounds?” the precinct officer asked evenly.
Afghan removed his hand and held the man’s gaze.
“Leave the grounds to your boss. I assume you share the take from local businessmen with him on a regular basis. Don’t let greed cloud your judgment — otherwise the consequences will be yours alone. I don’t care who handles it. Just bring the Zafiros couple to me so we can recover the money.”
“He won’t slip through our fingers again,” Pavel said.
“And one more thing,” Afghan added. “If you mishandle this, I’ll replace you without hesitation.”
“I understand,” the policeman replied.

 Chapter Five — July 2, 1995 — Odessa, Ukraine
The Lada carrying the Zafiros family rolled into Odessa along the Kiev Highway. Near the Jewish cemetery on the city’s northern edge, George eased to a stop at a red light at the intersection with Chemical Street.
“We need gas,” he said, rolling his shoulders.
“Is your neck stiff?” Irina asked, already kneading the muscles at the base of his neck.
“I feel like a board. Four hundred kilometers from Kiev without a break — not easy on an old car or the man driving it.” He gave the steering wheel an affectionate tap.
“Let’s pull into the first station we see,” Irina said. “Coffee, restroom, and we can figure out where we’re staying.”
“Dad, it’s green,” Alex called from the back seat.
“I see it.”
George drove on another hundred meters before turning into a gas station.
While Alex filled the tank, Irina headed for the convenience kiosk and soon returned with a bottle of lemonade and a bag of potato chips.
“Mom, where’d you find those?”
“Two vending machines inside. One for candy and chips, the other for drinks.”
As mother and son picked at their roadside lunch, George stepped up to the operator’s window to ask about a long-term rental. The small square opening, edged in iron, barely framed the face of a blond woman.
“You really think you can rent an apartment in Odessa at the height of summer?” she said dryly. “Breathing exhaust for hours must cloud a man’s judgment.”
George offered a polite smile but said nothing.
“You’d be better off boarding the grand Fyodor Dostoevsky ocean cruise liner at the port and sailing straight to Australia,” she said, savoring the thought. “Rent a house in Sydney or Melbourne. If my husband isn’t lying — and he never lies about trivial things — it’s winter there now, so prices are probably lower than ours.”
“Still,” George said evenly, “I’d like to try. We need a place for at least six months.”
“Why are you fucking my brain? I’ve already got an idiot at home who does that daily,” the woman snapped. “Someone should’ve warned me. I figured you were just passing through on holiday. Here — this paper lists long-term rentals.” She reached lazily off to the side, making him wait. A few seconds later, a single ink-damp sheet from some basement press slid into view.
George tried to take it, but his fingers slipped, smearing the fresh print.
“Easy, sweetheart,” the operator drawled, pulling it back a fraction. “That’ll cost you twenty thousand karbovanets.”
“How much is that in Russian rubles? We don’t have local currency yet.”
“Five hundred.” She held up an open palm, then curled her thumb to her forefinger twice — two neat zeros. “And don’t forget to pay for the gas at the pump.”
George frowned. “Five hundred rubles… for a newspaper?”
“What did you expect — five hundred dollars?” the Odessa woman shot back.
He counted out the money and returned to the car.
While Irina and Alex crunched chips and passed a bottle of cream soda between them, George studied the listings. Being an Odessa native, he had no intention of debating neighborhoods.
Without looking up, he said, “Alex, get the pen from the glove compartment.”
The boy obeyed like a fresh conscript answering a platoon leader, then resumed eating. George circled three ads in blue ink, handed the pen back, and walked again to the operator’s window.
From inside, a tipsy male voice on the radio crooned, You treasure each of your five hundred rubles… I, meanwhile, treasure my American Express.
“Where’s the payphone?” George asked.
The blonde lowered the volume on her twin-cassette player. “Mounted on the wall around the corner. Useless without tokens, though. I can sell you five for five hundred rubles.”
“I only need three.”
“Honey, five is the minimum,” she said pleasantly, already turning the music back up.
George bought the tokens and headed for the phone.
Still smiling to herself, the blonde drifted toward the window again as the song swelled: Oh my — those shoulders, those arms, those legs, and that smile… I’ve seen plenty of handsome men, but George, you were shaped by—
A brief keyboard flourish followed, then the singer sighed, —a divine sculptor.
Minutes later, George steered the Lada back onto the highway.
“Dad, where are we going?” Alex asked.
“Straight ahead, then along Bolshaya Arnautskaya to Admiralsky Avenue.”
“Means nothing to me,” Alex muttered.
“Me neither,” Irina added.
“If you don’t know the streets,” George said dryly, “why ask?”


A middle-aged man waited outside the building for the Zafiros family. Thinning brown hair clung to his scalp, deep-set eyes watched the street, and a leather pouch was tucked beneath his arm; a pager rode his belt like a badge of the new age. When the Lada pulled in and George stepped out, the man approached with an outstretched hand.
“Nikolay Pometkin,” he said. “I handle rentals for the owners.”
“George.”
“I’m offering a one-bedroom on the second floor.” He pointed to a glassed-in balcony above them. “That will be yours. Let’s have a look.”
They climbed the stairs and stepped inside. The layout mirrored their old apartment in Reutov so precisely that, for a moment, it felt like they had carried their past across the border.
Irina moved straight to the kitchen, opening cupboards, testing handles, even breathing into the refrigerator to be sure it smelled clean. She ran both taps, then lit the gas heater at the sink.
George inspected the bathroom with equal care — checked beneath the tub for leaks, flushed the toilet, listened to the tank refill.
They met again in the hallway and entered the living room together. Studying the tired furniture pushed against the walls, George called toward the balcony:
“Alex — everything all right out there?”
“Yeah,” the boy answered, watching kids chase a ball across a makeshift soccer pitch.
“You said we’d discuss the price in person,” George went on, stopping in the center of the room. “Let’s hear it.”
“Three hundred dollars a month,” Pometkin replied briskly, pressing ahead before they could react. “And it’s a fine price. You’re steps from the well-known intersection of Fifth Station Street and Bolshoy Fountain Avenue. The Black Sea’s golden beaches are ten minutes away. And I ask only six months up front — my competitors demand a full year.”
George answered in the rounded cadences of southern Ukraine.
“Don’t sell me fairy tales. I was born in Odessa — grew up in the Greek Quarter on Bunin Street. I know exactly what this place is worth. It’s not ten minutes to the sea — it’s forty on foot. Two-fifty, paid monthly. Otherwise, we walk.”
Pometkin rolled his eyes.
“At that price you wouldn’t rent a shed in Bugaevka, twenty kilometers from here. Look what you get: a glazed second-floor balcony framed by chestnuts. There’s a travel agency downstairs — Amadeus — open nine to five. Quiet as a chapel. What more could you want?”
“Quiet?” George echoed dryly. “The windows face Admiral Avenue, and trams grind past behind that high-rise. The metal screech goes on until two in the morning.”
“I’d make nothing if I cut more than ten dollars,” Pometkin protested. “Two ninety — final offer.”
“I’ll accept your price,” George said after a pause, “on one condition. I pay six months in advance, and we certify the lease with a notary. I noticed the office when I drove in.”
Pometkin knew exactly what that meant — taxes, paperwork, no room for tricks. He spread a wide, practiced smile.
“You seem like wonderful people. Let’s say seventeen hundred for the six months, and I’ll give you a receipt.”
“Two eighty-three a month?” George calculated instantly. “I dislike uneven numbers. Sixteen fifty.”
“It’s obvious you’re an Odessan,” Pometkin sighed. “Hard man to bargain with. May I see your passports?”
George handed them over along with the cash. In return, Pometkin produced a receipt and the keys, carefully copied their details into a notebook, and took his leave.

“This cockroach saw you counting bills from a bundle. Now he knows we’re carrying serious cash — and since he still has a set of keys, we can’t keep it here,” Irina said.
“You’re right. First thing tomorrow we open foreign-currency accounts at different banks,” George agreed. Then, turning to his son: “Alex, we’re heading out while the banks are still open. Afterward we’ll pick up groceries and be back in about three hours. Don’t open the door for anyone. Understood?”
“As you say,” Alex replied.
________________________________________
As soon as he rounded the corner, Pometkin slipped the pager from his belt and keyed in a message:
Rodion — need to talk ASAP. You around?
The pager trembled almost instantly. Yes.
A minute later he was hunched over a payphone, voice lowered.
“Rodion, it’s Nikolay. Got tenants — just arrived from the Moscow area.” He scanned the street before continuing. “Paid six months up front without blinking. Makes you wonder who they’re running from. Could you check the Moscow wanted lists? Maybe someone over there is already looking for them.”
“From Moscow, you say?” The officer sounded suddenly alert; laughter and music roared somewhere behind him.
“Close enough. The outskirts.”
“Address?”
“Reutov, Peace Avenue forty-five, apartment twenty-four. George and Irina Zafiros.”
“I’ll put in a request tomorrow once our Russian colleagues answer. I’ll let you know.”
Pometkin hesitated, then ventured, “Rodion… about the favor I paid you for — changing my last name. Any progress?”
A burst of laughter flooded the line.
“Nikolay, get a grip. You wanted to turn Pometkin into Potemkin? That’s the name of the man who took Crimea and half of southern Ukraine from the Ottomans. People respect it. It’s not handed out like raffle tickets.”
The mockery burned. One letter — that was all that separated him from a surname borne by Prince Grigory Potemkin, Catherine the Great’s most powerful statesman, a name that carried the weight of empire instead of the faint stench of something unclean.
He swallowed.
“And the five hundred dollars I gave you?”
“Are you out of your mind? I never took a cent from you. Watch what you say — and don’t call again until I contact you.”
“M-my apologies, Rodion,” Nikolay stammered, lowering the receiver.
He had always dreamed of befriending Rodion. The expensive clothes, the easy swagger, the sense of belonging to a closed world — it all dazzled him. Somewhere deep down, he still nurtured the absurd hope that one day he might be invited inside it, maybe even hired as a detective.
“The police don’t hire snitches,” Rodion said flatly, crushing the fantasy. “Not us, not intelligence, not counterintelligence — no one.”
“Why?” Pometkin asked, genuinely baffled.



“Because,” the officer replied, “a man who sells out his friends for cash will sell out his new partners just as quickly. We’re no saints — but men like you are a liability.”
________________________________________
The next morning, George and Irina left on business, while Alex set out to explore the neighborhood and size up the local boys.
Barely fifty yards from the building, a soccer game raged across a cracked basketball court filmed with dust. The play was feral — nine boys snapping at the heels of the one with the ball, like jackals harrying a lion stubborn enough to drag its kill through open country.
Alex slowed at the edge of the court.
“Hey, guys.”
“Hey,” one of them tossed back without looking, still in pursuit.
“Mind if I jump in?”
A shout came from midfield. “Fine — long as you didn’t train at some fancy soccer academy.”
For the next half hour he ran with them until shirts clung to their backs and grit pasted itself to their shins. At last the heat drove them off the court. They crowded around a street pump, gulping the iron-cold water, splashing their faces and necks, then drifted behind a row of garages for cigarettes.
The apparent ringleader squinted at Alex through the smoke.
“Name?”
“Alex.”
“Where you from?”
“Russia.”
“Here on summer break?”
“Was born in Odessa. Lived near Moscow the last ten years.”
“What brought you back?”
“My father missed home. Business in Russia wasn’t exactly friendly.”
“He’s a businessman?” one of the older boys said with a crooked grin.
Alex pinched his fingers together. “Tiny-time. One failing grocery store.”
“You smoke?” the same boy asked.
“Since I was twelve.”
The ringleader gave a satisfied nod.
“He’s one of ours.”
“Yeah,” the others echoed. “One of ours.”

The teenage girl and a student from the Odessa College of Civil Navigation appeared from around the corner by the garages. The young man’s arm circled her waist, his expression tightening with annoyance as he glanced at the cluster of boys smoking nearby.
“Tanya, it’s crowded here. Let’s find somewhere else,” he said, leaning toward her ear, then nodding at the boys. “Or should I clear the place out?”
“Sure you won’t be the one running?” Alex called out.
One of the older boys bent toward him. “See the three stripes on his navy top? Marine college. Four years older than you.”
“Could’ve graduated from an elite airborne academy for all I care,” Alex replied evenly, drawing in a slow breath. “If he dares lay a hand on me…” He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “He won’t remember the way out of this yard. He’ll run faster than Michael Johnson and clear fences higher than Sergey Bubka.”
The cadet removed his hand from Tanya’s waist and smirked. “Would you look at that — a mouthy pelican.”
“Leave it, Boris. Let’s go somewhere else,” Tanya whispered, pressing herself against him.
“Did you hear that?” Alex laughed. “Boris — like Yeltsin the ‘alconaut.’”
“Tanya, give me a minute,” the student said coldly. “I’ll knock the teeth out of this punk, and then we’ll move on.” Still holding her hand, he strode toward Alex.
The boys shifted back half a step but held their ground.
Alex rose slowly, meeting Boris’s gaze, and flicked his cigarette butt toward him as if discarding something trivial.
“Oh, you little bastard,” the future sea captain snarled and lunged.
Alex didn’t move until the last instant. He watched the shoulder roll forward, the arm coming up — telegraphed, clumsy with anger. Then he slipped neatly under it and drove a short, brutal punch into Boris’s solar plexus.
Air fled Boris’s lungs with a dry grunt. His eyes bulged; his body folded as though a hinge had snapped inside him.
“Try doing some squats, Boris. Builds character,” Alex said lightly, patting his back as the older boy fought for breath. Then he glanced at Tanya. “And next time, don’t drag idiots to our spot. You’d be better off with our crowd.”
Tanya stayed where she was, her disappointment settling into something heavier. Friday night — and whatever promise it carried — drained away before her eyes. She watched Boris tremble, silent tears streaking his face.
At last she turned toward the street.
“You’re too young for the kind of secrets I keep behind these garages,” she said without looking at Alex. “Your bravado ruined my evening.”
The boys burst into laughter as the maritime student finally staggered off, dignity in tatters. When the excitement faded, they drifted back toward the yard.
Alex nodded toward Tanya’s retreating figure and asked the best soccer player on the court, “Who is she?”
“Yo, look at him — already hooked,” the crew’s leader chuckled. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “You know her name now. Fourth building, second floor. Just finished high school. Doesn’t work, doesn’t study. Every Friday and Saturday she shows up with older guys — vets, senior students, that type.”
“Why only Fridays and Saturdays?” Alex asked.
“Her parents have a place by the sea. They disappear there for the whole weekend — leave Friday night, back Sunday afternoon. Used to take her along when she was still in school. After graduation? Total freedom.”

“How do you know all that?” Alex asked, genuinely surprised.
The crew’s leader gave a crooked grin. “One night we were posted under her window — not for her, just passing time. Voices carry after midnight. She was going at it with her old man about her future. Guy’s a doctor, wanted her in med school, white coat, the whole script. Tanya wasn’t buying it — said she wouldn’t waste ten years just to earn scraps in some hospital.”
He spat to the side.
“Her father told her, ‘You finish school before you even think about getting yourself pregnant. After that, your life is your problem. We’ll feed you, keep a roof over your head — but if you end up with a kid, you live with the father.’”
Alex let that sit for a moment. Rules were rules. Every yard had them; every family too.
“Harsh,” he said at last. “But fair.”
One of the boys nudged him. “Al… where’d you learn to fold a guy like that?”
“I’ve spent more time in the ring than in classrooms these past five years.”
The leader nodded with quiet approval — the kind that mattered. Respect in the yard wasn’t handed out; it was collected, piece by piece.
“You did good,” he said. “Dropped Boris clean. People saw that.”
Alex didn’t smile, but he felt the shift. After a fight like that, the geometry of the yard rearranged itself. Eyes measured you differently. Space opened where before it had been closed.
And somewhere in the back of his mind was Tanya — watching.
Not laughing. Not impressed.
Watching.
________________________________________
Three days later, Alex found himself beneath the acacias near the fourth entrance, talking with Tanya as evening pooled in the courtyards. Kids shouted over a distant soccer game; older boys occupied their usual bench like minor kings guarding territory.
He had chosen this spot carefully — visible enough to be noticed, quiet enough to talk.
“Tanya, people aren’t saints or devils,” Alex said after listening to one of her stories about friends who had disappointed her. “Most live somewhere in between — shades of gray. Same person can pull you out of the fire today and push you into it tomorrow.”
He glanced toward the yard, then back at her.
“For a friend, I’d tear a man apart and sleep just fine afterward. But if a stranger threatens me…” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t lose a minute over it.”
Tanya studied him with unsettling focus, as if weighing something invisible.
“So who are you, then?”
Alex took his time answering.
She tilted her head. “What does your moral compass say?”
“I don’t carry one,” he replied. “I move with the current. Same river my people drifted down before me. Thinking too much about morality slows you — and slow men get pushed under.”
She smirked faintly. “Enough poetry. Simple question: good or bad?”
“Neither. I live by my own code. I don’t betray friends. I don’t forgive enemies. The rest sorts itself out.”
“Big words,” she said softly. “And who falls into those categories?”
Alex met her gaze. For the first time in a long while, he chose honesty over posture.
“I don’t have either yet,” he admitted. “Not really.”
A small pause.
“But I’d like you to be my friend.”
Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Friendship was the safest word he had.
Tanya laughed — low, amused.
“I’m confused. Do you want me… or are you recruiting me?”
Heat crept up his neck. She had stepped straight through his guard and found the thing he hadn’t dared name.
He realized then that every fight he’d ever been in was simpler than standing this close to her.
Alex opened his mouth, ready — finally — to tell her what had been building inside him since the night behind the garages. The pull he felt wasn’t curiosity anymore. It was gravity.
Then he saw the car.
His parents’ sedan rolled slowly past the entrance.
Instinct replaced emotion.
“My parents are back,” he muttered. “Hope they didn’t spot me. I was counting on more time with you.”
And it was the first thing he’d said that evening that sounded less like strategy — and more like want.

Irina and George never noticed their son.
They didn’t notice the two men lingering at the third entrance either, nor the four broad-shouldered smokers posted at the corner of the building. To an untrained eye it looked like an ordinary yard — men killing time, evening settling in.
But the yard had already been sealed.
“There’s their car,” Pometkin muttered to the neighbor beside him on the bench.
Radion lifted the radio to his mouth.
“Capture group — move.”
The four plainclothes officers closed in fast, surrounding the sedan before the engine even died. Doors were yanked open.
George barely had time to step out before his face was shoved toward the asphalt. Irina cried out once — short, stunned — as her arms were twisted behind her back.
Steel cuffs snapped shut.
From beneath the acacias, Alex felt the world tilt.
He did not run. Did not shout.
He watched.
Watched the efficiency.
The practiced violence.
The absence of hesitation.
This was how power moved — quickly, without explanation.
Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he scanned the yard the way a fighter studies a ring. That was when he saw it:
A man at the third entrance passing a thick envelope to another.
So that was the axis everything turned on.
“Sir, I forgot to mention — the couple has a teenage son,” Pometkin said quietly.
The officer waved the envelope with a dry smile.
“What am I supposed to do with five hundred dollars? Jail the kid too? Or kill him for the discount?”
“Find him. Send him to Moscow with his parents.”
“On what grounds? He’s not on the warrant. You want me to scatter my detectives across a city of a million with no photo? Hunt him from a sketch you described with your hands?”
Rodion held Pometkin’s gaze for a long moment.
“Do you actually need the boy?”
He stood, already finished with the conversation.
“Find him yourself.”
The Jeep rolled out first, carrying Alex’s parents away as if they had never belonged to the yard at all. Detectives disappeared into the building soon after — methodical, unhurried, like men collecting property.
Pometkin stayed on the bench.
Waiting.
Owning the silence.
________________________________________
“Your parents… they arrested them,” Tanya whispered. “For what?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said.
The words came out flat, but something inside him was rearranging itself — quietly, permanently.
“The cops just took our apartment,” he added. “Looks like I’m homeless now.”
“That’s awful…”
Alex didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on Pometkin.
“I agree,” he said at last, voice turning colder. “But it only becomes a tragedy once you don’t know who caused it. I plan to find out.”
“And how exactly will you do that?”
He nodded toward the bench.
“Start with him.”
“But what does that change?”
“I saw him hand over money right after they threw my parents onto the pavement. You don’t pay unless you’re buying something.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Let’s keep quiet. I need to think.”
“Should I go?” Tanya asked.
“No.” A beat. “Stay. Alone, I look like a witness. With you, I’m just a boy chasing a girl.”
It was the first time she noticed how quickly his mind worked.
They sat without speaking.
The yard seemed to hold its breath with them.
________________________________________
Half an hour later the entrance door groaned open.
Five detectives emerged, crowding into a battered Lada. The car crept toward the bench and stopped beside Pometkin.
The passenger tossed him a ring of keys.
“The apartment’s yours.”
Pometkin caught them greedily.
“Find anything valuable?”
The officer didn’t even look at him.
“That’s none of your business.”
The Lada rolled away.
Pometkin watched it vanish — then went inside.
An hour later he came out dragging two suitcases.
Alex felt the heat rise in his chest before the thought even formed.
“We rented from him,” he said quietly. “That’s Pometkin. He sold my parents out… and now he’s looting what’s left.”
The boy surged forward.
Tanya caught his wrist with surprising strength.
“Don’t.”
Momentum tore out of him. He dropped onto the bench, shaking with contained violence.
Before he could speak, she pulled him close and kissed him.
Not softly.
Not timidly.
A kiss meant to interrupt fate.
Alex stared at her, stunned.
“Why did you do that?”
She smoothed her hair, pretending calm.
“If he saw your face, he’d remember it. Next stop — a cell next to your parents.”
The logic cut through his fury like cold water.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, mastering himself piece by piece.
In that moment he understood something essential:
Rage was useless unless controlled.
Tanya looked at him differently now — not like at the boy who had fought Boris, but at someone far more dangerous.
Sympathy flickered in her eyes.
“Why would he do this?”
“Greed,” Alex said. “We paid six months upfront. If he’s hauling our suitcases out already, he’s certain my parents aren’t coming back.”
His jaw tightened.
“He’ll rent it again by the end of the week. Easy fifteen hundred.”
Tanya’s expression hardened.
“For that kind of money, a man would sell his own daughter.”
“Maybe,” Alex said. “And the cops? They probably saw a foreign family with cash and decided to squeeze until something burst.”
He fell silent.
Across the yard, shadows thickened.
For the first time since childhood, Alex felt something close inside him — a door that would never reopen.
When he finally spoke again, his voice had lost the last trace of boyhood.
“I’ll remember this,” he said.
Not loudly.
Not emotionally.
Like a promise carved in stone.
Tanya slipped her hand into his.
This time, he didn’t even notice.
He was already somewhere else — mentally mapping debts, names, consequences.
The yard had just taught him its most important law:
What is taken must someday be reclaimed.

Tanya frowned, genuine surprise flickering across her face.
“Is there really anything worth stealing? Wealthy people don’t usually rent in places like this.”
“Oh, there is,” Alex muttered. “Something we have. Whether they can get it is another matter. My father would die before handing it over.”
Tanya suddenly froze.
“Wait… damn.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “That rat told them there were three of you. They’ll be looking for you too.”
“It won’t help them,” Alex said calmly. “They don’t know my face.”
“But they searched the apartment — what if they found photos?”
“There weren’t any,” he replied. “The only thing they could’ve taken is my birth certificate. No photograph in it.”
She studied him, unsettled by how steady he remained.
“So what’s your plan?”
Alex looked across the yard — no longer like a boy scanning familiar ground, but like someone measuring exits.
“I’ll find work. Any work. With money comes a bed, and with a bed comes options. I’ll stay here while the weather holds… then by October I head back to the Moscow region. My grandmother used to live there. I’ll start over.”
He said it with the practicality of a man twice his age.
Tanya leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“Good luck, Alex.”
“I’ll see you soon,” he said, almost shyly — the last echo of youth slipping through.
She turned toward the entrance.
Alex watched her go.
Watched the narrow line of her shoulders… the unhurried step… the way she never looked back.
For the first time that night, the anger inside him eased — not gone, just contained.
When the heavy door swallowed her, the yard felt colder.
He slipped a hand into his pocket.
The keys.
A short, humorless breath escaped him.
“In all this mess… I forgot.”
Pometkin had taken their things.
The police had finished their sweep.
No one would return tonight.
He lit a cigarette and headed for the apartment.
________________________________________
The place smelled abandoned.
Drawers hung open like broken jaws. Linen lay strewn across chairs. Someone had searched fast — and without respect.
His backpack sat in the living room, gutted but untouched.
Alex stepped into his parents’ bedroom.
Underwear spilled from the wardrobe. A stocking trailed across the floor like a discarded memory.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, he held himself together through nothing but will.
Then his teeth clenched.
“I’ll make him pay,” he whispered hoarsely. “I swear I will.”
The words were not shouted.
They were forged.
Tears came anyway — hot, humiliating, unstoppable. He let them fall, staring at nothing.
Fifteen minutes later, the storm passed.
When Alex lay back, his face had already hardened.
Emotion was a luxury.
Memory was a weapon.
“I’ll deal with Pometkin later,” he thought. “Men like him don’t vanish. But first — money. Then Reutov.”
Revenge favored the patient.
Sleep took him quickly.
Not the sleep of peace —
the sleep of someone whose old life had just ended.

Chapter Six. July 3, 1995 — Odessa
Dawn crept into the room on thin blue light.
Birds argued outside the window with operatic persistence.
“Drink or don’t drink?” a goldfinch seemed to chirp.
“Zin-zin,” answered another.
“Fi-fi!” protested a third, relentless.
Alex dragged a pillow over his head.
“Shut up,” he growled. “All of you.”
The bathroom greeted him with another small betrayal.
“The bastard even cleared out the toothpaste,” he muttered, rinsing his brush under cold water.
He splashed his face and reached for a frayed towel.
Then he looked up.
For a long second, he studied the reflection — swollen eyes, tightened jaw, something newly merciless behind the gaze.
Without warning, he wrapped the towel around his fist and drove it straight into the mirror.
The cabinet buckled inward.
Plastic shattered.
Fragments scattered across the stained sink.
Alex breathed slowly, staring at the fractured version of himself.
An idea surfaced.
Quiet. Logical. Satisfying.
Why not repay Pometkin in his own currency?
Destroy the apartment — but carefully. No noise. No witnesses.
Let the damage reveal itself only after it was too late.
The thought did not frighten him.
It steadied him.
For the first time since yesterday, Alex felt something close to control.
He rolled his shoulders once, already calculating where to begin.
The boy who had entered the apartment was gone.
Someone else stepped forward to take his place.
And he was learning fast.
There were things Alex could have done — loud, reckless things born of panic.
He dismissed them all.
Smashing the windows would draw attention. Flooding the place with gas could kill the neighbors — and murder was a line he was not ready to cross.
Not yet.
What he chose instead required patience.
And patience meant control.
He rolled a rag tight and forced it deep into the bathroom drain, then another into the tub. He turned both taps slowly, listening to the water begin its quiet, tireless climb.
Next came the kitchen.
Another rag.
Another faucet.
No noise. No spectacle.
Just inevitability.
By the time anyone noticed, the damage would already be done — creeping through ceilings, soaking wires, rotting floors. Expensive. Complicated. Impossible to hide.
Alex stood in the doorway for a moment, inspecting his work with the detached attention of a craftsman.
The boy who once lived here would have called this vandalism.
Now he saw it differently.
This was leverage.
“Our dollars will pay for the repairs,” he thought coldly. “But for what you did to my parents… you’ll pay in flesh.”
The promise settled inside him without heat.
Not rage.
Structure.
As he closed the door behind him, something shifted quietly in his chest — like a bone resetting after a fracture. Painful, necessary, irreversible.
The apartment was no longer a home.
It was his first calculated strike.
And once a person learned to answer injustice with design rather than emotion, the world itself began to look different — less like a place to live, more like a board to play on.
________________________________________
Hunger found him quickly.
Alex hadn’t eaten since the day before and had no money left. The tram carried him to the Central Market, rattling through the city as if nothing had changed — because for everyone else, nothing had.
The Old Fish Row announced itself long before he entered it.
Salt. Rot. Brine. Metal.
Vendors shouted over one another while flies traced lazy spirals in the heavy air.
A short-haired teenager in a fashionable Moscow jacket drew no suspicion. Markets respected appearances; clothes often passed for legitimacy.
He drifted from stall to stall, accepting samples with quiet confidence — a slice of herring here, a shred of smoked fish there. Enough to dull the sharpest edge of hunger, but not enough to satisfy.
Survival, he was beginning to understand, was a game of fragments.
He moved on to the meat and vegetable rows, wandering for hours with deliberate calm. The market revealed itself to him the way the yard once had — territories within territories, each ruled by its own small gravity.
Food no longer obsessed him.
Money did.
Behind the vegetable lines — near the brooms, cheap flowers, and funeral wreaths — he noticed a tight circle of squatting men near the gate to Catherine Street.
Three young operators hovered over a cardboard box.
Three thimbles.
Around them stood a dozen spectators dressed like vacationers — bright shirts, long shorts, sandals without socks. Too coordinated to be accidental.
Not locals.
Locals didn’t dress for display.
Alex set his backpack down and crouched behind them, studying the rhythm of the game.
Hands moved fast.
Too fast.
The watchers leaned in with rehearsed excitement.
Too rehearsed.
He didn’t yet know the mechanics — but instinct told him this wasn’t gambling.
It was harvesting.
When he tried to peer between two thickset men, the circle quietly adjusted.
The hunt had noticed him.
Two locals approached from behind with the lazy gait of men who already understood the outcome.
One nudged his shoulder with a knee.
“My apologies. Didn’t see you.”
Alex smiled lightly. “No problem.”
A second later, the weight vanished from his right hand.
His backpack.
Gone.
He sprang up — and walked straight into a punch.
The blow snapped his head sideways. By the time his vision cleared, the striker was already sprinting off, opposite the direction of the thief.
A simple split.
Force the choice.
Confuse the target.
Professional.
The backpack held nothing valuable. Instinct chose for him.
Alex ran after the man who had hit him.
The market twisted into a maze. He didn’t know the terrain, and the raider did — zigzagging through aisles, overturning trays of berries, kicking baskets into Alex’s path, grabbing startled shoppers and spinning them into obstacles.
Chaos was part of the design.
Within minutes, Alex understood something vital:
Here, disorder was manufactured.
Weaponized.
The runner slipped through a narrow passage and vanished into a low administrative building.
Inside.
The office of the Somov brothers.
________________________________________
Oleg and Igor Somov had once been captains in the Odessa Maritime District Police.
More than ten years in uniform had taught them exactly how power worked — and, more importantly, how it could be sold.
Eventually they grew careless.
The police chief publicly branded them “werewolves in uniform” and cast them out.
At least, that was the official story.
In reality, they landed on their feet the same day.
Market records listed Oleg as deputy director for financial planning and Igor as deputy director for construction.
Titles were cheap.
Influence was not.
The brothers controlled the market’s quieter economy — shielding pickpockets, managing thimble crews, taxing fraudsters.
Predators, dressed as administrators.
And now Alex, breathing hard but steadying fast, found himself standing at the edge of their territory.
He did not yet realize it, but the morning had already given him two lessons:
Revenge favored preparation.
And the world belonged to those who organized the chaos.
He wiped the blood from his lip, eyes sharpening as he looked toward the office door.
For the second time in less than twelve hours, Alex felt that subtle internal realignment.
Fear was fading.
In its place came attention.
And attention, when trained long enough, became something far more dangerous.
He stepped forward.
Not as a victim.
As someone beginning — however unknowingly — to adapt.

The brothers’ office occupied the second floor of the dairy pavilion. Wide windows overlooked the meat hall and the broad artery leading toward the vegetable rows — a perfect vantage point for anyone who preferred to supervise rather than participate.
Igor Somov stood at the glass, calmly observing the chase below.
Behind him, Oleg leafed through a thick ledger, entering figures into a pocket notebook with accountant-like precision — the handwriting of a man who treated crime as structured commerce.
When the thief burst inside clutching Alex’s backpack, Oleg didn’t immediately look up.
“What do you want?”
“Slippery and I lifted a backpack,” the thief said, breathing hard. “We were supposed to meet at Fish Row. He never showed.”
“I see them,” Igor said. “The tourist is faster. Slippery won’t hold him long.”
Oleg opened a desk drawer, retrieved a pager, and typed a short message.
“Three men are heading over.”
Igor watched Alex vault a crate without breaking stride.
“Won’t be enough.”
Oleg closed the drawer.
“Then we intervene.”
No urgency.
No irritation.
Just adjustment.
Like businessmen correcting a miscalculation.
________________________________________
Alex caught the thief near the market gates on New Splinter Street.
The runner swerved through rows of used bicycles, scattering pedestrians. Alex closed the distance step by step — breathing controlled, shoulders loose, eyes fixed.
When he was within reach, he drove a tight hook into the man’s ear.
The thief stumbled sideways, crashed through a clutter of shovels and watering cans, and collapsed against a locked kiosk.
Alex barely registered the impact.
Movement behind him.
He pivoted.
The first pursuer ran straight into a counterpunch and folded. The next two slowed, instinct replacing bravado as they searched for angles.
One broke toward the tram rails, trying to flank him.
Too late.
Alex dropped the second with a short combination, already turning toward the third.
Efficiency was replacing anger.
He was no longer chasing.
He was managing space.
Three men down.
The fourth hesitated.
Then the air shifted.
Two large figures emerged from the gates, moving with the unhurried certainty of men who never needed to run.
They looked almost identical — heavy shoulders, same measured stride, same absence of wasted motion.
Authority without badges.
“Easy, newcomer,” Oleg called. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
Igor didn’t raise his voice.
“You — disappear.”
The remaining pursuer vanished instantly. The fallen thief scrambled back toward the market.
Order restored.
Oleg studied Alex for a long second — not with anger, but with interest.
“Come with us, fighter.”
Not a request.
________________________________________
Minutes later, Alex stood inside their office.
The brothers settled into deep leather chairs. His backpack lay between them like an object under evaluation.
The thief lingered near the door, suddenly very quiet.
Igor spoke first.
“Where are you from?”
“Moscow region.”
Oleg tilted his head slightly.
“And what is a Russian doing alone in this market? Where are your parents?”
“My family moved here a week ago,” Alex said evenly. “Yesterday they were arrested. I was hungry. No money. Couldn’t bring myself to steal — so I tasted what I could.”
No self-pity.
No trembling.
Igor noticed.
“If you were broke, why sit near the thimble crews?”
“I was looking for work. Thought I might be useful.”
The brothers exchanged a brief glance.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Oleg leaned forward.
“Where did you learn to fight?”
“I was Moscow youth boxing champion.”
Igor gave a faint nod.
“That shows.”
A pause.
“Where do you live?”
“I don’t. Not anymore.”
“Police looking for you?”
“Not that I know of.”
Igor tapped a finger once against the armrest.
“Then tell me — why nearly cripple three of my men? What treasure justified that?”
“Nothing was in the bag,” Alex said. “Clothes. A toothbrush.” He pointed toward the thief. “I didn’t chase him. I chased the one who hit me.”
Understanding flickered across Oleg’s face.
“So it wasn’t the theft,” he said quietly. “It was the insult.”
Alex held his gaze.
“Yes.”
Another glance passed between the brothers — longer this time.
Decision was approaching.
“Step outside,” Oleg said. “Both of you.”
________________________________________
The corridor smelled faintly of sour milk and dust.
They sat on opposite sides.
The thief leaned forward, voice tight with hatred.
“If they don’t take you in, we’ll finish you sooner or later. Maybe not today — but you won’t last the winter.”
Alex didn’t bother raising his voice.
“You’re too small to threaten me. If you were the one who hit me, morgue attendants would already be washing you.”
A beat.
“But don’t worry. When your time comes, I’ll make sure you’re not lonely there.”
No theatrics.
Just statement.
The office door opened.
Igor stepped out holding the backpack.
He handed it to Alex.
“Take it. Come with me.”
________________________________________
The beige sedan slid into traffic.
For several minutes, Igor drove in silence, studying the road — and occasionally Alex in the reflection.
Finally:
“My brother and I decided you’ll work for us.”
Not if you want.
Not we offer.
A placement.
“But not in the city. Too visible,” Igor continued. “There’s a large clothing market near the airport. You’ll live there. Eat there. Stay useful.”
Alex nodded once.
No questions.
Inside, however, something sharpened.
Yesterday the world had collapsed into chaos.
Today he was glimpsing its hidden framework — territories, hierarchies, men who enforced gravity around them.
The Somov brothers had not rescued him.
They had identified him.
Predators recognized potential early.
Twenty minutes later the car rolled into a vast dirt lot packed with hundreds of vehicles bearing plates from across Ukraine.
Trade flowed here.
So did money.
And wherever money gathered, structure followed.
Alex stepped out, the dry wind carrying dust across the endless rows of stalls.
He did not yet know it, but this was the kind of place where boys either disappeared…
or learned very quickly how the real machinery of the world turned.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack.
And walked forward without hesitation.

“What is this?” Alex asked, staring in astonishment at the container city stretching toward the horizon.
“The land of opportunity,” Igor replied as they walked toward his office. “It started as a flea market and grew into the largest industrial goods market in the Commonwealth. They call it The Seventh Kilometer. Thousands work here — vendors, guards, cleaners, loaders. Some owners used to be engineers, teachers, even doctors. The new authorities had no use for them, so they tried their luck in business. Not the worst place for it, either.”
The last sentence he delivered in English.
Without hesitation, Alex answered in the same language:
“Steak knife, card shark, con job, boot cut.”
Igor stopped and looked at him, surprised.
“What does that mean?”
“Lyrics from an American song,” Alex said.
“Where did that come from?”
“It just popped into my head.”
Igor studied him for a moment, then waved it off.
“Forget it. I’ll introduce you to my deputy — he’ll issue your badge. You must wear it at all times. Everyone who works for my brother and me has one. With it, you’re untouchable. You can eat at any caf; in the market.”
“Are there rules?” Alex asked.
“My deputy will explain your duties. But remember this: female vendors are cash cows, male traders are rams with valuable wool. You don’t steal from either. Business is sacred. The women are handled carefully — milked for profit. The men… we shear when necessary. If a collector tells you to deal with a negligent cow or a stubborn ram, you prove your worth.”
“I’m not laying a hand on women,” Alex said firmly.
“You won’t have to,” Igor replied calmly. “You’ll handle their husbands.”
After introducing Alex to his representative, Somov left the office without another word.
The man assigned to him — mid-thirties, sharp-eyed — fell into step beside Alex.
“There are four shell-game crews in the market. You’ll join one of them. The boss says you’re the bull — fast enough to snatch the cash and disappear if there’s a raid. High praise, considering he used to be a cop.”
“What money? And disappear where?” Alex asked.
“The cashier will brief you. He’ll show you the routes, the exits, where to stash the take.”
“Where’s the police station?” Alex asked.
The man glanced sideways at him.
“Why the interest?”
“My parents are under arrest. If the police put me on a wanted list, I’d rather be the first to see my name on the board.”
A smirk flickered across the man’s face.
“No real station here. Just a ‘strong point’ — three friendly officers. They keep drunks from fighting and take statements from fools who got robbed. Raids come from the central department, and they never warn the locals. Keep your head down and you’ll be invisible.”
He jerked his chin forward.
“Come on. I’ll introduce you to your crew. Tuesday through Sunday — six in the morning to four in the afternoon — you’ll plow the field of unsuspecting idiots.”
It’s a wonderful life, Alex thought.
________________________________________
During the next two weeks, Alex trained as a proper fraudster.
He learned to draw the eye away from the vanishing pea, to play the gullible amateur, to win small sums and build trust. Occasionally, after letting a victim take a substantial pot, he would transform into a player touched by miracle luck — sweeping back every bill the operator had “lost.”
Still, they didn’t trust him enough to let him handle the shells. Nor was he yet permitted to run with the money during raids.
Not yet.
________________________________________
On Sunday afternoon, Alex sat on the metal bunk inside his new temporary refuge — a shipping container — and considered his plans for the coming day.
The corrugated walls trapped the heat. Bunk beds lined both sides; between them stood narrow tables and folding chairs. Twelve men breathed the same stale air despite the doors hanging open at either end.
A supervisor from the Seventh Kilometer stepped inside, weaving between the beds and handing out envelopes.
Alex opened his and counted.
Three hundred thousand karbovans.
He turned the bright bills over in his hands, trying to understand the value of the multicolored paper, when Somov’s deputy appeared behind him and calmly removed a third of the stack.
Alex looked up.
“This is your share from the common fund — and payment for food,” the deputy said, already moving on.
Fifteen dollars for two weeks, Alex calculated silently. They must think I’m an idiot.
He ate in silence among the bunks — a homeless thief in a metal box.
My father taught me to earn money with knowledge and protect myself with strength, he thought. There’s no money for me here.
Time to look elsewhere.

As thoughts of his father lingered, a dull sadness settled over Alex. He forced it down and turned his mind elsewhere — to Tanya.
Who is she with now? A student? A tourist? Why not foreigners… merchant sailors? I could introduce them. Help her make real money.
The idea struck him with such force that he almost smiled.
What a fool I've been. At the grocery market I could hear the tugboats, the clang of metal, the dispatchers shouting across the loading docks. The seaport was right there — and I never saw it.
He stood.
I need to see her. It's been weeks. She’ll be glad.

Chapter Seven
July 19 — Odessa, Ukraine
That same evening, Alex rang Tanya’s doorbell.
She opened it with visible irritation that quickly rearranged itself into a polite smile.
“Oh… it’s you. I thought my parents were back from the cabin before I finished cleaning. Go to the kitchen — I’ll be a minute.”
He sat at the table.
“Hungry?” she called from the bathroom.
“I ate at work.”
“Look at you — employed,” she said, stepping out with a dripping brush in her hand.
“Tanya, the soap is running onto the floor.”
“I was going to mop anyway. So — where have you been?”
“I joined a crew of con artists at the Seventh Kilometer market.”
“You’ve settled in fast,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed.
“They feed us, house us… but the pay is miserable. Thirty dollars a month. No future. At best, you become an operator.”
“What’s that?”
“The one who moves the cups — hides the ball.”
“Ah.” She dropped to her knees and began wiping the hallway.
Alex watched despite himself — her bare legs, the careless short robe. Desire flickered, but calculation quickly smothered it.
She returned and sat beside him.
“You didn’t come just to chat.”
“Should I pretend I missed you?”
“My parents could walk in any second. Skip the romance — talk.”
“I found a way for us to earn real money.”
She studied him carefully.
“You have a plan?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“I’ve thought about you every night. I’ve seen the men you choose — and yes, I’ve been jealous. But jealousy is useless. What matters is opportunity. We have an advantage others don’t: I speak fluent English… and you look like someone men are willing to pay for.”
She flinched.
“Enough with the compliments.”
“No compliments. Strategy.”
He paused, steadying himself.
“I meet foreign sailors and tourists at the port on weekends. I bring them here. You entertain them. We split everything fifty–fifty.”
Color rushed into her face. Her hand flew toward his cheek.
Alex caught her wrist — not roughly, but with unmistakable strength — and set it back on the table.
“It’s not a joke. And don’t try that again. I may look harmless, but I’m not. Moscow boxing champion — under sixty-four kilos.”
His tone remained calm.
“Think about it. Instead of wasting weekends on broke students and soldiers, you could earn a hundred a day. Two hundred, maybe three. By summer’s end — your own apartment.”
The words seemed to hollow her out.
Tears gathered.
“So because I change partners… I’m a whore now? Is that what you think? That I belong on some street corner?”
“I didn’t say that.” His voice softened. “I admire you.”
He heard how weak it sounded.
“I thought your body was ready for desire,” he went on quietly, “but your soul wasn’t ready for love. Forgive me if I hurt you. I do love you — but you don’t see me as your boyfriend. This way, you gain freedom from your parents… and I earn enough to get back to Russia.”
“Is that true?” she whispered.
“I swear it is.”
At that moment, a key turned in the lock.
Her father entered, arms heavy with shopping bags — plums in one, grapes in the other.
“Sweetheart, ask your young man to bring the vegetables from the trunk.”
Alex moved instantly, hauling in boxes of potatoes, cauliflower, eggplants — working with almost theatrical eagerness.
When the last crate was inside, Tanya stepped out with him into the warm evening air.
“I’ll think about what you said,” she murmured. “Maybe it is time to change something.”
Hope surged through him.
He pressed his advantage.
“When your parents return, you scrub floors and ask permission to breathe. Your own place changes that. You decide everything — even when the floors get cleaned.”
He held her gaze.
“I lost my parents… and it nearly broke me. But it gave me something else — independence. Today I work for the Somovs. Tomorrow I work for myself.”
His voice dropped.
“We all need that moment — the push that forces us to become who we are meant to be. Accept this, and you stop being someone’s daughter.”
A beat.
“You become free.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Tanya asked.
“No.”
“Come at ten. We’ll spend the day together… and maybe reach an agreement.”
“Sounds perfect,” Alex said, brushing his lips lightly against her cheek.
________________________________________
Inside the apartment, Tanya’s mother hurried to store the vegetables while her husband carried the empty crates to the balcony.
Returning to the kitchen, he muttered under his breath,
“Another new boyfriend. And this one is practically a child. She doesn’t even try to be selective anymore — ready to sleep with anyone.”
His wife did not look up from the sink.
“It’s your fault,” she said calmly. “You’ve always hidden your tenderness from her. She grew up seeing only your severity and never your love. So now she searches for it elsewhere.”
He said nothing.
“She falls for any boy who offers a kind word,” the mother continued. “And do you know why?”
A long pause.
“Because she has never heard those words from you.”
The knife struck the cutting board with quiet finality.
“What amazes me most,” she added, “is how easily you compliment your nurses.”
He remained silent.
________________________________________
On Mondays, taxis avoided the Seventh Kilometer, forcing Alex to cross the city by bus and tram. Even so, he arrived a few minutes late.
Tanya waited on a bench near the entrance.
“Chivalrous men don’t keep their dates waiting,” she teased.
“We’re business partners. The idea of being your gallant suitor never crossed my mind.”
“The future will decide what you are,” she replied lightly. “Now — your plan.”
“What time do your parents leave?”
“Around six.”
“I’ll bring the first client at seven. The second — closer to eleven. Can you manage that?”
She considered it with surprising composure.
“I think so. Younger men have… more energy, but older ones are usually predictable. Two clients an evening seems reasonable. What are we charging?”
“One hundred an hour. I take half.”
She gave a short laugh.
“Half? I’ll be doing the difficult part — in every sense. Sixty–forty.”
Before he could respond, she spat into her palm and extended her hand.
Alex hesitated only a second before repeating the gesture.
The deal was sealed.
And just like that, something invisible — but irreversible — shifted between them.
________________________________________
Buoyed by triumph, Alex said,
“Let’s go to the park. Ride the Ferris wheel. Watch the dolphins. Eat ice cream. Swim.”
Tanya studied him with a soft, almost puzzled affection.
“So strong… so calculating… and still a boy.”
She stood.
“Come to my place. I’ll show you exactly how I intend to earn those dollars.”
She took his hand and pulled him toward the building with quiet determination.
________________________________________
Later, Alex lay staring at the ceiling.
“I worry about your safety,” he admitted. “You’ll be vulnerable with strangers. I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone.”
Tanya traced idle patterns across his chest.
“There are things we should prepare for,” she said thoughtfully. “Some men confuse money with permission. Better if you stay nearby — perhaps in the kitchen.”
He drew her closer.
“When I first suggested this, I wasn’t sure I could accept it. Now I’m even less certain. But no one will disrespect you. And no one walks out without paying.”
She slipped from the bed with sudden brightness.
“Enough worrying. Take your girl to the park. Carousel, lunch, dolphins, the sea — all of it.”
She smiled.
“As the women here say — a girl who is desired is a girl who feels alive.”


Chapter Eight. July 25, 1995 — Reutov
Roughly a hundred yards from the intersection of Fifth Line and Transport Street — where the industrial wasteland bled into the last rows of apartment blocks — a refugee family from war-scarred Chechnya had assembled a roadside empire: a barbecue caf;, a twenty-four-hour grocery, a car wash, and, behind a corrugated hangar, the private bathhouse known locally as Nikolas’ Baths.
A lone black Volga waited in the gravel lot like a patient animal.
Inside the caf;, two men ate without hurry.
They were known as Afghan and Elephant.
A metal tray sagged under the weight of lamb kebabs. Beside it stood a basket overflowing with pierogies. From the kitchen, the owners — a silent middle-aged couple — moved with careful efficiency, serving pancakes, grilled chicken, shawarma, and tea.
Elephant chewed methodically, grease shining on his thick lips.
Across from him, Afghan studied the screen of his pager.
Elephant swallowed.
“So?”
“Zafiros’ spouses are being released today. Ordered not to leave the city.”
“When?”
“The precinct officer says paperwork is already underway.”
Elephant frowned.
“The Ukrainians deported them three days ago. That was quick.”
“The prosecutors have nothing,” Afghan replied calmly. “Property damage through negligence. Administrative at best. If they compensate the neighbors, even the fine disappears. The fire inspectors ruled out arson.”
He paused.
“Their release works for us.”
Elephant wiped his chin with a rag.
“What’s the play?”
“We wait.”
Elephant smirked.
“Waiting sounds better by the sea.”
Afghan looked up.
“It’s a signal, not leisure. Our informant will message the moment they step outside the police building. Ten minutes for us by car. Fifteen for them on foot.”
Elephant tore into a chicken leg.
“So we grab them… and then what?”
“We remind them that deceiving us was expensive.”
“And where exactly are we ‘reminding’ them?” Elephant asked, glancing around the caf;. “By noon this place will be full of witnesses.”
Afghan held his stare.
“Don’t irritate me, Pavel.”
His voice remained quiet — which made it more dangerous.
“You know I have keys to the bathhouse. Not the public entrance. The VIP sauna.”
Understanding flickered in Elephant’s eyes.
Then suspicion followed.
“You’ve got quite an operation here,” he said slowly. “Caf;, grocery, carwash, bathhouse… All functioning. Does the boss know?”
Afghan smiled without warmth.
“Where is this coming from?”
Elephant tilted his head toward the kitchen.
“They behave like you own them.”
“Refugees from Chechnya,” Afghan said lightly. “They sense what you are and assume the worst.”
A thin pause.
“As for me — I simply collect the patronage fee from the car wash.”
________________________________________
A police corporal escorted George and Irina Zafiros inside the District Attorney’s Office at 11:00 a.m.
The investigator sat behind a desk cluttered with almost nothing — a thin cardboard file containing no more than ten pages.
He skimmed the fire report again.
Accidental.
No fatalities.
Minimal damage.
Routine.
Yet one detail refused to settle:
Why had these people been circulated as wanted across the entire Commonwealth of Independent States?
He closed the folder.
“Remove the handcuffs. They’re not going anywhere.”
The corporal obeyed.
“Sit down,” the investigator said.
The couple lowered themselves into the chairs.
He studied them in silence long enough to make them uncomfortable.
“Tell me truthfully — what made you abandon your home, cross a border overnight, and resettle in Odessa?”
George answered carefully.
“We merely traveled to my hometown for a holiday. We accept responsibility for the fire and will compensate the neighbors threefold.”
“I am not a police officer,” the investigator said mildly. “I am the district attorney assigned to your case. Your answer does not satisfy me.”
A pause.
“You may remain silent. But it would be wiser not to.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Where is your son?”
Irina broke first.
“We don’t know,” she whispered, tears gathering. “We haven’t heard anything about him since our detention in Odessa.”
For the first time, the investigator leaned back.
Now the case interested him.
George drew his wife closer, trying to steady her.
Raising his voice just enough to assert control, the investigator said, “Your teenage son is a Russian citizen. His name will be added to the missing persons registry—with or without your request.”
George’s expression hardened. He regarded the investigator with open contempt.
“Do you honestly think we’re indifferent to the fate of our only son?”
“I’ll take you at your word. Since you have no information about Alex’s whereabouts, law enforcement will proceed without your assistance,” the representative from the district attorney’s office replied. He pulled two sheets from the folder and slid them across the table.
“You are both required to sign a recognizance not to leave the city. Until I receive confirmation from the victims regarding restitution, you are to remain in Reutov.”
Irina and George signed without sitting down, remaining before the captain of justice as he returned the documents to the folder with bureaucratic precision.
“Will we need to come back?” George asked.
“I will notify you in writing once the case is formally closed. You’re free to go.”
Irina had already stepped into the corridor when George suddenly remembered.
He turned sharply.
“Our car. What happened to it?”
“What car?” the captain asked, genuinely puzzled.
“We drove here in a Lada. From Odessa.”
The assistant prosecutor flipped through the thin file again, his expression growing increasingly grave.
“According to the arrest inventory, you were in possession of two watches, a wallet, and your wife’s jewelry. No vehicle is listed in the case file. I don’t doubt your statement—but unfortunately, there is nothing I can do.”
Irina spoke into the silence.
“Should we go back to Odessa and look for it?”
“I wouldn’t advise it. Ukraine—Odessa in particular—suffers from the same diseases we do: crime, extortion, corruption. You’re unlikely to discover the truth about your arrest… or your car.”
He closed the office door behind the Zafiroses.
________________________________________
Outside the station, the couple walked down Yuri Gagarin Street toward their five-story building.
When they passed their boarded-up grocery store on Prospect Mira, Irina slowed. Her gaze lingered on the shuttered windows.
“What do we do now?”
“First, we withdraw our savings from the bank. Second, we compensate the neighbors for the damage. Then we obtain the document closing the case…” He paused.
“And after that, we go back to Odessa and find our son.”
Irina broke down again.
“How do you find a homeless teenager in a city of a million?”
“He made friends in the courtyard. We start there. If they know nothing, we go to the police.”
“You want help from the same police who arrested us? Those devils would sooner kill us than help us.”
“We still have substantial money in Odessa banks. We can bribe officers in another precinct… or pay a retired cop to make inquiries.” He squeezed her shoulder.
“Don’t cry. I’ll find him.”
________________________________________
They turned into the courtyard.
Nothing had changed.
Cars crowded the entrances. Children shouted on the playground beneath the trees. Laundry hung between rusted metal poles above cracked asphalt — ordinary life, indifferent to catastrophe.
George and Irina stopped beneath their building and looked up at the second-floor balcony.
The neighbors’ windows were intact. No broken furniture remained.
Only the black soot embedded in the pale sand-lime brick marked what had happened there.
Irina drew a slow breath.
George shook his head once and pulled the door open with unnecessary force.
She stepped inside.
From a nearby Volga, Afghan emerged.
He moved quickly after them.
In the dim lobby, George tugged the inner door handle.
The moment it opened—
The blow landed.
Elephant, waiting behind the door, drove his fist into George’s forehead with the weight of a sledgehammer. George flew backward into Irina.
She tried to catch him.
Afghan was already there.
His forearm locked around her throat. He tightened just enough.
The hallway tilted.
Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision.
Ignoring the children staring from the playground, the thugs hauled the couple outside and shoved them into the trunk of Afghan’s car.
________________________________________
Fifteen minutes later, the black Volga rolled onto Fifth Line again.
This time Afghan bypassed the caf;. He turned down a dead-end road and followed a fence separating a grocery store, a tire shop, and a bathhouse from a dense riverside grove.
No one came here unless they had a reason not to be seen — businessmen, minor officials, prostitutes, criminals.
At an iron-studded door, Afghan unlocked the padlock and nodded to Elephant.
“Take them to the sauna,” he said. “I’ll fire up the heaters. The stones need to get properly hot.”

As Afghan entered the building, Elephant popped the trunk and yanked George out by the collar.
George was conscious but badly stunned, his thoughts sliding out of focus before they could form.
After slamming the trunk shut on Irina, Elephant dragged George toward the sauna, then returned for her.
“Miss me?” he said softly, tightening his grip on her arms. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”
Irina screamed for help.
No one came.
Only birds stirred in the grove beyond the fence, and the distant roar of the industrial park rolled over her voice until it vanished.
________________________________________
Inside, Afghan lowered himself into a leather chair beside the minibar, studying the flames in the fireplace with idle calm. The couple’s passports rested on the coffee table within arm’s reach.
George lay face down on the expensive carpet, Afghan’s shoe planted between his shoulder blades.
A billiard lamp cast a cone of yellow light behind them.
“Strip her,” Afghan said without looking away from the fire. “Burn the clothes.”
“Please… don’t…” Irina whispered.
George tried to push himself up. A broken groan escaped instead.
“Pavel,” Afghan said mildly, “ignore the noise. They fooled us once.”
He drew a knife and slit George’s trousers open with a single efficient motion, then rolled him onto his back.
“You want to do it yourself,” he asked quietly, “or should I?”
“I will,” George breathed.
Elephant gave a low chuckle as he tore the last of Irina’s underwear away.
“What, you planning to enjoy him? Didn’t know you were into that.”
Afghan smiled faintly.
“We’re not touching either of them. I have something better in mind.”
He grabbed George by the hair and hauled him upright.
“Take her to the sauna. It should be ready.”
________________________________________
They shoved the naked couple into the blistering heat and sealed the glass door behind them.
“Start screaming when you’re ready to tell me where the money is,” Afghan said.
Elephant lingered by the glass, watching Irina.
“Why not let me have her first?”
Afghan turned the wall lever.
“We don’t need their screams. We’ve got three eighteen-year-olds coming later… and a sixteen-year-old for a friendly cop.”
Elephant grinned.
“You think they’ll break?”
“They will.”
He poured water onto the stones.
The reaction was immediate.
George doubled over.
Irina clawed at the air as if it had thickened around her.
Their skin flushed a violent red.
Breathing became work.
Then agony.
“What the hell’s happening?” Elephant asked.
“Humidity,” Afghan said. “Dry heat you can survive. This—you inhale it, and it scalds your lungs.”
Inside the sauna, the couple began to howl.
Sweat streamed down their bodies, no longer cooling them — only trapping the heat against their skin like liquid fire.
“Watch them,” Afghan said, heading for the door. “If they quiet down, give it another burst.”
Elephant nodded.
But the moment Afghan left, boredom crept in.
He twisted the control all the way.
The thermometer climbed.
110.
111.
112.
The needle buried itself against the stop.
________________________________________
Thirty seconds later, George slammed into the glass.
“Let me out!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you everything!”
Smiling, Elephant opened the door and dragged him out by the throat.
Irina staggered after him—
The door slammed in her face.
“Talk,” Elephant said.
George swayed, barely upright.
“I can’t… I can’t take it. Kill her fast. If she dies clean… I’ll tell you everything.”
“No problem.”
Elephant ducked back inside.
The door closed.
Irina’s screams lasted less than a minute.
When he emerged, her body hung limp in his arms.
“She didn’t suffer,” he said, laying her gently on the floor.
George collapsed beside her.
He kissed her cooling forehead.
“Forgive me… my love. I’ll be with you soon.”
Elephant clamped a hand around his neck and hauled him upright.
“Where’s the money?”
George gathered what little strength remained…
…and spat in his face.
“Go to hell.”
For a moment Elephant did not move.
Then something in his expression snapped.
“You dead bastard.”
With a low animal grunt, Elephant clamped his hand around George’s throat, lifted him clear off the floor, and drove his skull into the sauna wall.
The impact thudded through the tile.
“What the hell was that?” Afghan’s voice carried from the manager’s office, followed by quick, irritated footsteps.
He stepped into the dressing room, took one look, and froze.
Irina lay twisted on the floor.
George beside her.
Both motionless.
Anton crouched, checked their carotids, and swore under his breath.
“Goddamn it, Pavel… why?”
“He begged me to kill his wife,” Elephant said, breathing hard. “Then he spat in my face.”
A pause.
“I’d kill you for less.”
He spat on George’s body and stalked toward the break room.
Anton watched him go, jaw tightening.
Then he grabbed Irina by the wrists and dragged her across the tiles into the office. Her heel left a faint wet streak behind.
Elephant had already picked up a cue and resumed his game, knocking the balls apart with casual precision.
Anton approached him.
“Bring the husband in. Lock the office after. We’ve got three girls coming… and the local cop. Once everyone’s gone, we dump the bodies in the grove.”
“Fine.”
Anton hesitated.
“One more thing — the boss doesn’t hear about this.”
Elephant looked up.
“Not a word about the sauna. I was in control here. That makes it my responsibility.”
“What if he asks?”
“Tell him we strangled them. Bags over the head. Then burned the bodies in Saltykovsky Forest Park.”
Elephant studied him for a moment, then nodded once.
“You’re running the show.”
“For tonight,” Anton said quietly.
________________________________________
*****
The summer evening lingered, the sun sagging toward the horizon, painting the sky in diluted crimson.
On the balcony of a two-story mansion, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties smoked a cigar and watched the water below.
His thirteen-year-old daughter cut clean lines through the pond, each stroke smooth and deliberate. Ripples spread across the glassy surface.
He allowed himself a small smile.
Not many things in his life inspired tenderness.
She did.
A German shepherd bounded across the manicured lawn, whining softly — eager to leap into the water, yet disciplined enough to wait for permission.
The man was Vladimir Mamonov.
In the criminal world, he was known as Mommy.
The nickname carried weight — less for its irony than for what it implied. Mamonov ruled with a controlled, almost paternal authority. Those under his protection were expected to prosper.
Those who crossed him disappeared.
Some had suggested the moniker Mammoth, a nod to his size and immovable presence, but Mamonov rejected it. One of his enforcers already answered to Elephant, and confusion invited mistakes.
Mistakes invited blood.
When he was crowned a vor v zakone — a thief-in-law — he had said only:
“Elephant and Mammoth will make sure our table is never empty.”
Few knew how far he had already drifted from the ancient code.
A true thief-in-law was forbidden from binding himself to one woman. Forbidden from fathering legitimate children. Forbidden from needing anyone.
Mamonov had done all three.
He had an ex-wife he still quietly protected…
…and a daughter he loved with a devotion bordering on dangerous.

Mamonov’s coronation as a thief-in-law had not come easily.
Weeks earlier, the decision had been argued over in a shuttered restaurant in Lyubertsy, where the air hung thick with cigar smoke and old grudges.
His personal life became the central objection.
A former marriage.
A daughter.
Attachments were weaknesses.
Several bosses spoke against him.
Anton Izmailovsky — the man who had put Mamonov forward — ended the debate.
“He’s been divorced for years,” Anton said evenly. “He served nine hard ones inside. And he commands enough armed men to level a district. If that doesn’t qualify him, nothing does.”
No one was impressed by the dozens of fighters waiting outside from Reutov.
Everyone knew Izmailovo alone could produce ten times that number — men who would step into gunfire without hesitation if Anton asked.
The same was true in Solntsevo.
In Lyubertsy.
Power respected power.
What finally stilled the room was something else entirely:
Mamonov’s hidden arsenals.
Machine guns.
Grenade launchers.
Even anti-personnel mines.
After that, the objections died quietly.
The crown was his.
________________________________________
“Svetlana,” Mamonov called calmly, “out of the water. Now.”
“Just a minute, Dad!”
Instead of answering, he gave a short whistle.
The German shepherd froze mid-stride, pivoted, and sprinted back to the balcony.
Obedience mattered.
Below, Svetlana wrapped herself in a towel, rinsed her feet, and began dressing. She glanced up once — checking whether he was still watching.
He was.
Always.
Behind him, Elephant appeared without a sound.
“Boss. Afghan is waiting in the hall.”
“Send him up.”
Mamonov never took his eyes off the lawn as his daughter crossed it — long, effortless strides, the last light catching in her wet hair.
The shepherd pressed against her leg as they disappeared into the house.
Only then did Afghan step onto the balcony.
“Good evening, Vladimir.”
Mamonov ignored the greeting.
“Did you transfer the At Irina store to my brother-in-law?”
“Two days ago. The sales contracts were signed on behalf of George and Irina Zafiros. As of yesterday, the store — and their apartment on Peace Street — belong to Potap.”
“No complications?”
“A minor one.”
Afghan allowed himself the faintest smile.
“We found a couple who resembled the Zafiroses closely enough for the paperwork. Elephant and I escorted them to the notary. When she started studying their faces too carefully…”
He tapped his belt.
“The pistol helped her reach the correct conclusion.”
Mamonov nodded once.
Efficient.
“And the real owners?”
“They were transported from Odessa to temporary detention. Released the next day on bail. Our informant alerted me.”
Afghan paused.
Just long enough.
“What happened after you met them?” Mamonov asked.
The question was quiet.
That made it dangerous.
Afghan chose his words carefully. The Nikolsky baths did not need to enter this conversation.
“We drove them to the nearest forest. They were sitting on roughly a hundred thousand dollars.”
“And?”
Mamonov’s patience thinned.
“Finish the story.”
“At first George claimed Odessa police took everything. We didn’t believe him. So we leaned on the wife.”
Afghan kept his voice flat.
“He said if she died clean, he’d give us the banks and account numbers. If we touched her…” A small shrug. “He promised to take it to the grave.”
“Well?”
“Elephant strangled her.”
For the first time, Afghan felt something cold move down his spine.
“George held out another three hours. Bag over the head. Never talked.”
Silence settled over the balcony.
Far off, a dog barked.
Mamonov spoke without turning.
“They had a son.”
“Yes. None of our people saw him. Odessa couldn’t produce a photograph either.”
A longer silence.
“What did you do with the bodies?”
“Gasoline. Then fire.”
Mamonov finally shifted his gaze from the darkening lawn to Afghan.
His expression revealed nothing.
“Find the boy.”
Not louder.
Not harsher.
Just final.
“Did you bury them?” Vladimir asked.
“No. We didn’t have shovels. We left them under a tree.”
A faint pause.
“Their passports?”
“At my place.”
“Bring them to me.”
“I will,” Afghan said.
________________________________________
Mamonov valued Afghan for one thing — force.
Through his military contacts, Afghan kept Reutov supplied with weapons and men who knew how to use them.
But cunning?
That was another matter.
________________________________________
“Did you know George’s nationality?” Mamonov asked.
“Greek.”
“Yes,” Mamonov said softly. “A perceptive answer.”
He studied Afghan for a moment.
“Have you ever read Leskov? A Jew in Russia.”
“No. What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’ll see.”
________________________________________
Mamonov had spent nearly a quarter of his life in prison.
He never cooperated with the administration. Never worked the shops. Never cooked.
Instead, he arbitrated disputes.
And he read.
Voraciously.
Prison libraries had educated him better than any university ever could.
He spoke almost absently now, as if recalling something etched into bone:
“In Russia, people used to say — a Gypsy can cheat a Russian, a Jew can cheat a Gypsy, an Armenian can cheat a Jew, a Greek can cheat an Armenian…”
A small pause.
“And only the devil can cheat a Greek. If God permits it.”
He turned his eyes on Afghan.
“Do you understand?”
Afghan said nothing.
Being lectured irritated him. Especially by a man known more for excess — drink, cards, women — than scholarship.
Mamonov watched the silence settle.
Then gave the faintest nod.
“Next time,” he said calmly, “bring a shovel.”
The words landed heavier than a threat.
________________________________________
“Anyway,” Mamonov continued, “what’s the situation with Svyat?”
“We’re slowly bleeding his foreign car operations. Parts are already being redirected to your BMW-Service shop.”
“Good.”
Mamonov looked back toward the dark lawn.
“Pressure breaks men faster than bullets.”
“Excellent.”
Mamonov turned from the balcony and walked into his office.
“Close the door.”
He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
Afghan entered, shut it softly behind him.
Mamonov lowered himself into the chair, set his feet on the desk, and took a measured sip of whiskey from a crystal tumbler.
Only then:
“Let’s get to it.”
A pause.
“Before my last stretch inside, Svyat spoke highly of you. Military training, he said. Combat experience.”
His eyes lifted.
“True?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Moscow Higher Command Infantry School. After graduation — Afghanistan.”
Now Mamonov studied him with genuine interest.
“Is that where the nickname came from?”
“I commanded a motorized rifle platoon near Kandahar. Six months. Until Gorbachev pulled us out.”
“A veteran, then,” Mamonov said quietly. “Decorations?”
Afghan said nothing.
Silence held for a moment.
Mamonov did not repeat the question.
Men who deserved their medals rarely spoke of them.
Good.
________________________________________
“I intend to restructure,” Mamonov said. “War with Svyat is no longer hypothetical.”
He rotated a knife on the desk with idle precision, the blade whispering against polished wood.
“How do we fight without bleeding unnecessarily? Arrests. Informants. Betrayal. I want insulation.”
Afghan nodded once.
“With your authority, I can build something stronger than what we have now. Strong enough that Svyat — and the neighbors — think twice before breathing in our direction.”
Mamonov allowed himself the faintest smile.
“Careful. Ambition is useful. Overconfidence is fatal.”
He leaned back.
“Understand something first. Solntsevo? Izmailovo? That’s war against empires. We don’t touch them unless we’re ready to drown in our own blood.”
A small pause.
“Svyat is different. No crown. No sanction. Just a man who forgot whose chair he warmed while I was gone.”
His gaze hardened.
“No one will object when I remove him.”
The knife stopped spinning.
“Talk.”
________________________________________
“Cells,” Afghan said. “Five men per unit.”
Now he spoke like an officer.
“Each knows only his own. No cross-contact.”
Mamonov nodded slightly.
“Continue.”
“One leader with direct access upward. Inside the unit — defined roles.
The brain.
The heavy — someone whose presence alone ends arguments.
And a runner. Scout, courier, logistics.”
“Compartmentalization,” Mamonov said.
“Exactly.”
“Recruitment?”
“Sports clubs.”
That earned him a longer look.
“Explain.”
“Minors draw lighter sentences. If one falls, he disappears into the juvenile system — and comes back forged. By then he understands there is no road back to ordinary life.”
Afghan’s voice hardened.
“Boys are fearless when they believe in only one direction.”
A beat.
“I remember.”
Mamonov watched him carefully.
“You’re still ruthless.”
Afghan met his gaze.
“Now it’s discipline. Not youth.”
Silence settled between them — not uncomfortable.
Professional.
Mamonov lifted his glass.
Good men were hard to find.
Ruthless men who could think?
Rare.
Very rare.

“Well done, Anton,” Mamonov said, deliberately using his given name — a rare sign of approval — as he acknowledged the soldierly precision Afghan brought to the business. “I admire your forward thinking: mobile phones, pagers, computers… You understand where the world is heading.”
He paused, then added with quiet emphasis:
“Still, don’t forget — I am the kingpin. Squad leaders will be chosen only from men who have done time.”
After a moment, he asked, almost casually, “Tell me — who serves as the first deputy commander in the army?”
“The Chief of Staff,” Afghan replied.
Mamonov let out a low chuckle.
“Excellent. Then from this moment on, you are my Chief of Staff.”
He leaned back, studying Anton with open satisfaction.
“Draft a roster of squads. Calculate how many pagers, mobile phones, and vehicles we’ll need. When the plan is ready, bring it to me.”


Chapter Nine. October 7, 1995 — Odessa–Reutov
Early on the first Monday evening in October, Alex stepped out of a taxi on the Kiev highway across from a Daewoo dealership. Without sparing the Korean sedans a glance, he moved past the showroom at a brisk pace.
A hundred meters beyond the glass-fronted building stood the regional logistics hub of the Ukrainian postal service. Every day, trucks heavy with parcels and letters rolled out toward cities across the country and beyond its borders.
As he approached the gate, Alex watched armed guards methodically check the papers of drivers returning from long hauls and verify the IDs of employees parking outside the compound.
I can’t go in through the main entrance, he thought. Either I comb the perimeter for a break in the fence or memorize a truck and wait for it to leave… No. Too slow—and no guarantee it’s headed where I need.
He walked up to a guard.
“Excuse me. I’m waiting for my father—he was due back from a business trip an hour ago. What time does the center close? Should I wait, or come back tomorrow?”
“We don’t close,” the guard replied. “Drivers move through at all hours. Your call.”
“Thanks.”
Alex headed back toward the highway linking the coastal jewel of Odessa to the capital, Kiev.
Keeping to the shoulder, he followed the traffic flow and, after nearly an hour, reached the rear side of the terminal. Just as he had guessed, a twenty-meter strip of woods separated the railway embankment from the warehouse corner—no fence in sight.
Called it. Must be on the site plans, he thought, scraping manure from his sneaker soles against the grass. Contractors probably skipped the foundation altogether.
He glanced around the grove.
And the drivers clearly appreciate the shortcut. Easier to sneak behind the warehouse and “ponder the meaning of life” than hike two hundred meters to a reeking restroom.
At the warehouse corner he ducked beneath the first semi-trailer, propped his backpack against a wheel, and settled into the shadows.
Watching the yard from ground level soon grew monotonous. As evening drained away and activity slowed, Alex didn’t notice himself drifting into sleep.
The growl of a diesel engine snapped him awake.
In the dim pre-dawn light, a tractor unit backed toward the trailer overhead. Alex slipped out and flattened himself around the corner as the kingpin locked into place with a metallic crack. The driver climbed down, coupling brake lines and electrical cables with practiced efficiency.
A warehouse door screeched open. Someone clattered down an iron staircase and handed the driver a folder before disappearing again.
Alex tensed, ready to step out and ask for a ride—but instead of climbing into the cab, the driver tossed the documents onto the seat, shut the door, and headed toward the grove.
Pre-trip piss, Alex thought. Long road ahead. Interrupt him now and he’ll either soak his pants or tell me to get lost.
The driver relieved himself by the roadside grass and began to sing:
“Take a leak before you ride,
Makes the heavy miles go light.”
Alex bit down on a grin.
“Fill the tank and check the chains,
Keep hot coffee for the plains.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Alex called as the man finished and turned back toward the truck. “Could you give me a lift?”
The driver jolted, then squinted at him.
“Does it matter where I’m headed?”
“I’d prefer Moscow. But north to Kiev or east toward Donetsk works too—it all gets me closer to Russia.”
“Why not take the train? No money?”
“I’ve got money. What I don’t have are documents.” Alex held his gaze. “I ran away last summer. Planned on lying low in Sochi, but figured the authorities might look for me there first. Odessa seemed safer. I’ve been getting by here for four months—with just this backpack.”
“You’re asking me to take you across the border without papers?”
“Exactly. Your colleague already did—cost me a hundred bucks.”
The driver frowned. “How?”
“He was hauling a dozen sedans on an open carrier from Moscow to Kiev. Hid me in one of the trunks. Smooth trip.”
The driver studied him.
“So what are you—local or Russian?”
“Greek. From Odessa.”
“Now I get it.” He exhaled slowly. “Listen, kid—I’m not some private hauler. I carry state mail. Taking passengers is strictly forbidden. Sorry.”
He pulled the cab door open.
“What if I make it two hundred?”
The driver froze.
“Shit… boy, that’s a month’s pay.”
He looked up and down the road.
“If this blows back on me, I’m finished…”
For a moment he hesitated, weighing risk against need, then swore under his breath.
“Ah, fuck it. Climb in. Get in the sleeper.”
The truck rolled toward the gate.
At the barrier, the driver glanced back.
“Name?”
“Alex.”
“Stay behind the curtain until I call you.”
Alex nodded.
“I will.”


A security guard checked the driver’s license, waybill, tarp seal, and cargo documents before lifting the barrier.
“Alex, you can come out,” the driver called as the truck picked up speed on the Kiev highway.
“Sorry — I never got your name. And where are we headed?” Alex asked, settling into the passenger seat.
“Call me Michael. We’re going to Bryansk. We’ll unload part of Kiev’s cargo, pick up mail from Russia, then head back out. Take off your shoes — no point letting your feet suffer in those sneakers.”
“Are we staying overnight in Kiev?”
“No. While they unload and reload, we’ll grab lunch and keep moving.”
“You always hauled mail?”
“Only the last two years. Before that, I spent twenty-five years behind the wheel — all over Ukraine and the Soviet Union.”
“Why switch?”
“Calmer work,” Michael said. “See ‘Post of Ukraine’ on the truck? Means the cargo’s usually worthless. Letters, parcels. Not much temptation.”
“How many times have you been hit on the road?”
“A few.” He shrugged. “Each one sticks with you. I was lucky — they tied me up, took the cargo, left me alive. Some drivers just disappear. Once, they emptied my truck and I didn’t hear a thing.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Coming back from Siberia with a load of smoked meat. Pulled over about an hour outside Ishim, ate something, fell asleep. Morning comes — doors wide open, trailer empty.
“I’m a light sleeper, usually. Not that night. Turned out they pumped ether into the cab. Knocked me out cold. Police confirmed it later.”
He gave a faint smile.
“Could’ve been worse. Insurance covered the loss. Otherwise I’d still be paying it off.”
“You were lucky.”
“Not always,” Michael said after a pause. “Three years ago I hauled a section of an Antonov-70 wing from Kiev to Tashkent — two thousand kilometers through Kazakhstan. Paid off bandits five times going out, five more coming back. Empty on the return, too.
“If it had been commercial cargo, someone would’ve reimbursed me. State shipment? My problem. By the end of it, I’d driven five thousand kilometers just to break even.”
“Couldn’t you fight them off? Bat, iron bar — something?”
“Force costs more,” Michael said. “The ones who steal trucks block the road and swarm you. The ones who charge ‘tolls’ don’t even show guns. Refuse to pay, and they plant drugs in your cab, then tip off friendly cops.”
“I get it. Ever think about staying local? Might mean more time at home.”
Michael smiled faintly.
“Driving’s a sickness. Rest a few days, and the road starts calling again. Gets in your blood.”
They drove on, talking, the miles slipping past unnoticed.
“Alex — grab the thermos and the snacks from my bag,” Michael said as traffic thickened ahead.
They ate sandwiches while Alex offered a shortened version of his story.
“When I was five, my grandfather died in a village near Moscow. My grandmother was left alone, so my mother convinced my father to trade our two-room apartment in Odessa for one in Reutov.
“My father had been a chief accountant at a cannery in Odessa, but he couldn’t find anything comparable there. After a string of jobs, he started his own business. My mother quit teaching to help run the family grocery store.
“That’s how we’ve lived ever since.”

“Why didn’t you stay with your family? What made you run?” Michael asked, surprised.
“I wanted freedom,” Alex lied. “I was hungry for adventure.”
Kiev stirred vivid memories in him — the new high-rises on the outskirts, the Moscow Bridge stretching across the river. As they drove toward the state border, Michael kept them both entertained with stories from life on the road.
“There was this one time in Siberia,” he said as they passed the village of Bobrik. “I was behind a logging truck hauling round timber. One log stuck out to the side — clipped a few road signs, then slammed into a parked car. Tore the trunk clean off, peeled back the roof, sent the whole thing into a ditch.
“Lucky for the driver, he was taking a leak nearby — squatting there like an eagle. Imagine the terror when what was left of his car flew past him.”
“He probably finished a lot faster than he planned,” Alex said, laughing until his eyes watered.
Michael joined in, the tension in the cab dissolving.
By twilight they had left Krolevets behind and entered dense forest. A few kilometers later, Michael steered off the road, stopped the truck, and killed the engine.
“Out,” he said. “Time to hide. The border’s forty kilometers from here. After this forest — open fields.”
He dropped his gloves on the floor, shifted into neutral, and jumped down. Alex watched as Michael lifted the grille beneath the windshield, unlocked the mechanism, and began working the hydraulic lever.
Ten minutes later, the cab was tilted forward.
“What now?” Alex asked, unable to hide his nerves.
“See that cable holding the tarp?”
“It runs all the way around the trailer.”
“Right. The ends sit inside a sealed lock. Cut it carefully — don’t damage the seals — and you can lift the tarp without anyone knowing.”
Trying to understand the trick, Alex asked, “How do you put it back?”
“I’ll show you.”
Michael crouched under the tilted cab and motioned him closer.
“Bring your backpack.”
Alex climbed onto the frame and knelt beside him.
“See where the cable runs under the spare tire?” Michael flicked on a pocket flashlight. A thin PVC tube covered a section of the transparent sheath.
“That’s where it’s been cut and rejoined. Tube keeps it from snapping.”
“Looks fragile. How long does it hold?”
“There’s almost no tension,” Michael said. “Those metal rings sit on cones — the cable just keeps them from slipping off.”
He peeled away a strip of tape, separated the wire, then glanced toward the dark road. Lifting the tarp, he said quietly:
“Inside. Stay still. I’ll let you out once we’re across.”
Alex slipped into the trailer. Michael resealed the cable, lowered the cab, and pulled back onto the highway.
Two hours later, the truck stopped.
Michael opened the trailer and helped him down.
Alex handed over the money, practically glowing.
“Two hundred. Thank you. You didn’t just get me across — you showed me a whole hidden world.”
Michael looked slightly embarrassed.
“We’re not in Bryansk yet. Might be thanking me too soon.”
“Maybe,” Alex said, smiling. “But I’m already in Russia. That’s what matters.”
________________________________________
Chapter Ten. October 10, 1995 — Reutov
Late in the autumn evening, Alex stepped off a bus near the Kosino Children’s Sea Club, walked a few hundred meters toward the three churches by White Lake, and unlatched the gate in a low wooden fence.
His grandmother, Daria Mikheeva, lived in a log house set on a brick foundation. Four windows faced Big Kosino Street — two of them boarded over with white-painted plywood.
Through the remaining windows, muted light seeped past the tulle curtains — a floor lamp glowing softly, television flickering.
Alex closed the gate behind him and climbed the steps to the front door, his heart pounding.
He still didn’t know what had happened to his mother.
And he had no idea how to tell his grandmother that her daughter might never come home.
“Why didn’t you stay with your family? What made you run?” Michael asked, surprised.
“I wanted freedom,” Alex lied. “I was hungry for adventure.”
Kiev stirred vivid memories in him — the new high-rises on the outskirts, the Moscow Bridge stretching across the river. As they drove toward the state border, Michael kept them both entertained with stories from life on the road.
“There was this one time in Siberia,” he said as they passed the village of Bobrik. “I was behind a logging truck hauling round timber. One log stuck out to the side — clipped a few road signs, then slammed into a parked car. Tore the trunk clean off, peeled back the roof, sent the whole thing into a ditch.
“Lucky for the driver, he was taking a leak nearby — squatting there like an eagle. Imagine the terror when what was left of his car flew past him.”
“He probably finished a lot faster than he planned,” Alex said, laughing until his eyes watered.
Michael joined in, the tension in the cab dissolving.
By twilight they had left Krolevets behind and entered dense forest. A few kilometers later, Michael steered off the road, stopped the truck, and killed the engine.
“Out,” he said. “Time to hide. The border’s forty kilometers from here. After this forest — open fields.”
He dropped his gloves on the floor, shifted into neutral, and jumped down. Alex watched as Michael lifted the grille beneath the windshield, unlocked the mechanism, and began working the hydraulic lever.
Ten minutes later, the cab was tilted forward.
“What now?” Alex asked, unable to hide his nerves.
“See that cable holding the tarp?”
“It runs all the way around the trailer.”
“Right. The ends sit inside a sealed lock. Cut it carefully — don’t damage the seals — and you can lift the tarp without anyone knowing.”
Trying to understand the trick, Alex asked, “How do you put it back?”
“I’ll show you.”
Michael crouched under the tilted cab and motioned him closer.
“Bring your backpack.”
Alex climbed onto the frame and knelt beside him.
“See where the cable runs under the spare tire?” Michael flicked on a pocket flashlight. A thin PVC tube covered a section of the transparent sheath.
“That’s where it’s been cut and rejoined. Tube keeps it from snapping.”
“Looks fragile. How long does it hold?”
“There’s almost no tension,” Michael said. “Those metal rings sit on cones — the cable just keeps them from slipping off.”
He peeled away a strip of tape, separated the wire, then glanced toward the dark road. Lifting the tarp, he said quietly:
“Inside. Stay still. I’ll let you out once we’re across.”
Alex slipped into the trailer. Michael resealed the cable, lowered the cab, and pulled back onto the highway.
Two hours later, the truck stopped.
Michael opened the trailer and helped him down.
Alex handed over the money, practically glowing.
“Two hundred. Thank you. You didn’t just get me across — you showed me a whole hidden world.”
Michael looked slightly embarrassed.
“We’re not in Bryansk yet. Might be thanking me too soon.”
“Maybe,” Alex said, smiling. “But I’m already in Russia. That’s what matters.”
________________________________________
Chapter Ten
October 10, 1995 — Reutov
Late in the autumn evening, Alex stepped off a bus near the Kosino Children’s Sea Club, walked a few hundred meters toward the three churches by White Lake, and unlatched the gate in a low wooden fence.
His grandmother, Daria Mikheeva, lived in a log house set on a brick foundation. Four windows faced Big Kosino Street — two of them boarded over with white-painted plywood.
Through the remaining windows, muted light seeped past the tulle curtains — a floor lamp glowing softly, television flickering.
Alex closed the gate behind him and climbed the steps to the front door, his heart pounding.
He still didn’t know what had happened to his mother.
And he had no idea how to tell his grandmother that her daughter might never come home.


A week after returning from the Moscow suburbs, Alex pushed open the door of the boxing club.
Victor glanced up — relief flickered across his face. Alex was alive.
Then the trainer saw what mattered more.
The fierce spark that had once set the young fighter apart was gone, dimmed as if someone had quietly turned down the flame.
“Welcome back, Alex,” Victor said. “We’ve missed you. Let’s get back to work — we’ll bring that fighting spirit back.”
He smiled faintly, concealing his unease. Rekindling that fire would not be easy.
Alex moved differently now — economical, deliberate. Even his gaze had weight, stripped of the restless volatility that once drove his punches.
Victor barely had time to absorb the change before Alex surprised him.
He asked not to be considered a promising boxer anymore and requested less individual attention. He added that he had taken a new surname – Mikheev and preferred the old one forgotten. Finally, he asked to train in the morning.
Victor studied him.
“I assume you don’t want your old group,” he said. “Join the seniors. They start at ten and finish before lunch.”
“That works,” Alex replied, placing fifty dollars into his hand. “For August and September — and three months ahead.”
“You owe nothing for the time you were gone.” Victor returned twenty.
Alex folded the trainer’s fingers back over the bill.
“I owe you far more than money, Coach. Trust me.”
Victor glanced at the crumpled note but did not argue. This was no longer the boy he used to reprimand for smoking behind the gym.
Questions rose — where he lived now, whether he still studied, what had altered him so completely — yet Victor let them settle. When a fighter was not ready to speak, pressure only hardened the silence.
“I should warn you,” he said instead. “Sergey turns eighteen in January. I’ve already moved him up. Whether you like it or not, you’ll see your old friend.”
“Sergey was my best friend,” Alex said calmly. “I hope he still is.”
“Go change. Pads.”
________________________________________
Inside the ring, a familiar stillness settled over Alex — something he had not felt during his idle days at his grandmother’s house. The ropes, the canvas, the smell of worn leather — all of it steadied him.
He worked without a word.
Hooks cut clean arcs through the air. Crosses snapped into the pads. Victor slipped the blows and returned light counters, probing timing rather than strength.
Alex no longer chased power.
He chased precision.
The gym gradually filled with younger boxers, their laughter bouncing off the walls. When practice began, Victor introduced Alex and quietly told the boys to ease up on the newcomer.
Sergey greeted him with a grin and nearly joked that some of them deserved a discount too — but a single look from the trainer sealed his mouth.
Near the end of practice, the door opened.
Voices thinned. Movement slowed.
Three men stood at the entrance, surveying the gym with unhurried attention.
Elephant stepped in first — broad, heavy, immovable. Mamonov and Anton followed.
They said nothing.
They simply watched.
And their presence alone was enough to alter the air.

Anton wore vibrant lemon-colored trousers cinched with a brown leather belt. His broad torso was hidden beneath a pale yellow shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, over which he had thrown a burgundy jacket. A purple scarf circled his neck.
Afghan stood with deliberate ease, both hands buried in his trouser pockets so that the boys could not miss the black pistol grip, the contour of the shoulder holster, and the magazine seated within it.
A massive gold ring set with diamonds burned on his finger. A thick chain sagged across his chest, heavy with excess — jewelry chosen not for taste but for effect. Every detail of his appearance was calculated to stun impressionable youths, to project wealth, access, and power. The message was simple: this was what success looked like.
The mob boss was dressed more austerely — a dark gray suit beneath a leather coat, a long white scarf falling straight down over a silk shirt. Yet restraint did not exclude display: a diamond ring flashed on his hand, and a heavy gold chain rested against the fabric like a badge of rank.
Normally, Vladimir avoided people who flaunted their wealth. Yet the fashionable Italian shoes he wore that evening disgusted him — especially the long, pointed toes that forced him to measure every step.
Years earlier, noticing similar shoes on a former classmate who now held a senior position in the city administration, Mamonov had remarked:
“Maxim, you walk like a clown in those.”
The bureaucrat had only smiled.
“You’ve made everyone fear you. People respect you even in a tracksuit and worn sneakers. But the upper-class respects appearances — the latest fashion, expensive cars, large houses, and young, beautiful mistresses.”
Mamonov understood the subtext immediately. For a crime lord who was often welcomed at lavish gatherings inside government residences, the lesson was obvious: reputation opened doors, but presentation kept them open. Still, he believed that a thief in law earned authority through deeds alone. Grand speeches, costly cars, beautiful companions — all of it meant nothing without the weight of action behind it.
Though the kingpin usually preferred modesty and demanded the same from those around him, today was an exception. Dressed in calculated extravagance, Reutov’s mafia boss and his closest associates had come to display the seductive face of gangster life.
Elephant looked altogether different. The weightlifter’s massive frame strained against a navy-blue Adidas tracksuit topped with a cropped leather jacket. Black Puma sneakers grounded him. There was nothing decorative about him — he dressed like a man built for impact.
Mamonov stopped two steps from the door. Elephant halted behind him, his bulk sealing the entrance.
Anton moved toward the boxing ring.
Sparring with Sergey, Alex caught sight of the unwelcome visitors from the corner of his eye.
“We’ve got company,” he muttered to the trainer.
Victor slipped off his gloves, ducked under the ropes, and approached Afghan.
“Outdoor shoes aren’t allowed in the gym.”
“I don’t care what’s allowed,” the bandit replied calmly. “Are you in charge here? Come with me. That gentleman wants a word.”
The trainer showed no irritation. He walked toward the two men studying him with open appraisal.
As Victor approached, the kingpin asked:
“Trainer, do you know who I am?”
“You’re Vladimir Mamonov.”
“Good. Then you probably know why I’m here.”
“I can guess,” Victor said evenly, making no effort to hide his dislike. “You want my fighters.”
“Can you help us?” Afghan asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“No. I train athletes. What they choose to become afterward is their decision — not my responsibility.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” Mamonov said.
Afghan jerked his head toward the ring.
“Back to your boxers.”
Victor climbed through the ropes.
Vladimir turned slightly toward Anton.
“Make it clear to them,” he said, loud enough for the boys to hear, “that your boss has always respected martial arts. Tell them I grew up in gyms like this one. I know what it costs — equipment, travel, competitions. Anyone who needs sponsorship will have it.”

Afghan strode past the table with the gong and struck the brass disk several times with a hammer. The sharp metallic clang cut through the gym. Gloves stilled. Conversations died. The boxers turned.
Climbing into the ring, the gangster repeated the boss’s message, then added, “If any of you need sponsorship, come see me. Fill out a form — you’ll receive financial support.”
“Training is over,” the coach announced.
Anton settled behind the trainer’s desk. Five boys — among them Alex and Sergey — bent over the questionnaires, writing down their names and addresses. Alex registered under his mother’s surname. To the local gangsters, he became - Alexander Mikheev.
Afghan slipped the completed forms into his jacket and beckoned Sergey and Alex closer. Pressing a finger against each of their chests, he said, “Your teammates tell me you’re the most talented ones here. Tomorrow, one o’clock. Parking lot in front of McDonald’s on Nikolskaya Street.”
________________________________________
The iron gates slid slowly along their rail, revealing a sprawling two-story mansion.
Anton’s polished Mercedes rolled across the circular drive and stopped beside an unfinished guesthouse after looping around a carefully tended flowerbed.
Near the construction site stood a Ford Transit with its side door open. Two thickset men in their fifties — unshaven, broad-shouldered, weather-beaten — worked inside, speaking a language Alex could not place. Dressed in coveralls and heavy boots, tool belts sagging at their hips, they handled hammers, drills, chisels, and angle grinders with methodical efficiency. Sergey and Alex watched in silence while Anton disappeared into the main house.
On the mansion roof, still bare of tiles, a gray-haired mason laid brick flues between the sloping beams. A trough of mortar and stacks of vivid red brick stood within arm’s reach. After each row, the craftsman checked the line, adjusted it, and only then moved on — patient, exacting.
The front door opened.
Mamonov stepped out with Afghan, a young girl, and a magnificent German shepherd. In the boss’s hand was a curious plastic spoon — long-handled, ending in a shallow cup. Before Alex could wonder at it, Anton said:
“Vladimir — Alex and Sergey. Two promising lads from yesterday.”
“Well, how are you?” Mamonov greeted them, smiling easily and shaking their hands with deliberate warmth. “Strong grip. Good.” He glanced toward the buildings. “Let’s see what they can do. Send one to help the Lithuanians and the other to the mason.”
With his daughter at his side and the dog pacing ahead, Mamonov headed toward the pond. Alex watched as the boss flicked the spoon; a tennis ball sprang from its bowl and arced through the air.
“Fetch!” the girl cried.
The shepherd launched after it, ears flying.
“Enough gawking,” Anton called from the doorway. “Time to work.”
________________________________________
The guesthouse hummed with labor. A tiler set neat rows along the kitchen walls. Plumbers crouched beneath exposed pipes in the bathroom. In the main hall, two formidable men paneled the walls with expensive wood, their movements measured and professional.
“Algis — take an assistant,” Anton said to one of them. “He’s no carpenter yet, but you’ll teach him.”
“How long is he with us?” Algis asked without looking up.
Afghan considered Alex briefly. “Depends on him. If he proves useful, he stays. If not — he’s gone. Think of this as a test.”
The nickname hit Alex like a blow.
For a second, the room narrowed. Heat rushed through him. His gaze darted across the space, searching for something heavy — a mallet, a length of pipe, anything that could serve as a weapon. The urge was sudden and violent: to strike the man who had broken his family’s future.
Anton’s voice cut in.
“Why are you looking around like that? First time you’ve seen a proper house? You from Reutov?”
Alex forced his jaw to loosen.
“I live in Kosino village,” he said evenly. “I’ve never been inside a place like this.”
Afghan studied him, eyes thinning.
“Good,” he said at last. “Remember this — loyalty and hard work open doors here. Show us what you’re made of, and we’ll take care of you. Stay close to Mamonov, kid, and you’ll have everything.”
“And who is he?” Alex asked.
“I forgot — you don’t know,” Afghan said. “Vladimir Mamonov goes by Mommy. If he finds you worthy, he treats you like a son. Boys are his weakness. He wanted a son, but got a daughter instead. Understand?”
He jerked his chin toward the two Lithuanians.
“You’ll do whatever they tell you. Tonight go home, pack what you’ll need for a week, and come back. You’ll eat and sleep here. Construction is your test. Work two weeks without whining, and we’ll bring you into real business. Fail — and instead of sponsorship, you’ll get a hard lesson. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodbye,” Alex and Sergey said.


________________________________________
Chapter Eleven. October, 1995. Moscow Region
For the first three days, Alex worked as an assistant to the two carpenters. He approached every task with the same unspoken rule: finish it properly and make yourself useful.
On the evening of the third day, Algis and his cousin Mantas told the construction supervisor they needed a portable table saw. An hour later, they loaded Alex into their minibus and drove north.
The Lithuanian carpenters lived in the village of Khovrino on the outskirts of Moscow and were widely regarded as some of the finest craftsmen in the region.
The moment they stepped inside their house, the cousins celebrated their brief freedom with almost boyish relief. After two weeks under the supervisor’s watch — with a strict ban on strong drink — the Baltic men seemed starved for release.
Chilled Lithuanian vodka, Stumbras with a spikelet, appeared on the table and flowed generously. Within an hour, their heavy voices filled the house with slow, minor-key folk songs.
Alex did not understand the words, yet the music painted its own landscape.
He imagined dark forests stretching beyond sight, frozen lakes sealed beneath iron ice, and low clouds pressing heavily upon the earth. In his mind, the northern wind moved through the trees with a long, mournful howl, as if carrying stories older than memory.
The branches swayed.
Hidden paths vanished into shadow.
The lakes lay like sheets of dull metal beneath the weight of the sky.
Though he grasped none of the lyrics, the melody itself spoke — austere, restrained, and quietly sorrowful. It carried the gravity of a people accustomed to endurance.
Listening, Alex felt himself drawn somewhere far from the noisy construction site, far even from Russia — into a harsher, quieter world shaped by cold and distance.
For a moment, he sensed how little he understood about the lives unfolding around him.
Yet the music required no translation.
It settled directly in the chest.
The cousins sang with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, swaying slightly, their rough voices growing fuller with each glass.
Not waiting for the concert to end, Alex slipped away and lay down.
From the next room came the fading echo of an old knight’s song:
Lithuanians ride along the mountain walls —
They ride, they ride.
Bearing a wreath of flowers,
A rue wreath… a rue wreath.


Mantas and Algis shuffled into the kitchen, their steps soft, almost cautious. By then, Alex had already made an omelet, toasted bread, and set a pot of water to boil.
Instead of offering a morning greeting, he asked lightly,
“So — Maxwell House instant coffee, or Indian tea?”
“Water,” Mantas muttered.
His voice was tight with pain. Bloodshot eyes shrank from the light, and he pressed his palm against his temple as if holding his skull together. Even that single word seemed to cost him effort.
Algis looked no better.
“The same… then coffee,” he whispered, lips dry.
His voice rasped; his eyes struggled to focus. Every movement appeared deliberate, as though his body resisted even the smallest demand.
Breakfast passed in near silence, broken only by the faint clink of cups.
Soon afterward, the cousins led Alex to a large barn that served as their workshop.
“Kid — come take a look,” Algis called.
Along one wall, resting directly on the packed earth floor, lay a ladder folded into an unusual five-section structure. Alex had never seen anything like it — massive, cleverly engineered.
Above it, tools hung in strict order on pegboards: saws, planes, chisels, hammers — each in its place, the wall itself a quiet declaration of discipline.
The cousins positioned themselves at either end of the ladder and began unlocking the safety catches. Their motions were economical, practiced. They flipped the structure, secured the opposite side, and within minutes the compact form stretched into a straight ten-meter line.
The metal locks clicked firmly into place.
Confidence was built into the thing.
Together they lifted it and set it against the barn wall, adjusting the angle with care until it stood perfectly stable.
“You,” Algis said, pointing upward. “Under the roof.”
Alex climbed quickly, boots tapping along the narrow rungs. At the top he turned, waiting.
Below, Mantas said something in Lithuanian, his tone proud.
“I told you — it holds weight even at a shallow angle.”
“We’ll test it properly next week,” Algis replied, switching to Russian. Then, louder: “Come down.”
________________________________________
A week later, Alex ate alone in the guest house hall. He was finishing his tea when Algis entered carrying an old double window frame and set it on the table.
The carpenter watched him for a moment, gauging how long the tea would last. Then he opened his tool bag and took out a glass cutter, a suction cup, and a short paraffin candle.
“When you’re done, I’ll show you how to use this,” he said. “Exercise: fix the suction cup to the glass, circle it with the candle, then score along the edge.”
Alex set down his mug, pressed the suction cup to the pane, and carefully drew the cutter around it.
“See the scratch?” Algis asked.
“Not everywhere.”
“Keep going until the line is continuous. Then tap along it. Once the circle is complete, pull with the suction cup and remove the cut piece. After that — the inner pane. Harder. You’ll need the smaller cup. It’s in the bag.”
He checked his watch.
“It’s seven. You have five hours.”
Alex looked up.
“Why do I need to learn this?”
“You’ll get your answer when the job is finished.”
________________________________________
Shortly after midnight, Mantas gently shook his shoulder.
Alex opened his eyes.
“Get dressed,” Mantas whispered. “And come outside.”


A minibus idled in front of Mamonov’s gated estate. Near the open cargo door of the Ford, the security guard and Algis argued in low, urgent voices.
As Alex approached the gate, fragments of their conversation reached him.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be back by morning and explain everything to the boss,” Algis said evenly.
“I can’t let you go,” the guard insisted. “Mamonov will have my head if I disobey him.”
“If we strike gold, he’ll receive his fair share — and be grateful,” Algis replied. “Your cooperation won’t be forgotten. And if we return empty-handed… well, then there will be nothing to discuss.”
“We won’t bother him with trifles,” Mantas added casually.
The guard spat to the side.
“Damn you. Go on, then — just don’t forget a little something for me.”
________________________________________
Forty minutes later, Mantas pulled the minivan into a shadowed space behind a three-story apartment block in Mytishchi, one of Moscow’s gray satellite towns.
Algis turned in his seat and looked at Alex.
“Listen carefully, son. You’re getting into the fourth-floor apartment through the kitchen window. Once inside, unlock two doors — one wooden, one steel. Do not open them.
“The tenants — a dental technician and his wife — are visiting their son in Saint Petersburg. No one should be home.
“As soon as you disappear inside, we’ll fold the ladder and wait on the landing. We come in only when everything is ready.
“Your job is simple: unlock the doors. Nothing more. Clear?”
“Clear,” Alex said calmly.
“Gloves. Balaclava. Move.”
________________________________________
Wrapped in a plush purple terry robe, Mamonov stood by the bedroom window, cradling a mug of steaming coffee.
Morning unfolded quietly beyond the glass.
Thin stratus clouds drifted across the pale sky. High above, dark flocks crossed the horizon in solemn formation. Vladimir knew nothing about birds and could not have named a single species — yet watching them filled him with an unexpected calm.
A fragile peace before the machinery of crime resumed its daily grind.
“Honey… coming back to bed?” a soft female voice called.
“No.” He did not turn around. “Get dressed and disappear. My bodyguard will pay you.”
“Will you call me again?” the young woman asked as she hurried into her clothes.
“Perhaps. Remind me — what was your name?”
“Sleepless Snowflake.”
Mamonov chuckled.
“Snowflake? So you’re rare and exquisite… cold, untouchable — yet willing to melt in the right hands?”
He paused, then thought silently:
And once melted, a snowflake becomes nothing more than an ordinary drop of water.
“Advertising name?” he asked. “Something suggesting you can keep a man entertained till dawn?”
“No, honey. That’s the family name. Elena is what my parents cursed me with. I changed the first when I entered the trade,” the night butterfly replied.
“Leave your number with Elephant.”
Snowflake sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her high-heeled boots — their long shafts nearly reaching the hem of her miniskirt.
Mamonov glanced at her and grinned.
“You remind me of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. All you’re missing is the red coat… and that ridiculous long-strap purse.”
“Who is she?” Snowflake asked.
He did not answer.
Instead, his gaze settled on the ancient icon of the Mother of God hanging in the corner. The Madonna’s painted face was sorrowful, her neck slashed by a fresh knife wound.
Vladimir stepped closer and brushed the damaged surface with his fingertips.
“Who would dare wound you like this,” he whispered, “and why?”
The golden-framed face seemed almost alive in its grief, as if trying to tell him:
An icon alone cannot save you — neither in life nor after death. Seek forgiveness. Renounce your sins.
The bedroom door creaked open behind him. He glanced back just long enough to see the woman slip out.
Afghan appeared in the doorway.
“Boss, the gatekeeper says the Lithuanians left during the night. What are your orders?”
“I know,” Mamonov said. “Even with that whore in my bed, I heard the commotion.”
He took a slow sip of coffee.
“Wait until lunchtime. If they’re not complete idiots, they’ll return — a quarter to the thieves’ fund, another quarter to me for ignoring my orders.
“I might forgive them.
“But if they don’t…” He shrugged faintly. “Bury them alive. Let the others learn.”
Afghan nodded and withdrew.
Moments later, Mamonov slid beneath the covers and fell into a heavy sleep.
________________________________________
Anton understood perfectly well that the na;ve carpenters from Khovrino had no idea what kind of game they were playing. Men like that rarely shared their spoils.
Still, Afghan was reluctant to sanction a double murder unless it proved absolutely necessary.
He decided to warn them.
Crossing the mansion’s vast hall, he summoned the gatekeeper. The pager on the guard’s belt beeped:
COME TO THE FRONT DOOR.
When the man arrived, Anton asked quietly,
“Did the Lithuanians promise you a share?”
The guard shifted, embarrassed.
“Yes.”
“Have they paid you yet?”
“No.”
“Then go collect what you’re owed,” Afghan said. “Immediately.”
The guard straightened.
“On my way.”
And he hurried toward the guest house.


Vladimir scheduled the inspection for eleven sharp.
As he approached the guest house, the men were already waiting — the foreman, the stove-maker, the plumber, the tiler, and Algis standing slightly apart from the rest.
“How are we progressing?” Mamonov asked.
“Ninety percent complete at eighty percent of the budget,” the foreman replied.
Vladimir held his gaze a moment longer than comfort allowed.
“I remember promising you a bonus for saving money. You’ll get it — if the quality is flawless. Better to overspend than force me to look at crooked walls.”
“You have my word,” the foreman said.
Mamonov turned to the stove-maker.
“The chimney?”
“Sound. But my assistant… something has gone wrong with him. On the flat ceiling he worked like a man. Once the roofers laid the metal tiles and the pitch steepened — he lost his nerve.”
“Afraid of heights?”
“Even tied to a safety rope, his legs shake.”
Mamonov gave a faint nod, then shifted his attention to Algis.
“And your boy?”
Algis cleared his throat.
“Master… may I report after the inspection?”
Mamonov smirked.
“Such formal language. Fine. If it’s personal, you’ll have your moment.”
________________________________________
The work pleased him — disciplined, efficient, and expensive in all the right ways.
When they stepped outside, both Lithuanians trailing half a pace behind, Mamonov said without turning,
“Well? Speak.”
Mantas slipped a heavy pouch from inside his jacket.
“Last night we entered a dental technician’s apartment in Mytishchi. This is half of what we found — gold dust. A pound is yours.”
The weight settled comfortably into Mamonov’s palm.
“A respectable result,” he said.
Then, almost casually:
“And the boy?”
Algis brightened.
“Exceeded every expectation. Climbed to the third floor, cut the windowpane, slipped inside, opened the doors. Quiet as a cat.”
“The boy has a taste for gold,” Mantas added.
“Good,” Mamonov said.
He handed the pouch to Elephant without looking.
“Until construction is finished, assign Alex to the stove-maker. Let him haul bricks across the roof — fear either hardens a man or reveals uselessness. Take his friend Sergey as well.”
A brief pause.
“And listen carefully: no burglaries without my permission again.”
He started toward the house, then added over his shoulder,
“This little initiative will cost you fifteen percent.”
Neither Lithuanian protested.
________________________________________
While Mamonov inspected the grounds, Afghan and Elephant spoke quietly in the foyer.
“How long have you known the girl who stayed the night?” Afghan asked.
“A few months. Why?”
“In the prayer corner hangs an Andronik icon — fourteenth century. Priceless. If word of it spreads, every man in this house becomes expendable.”
Elephant shrugged.
“The boss paid the Lithuanians five grand for it. And who worries you — the police? Snezhana knows better than to talk. One whisper and she signs her own death warrant.”
“I’m not afraid of the police,” Afghan said calmly. “I’m afraid she mentions it to someone inside our world. We are not the largest wolves in this forest.”
Elephant glanced toward the entrance.
“Boss.”
They separated without another word.
________________________________________
Mamonov met Afghan as he crossed the foyer.
“Keep a close eye on Alex,” he said. “The boy is ready for serious work — and those Balts are already circling him.”
“Isn’t it early?” Afghan asked.
“Perhaps. But opportunity rarely knocks twice.”
He lowered his voice.
“Kirill — warehouse manager at Electronics — brought me news. The Moscow refinery just bought ten Apple Macintosh machines. Five thousand apiece. Installed on the third floor, accounting department.”
“You’re walking into Kirill’s trap,” Afghan said bluntly. “When the police squeeze him, he’ll sing — and they’ll follow the music straight to us.”
“There is that risk,” Mamonov agreed. “But Kirill shared something more interesting.”
He studied Afghan — a man worth explaining things to.
“The refinery is dying. Management knows it. They’re buying equipment with public money so they can write it off before bankruptcy and pocket the difference.”
Afghan frowned.
“Inventory will expose the theft.”
“They’ll present the old machines. The chief accountant made certain the new computers were never connected to the network.”
Understanding dawned slowly.
“You want them stolen before the books are closed.”
“Exactly. Reconnoiter the plant. Then have the Lithuanians return the computers to Kirill’s warehouse.”
________________________________________
Two days later Afghan delivered his report.
“The place is guarded by two relics — one at the gate on Peace Boulevard, another watching the service entrance off Pilot Babushkin Street. Three floors. No internal security.”
Mamonov nodded once and drew a line under the task.
"Let the Lithuanians know about your findings."
“I will.”


Chapter Twelve. October, 1995. Kosino village. Moscow Region
Alex burst into the living room of his grandmother’s house without warning. It had been a whole week since she last saw him. She hadn’t even bothered locking the door, knowing that at any moment, her grandson might appear.
“Finally,” she muttered the moment she recognized his footsteps.
She pulled him into a tight embrace, peering into his eyes. “Where have you been?”
“Granny,” Alex said, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “I already told you—I got hired by some rich guy. No need to worry. I might disappear a few days here and there, but everything will be fine.”
Daria’s eyes narrowed as she carried two plates to the table. “What kind of work? Dangerous?”
Alex hesitated. “Well… the job itself isn’t risky. The people who hired me? That’s a different story. I’m building a guest house on the property of one of the regional mafia bosses.”
Daria set the plates down, studying him intently. “And who exactly are these bosses of yours?”
“When I told you about our escape and Odessa, I didn’t go into all the details,” Alex began.
“What kind of details?” Grandma asked, squinting.
“Well… who said what. I didn’t think it was important. But on my very first day, I ran into a man Dad had mentioned in passing to Mom. He warned me—this guy and his partner wouldn’t let us live here in peace.”
Grandma leaned forward. “And then? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Alex admitted. “I wanted to bash his skull in, but I didn’t have the right tool. And… the moment passed.”
“Is the villa heavily guarded?” she asked, her voice calm but sharp.
Alex nodded, realizing where her questions were leading.
“You were lucky you didn’t come across a pipe or brick back then,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you were ready to risk your life, swinging at a man without even knowing if he was behind your parents’ disappearance,” Grandma explained.
“Why assume he’s innocent? He drove us out of here. And what do you mean ‘risk my life’? I’d have hit him on the back of the head with a metal bar and ran,” Alex said, almost proudly.
“How would you escape a heavily guarded villa? Where would you hide? In this village? And for how long, while every thug in the Moscow region was hunting you?”
She paused, her gaze sharp, weighing his every word. Her son had failed to give his boy the guidance he needed during the toughest part of adolescence. Now it was her turn to teach him the rules of survival in a hostile world.
“You can’t risk your life for revenge unless two things are true,” Grandma Daria said, voice steady, eyes unflinching. “One: the revenge must be justified—you must target the person who truly deserves it. Two: you must have a chance to survive.”
“I understand,” Alex said, sliding into a chair. He watched his grandmother, realizing how she’d changed over eight decades. Danger no longer made her flinch. Her voice was steady, her eyes alight with a spark he had never seen before.
“Granny,” he added with a grin, “when you talk like this, you’re like Bruce Willis in ‘Die Hard.’”
“I don’t know Bruce Willis,” she replied, “…but I had my fair share of rides in a jeep named Willis during the latter half of the war against the Nazis.”
“Mum mentioned your service, but you never told me. Will you?” Alex asked, genuinely curious.
“The memories don’t bring me joy, but one day, I’ll share them. Can you hear the kettle whistling?” Grandma Daria said, excusing herself as she headed into the kitchen.




Chapter Thirteen. October 30, 1995
During one of his lunch breaks, Alex grabbed a few snacks from the kitchen and wandered into the backyard of Mamonov's villa. The guest house fell behind him as he stepped across the lush, evergreen lawn toward the lake. Thirty meters away, a utility shed stood with its wide doors revealing a barbecue and a dormant lawnmower. His mind drifted, inevitably, to his parents. Their relationship had never been smooth—his father, ever demanding, had never treated him as a friend or confidant; his mother, though present, had mostly occupied the role of wife, leaving the duties of motherhood scattered and minimal. Longing, frustration, and unanswered questions coiled in his chest. Where could they be now? What are they up to? Will they ever return—or are they ensnared in some web of their own making? He stared at the lifeless barbecue and lawnmower with a hollow gaze, finding no answers.
His foot sank suddenly into something soft and bouncy, snapping him out of his reverie. The next step confirmed it.
"It's a trampoline!" Alex exclaimed, stepping back in surprise. Kicking off his sneakers, he positioned himself at the center, launching into the air. Knees tucked, arms extended, he froze for a heartbeat at the apex of each leap, then landed with force, bounding again and again across the clearing.
The trampoline became his refuge, a momentary escape from the weight of uncertainty. For a brief span, worries about his parents melted into air, replaced by the exhilaration of flight and gravity’s playful tug.
"No wonder I didn’t notice it," he said aloud, sprawled on his back, a grin creeping across his face. "Well done, Mr. Mamonov—level with the grass and a deep pit underneath. Ingenious."
For the next fifteen minutes, he bounced, twisted, and somersaulted—landing on feet, hands, stomach, and back—fully absorbed in the rhythm of motion. Unbeknownst to him, lunchtime had long passed. Three pairs of eyes followed his antics, hidden yet unblinking.
Afghan and Mamonov lounged beneath the balcony in wicker chairs, a low artificial-rattan table between them. On it rested an uncorked bottle of French cognac, Napoleon, filling the air with its aged aroma. Two short-stemmed glasses sat ready, poised to be refilled. The scene radiated leisure, indulgence, and quiet authority.
The third observer was Svetlana. She lingered in the villa’s hallway, separated from her father and his right hand by a glass door, invisible yet present.
"Let’s walk," Vladimir suggested, rising from his chair.
"I brought Zafiros’ spouses’ passports, as you ordered," Afghan said, drawing two documents from his jacket.
"Leave them on the table. I’ll pick them up on our way back," Mamonov instructed, adjusting the lapels of his purple terry dressing gown and pulling the hood over his head.
He moved toward the trampoline. Afghan placed the passports down and followed.
"A spirited young lad," Mamonov remarked, eyes fixed on Alex.
"Yes, he’s got courage," Afghan agreed.
"Alex, finish your acrobatics and head to the construction site. A brick chimney awaits," the boss called.
With a final backward flip, Alex somersaulted from the trampoline, landing lightly on the grass, and sprinted toward the guest house.
Svetlana left the threshold as Mamonov issued his order. She did not want to reveal she had been watching.
Alex had hoped to catch a glimpse of her, but she retreated, pulling out her personal diary. With a careful hand, she wrote:
"On October twelfth, nineteen ninety-five, around noon, I think I’m falling in love with the young man. I don’t know his name yet, but he looks about sixteen."
Through the reflection in the glass door, Alex scanned the banquet hall to confirm she was gone. Nearly back at the guest house, he noticed the passports stacked haphazardly. In the glass, he saw Mamonov and Afghan still strolling toward the pond. Glancing around once more, he bent to pick up the documents—both men already too far to notice.

The anxiety in Alex’s chest tightened like a steel vice as he lifted the top passport. His fingers shook violently, barely able to hold the thin leather cover; the edges dug into his palms. He pried the page open, and the inked calligraphy of his mother’s surname, name, and patronymic blurred through tears that welled and spilled over, streaking his cheeks. His lips parted, quivering, caught between a gasp and a strangled sob. His eyes, wide and glassy, reflected the stark horror of realization, pupils dilated, staring as if the world had frozen around him. A tremor ran from his shoulders down his arms, hands curling reflexively, nails digging into his palms. His knees buckled, chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths, and for a moment, he teetered on the edge of collapsing to the floor, caught between disbelief and the piercing certainty of his parents’ fate.

He did not need to open the second passport. The document had belonged to his father not long ago. The realization hit with brutal clarity: the presence of both passports in the gang’s hideout meant only one thing. His parents—his mother and father—were dead. Murdered. By the very criminals he now labored for.
Dazed, Alex staggered toward the guest house, legs weak as if the ground itself had betrayed him. His chest heaved, each breath sharp and ragged. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers curling and uncurling as though seeking the warmth of his parents’ touch. His lips parted in silent disbelief, quivering with the unspoken question: Why?
A knot of grief anchored itself deep in his stomach, twisting and pulling, and for the first time, the young man felt the raw weight of loss crush him. There were no grand plans for vengeance yet, no flights to distant lands or heroic schemes. Only a hollow, burning emptiness. He immersed himself in work, letting calloused hands and laboring muscles drown the anguish for a few fleeting hours.
The next day, he moved like a ghost across the roof, eyes vacant, voice barely rising above the whisper of wind. Each brick he lifted, each stroke of mortar, carried the silent burden of a heart shattered but calculating. Only on the third day did he regain the faintest composure. He knew, with chilling certainty, that he would never forgive the men who executed his parents. Yet he understood with equal clarity that a single misstep—on a rooftop, in a grove, or in the shadowed depths of a reservoir—would end him.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, he recalled, clinging to the thought as a fragile shard of solace.
The stove-maker knelt at the unfinished chimney, painstakingly scraping excess mortar from the brickwork. Plastic cups fashioned from knee pads protected the costly metal tiles. Half an hour in, his knees throbbed with pain, a stark reminder of the labor that Alex now mirrored.
"Alex," the old man called, his voice low but steady, "take over for me. I’ll rest."
Alex crouched beside the chimney, hands steady despite the tempest inside. "I’d be glad to," he replied, voice clipped, jaw tense. His eyes flicked to the horizon, as if measuring the distance to those who had taken his family from him.
Three days of mentorship had honed him into an apprentice who moved with purpose. Words like trowel, jointing, ordering, plumb line, and level had become tools of precision, instruments for his survival. Within forty hours, he had mastered techniques of bricklaying—spoon rows and butt rows alike—his hands learning a silent language of construction.
The stove-maker examined Alex’s work after nearly two hours of independent effort. He exhaled, weary but approving. "Not much left. I’d let you finish, but the crown with concrete remains. I haven’t shown you that yet. Tomorrow."
Descending the ladder, Alex found Sergey and a plumber sharing dinner with the Lithuanians. Fried potatoes, boiled sausages, mugs of beer—the table overflowed. The stove-maker had gone to the washroom, leaving Alex to wash his hands before sitting.
Algis leaned close, whispering, "When you finish, go straight to bed."
Alex nodded, expression neutral, lips pressed together so tightly they nearly whitened. Sergey, overhearing, timidly asked, "And I?"
“Jerk off on the sly,” Mantas joked, laughing. Sergey’s eyes darkened with annoyance. Algis intervened, voice calm: "No instructions for you yet. You go only when Mamonov approves nighttime work."
Four hours later, Mantas killed the diesel engine of the Ford Transit behind the Oil Refinery office. Algis whispered, "Alex, go around the building. Make sure no one’s here."
Without a word, Alex melted into the shadows.
"Shouldn’t we wait for him?" Mantas asked.
"No," Algis replied, eyes on the ladder leaning against the wall. "We need it installed before he returns."
"Kirill said the accounting window is top floor," Mantas noted, referencing the building. "Fifth window from the left corner."
"Yeah, I remember," Algis exhaled, tension coiling in his broad shoulders.
The folding brace locks clicked, the ladder settled, and in the stillness of the night, a boy carried within him a storm of grief, vengeance, and resolve, invisible yet profoundly alive

The Lithuanians secured the folding brace locks, their hands moving with mechanical precision, and leaned the ladder against the dimly lit building. Mantas muttered, teeth clenched and eyes squinting through the night, "I hope we haven't drunk ourselves into insanity and that we're sending the kid to the right office."
"Otherwise, Mamonov will knock our brains out," Algis replied, his voice low but steady, as if the darkness itself needed to hear him.
Alex approached, steps hesitant, almost dragging as if the shadows threatened to swallow him whole. He stopped a few meters from the ladder, chest tight, palms slick with sweat. His voice was barely above a whisper:
"No one around. Not even any dogs."

"That's great," Algis replied, handing Alex the instructions like a coach passing a game plan.
"Hang two ropes over your shoulder and secure another to the opposite side. Step inside and tie that rope to the hot-water radiators. Survey the place carefully. There should be ten computers. First, pack the system blocks—one per string bag. Then lower the monitors, keyboards, and mice with care."
Alex shifted uneasily from foot to foot, fingers twitching as if itching for action, unable to hold Algis’ gaze. His heart thumped like a drum, veins pulsing with a restless energy he could neither name nor control. Every instinct in him screamed alertness; every movement felt simultaneously heavy and electric. If a trainer had been watching, he’d have seen the familiar storm of nerves that precedes a fight: a raw cocktail of fear, anticipation, and focus that sharpens the body while scattering the mind.
"I got it… Can I head upstairs now?" he asked, voice tight, eyes locked on Algis.
The Lithuanians exchanged a quick, startled look, reading the tension, the barely contained energy in his posture. Algis nodded calmly. "Sure. Two hours. Just… be careful."
Alex swallowed, a bitter laugh itching at his throat, resisting the urge to shoot back a sarcastic,
“Be careful? Seriously? That’s your big advice?”
He knew humor here would fall flat, misread by the Balts as insolence. Instead, he squared his shoulders and moved toward the stairs, every step measured, disappearing through the accounting office window in under five minutes.
For the next ninety minutes, Alex moved like a shadow—precise, silent, his flashlight a narrow beam cutting through the gloom. He lowered ten computers, one by one, his hands steady despite the thrum of adrenaline under his skin. Mantas’ muffled voice called from below, "Come on down!"
"Not yet," Alex whispered back, retreating into the office’s dark corners. "Half an hour to spare."
After the last monitor thudded into the minivan, Algis returned to the ladder. He leaned over, peering into the black rectangle of the open window. "Where’s Alex?"
"In the accounting office," Mantas answered casually, almost bored. "Said he had some time left and vanished."
Inside, Alex crouched, flashlight in hand, moving like a predator surveying territory. Drawers opened, office detritus scattered, but his focus never wavered—every binder, hole punch, and scrap of paper was a stepping stone toward the goal.
Breaking into an accounting department at a state enterprise in the middle of the night… for office supplies? Not my style, he thought, eyes narrowing as he approached the chief accountant’s desk.
At the center of the room, a massive desk loomed, flanked by cupboards. He rifled through the left drawers: nothing but dust and paper. His pulse quickened as he turned to the right cupboard.
“Well, well… what do we have here?” he murmured, eyes locking on the metal safe. The lock gleamed under the flashlight beam, and for a fleeting second, Alex felt the thrill of possibility tighten his chest.
Kneeling, he studied it—combination dial in the center, keyhole to the left. Fingers itching, he rifled through the top drawer of the desk: paper clips, pencils, calculators, an errant spool of thread. No safe key. Only keys for the office door, left conveniently unlocked.
Glancing at them, he muttered, "Guess we’ll have to crack you open at home."
He gripped the heavy iron box, pushing and straining. Feet braced, muscles screaming, he heaved it forward.
"Boom!"
The corner of the fireproof safe hit the hardwood floor.
"Bang!!"
The sound reverberated through the silent office as the safe toppled between his legs, narrowly missing a painful collision. Heart hammering, palms slick, Alex paused for a breath—eyes wide, chest heaving. The task ahead was enormous, yet intoxicating.
Gasping for breath, Alex crawled backward, eyes wide, muscles trembling. "I'm lucky… could’ve lost my balls there," he muttered through clenched teeth, the words half-lost in his own panting.
Determined to claim his prize, he wrestled the fireproof safe into a string bag, dragging the heavy metal cube inch by inch toward the open window. Each movement sent shocks through his arms, each step a test of grip and balance.
Leaning over the windowsill, he called down, voice taut, "Hey, guys! Step away from the wall. I’m lowering the chief accountant’s safe."
Two string bags hung over the box. Silk rope handles glinted in the dim light as Alex tied knots with hands that shook slightly—not from weakness, but from the tension coiled tight in his chest. He bent and lifted, straining with every fiber of his body, back arching painfully, legs quivering under the weight. The safe only reached the middle of the radiator; the windowsill still seemed impossibly far.
“The harder the work, the harder it is to give up,” he muttered, remembering an English proverb from school, his voice a whisper over the grating scrape of rope.
He squatted, planted his feet firmly, and groaned, "Well, I’ll lift you, you bastard." Hands clenched, breaths deep, he rose slowly, muscles burning. Every repetition of his gym squats, every drill under the watchful eyes of his boxing coach, came to life in this one grueling motion.
“The training paid off,” he said to himself, a sardonic grin cracking through the pain. “Now I’m using it… to steal state property.”
As the seconds stretched, Alex felt a cold edge to his thoughts. Childhood dreams and naive courage had been replaced with grim pragmatism. Every ounce of doubt, every fragment of hesitation had been hammered away, leaving only focus and survival instincts.
Adjusting his leather gloves, he studied the rope and the safe like a tactician, mentally calculating friction, leverage, and the risks.
“Stupid,” he cursed inwardly. “Should’ve run the rope under the radiator pipes… or wrapped it around. Friction would’ve made this easier. Like Dad always said, ‘You’re brilliant in hindsight.’” He sighed, flipping a coin from his pocket—a tiny ritual to share the burden of risk with chance. Eagle, he decided, eagle it was.
The safe tipped over the windowsill. The rope bit into his leather-gloved hands. His stomach slammed against the window ledge; heat and pain shot up his forearms. Small pellets of scorched leather stuck to his palms, sending bursts of white-hot agony into his veins. Three, maybe four excruciating seconds later, he let go, muscles spasming, heart hammering, as the safe hit the concrete below with a deafening clang.
“Are you okay up there?” a voice called from beneath.
“Not really… just need another five minutes,” Alex rasped, chest heaving, hands slick with sweat and pain.
The Lithuanians took over the safe. Alex ripped his shirt sleeves, wrapped his hands in rags, and descended the ladder with painstaking care, each step measured, every sense alert.
As Mantas and Algis drove away, they muttered in Lithuanian, voices low, analyzing what Alex had uncovered.
“Hey, Mantas, didn’t Mamonov only mention the computers?” Algis asked.
“Well,” his cousin replied.
“He didn’t say anything about the safe.”
“He didn’t mention it at all,” Mantas confirmed, turning onto the street named after the famous WWII pilot.
At the dark checkpoint, the guard’s eyes glimmered under the weak streetlamp. Two hours earlier, Algis had tied him to a chair. Now, the old man fumbled with memories of the minivan, the driver, the night—a fragile puzzle with dangerous pieces missing.
"From this point on," Algis continued in a measured tone, words slipping into Lithuanian, "it’s clear Mamonov had no idea this safe even existed. That means we can handle it ourselves."
Mantas, unflinching, leaned back against the wall, a shadow of cynicism in his gaze. "Alex won’t stay silent. Mark my words, he’ll tell the boss everything. That kid owes his meals and his bed to the thief-in-law. Besides… I saw him teaching Svetlana to bounce on a trampoline. The boss’s daughter? She’s smitten. Mamonov matters more to Alex than we ever will."
Algis’ eyes narrowed, weighing his cousin’s words. "Maybe we should strike a deal with him."
"Go ahead," Mantas shrugged, "but I doubt he’ll bite."
Turning to Alex, Algis switched to Russian. "We keep this from Mamonov. He didn’t ask us to look for it. Nothing leaves your lips about the safe. Understood?"
Alex, calm but tense, met his gaze. "I won’t say a word."
Mantas scoffed in Lithuanian. "Liar. Too quick to agree. He’ll sell us out eventually—just like the old guard at the villa."
"I agree," Algis said, voice firm. "We hand it over to Mamonov. No safe is worth the life of that boy." He reached out, tousled Alex’s hair with a rare gentleness, then added, "And we have no clue how much’s inside."
The gravity of crossing a crime lord, far outweighing greed, drove their consensus. Algis concluded, "If Mamonov suspects betrayal—or finds out through Alex—we’re done. Expelled, ruined, or worse… slaughtered like pigs."
Later that day, the Lithuanians stood before Mamonov in his office. Alex edged behind a carpenter, his bandaged hands hidden from the boss’s calculating gaze.
Vladimir reclined in his hooded robe, glimpses of silk pajamas underneath, legs crossed atop the Iranian carpet. Sheep’s wool slippers peeked from beneath the robe. In his left hand, a Havana cigar; his right hovered near a miniature coffee cup etched with his own portrait. The golden writing set and ivory ashtray glimmered on the desk, beside the aged Finnish knife—a silent testament to the man’s authority.
Through the broad window behind him, Silver Pond shimmered, flanked by a forest belt and the rooftops of Reutov’s high-rises. The morning sun cast long shadows across the office, highlighting the meticulous order and latent menace of the room.
"Good morning, boss," Algis said, voice crisp, snapping Vladimir back to the present.
"Morning. Was everything smooth?" Vladimir asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Even better than expected. Ten computers… and the chief accountant’s safe," Mantas reported, glancing at Alex for a reaction.
Mamonov’s eyes glittered, sharp with curiosity. "Did you crack it?"
"No, sir," Mantas hurried. "Not without your consent."
Alex felt his stomach tighten as the boss leaned forward, gaze piercing. "And the boy? How did he perform?"
Algis turned to Alex, voice carrying admiration and a subtle pride. "In ninety minutes, he lowered ten sets of electronics, took initiative, and explored the chief accountant’s desk. That’s where he found the safe."
Mamonov’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened. "What’s wrong with your hands?"
Alex instinctively hid them behind his back. "The safe was heavy… the rope burned me. I did my best, but it slipped."
A faint chuckle escaped Vladimir, and he stepped closer. With a deft motion, he peeled the bloodied bandages away with the edge of his knife. "Sonny… born to be a thief. Resourceful, courageous, responsible."
He motioned to Elephant, who appeared instantly at the door. "Bring a first aid kit. Wash the boy’s hands."
As Elephant departed, Mamonov guided Alex to the balcony, hand firm on his shoulder. His gaze bore into the young man’s eyes with measured intensity. "Did these two try to open the safe on their own?"
With a controlled calm that belied the storm inside him, Alex met the boss’s piercing gaze and delivered a practiced falsehood.
“No, boss. After the oil refinery, we drove to Mantas’s house, where he bandaged my hands. We had breakfast, took a brief rest, and then returned here,” he said, each word carefully measured, his voice steady, eyes locked on Vladimir’s.
Mamonov chuckled, a deep, resonant sound, and patted Alex’s shoulder with a rare touch of affection. Then his attention swept to the Lithuanians, standing stiffly in the center of the office. In a voice that carried effortlessly through the room, he declared,
“His skill at weaving intricate tales while maintaining unshakable composure hints at a promising future. It is evident that his imagination and aptitude for deception will serve him well in his pursuits. After lunch, Elephant will give you half of what was discovered in the safe. Allocate a third to Alex. You will receive a third from the proceeds of the computer sale once Kirill returns the funds. Inform the stove-maker that Alex is relieved of his duties—he has another assignment. You may go.”
The Lithuanians bowed and exited, leaving the office hushed, yet the tension in the air remained palpable. Mamonov turned fully to Alex, scrutinizing him as one might inspect a prized colt.
“My daughter told me that while you were teaching her to jump on the trampoline, you spoke in English twice. Is that true?”
“Yes, boss,” Alex replied, careful to keep his posture relaxed. “Svetlana noticed I rarely talk, so whenever I do, she pays attention. I quoted Theodore Roosevelt: ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.’ She said it showed I am fluent in English.”
“And how would that saying go in Russian?” Mamonov asked, curiosity sharpening his gaze.
Alex translated flawlessly, his voice firm but calm. Vladimir’s eyebrows rose in evident surprise.
 “Who imparted such wisdom to you?”
“No one, boss. My English tutor gave me a notebook with quotes from famous Americans. I studied it daily, reciting them aloud,” Alex said, a faint hint of pride beneath his obedience.
“Share something valuable from your notebook,” Mamonov pressed.
“Leaders must strike a balance between proximity and motivation. They should be near enough to connect with others, yet distant enough to inspire them,” Alex replied, his tone deliberate, almost teacherly.
“Translate,” Mamonov demanded, leaning forward slightly, intrigued.
“If translated literally, the essence is lost. The true meaning is: ‘Leaders must maintain a connection close enough to be considered one of their followers, while keeping a certain distance to inspire and motivate.’”
“And who said this?” Vladimir asked, leaning back, eyes fixed on the boy.
“John Maxwell,” Alex answered calmly.
“And who is he?” Mamonov pressed further.
“I don’t know. The quote had his name beneath it; he must be well-known in America,” Alex admitted honestly, shoulders relaxed but eyes unwavering.
“Forget him,” Mamonov said, chuckling, amusement flickering across his face. “I’m already following that advice. Starting today, whenever Svetlana visits, you will teach her English—right here, under this balcony, for at least an hour every day. I want to hear her repeating words and sentences after you. By the way, where did you learn to speak so fluently? A special school?”
“No, boss,” Alex replied modestly, keeping his hands lightly clasped in front of him. “I went to the regular village school. We had a tutor for a time at home, though.”
Mamonov reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out an envelope containing two hundred dollars. He handed it to Alex with a small, approving nod.
“This is your share from the burglary with the Lithuanians, and this is my personal bonus. You were wise not to reveal the intentions of the carpenters. I have respect for silent, loyal criminals. Now, go home and visit your grandmother. Tomorrow, buy clothing, books, notebooks, and supplies for Svetlana’s studies. You know what’s required for her appearance and proper education.”

Alex stepped into the dimly lit hallway of his grandmother’s house. Shadows stretched across the worn floorboards, mirroring the turmoil within him. His face was pale, eyes rimmed with red, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if they themselves sought some outlet for the grief he could not yet voice. The weight of the discovery—a revelation of his parents’ deaths—pressed down on him, a storm of sorrow and disbelief that made every step feel heavy.
Daria emerged from the kitchen, a deep plate in her hands, the waffle towel slung over her shoulder. She froze mid-step, sensing the disquiet radiating from her grandson. “You look… peculiar, Alex,” she said softly, her voice trembling with an instinctive unease.
Alex closed the distance and embraced his grandmother tightly, shoulders shaking. Tears welled and spilled down his cheeks, blurring the hallway around him.
“I have… devastating news,” he choked, voice breaking with each word.
Daria’s eyes widened, and a sharp intake of breath caught in her throat.
“What has happened, Alex?” Her voice wavered, betraying a fear she could not yet name.
Alex pressed closer, his lips quivering as he whispered,
“I… I found my parents’ passports… at my boss’s villa.” The words fell like stones into the quiet room.
The plate in Daria’s hands slipped and shattered against the floor, the sound echoing like gunfire through the hallway. Her face drained of color, eyes wide, fixed on Alex in horror. Slowly, she sank to her knees, hands clutching at her chest, her grief too vast for words.
“They have taken my daughter from me!” she cried, the wail cutting through the silence, each syllable trembling with raw anguish.
Overwhelmed, Alex sank beside her, his small frame quivering.
They pressed together, their tears mingling in a shared grief that seemed to consume the very air around them.
Minutes passed in wordless mourning, the house itself seeming to mourn with them.
Finally, Daria’s voice returned, steadier now, tempered with the steel of long experience.
“Your bosses… deserve nothing but death.”
A flicker of resolve sparked in Alex’s eyes, small but unmistakable.
“Now I am certain,” he said, voice low, edged with a mixture of sorrow and hardening determination.
Curious, Daria asked, wiping her tears, “And what shall you do?”
“I… I am driven to seek justice,” Alex replied, his voice trembling yet firm. “I hope… I hope to have your guidance, dear grandma.”
Nodding, Daria rose and led him through the remnants of broken plate to her bedroom. She opened her wardrobe with care, revealing a treasure steeped in history and sacrifice: a meticulously preserved dark green Red Army tunic, its sturdy gray shoulder straps lined with vibrant red stripes. Medals gleamed in the dim light—the Order of the Red Star and three others, one inscribed “For Courage.” She laid it gently on the bed, motioning for Alex to approach.
Eyes wide, Alex looks in the tunic, the medals catching the light like shards of a heroic past.
“Where did all of this come from?” he whispered, awe in his voice.
“I served as a sniper in the Two Hundred and Forty-Sixth Rifle Division for three grueling years,” Daria explained. “I fought on multiple fronts, was wounded in 1944, and declared unfit for further service after treatment. I shared a condensed version with you so that you would heed my advice.”
Alex, still shaken, asked softly, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
His tears had eased, leaving a hollow ache where the raw shock of his parents’ deaths had been.
Daria’s gaze softened.
“I could have told you, but your father wished you to remember me as a kind and gentle grandmother. He did not want the harshness of my past to shadow your childhood.”
“I… I understand,” Alex said, voice heavy. “But he is gone… just like Mom.”
“Now that you know who is to blame, you must tread carefully,” Daria cautioned, her tone firm. “Every word, every gesture matters. Over fifty years ago, I often crawled into enemy lines, hidden among the corpses, lying still for hours, waiting for the right moment. Patience is the hunter’s greatest virtue. Any misstep could have meant death or worse. You must do the same—watch, wait, and act only when the moment is right.”
Alex’s gaze fell, deep in thought.
“But how will I know when the time is right?”
“Do you recall the song from the series ‘Seventeen Moments of Spring,’ about decisive moments?” she asked. “‘The time will come, and you will understand it.’ You must not rush. Let vengeance come at the right time, perhaps through the hands of another. Remember the fairy tale I read you when you were three? ‘Cock-the-Roach’?”
Alex smiled faintly, a flash of nostalgia. “Where ‘Bears went to the hike, A-riding on a bike.’”
“Exactly,” Daria said, a small smile touching her lips despite the sorrow. “‘Wolves eat wolves on sight, Poor uncle Crock, Gulp a frog in shock.’ Korney Chukovsky’s words are perfect for you. They ensure you won’t stain your hands with blood, yet your parents will find solace in vengeance.”
Alex nodded slowly, absorbing her words, the weight of grief mingling with the first spark of patient determination.

Chapter Fourteen. November 10, 1995. Reutov–Moscow
Afghan and Mamonov sat across from each other at the oval dining table in the guest house, a large map of Moscow spread between them. The dim light from a single overhead lamp cast shadows across the table, illuminating the sharp lines of Vladimir’s face as he leaned over the map.
“Our target train is on Track Five at the Moscow marshaling yard in the Basmanny District,” Vladimir said, tracing the location with the tip of his knife. “Exit the Entuziastov highway, take a right onto Aviamotornaya Street. Our informant will be waiting near the ‘Capitals Wardrobe’ second-hand store. When he spots you, he’ll blink a flashlight three times. He will guide you to the fifth track. Take him with you during the robbery. If there’s an ambush, neutralize him first. And if you don’t find anything, bring him back. I’ll handle the interrogation myself.”
Afghan nodded, carefully marking a red circle on the marshaling yard and a cross on the rag shop.
“The tipster says there are three armed guards in the railcar,” Mamonov continued. “Do not kill them. Restrain them and confiscate their weapons. If they resist, subdue them, but avoid unnecessary harm. They are guarding smuggled caviar—the cargo owners won’t care if the guards survive. The only potential complication is if a ‘problem solver’ is sent our way, but I doubt they’ll take that risk. Do you have the masks?”
“Yes, we do,” Afghan confirmed, frowning slightly. “But how do we identify which railcar holds the caviar? There could be sixty, even eighty cars in the train.”
Vladimir shook his head, a faint edge of condescension in his voice.
“Don’t disappoint me. The guards travel between Kazakhstan and Ukraine. By the end of November, both Russia and Kazakhstan will have sub-freezing temperatures. How will they keep warm?”
Afghan’s eyes flickered with understanding.
“There should be a wood or coal-burning stove with a chimney. Since the railcar lacks a proper chimney, it should be visible through the ventilation hatch.”
“Good,” Vladimir said. “Now, how do you plan to neutralize the guards?”
Afghan’s expression hardened with quiet confidence. “We’ll smoke them out.”
“A smoke grenade?” Mamonov asked, skeptical.
“No,” Afghan replied firmly. “A grenade would alert them immediately. They’d come out ready to fight, fully armed. Firing shots in the marshaling yard is too risky. Instead, we’ll use the smoke from their own stove. I’ll plug the chimney with a rag.”
“Not bad, Anton,” Vladimir said, a thin smile curving his lips. “In fact, it’s an excellent plan. Every detail is covered. It’s time to go.”

Outside, the small triangular parking lot nestled between the gates, the mansion, and the guest house was already alive with activity. A minivan and a pickup truck waited, engines idling. Four armed men leaned against the tinted windows of the van—two carrying short-barreled AK-47s, two with pistols concealed beneath unfastened jackets. A cargo van stood ready nearby. Sergey and Alex loaded stretchers onto the ridged floor of the minivan with methodical efficiency.
“Boss, we’re ready,” one of the men announced just as Sergey secured the tarp rings onto the hooks of the trailer.
Sergey muttered under his breath, “Yeah… like the fly said, ‘We plowed, the tractor and I.’”
Alex, glancing at him, offered a dry piece of advice.
“Quit complaining. Be glad you’re part of your first heist.”
Mamonov extended a nod and a thin smile. “May God be with you, boys.”
Afghan interjected, his voice low and commanding.
“God isn’t fooled. He will not tolerate disrespect toward His people.” He turned to the men, gesturing sharply. “Get into the vans.”

The engines roared to life, the low rumble mingling with the crisp evening air. Shadows shifted across the lot as the group prepared to move—a small army poised on the edge of the unknown.

Near the outskirts of the marshaling yard, a cargo and passenger minivan carrying Afghan's small brigade rolled to a silent stop in a narrow, dimly lit alley. A dog barked lazily twice from behind a rickety wooden fence surrounding a modest private home, its warning acknowledged by the gangsters before the animal sank back into stillness. This neighborhood had never known quiet since the steam trains first rattled through in the late 1800s.
Afghan singled out one of the older boys.
“Den, stay here. Keep an eye on the situation. If anything happens, send me a message on the pager.” He turned to the others. “Vlas, Dimon, Tolyan, and Sergey, grab the stretchers and stick close to the guide. Alex and I will bring up the rear.”
Then, addressing the informant, he asked, “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Among my closed circle, I’m known as Owl,” the man replied, stepping onto the gravel near the tracks.
The named individuals grabbed three stretchers and moved after the guide, Alex following close behind. Afghan hung back, overseeing the operation like a hawk.
Seven robbers, faces hidden under black knitted ski hats, slithered along the rails beneath the cars, shadows gliding silently in the moonlight. When the track ahead cleared, they advanced in precise formation. Owl pointed at a railcar, a thin wisp of smoke curling from its chimney.
“See that? That one’s ours.”
“Vlas, Dimon, Tolyan, and Owl—you handle the guards on the far side,” Afghan murmured. “If they resist, subdue them, gag them, tie their hands. I’ll take care of the ones on my side.”
The team slipped like shadows to the other side of the train, hunkering beneath the doors. Afghan, Sergey, and Alex stopped near the carriage closest to them.
“Alex, climb up the wall and plug the chimney with this,” Afghan ordered, handing him a sleeve from a padded jacket.
With the ease of a practiced rock climber, Alex scaled the wooden carriage wall, fingers gripping metal fasteners, muscles taut with precision. Reaching the open hatch, he shoved the sleeve into the chimney, then dropped lightly to the gravel below, barely disturbing the silence.
The creak of carriage doors locking and unlocking reverberated sharply, echoing like a miner’s cart on metal rails. The guards’ curses splintered the night, rough and guttural, like drunks plunging into icy water straight from a sauna.
Two guards leaped from the railcar near Afghan. Both were in their forties, eyes squinting against the rising smoke. The first cursed the stove violently, rubbing his fists over his eyes, muttering every Russian swear word he knew. Afghan moved faster—his boot connected sharply with the man’s groin, and the guard crumpled onto the gravel beside the rails.
The second guard drew a revolver, aiming it at Afghan’s back. The smoke veiled the world in a gray blur, giving Anton a margin of advantage. Unaware of the gun trained on him, Anton’s focus was entirely on the unfolding chaos before his eyes.
The train cars, released from the marshaling yard, descended with a symphony of screeching brakes and grinding metal. Each car carried its weighty secret, a silent promise of movement into the unknown. The iron beasts rumbled and shook the ground beneath Anton’s boots, the sound a hypnotic symphony of momentum and power.
Lost in the mechanical spectacle, Anton failed to notice the lethal danger behind him. The guard, finger poised on the trigger, was ready to fire.
Then—a thud. Sharp, final, impossibly fast.
Afghan’s eyes widened in surprise.
Alex crouched over the unconscious guard, every movement precise, controlled, and deadly in its simplicity. The boy’s small frame belied the lethal efficiency of his action.

Sergey stood frozen in astonishment, his mouth agape, just two steps away from the unfolding scene. As the initial shock subsided, he couldn't contain himself and exclaimed with palpable excitement,
“He took him down with just one blow to the ear."

Alex carefully retrieved the revolver from the guard's limp grasp and handed it over to Anton. The weapon exchanged hands, as a symbol of trust and gratitude in the midst of chaos.

As Afghan released the revolver's cylinder opening lever, the reel fell to its side, as a tangible reminder of the violent encounter.

Anton, his brows furrowed in concentration, raised his hand, pointing the gun barrel upwards, causing the cartridges to tumble out of the revolver cylinder and land on the gravel below. His actions were a silent acknowledgement of the debt he owed to Alex.
"You saved my life, kid," he murmured.


“Believe us — if we’d known about cargo that valuable, we wouldn’t have wasted the night drinking vodka. We’d have disappeared halfway to Moscow,” the first guard said bitterly.
“And now we’re trapped,” the third added, his voice hollow with dread. “Forward or back — it doesn’t matter. Whether in Ukraine or Kazakhstan, the owner of this shipment will find us. And when he does… it will be quick. And merciless.”
Six men tore the staple locks from the iron lids.
Sergey plunged his hand into the dark brine and came up with a fistful of olives. Vinegar streamed down his wrist and soaked into his sleeve. He sniffed one, bit down, and instantly grimaced.
“Jesus — sour as hell.” He spat the pulp back into the barrel and flung the rest aside.
Across the carriage, Alex lifted another lid with deliberate care and set it quietly atop the neighboring barrel before driving his arm deep into the icy liquid.
“Boss.”
Afghan turned.
Alex’s mouth stretched into a slow, disbelieving grin.
“We found it.”
He drew out a blue tin slick with brine — a sturgeon stamped across the label beneath the words CAVIAR and PRODUCT OF THE SOVIET UNION, relic lettering from a country already dissolving into memory.
For a moment, the men simply stared.
“Get to work,” Afghan said at last, then glanced at the guards. “You’re fortunate tonight. Pray for the boy.”
For two relentless hours they hauled cans from the barrels — one thousand five hundred tins, each weighing two pounds — stacking them beside the sliding door until the pile rose like a dull blue wall.
Their fingers went numb first, then raw. Salt gnawed at the skin until knuckles split open. Clothes clung damply to their bodies, heavy with the sour reek of vinegar.
Productivity slowed.
Afghan noticed immediately.
Anton checked his watch, calculating weight against distance, distance against the creeping approach of dawn.
“That’s enough. Move it.”
One by one, the men dropped from the carriage, seized the stretcher handles, and vanished into the darkness with their glittering contraband.
Afghan shut the door and remained behind with the guards.
“Don’t soil yourselves, gentlemen,” he said mildly, lowering himself onto the bench. “If you’re not complete idiots, you’ll survive this inconvenience.”
He tapped the table thoughtfully.
“Even if my men make five trips, we’ll haul off no more than twenty-five hundred pounds. That leaves you at least five thousand.”
A thin smile.
“So, when this train stops… think carefully about whether loyalty is worth dying for.”
________________________________________
Chapter Fifteen. December 31, 1995 — Reutov
Mamonov’s mansion glittered like a private palace, its grand hall blazing with light visible even through the frost-laced windows.
At the center stood three long banquet tables arranged with geometric precision.
And upon them — the true centerpieces — lay three nyotaimori.
Not decoration. Not novelty.
Display.
Ownership.
Power.
Their dark hair had been gathered neatly at the nape and brushed with coconut oil until it shone beneath the chandeliers.
The girl on the central table had become a living tapestry of the sea.
Her porcelain skin carried neat rows of salmon and sturgeon sandwiches; coriander leaves rested lightly over her nipples like mocking fig leaves. A ribbon of lettuce ran from her throat downward, culminating in a glittering ridge of black caviar that caught the light with every tremor of her breathing.
Only the ring of sushi encircling her navel broke the line.
Inside the navel itself sat a brushed aluminum bowl holding six vodka shots. Each glass bore the spiral inscription Made in the USSR — ghostware from an empire that had collapsed only four years earlier yet still haunted every room in Russia.
The crystal was theatrical to the point of absurdity: red banners, pioneer badges, the state emblem picked out in gold, even a tiny map of the nation that had once claimed one-sixth of the earth.
Swordfish fillets lay along her calves.
River eels coiled loosely around her wrists like living bracelets.
She did not move.
Neither did anyone mistake her for anything but part of the feast.
________________________________________
The second nyotaimori had been prepared by a Japanese chef flown in from Moscow — a man who understood that Russian gangsters did not crave subtlety; they craved spectacle.
At Mamonov’s insistence, he abandoned traditional restraint and built a carnivore’s altar.
Glossy folds of smoked prosciutto.
Pepper-crusted pastrami.
Silk-soft salmon breathing out a faint aroma of alderwood.
The meats were arranged with almost architectural discipline, forming overlapping layers that suggested abundance without limit.
Between them rested cheeses chosen not merely for flavor but for authority.
A massive wedge of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano, crystalline and sharp.
A swollen wheel of Brie that sagged gently under its own richness.
Veined blue cheese, aggressive and lingering — the kind that refused to be ignored.
Luxury, here, was not refinement.
It was volume.
Assertion.
The right to excess.
________________________________________
The third girl bore the opposite illusion — innocence devoured by color.
Her body vanished beneath a riot of fruit: orange suns, torn grapefruits, polished apples, honeyed pears, velvet-skinned peaches. Strawberries brushed her parted lips; lemon crescents veiled her breasts.
A heavy cluster of black grapes concealed her sex, theatrical enough to provoke laughter, expensive enough to silence it.
From above, the arrangement resembled a blooming garden.
Up close, it felt faintly pagan.
________________________________________
Orchid arrangements hovered nearby like watchful sentries. Chopsticks rested in immaculate paper sleeves; silver spoons gleamed atop porcelain saucers.
Two angled buffet tables stretched toward the central one.
Seen from the balcony, the layout formed a colossal M.
There was nothing accidental about it.
Everything in this house bent, subtly or otherwise, toward the glorification of its master.
The chef — who in another life had served ranking figures of the Yakuza, even Yoshinori Watanabe of the Yamaguchi-gumi — understood immediately what was required.
Only a native of Japan, Mamonov liked to boast, possessed the discipline necessary to transform vulgar ambition into something resembling art.
And only a Russian crime lord would demand that a banquet spell his name.

The New Year’s banquet offered a liquid map of the world.
Vodkas from Russia, Finland, and Sweden stood shoulder to shoulder like disciplined soldiers. Wines from France, Moldova, and Georgia breathed quietly in their bottles, waiting for a practiced hand. Champagne — genuine French, chosen not for taste alone but for prestige — glimmered beneath the chandeliers.
Ten crates of beer were stacked directly on the floor, a practical reminder that however refined the display appeared, this was still a gathering of men who trusted quantity more than elegance.
Near the vast window overlooking a frozen pond stood a microphone on a slender stand, prepared for a performer whose name had been spoken all week with anticipation. Beside it rested a lone chair with an electric guitar draped across the seat, its lacquered body reflecting the warm light. Two loudspeakers flanked the improvised stage like silent guards.
That morning, Svetlana and Elephant had decorated the towering Christmas tree in the corner of the hall. Glass ornaments shimmered among thick green branches; garlands cascaded downward in metallic waves; paper streamers curled lazily in the heated air.
Beneath the tree lay more than fifty gift boxes wrapped in bright paper — crimson, gold, deep cobalt. Elephant had arranged them with military precision. At the center stood a three-foot Father Frost figurine, stern and ceremonial, as if personally entrusted with protecting the spoils.
At precisely eleven-thirty, Mamonov entered the hall.
Afghan walked at his right shoulder, Elephant at his left. Behind them flowed a heavy tide of men — nearly fifty in all — thick-necked, broad-backed, dressed in dark suits that strained subtly at the seams. They ranged from twenty to forty, an age when violence still felt like currency rather than memory.
Among them, Alex and Sergey looked almost unreal in their youth.
Too alert. Too unfinished.
Predators in training.
Conversation dimmed as the men gathered around the tables. Instinctively, the room oriented itself toward Mamonov even before he reached the microphone. Authority moved with him, settling wherever he paused.
Yet despite the spectacle, despite the alcohol and the glittering excess, two pairs of younger eyes kept drifting toward the living centerpieces on the tables.
Alex felt his pulse quicken.
Naked women were not new to him — life had stripped him of innocence early — but there was something unsettling about this display. The flawless curves, the careful arrangement of food across warm skin, the deliberate transformation of human bodies into serving platters spoke not of pleasure, but of ownership.
Of power exercised so completely that it no longer needed to hide.
And unexpectedly, the sight stirred memories of his first love.
The past year rose before him in fragments: his parents’ deaths; the sharp intoxication of first desire; the helplessness that followed; the strange comfort he had once found in Tanya’s capable hands; the jealousy that had burned hotter than reason.
Around him, gangsters laughed, poured drinks, tested the coming night with loud voices.
Inside, Alex drifted elsewhere.
What if his father had chosen a different landlord?
What if desperation had not pushed their family into the path of wolves?
What if Tanya had loved him — truly loved him — instead of merely surviving the only way she knew how?
The questions had no answers, yet they returned with stubborn loyalty.
A quieter realization followed, heavier than the rest.
He had helped destroy what they once shared.
It was he who had pulled her deeper into that world — and then resented her for inhabiting it. Jealousy had done the rest, methodically dismantling whatever fragile happiness they had assembled.
Carnegie’s words surfaced from memory with almost surgical clarity:
If you want honey, don’t kick the hive.
Alex lowered his gaze.
He had not merely kicked it.
He had shattered it — and spent the months since wondering why the air around him still hummed with angry wings.

"Brothers," Mamonov’s voice rolled through the loudspeakers, and conversation died at once, as if the hall itself had drawn a breath and refused to release it.
"I have gathered you tonight not merely to welcome a new year, but to mark a turning point in our lives. The train job proved something important — we are no longer a scattering of small-time thieves scrambling for scraps. We are an organized force, capable of planning, capable of striking, capable of taking what others are too timid to reach for.
Today, I can say with pride that the eastern district of Moscow is beginning to feel our weight.
Each of you has shown that you are wolves — not sheep waiting to be led. And when I look at your faces, I see men prepared to live by the only laws that matter in our trade.
I would walk into the most dangerous venture shoulder to shoulder with any one of you… including our youngest wolf, fifteen-year-old Alex."
A ripple of laughter moved through the hall as several heads turned toward the boy.
"Though at the moment," Mamonov added dryly, "he appears far more devoted to the study of feminine beauty than to my speech. Still, I know he carries the same blood."
He raised his glass.
"A Happy New Year to all of you. My home is your home. Eat well, drink deeply, and accept what God has seen fit to place into your hands."
The men surged forward in a single, hungry motion toward the living tables, but before the first glass could be drained, Vladimir lifted the microphone again.
"Easy, boys — one moment more. I nearly forgot something important. Allow me to present the architect of tonight’s feast — our honored guest, Chef Watanabe Katashi from Niyama. He is a personal friend of another guest you all respect — Anton Izmailovsky."
Applause burst across the hall. Some of the younger gangsters whistled sharply, acknowledging the authority carried by the neighboring crime boss’s name.
"As Mr. Watanabe has explained to me," Mamonov continued, "such displays are favored among the Yakuza. According to their customs, the women serving as these… tables are considered untouchable. One eats only with chopsticks or spoons — nothing else."
He paused, allowing a crooked smile to form.
"However, in the spirit of the holiday, I have granted Alex and Sergey a small exception — permission to satisfy their curiosity in a slightly less traditional manner."
The hall exploded with laughter — loud, crude, unstoppable. Even the older men grinned into their glasses.
The tension snapped. Celebration took over.
Voices rose. Chairs scraped. Crystal rang.
Mamonov exchanged a few words with Izmailovsky, their easy familiarity pushing the room toward full abandon. Alcohol flowed without restraint. Men ate greedily, boasting, shouting across the tables, calling for more bottles before the previous ones were empty.
Waiters with impassive faces wove expertly through the chaos, clearing plates, replacing dishes, keeping the machinery of excess running smoothly.
Above the din, a chanson singer poured his voice into the microphone:
"My old friend — Yura —
Once told me, ‘Shura,
Do not surrender to useless sorrow.
After all, we stand here living still,
Unchained by prison walls,
Fortunate enough to see tomorrow.’"
The melody drifted over shaved heads and expensive jackets, over laughter thickened by vodka.
"Why so gloomy, Alex?"
The voice came from close behind him. Alex turned, surprised to find Afghan there. The man moved heavily but quietly — a habit of predators.
"I’ve been idle too long," Alex said. "Training at the boxing gym. Teaching English to Svetlana. It’s starting to feel like I’ve been shelved."
Afghan studied him.
"Mamonov watches you. No gun. No jobs. That usually means he values you."
"Maybe," Alex said. "But waiting has its limits. It’s time I stepped forward — and I have an idea."
Afghan’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
"Let’s hear it."
"About twenty kilometers past the Ring Road, along the Gorky Highway, there’s a large truck lot," Alex began. "Some businessmen tried to build something there in November — cleared forest, put in a gas station, brought equipment. Then the project collapsed. The machinery was abandoned, and the place turned into an unofficial stop for long-haul drivers.
Trailers appeared. Portable toilets. Then a pizzeria, a shawarma stand, a small grocery. Life grows quickly where money passes through."
Afghan nodded once, impatient.
"And?"
"Ukrainian crews pushed the truckers aside," Alex continued. "They haul gravel, soil, construction materials — cash only. Every two weeks they hand half their earnings to their ‘office,’ and once a month the owners collect the rest."
"So you’re proposing we rob this office."
"There isn’t really an office. Just a seized patch of land with a trailer in the middle. That’s where the cash sits."
"Guarded?"
"They rely on numbers — three dozen drivers moving in and out. Supposed to discourage trouble."
Alex took a slow drink from his beer.
"No guards. No phones. No pager towers. The nearest police station is twenty kilometers away."
Afghan remained unconvinced.
"And you’re certain there’s real money?"
"Absolutely. I have a source."
"Oh?"
"One of the drivers is involved with my aunt in Novaya Kupavna. Talks too much. My grandmother hears everything — and then I hear it."
Afghan gave a faint snort.
"So this comes from pillow talk."
"Call it what you like. The man spends freely. Drinks hard. Carries cash. My aunt complains he eats her food, sleeps in her bed, and pays nothing — despite having plenty."
Afghan watched him for a long moment, weighing not just the proposal, but the hunger behind it.
"I’m not convinced," he said at last. "Pulling men off our regular work for this… It sounds less like strategy and more like you want revenge on a pack of migrant drivers because one of them is enjoying family hospitality for free."
Alex waved off the personal angle. “I don’t give a damn about my aunt’s pussy. Let’s not get sidetracked by nonsense. I’ll run reconnaissance and map everything out. I need thirty young lads — the ones training in the gyms and clubs financed by Mamonov but still untested in real work. This operation will show who’s truly loyal to the boss and who’s just feeding at his table.”
Afghan nodded. “Alright. I’ll speak with Mamonov. The final word is his.”
Alex looked at him and, slipping into criminal slang, asked, “Will you vouch for me?”
Afghan flared at once.
“You haven’t even smelled real gunpowder yet, you idiot. Pulling off a couple of jobs doesn’t make you a hardened thief. Don’t let me hear that gutter talk again. You belong to a breed of men who would sooner die in a firefight than rot on prison gruel beside common crooks. I’ll forge you — and the rest of the boys I pulled out of those gyms — into my kind of men.
“For now, wait for Mamonov’s decision about the parking-lot raid. And while you wait, learn the three golden rules of a grown man.
“First — table manners. A man who can’t behave at dinner makes himself a joke, the way you did today.
“Second — within the next two or three years, get a place of your own. You can’t live off others while walking the criminal road.
“Third — learn to handle money. Even if it drops into your lap, spend it with restraint. Flash it around, and you won’t just invite trouble — you’ll drag your partners down with you. Understood?”
The weight of the conversation pressed in around them as a bard’s lament from the bleak years of Stalin’s Gulag drifted through the room — thin, mournful, impossible to ignore. It clung to the air like smoke, a reminder of the price men paid for the paths they chose.
The singer croaked into the microphone, his weathered voice rasping through the speakers:
The rain poured down on us,
And on the revolvers’ muzzles.
The drunken revelers picked it up at once, their voices swelling around the chanson performer:
The marshals closed in on us,
“Hands up!” they shouted into the dark.
________________________________________
Chapter Sixteen. January, 1996. Reutov–Balashikha, Moscow Region
On the evening of January first, Elephant stepped into the guest house’s elegant dining hall. His gaze moved slowly across the room’s polished splendor before settling on Alex — the boy’s fair head just visible above the back of a massive leather chair. Sprawled near the crackling fireplace, Alex had his feet up on an ottoman, basking in the heat of flames that devoured nearly a third of the living room.
Elephant drifted closer with the heavy ease of a street brawler and glanced over the young man’s shoulder. Alex was absorbed in a thick book printed in English.
“What’re you reading?” he asked gruffly.
Without looking up, Alex checked the cover. “Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ.”
A low growl rolled out of Elephant. “Did I ask you in some foreign tongue?”
Alex immediately gave the title in Russian.
Elephant squinted at him. “And do you even understand what you just said?”
“I’m trying to,” Alex replied, a trace of impatience slipping into his voice.
Pressing on, Elephant questioned, "Where did you come across that book?"
Nonchalantly, Alex answered, "I found it at a bus stop near Novokosinsky market."
Determined to grasp what had captivated the teenager's interest, Elephant persisted, "Well, at least tell me what it's about."
Eager to enlighten him, Alex began listing the essential skills of emotional intelligence, "The five most important skills of emotional intelligence are self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation..." However, before he could finish his enumeration, Elephant interrupted him abruptly. The towering figure began nonchalantly making his way toward the exit, commanding in a firm tone, "Enough. Get up and let's go. Mamonov is calling you.”

Alex reluctantly closed the book and stood up from the chair, following Elephant out of the dining hall.

Vladimir sat behind his office desk with a bottle of beer in his hand while the pale winter sun filtered through the Moscow sky and spread across the frozen pond beyond the window. The kingpin leaned back in his chair, drinking slowly, trying to gather himself after a night that still throbbed behind his temples. Cocaine and celebration had carried him well past dawn; he had woken near eleven tangled in silk sheets and the limbs of three nyotaimori.
Now the quiet soothed him.
He watched his daughter playing with the dog in the backyard glade. The German shepherd stitched elaborate patterns into the untouched snow, while Svetlana’s boots carved steady parallel tracks that crossed the animal’s frantic loops and zigzags.
A flicker of pride warmed him.
She had walked down to the nearby beach, lingered there sensibly instead of wandering off, cleaned up after the dog without being told, and returned home exactly as instructed — never stepping onto the treacherous ice.
A knock broke the stillness.
Elephant entered with Alex at his shoulder.
Mamonov turned his chair, set the beer on the desk, and said flatly, “Elephant — wait outside.”
The bodyguard left without a word.
When the door shut, Vladimir opened the top drawer and withdrew a flat box wrapped in colored paper.
“You were among the first to leave yesterday’s banquet,” he said. “You missed the gifts.”
“I didn’t know I was expected to stay until the end.”
“First — don’t interrupt me.” Mamonov’s gaze hardened beneath knitted brows. “Second — I’m not offended. You left, so you left. In any case, I wouldn’t have handed this to you in front of the others. Come here.”
Alex stepped forward and accepted the box.
“Open it.”
He set it carefully on the desk, untied the pink ribbon, and peeled away the red paper. Beneath it lay a black velvet case, cool and soft under his fingertips.
“Did Svetlana wrap this?” he asked.
“Who else?” Mamonov chuckled. “Do you imagine Elephant or I possess such talents?”
“Does she know what’s inside?”
“No. Do you?”
“I’m about to.”
He turned the tiny key and lifted the lid.
A silver Walther PPK rested on gray silk. Beside it lay a magazine, empty, perfectly aligned with the edge of the case.
“Boss… thank you. May I?”
“Take it. It’s yours. I’ve never cared much for firearms — I prefer the tools of old-school thieves. A knife is more… intimate.”
Alex picked up the pistol, slid the magazine into the grip, and felt its clean mechanical weight settle into his palm.
Revenge will be simpler now, he thought. If the three of them ever stand together without witnesses, I’ll finish it. Last time — Mamonov and Afghan were outside, Elephant in the house. Even with this gun, I wouldn’t have walked away alive.
“This is a late-thirties German police model, later modified by the French,” Mamonov said, unknowingly slicing through the boy’s thoughts. “Built for concealed carry and close work. Chambered for nine millimeters — though its stopping power isn’t exceptional. I’m giving it strictly for self-defense. Don’t go chasing glory in gunfights. Here are sixteen rounds.”
He produced a small cardboard box and set it on the desk.
“These cartridges are a millimeter shorter than Makarov rounds. Unless you feel like shaving Soviet bullets by hand, use them sparingly. Ever fired a weapon?”
“No.”
“Afghan will give you a couple of lessons. Now — since I’ve mentioned him, let’s get to your question.”
“The parking-lot raid?”
Mamonov nodded.
“That land belongs to the Balashikha group. You may not realize it, but even this house falls inside their administrative turf. They control the automotive trade and nearly all private housing construction across Greater Balashikha.
“When I bought this plot — along with the Boomer-Service garage next door — they tried to scare me off. They forgot I have my own stake in auto parts, and my Reutov location sits five times closer to the main routes than theirs.
“For a few years we kept things civil. Meetings, negotiations — tense, but workable. Then three years ago those bastards shot my deputies: Paramon, Shishka, and Korova. Their boss, Frol, ordered it.
“So I instructed Soloma to remove him.”
“And?” Alex leaned forward, stunned.
“New Year’s Eve. Two years back. Private room in a restaurant. One conversation — and Soloma put a bullet through Frol’s face.”
Alex was already certain how that story ended; men with names like Soloma rarely retired.
“None of them made it out,” Mamonov continued. “Security caught them before they reached the exit. Soloma and his partners were beaten to death on the spot.
“Since then, the Balashikha outfit has been tearing itself apart — nearly two years of quiet war for leadership. While they’re busy devouring one another…” He gave a thin smile. “I approved your raid.”
“Will Afghan be there?”
“Indirectly. Anton is too visible — always present at the thieves’ gatherings. If witnesses recognized him, complications would follow. You’ll command the boys. He’ll supervise from the car.”
Alex inclined his head.
“Thank you for the trust, boss.”

The six years Alex had spent in the boxing gym had not been wasted. They had forged endurance into his muscles, sharpened his reflexes, and taught his body to obey without hesitation. Yet the greater gift had been discipline — the habit of thinking before striking.
Before every training session, Viktor gathered the younger fighters around him and spoke not of punches, but of judgment.
“Speed, strength, stamina — they matter,” he would say. “But any opponent may surpass you in one of them. Victory belongs to the man who prepares. Strategy first, tactics second. Theory must walk hand in hand with practice.”
Then he would lower his voice, as though sharing a professional secret.
“Start with reconnaissance. Learn how your opponent moves, how he breathes, what he fears. Build your plan before you step into the ring. When the bell sounds, it’s already too late to think.”
During his final two years at the gym, Alex no longer waited for guidance. He studied grainy recordings of amateur bouts, filled notebooks with observations, and drafted fight plans that Viktor reviewed with rare approval.
It had been a clean road — medals ahead, perhaps a title.
Then the country itself lurched sideways, and with it, his life.
A year ago, he could never have imagined that Viktor’s lessons would serve him not under the bright lights of a ring, but in the dim territory of thieves and racketeers — where strategy meant survival, and hesitation meant death.
________________________________________
On January fifteenth, Alex sat inside the roadside pizzeria Celentano, calmly conducting reconnaissance.
The menu surprised him with its ambition: eight kinds of pizza, dozens of toppings — meat, fish, cheeses — five salads, four soups, several pasta dishes, and pages of appetizers and desserts. A tall glass of Fanta glowed amber beside his cutlery.
Next to it lay a photograph of a drunken Ukrainian driver with his arm slung around Alex’s aunt.
Alex turned the laminated pages slowly, but his eyes worked constantly — counting exits, measuring distances, weighing the clientele.
The waiter approached.
“Ready to order?”
“Yes. Prosciutto pizza with salmon, olives, and basil. Baked spaghetti — four cheeses. And a bottle of Ukrainian pepper vodka.”
The waiter barely blinked at the boy’s age.
“Will Nemiroff honey-pepper tincture do?”
“Perfect.”
“One more thing — we ask unfamiliar guests to prepay. Busy highway.”
“I understand.” Alex placed two hundred-thousand-ruble notes on the table, the Peter and Paul Fortress gleaming faintly from the paper.
As the waiter reached for the money, Alex tapped the photograph.
“See this man? Notice him around?”
The waiter glanced down.
“He’s here most evenings. Why?”
“This scoundrel is sleeping with my mother,” Alex said quietly, his voice thickening with carefully manufactured emotion. “I just want a word with him. Either he moves in for good or leaves her alone. She’s only thirty-six — she still has time to find someone serious.”
The lie emerged so naturally that even his eyes shimmered.
The waiter nodded.
“I’ll tell him you’re looking.”
________________________________________
Alex ate without haste, alternating between spaghetti and pizza, washing it down with soda while reading an American bestseller. Two hours passed before the door burst open and a draft of frozen air rolled across the linoleum.
Several men in quilted jackets entered, trailing snow. Ukrainian mingled with Russian as they spread across three tables.
Two waiters appeared instantly.
The one who knew Alex leaned toward a broad-shouldered driver and whispered. Moments later, the man approached.
“Hey, kid. What’s the matter?” he asked gruffly.
“Miron, sit down. Let me buy you lunch. Pepper vodka?”
The driver paused — startled that the boy knew his name — but greed quickly overcame suspicion. He dropped heavily into the chair opposite.
“Then have your waiter bring it here,” Alex said evenly. “I’m paying.”
He closed his book and slid the photograph between its pages.
When Miron saw his own face staring back at him, the color drained from his cheeks.
He reached for the book.
“Where’d you get that?”
Alex’s left hand settled calmly atop the cover. His right rested near the vodka bottle — fingers curled around a fist packed with brass knuckles.
“Don’t be stupid, Miron,” he murmured. “I want to talk. If I meant to hurt you, you’d already be fertilizer somewhere in the forest. Understand?”
“Who the hell are you?” the driver asked, attempting bravado.
“I’m the nephew of your temporary wife. I know where you came from and who you are. Relax. Eat for free — like you do at my aunt Natalia’s. Show your friends we’re practically family. Later you can tell them I’m your bastard.”
He used the Ukrainian word deliberately.
Miron blinked.
“You speak our language?”
“I was born in Odessa. I know quite a lot — just not everything.”
A waiter arrived with Miron’s food. Alex paid, added a tip, and waited until the man lifted his fork.
“I don’t know how much you value your job,” Alex continued softly. “Or your life. Maybe this is your last night here. Maybe not. Either way — you’re going to tell me everything about your work.”
Miron’s grip tightened on the fork.
“Eat. Don’t make sudden moves.”
Alex slipped his hand inside his jacket and brought it back out just enough for the steel to catch the light — a Walther, discreet but unmistakable.
“It stays hidden as long as we talk calmly. But I don’t like your sweat… or that tension in your shoulders. Planning something?”
“I still don’t get what you want,” Miron muttered, draining half a glass of vodka. “Marriage proposal?”
“Forget my aunt. She doesn’t interest me. Neither do you — except for one thing. I want to see your camp. Where you sleep. How you work. Who owns you.”
He nodded toward the bottle.
“Finish up. Take the rest of the vodka with you. We’re leaving.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added quietly:
“And remember — if you try anything…” He tapped the pistol through the fabric of his pocket. “I’ll put down eight of your colleagues in ten seconds. You’ll be the first.”

Miron and Alex headed for the exit. At the door, the driver turned back toward his countrymen.
“Boys, looks like I’ve found my bastard. I’ll walk him to the bus stop.”
“We’ll still be here when you get back,” one of the drivers called out.
________________________________________
Miron led him across the lot toward the trailers, dread tightening inside his chest. In the presence of this cold-eyed youth, his life suddenly felt cheap.
He’d shoot me without blinking, Miron thought. Dump the body somewhere in the dark, and no one would step outside until morning. Even if they heard gunfire, they’d stay buried in their warm bunks.
He spoke quickly, eager to please.
“We work from eight to eight — every day but Sunday. Dinner’s usually at Celentano. After midnight the place closes, and everyone drifts back to their trailers. Three to a cabin, though five or six men are always gone — staying closer to a quarry or a cement plant. That one there—” he pointed toward a barred trailer in the center of the camp, “—that’s the office. There’s a night guard. Not for us — for the trucks. More than thirty of them. He makes his rounds every hour from midnight to six.”
“When do you visit my aunt?” Alex asked.
“Wednesdays. Saturdays.”
“Don’t skip them,” Alex said mildly. “You wouldn’t want regrets.”
“I won’t hurt her,” Miron muttered.
________________________________________
The cabin was cramped: three narrow beds, nightstands with mismatched chairs, a small table, a wardrobe, and a wall hanger bowed under heavy jackets.
Alex opened the closet and sifted methodically through shirts, trousers, towels — leaving everything outwardly undisturbed.
“Fold it back exactly as it was,” he told Miron, who sat rigidly on the bed.
Nothing of value. He checked the drawers, ran his hands along the walls, crouched to peer beneath the beds.
Suitcases. Padlocked.
Just as I thought, he decided. That’s where the cash sleeps.
Pulling on his gloves, he headed for the door.
“No need to walk me out. And remember — Wednesdays and Saturdays. My aunt will be delighted.”
________________________________________
The next day, Alex delivered his reconnaissance report to Afghan in the guest house hall.
“How was it?” Anton asked, lowering himself into a chair by the fireplace.
“Smooth. The driver — Miron — tried to puff himself up at first. One look at the Walther, and he turned cooperative. Gave me everything.”
“No surprises waiting for us?” Afghan pressed. “No pistols tucked under pillows?”
“None,” Alex said lightly. “He was so frightened that if he’d sensed backup, I’d already be buried beneath someone’s foundation.”
“When do we strike?”
“End of the week. Saturdays they knock off by noon, wash up at the Nikolsky Baths, then drink themselves senseless at the pizzeria.”
“Today’s Tuesday, the sixteenth,” Anton noted. “Enough time to prepare.”
“Better — let’s wait one more week,” Alex countered. “By the twenty-seventh both the drivers and the common fund will be heavier.”
Afghan nodded once.
“Reasonable. The twenty-seventh it is.”
________________________________________
The night arrived clear and mercilessly cold, the moon haloed in frost. Snow crackled under boots as the young men spilled from a Volga and two cargo vans onto the lot near Factory Pond. Trees and the hulking buildings of the Mechanical Engineering complex sealed the place off from curious eyes.
Under a lone streetlamp, Alex stood at the center of three dozen boys.
With a stick, he drew the camp into the snow.
“Ten trailers. About thirty men — mostly in their forties. Office here, guard inside from midnight on. The pizzeria — here. They stay there drinking until closing. Their cabins remain unlocked.”
He stabbed the stick into the snow.
“Three groups. First — five to eight men — take the pizzeria fast. Surprise is everything. Second — three men — neutralize the guard and clear the office. Everyone else works as the drivers. Firearms only if necessary — intimidation first. Resistance gets crushed. Remember who rode in which vehicle. No one gets left behind.”
For forty minutes he assigned roles, refined movements, and answered questions.
“Four with me to Celentano, or seven?” the first group leader asked.
“Four initially. If there are more than ten drivers, signal with a flashlight. Three more will reinforce you.”
The man nodded.
Alex turned to Afghan.
“Anything to add?”
Anton’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“The cash in the safe should match what’s in their pockets — maybe ten percent less. They have to eat. If I suspect anyone skimmed from the take, I’ll search every one of you. Personally. I have no patience for boys who die because they couldn’t be trusted.”
________________________________________
Alex, Sergey, and another recruit climbed into Afghan’s car.
“Call signs,” Alex said from the passenger seat. “You’re ‘Third.’ Sergey is ‘Second.’ I’m ‘First.’ Clear?”
A murmur of assent.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, Alex tried to read Afghan’s face. The faint curve on Anton’s lips could have been approval — or contempt. The uncertainty needled him.
Afghan kept that private smile as he watched the others load up: a dozen men into the passenger van, ten more into the cargo hold of a Gazelle.
The rear awning dropped. Blankets over their heads, they vanished from sight — just another dark vehicle on a winter road.
At 10:45, the convoy slipped off Gorky Highway onto an unremarkable side street. Near the Balashikha cemetery, Anton turned onto Novgorodskaya and halted before the funeral firm Parity Ltd.
Headlights washed over iron fencing and a forest of tombstones.
“Sergey,” Afghan said calmly, “grab some rags from the trunk. Wrap the license plates.”
Having fetched the rags from the trunk, Sergey finished wrapping the plates and joined the fighters who had already spilled out of the nearby Gazelles. The young men lined up along the fence of Parity Ltd., relieving themselves against black marble obelisks and cast-iron grave benches — a crude, almost ritual desecration before the night’s work. Meanwhile, the minivan drivers dusted the remaining license numbers with packed snow, dulling their shine until the vehicles looked anonymous even under direct light.
Anton rolled down his window and beckoned the drivers closer. Spreading a road atlas across the steering wheel, he spoke quietly but with unmistakable authority.
“Two hundred meters from the highway — the pizzeria will be on the left. I’ll lead. I won’t pull up to the entrance; I’ll stop near the boom gate. You,” he said, pointing to the second driver, “park opposite Celentano. After that, we follow Alex’s plan exactly.”
________________________________________
Ten minutes later, five hard-faced youths in tracksuits stepped into the pizzeria and claimed two tables near the window.
The room hummed with drunken warmth. Ukrainian drivers shouted over one another, flirting loudly with a pair of roadside prostitutes. A young couple lingered over dessert, and a lone trucker sat hunched beside the window, his rig visible outside like a patient beast.
A waiter approached the newcomers.
“At this hour we can’t offer the full menu — only one cook is left. No soups, no fresh salads. But we have pizza and pasta. He can add mushrooms, cheese, grilled mince.”
“Bring both for everyone,” the leader said. “And a bottle of Stolichnaya.”
While the waiter hurried off, the leader turned slightly and flashed a shielded beam from his flashlight toward the minivan outside.
The food arrived; a hundred-dollar deposit changed hands. The waiter thumbed the bill, testing its reality.
“Who’s celebrating?” the gang leader asked casually.
“The Ukrainian drivers. Regulars.”
“Send them two bottles from us. And this is for you.” He slid over another twenty.
The waiter nodded, pleased, and vanished.
Glasses lifted. Toasts crossed the room. The drivers roared their thanks, unaware they were drinking to their own misfortune.
At 11:45 the cook left, calling back that he’d locked the service exit from outside.
Moments later, the foreman rotated a fork above his head.
Four men rose at once and pulled the blackout curtains.
The pizzeria fell into artificial night.
Three more fighters burst through the door, pistols already drawn. Two pinned the waiters; the third dragged the bewildered Tajik dishwasher from the kitchen. The five who had been eating closed in on the drivers.
“On the floor, bastards! Faces down! Hands behind your heads — eyes shut!” the foreman barked. “Stay still and nobody gets hurt. This is a robbery.”
Chairs scraped. Bodies thudded. Within minutes, wrists were cinched with nylon ties.
“Bind them one by one. Chairs over each,” the foreman ordered.
A raider emptied his pockets onto the counter. “Register key. Cash from the waiters.”
________________________________________
At the same moment, the parking lot outside went dark.
“The curtains are shut,” Alex said, unable to hide his excitement. “That means at least a dozen drivers inside. Three of ours just went in to help.”
“Save the commentary,” Afghan snapped. “Watch the right.”
A green sedan rolled up to the boom gate.
“When he steps out,” Alex murmured to Sergey, “take the passenger side. I’ll intercept him on the way back.”
The guard emerged bundled in quilted trousers and a garish Chinese down jacket. An army ushanka sat on his head — no cockade, only the flattened scar where one had been. Felt boots muted his steps.
He unlocked the padlock, lifted the counterweighted barrier, rehung the lock, and turned back toward his car.
Cold steel kissed the skin beneath his ear.
“Grandpa, back seat,” a voice said.
The retired warrant officer — thirty years in the Internal Troops — assessed everything at once: the suffocating winter gear slowing him down, the idling Volga with tinted glass, the Gazelles he’d dismissed, the reckless youth behind him. Resistance would be theater, nothing more.
He obeyed.
Sergey let the guard glimpse a knife. “Stay calm. No heroics.”
“I understand,” the veteran said evenly.
________________________________________
Alex drove the guard’s sedan toward the office trailer while the Gazelles rumbled into the camp. Fighters scattered like shadows toward the cabins.
“The office key,” Alex demanded.
“On the ring beneath the ignition. Largest one.”
They entered a minute later.
“Curtains,” Sergey said, flicking on the light.
Alex’s gaze went straight to the telephone perched atop a waist-high iron safe — exactly where he’d expected it.
“Third, cut the cord. Both ends. Pocket it. Second — fetch the drivers. Tell the cargo van to reverse up to the trailer.”
Within minutes they were back.
“Ease it down,” Alex instructed. “Three on each side.”
Then, to the guard:
“Why are you standing there? Take a corner.”
Together they muscled the safe outside and slid it into the van.
“You two — into the minivans,” Alex told the drivers. “The rest of you — help the boys finish with the guest workers.”
Soon only Alex and the guard remained.
“We’re going back inside,” Alex said softly. “Relax — I’m not stealing your car. I’ll even leave your apartment keys in the ignition.”
He bound the old man’s hands without resistance. Experience had taught the guard a simple law: the ones who looked youngest were often the most lethal.
He couldn’t help asking, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll remember your face?”
“That would be pointless,” Alex said. “Even if you sketched me perfectly, your bosses wouldn’t dare call the police.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re bandits too. Maybe better connected — but still bandits. So don’t bother memorizing me. Think up a story instead. Say they ambushed you at the gate. Say you never saw a face.”
The pup thinks he’s schooling me, the veteran thought — but kept silent.
________________________________________
While Alex secured the office, his men swept the trailers, binding drivers and stripping the rooms. Three cabins, however, stayed locked from within. Their occupants, dead asleep, answered the pounding with a muffled:
“Go fuck yourselves.”
During the briefing, Alex had anticipated resistance.
Break the windows. Smoke them out.
Simple — in theory.
In practice, there weren’t enough smoke grenades. The men who had them hesitated, unsure.
Alex hadn’t meant to involve himself beyond the safe. Yet watching the overeager gym recruits blunder outside the frosted windows tightened something inside him.
He kicked the heater on and strode out into the knife-edged cold.
Running from trailer to trailer, he shouted into the night:
“Who’s got the smoke bombs?”


Once he had secured three smoke grenades, Alex sprinted toward one of the locked trailers and shouted through the shattered window:
“Hey, you idiots! Take a good look at what I’m holding! Smoke grenades! In thirty seconds I light one, and your cabin fills with smoke. Not all of you will make it out. Eyes on me.”
Nine pairs of eyes appeared in the jagged window frames as Alex slipped two cylinders into his jacket pockets and twisted the safety cap off the third.
“On three, I throw it through the nearest window,” he announced calmly. “One.”
The striker strip rasped against the white fuse pin.
“Two.”
He dragged the strip again. A sharp click sounded inside the cardboard tube, and twin jets of white smoke hissed from either end. Alex drew his arm back, ready to keep his promise, when iron bars clanged from within the trailer.
“Three!”
Instead of the window, he hurled the grenade into the woods.
Dense white smoke poured from the tube and drifted through the frosty night air, dissolving among the dark crowns of pine and fir. The final trailer was cleaned out half an hour later.
Once the migrant workers were bound, Alex gathered his fighters from the pizzeria, counted heads, and slid into the Volga.
“It’s done,” he told Afghan. “No casualties on our side.”
“And the guest workers?”
“We roughed up a few,” Alex said with a shrug.
________________________________________
Afghan drove Alex, Sergey, and Dan to Mamonov’s guest house. The guard informed them that the boss expected a full report by eight in the morning.
Given the hour and the distance to Anton’s bachelor flat in Izmailovo, the trip made little sense. Even with empty roads, it would take at least ninety minutes each way. With barely three hours of night remaining, Anton chose the more practical option.
Why not visit Olga? he thought. And see whether anyone had warmed her bed while I was busy babysitting Alex and his young wolves.
________________________________________
By morning, Afghan lay bare-chested on the bed, face down, a light blanket draped across his legs. Olga, his forty-year-old lover, rested against the pillows beside him. Highlighted strands of hair spilled over her shoulders as she traced the scars on his back with slow, curious fingers.
“I’ve always wondered about these
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“I’ve always wondered about these,” she said, counting them softly. There were six.
“Why those in particular?” Anton asked. “I’ve got plenty of other scars.”
“I’ve been a nurse for twenty years,” Olga replied. “I’ve seen bullet wounds and knife injuries—but nothing quite like these.”
“I got them seven years ago, during the invasion of Afghanistan. Near Kandahar, one of my subordinates stepped on a landmine right behind me,” Afghan said. His voice was even, almost detached. “The blast tore him apart. Two soldiers walking between us were wounded. I caught the shrapnel meant for them. The surgeon pulled a few fragments from my shoulder, but not all of them.”
“Do they bother you?”
“The scars? No. But the shoulder blade acts up when the weather turns.” He paused. “Back there I used opium to dull the pain. I don’t intend to start dealing with that kind of crowd here.”
“I have access to morphine,” Olga said quietly. “Strictly medical stock. If it’s only for pain—and not for resale—I could help you.”
Afghan rolled onto his back, drew her into his arms, and pressed his lips to her shoulder.
“Then help me now,” he murmured.
________________________________________
Chapter Seventeen. February–April, 1996. Moscow and the Region
The Second Section of the Department of Economic Security oversaw the country’s banks, insurance companies, two state mints, and several banknote printing facilities—institutions where money was not merely counted but, in many ways, created.
Colonel Yevgeny Baranov, a hereditary counterintelligence officer, headed the section. His father had served Lenin and Stalin with unwavering devotion, guarding senior Party officials in Leningrad until the thaw under Khrushchev loosened the iron climate of the previous era.
Baranov Sr. had mapped out his son’s future with the precision of a staff officer: the Faculty of Economics at Leningrad State University, followed by an application to the local KGB directorate. Yevgeny neither argued nor resisted. In time, he discovered he had no reason to regret obedience.
He served conscientiously—accepting the occasional gift from grateful bankers yet steering clear of serious bribery. That careful balance earned him a reputation for reliability and secured his place within the chain of commands.
Section chiefs were entitled to a service vehicle with a dedicated driver. For the past five years, that role had belonged to Warrant Officer Semyon Karpov.
Fifteen years earlier, Karpov had completed his compulsory service as a border guard on the Soviet–Chinese frontier. He began as a dog handler and finished as a sergeant, hardened by isolation, routine danger, and the silent discipline of the taiga.
Later, as a non-commissioned officer in the KGB, he became known for precision and economy in all things. He spoke little, noticed everything, and while he drove the Volga with professional smoothness, his true assignment was the colonel’s safety.
When the forty-two-year-old Baranov assumed his post, the head of the KGB Central Garage summoned Karpov.
“Semyon,” the major said, lowering his voice, “Baranov may come from counterintelligence stock, but he’s still what we call a jacket—a civilian specialist brought into the organs. He lacks the field schooling of Higher College graduates, yet in finance he’s a prodigy. See to his security.”
In the five years since, Karpov had never wavered in his loyalty. Baranov, for his part, treated the driver neither as furniture nor as a servant but as a discreet professional—a man one did not burden with idle chatter.
Only once had the colonel ventured into Karpov’s past.
“We meet every year on Border Guard Day, at the end of May,” the warrant officer said. “Before the Union collapsed, even the boys from our outpost flew in—from Kazakhstan, from Ukraine. These days it’s mostly Muscovites and men from the surrounding region.”
“And how did they fare afterward?” Baranov asked. “How many stayed in uniform—federal service, police?”
Karpov allowed himself a faint, almost private smile.
“Very few, Comrade Colonel.. There are only four of my former comrades in the entire Moscow region, and Dmitry Zatorkin is the only sergeant at the Railway-Town Police Department. Some went into business. Some drifted where the money was quicker. A couple didn’t last long enough to choose.”
Baranov studied him.
“And the rest?”
“The rest learned what the new country rewards,” Karpov said evenly. “Not loyalty—adaptability.”
“I see,” Baranov said, and let the subject of discharged servicemen drop.
Karpov knew his passenger had recently been part of a delegation at the Swiss Embassy, where a multimillion-dollar contract had been signed between the Moscow Mint and a prestigious Swiss watchmaker. Under its terms, the Russians would produce ten thousand red-gold watch cases and bracelets to house Swiss movements. Karpov knew many things—drivers often did—but he could not connect what he had learned a month earlier with the colonel’s sudden interest in former border guards.
________________________________________
The Railway-Town organized crime group celebrated Soviet Army and Navy Day on February 23 in the Small Hall of the Autograph restaurant. The men carried themselves with the rigid pride of veterans. That night, on the city’s outskirts, the gathering included neither career criminals nor washed-up athletes—only men who still thought in terms of service, rank, and command.
Lieutenant Colonel Krylov, retired after more than thirty years in uniform, had founded the organization himself. It was the first gang of its kind in the district, composed almost entirely of former officers, ensigns, and sergeants. Once the head of logistics for a motorized regiment, Krylov selected his fighters the way he had once assembled supply columns—methodically, without sentiment.
Within a year, his group had crushed every rival in Railway-Town: ethnic crews, street mobs, opportunistic bands that mistook chaos for strength. A decisive role in that consolidation belonged to the four Zatorkin brothers, former police sergeants and patrolmen who knew the town’s arteries better than any map.
The victory, however, had demanded blood. One of the brothers, Gennady, died in a shootout with Caucasian gunmen. The day after the funeral, the youngest sibling quietly gathered his family and left the Moscow region, unwilling to test fate further.
I owe Dmitry and Yegor more than I can repay, Krylov reflected as a gangster at the table droned through an endless toast. It was I who persuaded the Zatorkin quartet to abandon the thankless Ministry of Internal Affairs and join me. No salary, no gift will make them forget that their brother died in my war—just as I will never forgive myself.
Abruptly, Krylov cut the speaker off.
“Third toast,” he declared. “No clinking glasses. We drink to the friends who fell in battle against our enemies.”
The dinner resumed under a subdued hush.
Partway through the meal, Dmitry Zatorkin rose and excused himself to the restroom. The former sergeant moved with habitual alertness, though the diners around him seemed harmless enough.
Still, he noticed when a man in his mid-forties stood from a table in the Main Hall and followed him.
The restroom gleamed with pale brown marble. Built for four, it nevertheless had a twist lock on the handle—an odd luxury for a roadside establishment.
As the stranger entered and locked the door behind him, Dmitry calmly soaped his hands. Watching the mirror rather than the reflection, he slid his fingers toward the pistol resting in its leather shoulder holster.
The newcomer lifted both hands to chest level.
“Dmitry, you won’t need that. I’m not here officially. This is personal.”
From his breast pocket he produced a blue identification card bearing the seal of the Federal Security Service’s Main Directorate, held it open long enough to show the photograph, then slipped it back.
“We have very little time,” he said. “Let me outline my proposal.”
Yevgeny Baranov spoke quickly. He revealed the Mint’s contract with the Swiss and proposed intercepting the shipment on its way to the airport.
He knew how insane it sounded, yet pressed on.
“I understand this may seem unreal. You and your brother—Krylov—have time to verify everything. The factory is hiring workers for reconstruction; send your people inside. If I’m lying, you won’t invest a single ruble. You’ll write me off as a madman—or a drunken hallucination. If you refuse, I go no further. But if you accept the risk, I’ll return for my share. You won’t need to look for me.”
As Baranov unlocked the door, Dmitry asked quietly:
“Why us?”
“Because your organization is unique,” the colonel replied. “Former military. Former police. Men who understand discipline.”
When Zatorkin returned to the Small Hall, his interlocutor was already gone.
Threading his way through tables and dancing couples, the ex-cop turned the proposal over in his mind. Should he inform Krylov immediately—or could he and Yegor attempt something this large on their own?
Impossible, he decided. Three minibuses in Moscow means at least twenty soldiers and days of preparation. This can’t be done behind the boss’s back. I don’t even need to consult Yegor.
He sat down.
“Boss, I need to tell you something important—but not here. It’s serious enough that I hesitate even to mention it.”
Krylov frowned. “Then why bring it up at all?”
“You’re the boss. I had to signal the stakes at once—so no one thinks I’m trying to run a private operation.”
“Tell me in the car.”
“Better outside,” Dmitry insisted. “This is monumental. I’d rather not discuss it in front of your driver.”
________________________________________
They walked along a snow-packed sidewalk beside Krylov’s estate while Dmitry recounted the colonel’s offer in detail.
“I have several questions,” Krylov said at last. A veteran of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany, he weighed risk instinctively. “First—do you believe him? The plan is suicide. Customs Street runs from the Mint straight to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. One block from the Printing Factory stands a motorized rifle brigade guarding the Ministry of Defense—no fewer than eight battalions, five hundred men each.”
“So what?” Dmitry replied evenly. “They won’t react fast enough once the shipment is ours and we’re gone. And consider this: if the feds wanted to frame us, why complicate things? They could leak the job through any Moscow kingpin on their leash. So yes—I believe him.”
Krylov nodded slowly.
“Suppose you’re right, and this colonel—just shy of fifty, you say—wants to secure a fortune before retirement. Why stage it near the Printing Factory rather than the Mint? The factory handles paper money, not gold.”
“I asked him. The watches will be packaged at the New Dawn perfume factory next door—shared fence, shared gate. Same city block. No road between them. Once assembled, the watches go to the Printing Factory for manual packing before shipment to the airport.”
Krylov extended his hand.
“Come tomorrow with Yegor. Dinner. We’ll examine the plan properly.”
________________________________________
On February 25, Mamonov, Elephant, and Afghan were having lunch at a beer garden on the outskirts of Reutovo when the pager on Afghan’s belt chirped.
He glanced down at the tiny screen.
We are waiting for you tomorrow at 9 a.m. at the Church of the Transfiguration of the Lord. —Zatorkins.
The number was unfamiliar, but Anton knew the brothers who controlled the neighboring town. His companions heard the pager too.
Mamonov set down his glass of pale beer.
“Who’s calling?”
“The Zatorkins.”
Elephant smirked. “Since when are you drinking buddies with ex-cops?”
“Never crossed my mind. An army veteran and a former cop aren’t exactly natural friends. Frankly, I’m surprised they have my pager number.”
“I’m not,” Vladimir cut in. “Those rat brothers survive because former colleagues shield them. For the police, getting your number is easier than taking a leak. What do they want?”
“A meeting. Tomorrow morning. Church of the Transfiguration, Railway-Town.”
Anton unclipped the pager and handed it over.
Vladimir studied the screen, typed “I will be there,” and pressed send.

Anton had not been entirely truthful with his boss. He knew exactly who had passed his pager number to the Zatorkins—and it certainly had not been the brothers themselves. The message could only have come from Railway-Town’s kingpin, Krylov. Only he possessed the authority to summon Anton without ceremony.
Krylov’s influence extended far beyond his own territory. In the Eastern District of Moscow, he was regarded as one of the principal suppliers of illegal weapons. Through Afghan—whose ties to Krylov were longstanding—Mamonov’s gang received pistols, grenades, and assault rifles from a concealed armory. That pipeline ensured the crew never lacked firepower.
After the successful campaign against the Caucasian mafia in eastern Moscow, Krylov’s reputation among criminal circles had begun to eclipse even Mamonov’s. That was precisely why the invitation reached Afghan through a lieutenant rather than directly from the boss himself: power did not need to announce itself.
Taking back the pager, Anton studied Mamonov’s face, searching for the unspoken signal—the green light.
He was not surprised by the neighboring gang’s interest. Anton understood his function perfectly: mediator, courier of intentions, the man bosses used when matters did not yet justify a personal meeting.
Mamonov dispatched his most trusted henchman without issuing detailed instructions. He knew Anton well enough—no agreement with Krylov would ever be made without first returning for approval.
“Boss, should I go with Afghan?” Elephant asked.
Mamonov grinned.
“No, Pavel. Not necessary. Krylov invited him to a church, which means he guarantees Anton’s safety. Men don’t spill blood on consecrated ground—not if they expect to go on living.”
________________________________________
Afghan arrived five minutes before the Sunday liturgy. He parked his Mercedes in the open space before the blue gates and slipped through the narrow entrance just as the bells began to toll.
The church was nearly empty that bitter February morning. Breath hovered faintly in the cold air beneath the dome.
Though he had never met the Zatorkin brothers, Anton recognized them at once—men with the posture of former policemen rarely blended into a crowd. Instead of approaching, he stopped near the right side of the iconostasis and bowed his head.
“My Lord,” he whispered, “grant peace to the souls of my soldiers who died in vain on Afghan soil.”
Faith had never taken firm root in him, yet the lavish gilding of the porcelain iconostasis stirred something wordless inside—a sense of measure, perhaps, or judgment.
“Hello, Afghan.”
He turned at the familiar voice and nodded.
“Good to see you,” Krylov said.
“I heard Mamonov’s villa was completely renovated about six months ago. True?”
“True enough. Eight craftsmen and two helpers—three months of work.” Afghan studied him. Thinking of rebuilding your own fortress? “Need someone for your place? I know excellent hands.”
“I’m not looking for golden hands,” Krylov replied evenly. “What I need are two or three reliable, strong men with construction experience—bricklayers, carpenters. Heavy work. And a clever apprentice.”
Afghan frowned. “What for?”
“I have a chance to make several million,” Krylov said, his eyes steady. “I’m willing to share—if you help. Do you have men in mind? If yes, I’ll arrange a meeting with Mamonov. If not, I’ll look elsewhere.”
Afghan considered.
“I know two carpenters—strong as oxen. And a sharp young apprentice who works with them. All three are ours.”
“Excellent.” Krylov inclined his head toward the Zatorkins. “Tell Vladimir we’ll meet three-on-three. I’ll bring those men.”
Afghan hesitated. “So this job… it’ll draw police attention?”
Krylov looked at him with the quiet authority of a man fifteen years older, a retired lieutenant colonel who still expected obedience.
“Remember this—we weren’t hardened in prison. Our strength lies in our connections. The police must remain on our side.”
“I’ll pass everything to Mamonov,” Afghan said. “You’ll have an answer soon.”
________________________________________
On the eve of International Women’s Day—March 7—the leaders of the two neighboring gangs gathered at the exclusive Ararat Valley restaurant. Discreetly positioned between Mamonov’s villa and Krylov’s estate, it had been closed to the public for the evening.
Inside the richly decorated dining room, the mood balanced between ease and coiled tension. Silverware clinked softly; glasses caught the amber light. Between courses, the six men returned again and again to the subject that had drawn them together.
Beyond the restaurant walls, the city moved in ignorance. Law enforcement, rival crews—shadows all—but here, behind drawn curtains, power negotiated with power.
Mamonov broke the silence.
“So if I understand correctly, you lack manpower for the Mint heist?”
“Not quite,” Krylov replied. “I have enough fighters to seize three minibuses in Moscow traffic. What I lack are insiders at the Printing Factory—people who can tell us the exact shipping date. And they must be outside our spheres of influence.”
Yegor Zatorkin leaned forward.
“The Mint will cast the gold cases and bracelets where they stamp medals and orders. Swiss mechanisms arrive separately and are fitted into the solid shells. Despite the size of the contract, the watches pack into small boxes—the entire batch moves at once. Each weighs less than half a pound. Total cargo—under two and a half tons. Two Gazelles, no more. With our own men inside, we intercept everything.”
Dmitry caught the spark in Mamonov’s eyes and continued:
“The timing is ideal. The Printing Factory is about to undergo major reconstruction—internal brick walls coming down. After demolition, another contractor installs bulletproof glass.”
Mamonov immediately understood: someone had leaked highly restricted information to the eldest Zatorkin.
“Right now,” Dmitry added, “they’re hiring low-skilled laborers to tear down three-meter walls. Perfect cover.”
The words settled heavily over the table.
But one question gnawed at Mamonov.
“How do two ordinary carpenters help rob a shipment like that?”
Yegor answered patiently.
“They aren’t fighters—that’s precisely their value. They blend into the reconstruction chaos. No one notices laborers. They move freely, gather information, map routines.”
At first the idea seemed almost trivial beside the scale of the operation.
Then the logic snapped into place.
Unremarkable men inside the perimeter meant knowledge—routes, schedules, habits. Knowledge meant control.
Mamonov felt no pang at the thought of risking the Lithuanian carpenters. Whatever befell them inside those walls was irrelevant. Pawns rarely survived great games.
But Alex—that was different.
In six months, the young man had become almost a son to him. Mamonov found himself weighing every danger twice where Alex was concerned. Besides, he was certain his teenage daughter Svetlana would never visit the villa on weekends if Alex were not there.
“Why would carpenters need an apprentice for such brute labor?” he asked.
“Because unskilled workers must remain on the factory grounds until the job is finished,” Krylov explained. “Otherwise the guards would be processing fifty extra exits a day. Apprentices, however, are free to come and go.”
Elephant blinked. “So the workers actually live at the Mint? Where they print money?”
Dmitry shot him a look of pure contempt.
“No. They’ll stay in trailers between the building and a metal fence along Customs Street.”
Noticing the tension, Yegor elaborated calmly.
“The fence merges into an angled roof pressed against the brick wall above the second-floor windows. Guards won’t even need to step outside—they’ll watch the trailers from inside.”
Vladimir turned to Krylov. “And the apprentice? Sleeps behind the fence too?”
“For three weeks he supplies the team—food, cigarettes, alcohol, toiletries, spare clothes.”
“So he sleeps at home,” Mamonov concluded.
“Yes. And during the day, he becomes our eyes and ears.”
Dmitry added, “Under the contract, the assistant has access both to the fenced yard and interior corridors. He arrives by ten, cooks lunch, delivers it, washes dishes, prepares dinner, takes laundry. Breakfast the workers manage themselves.”
Mamonov absorbed every detail, already picturing the choreography—the infiltration, the signal, the strike.
“That works,” he said at last. “The apprentice moves like a freelancer. We’ll give him a pager; he alerts us when the watches are ready. All three will be at my villa tomorrow by noon. Dmitry, join us—brief them. If we argue percentages now, we’ll never finish dinner.”
Krylov inclined his head.
“Let Dmitry handle Afghan and your men while we discuss money separately. The workers should believe this is entirely your operation.”
“Agreed.”
________________________________________
Dinner drifted into a thoughtful silence.
Afghan and Elephant felt a quiet sting—they would not taste the adrenaline of the heist itself. Vladimir, meanwhile, calculated his future share with the precision of an accountant.
Mamonov imagined profits not yet stolen.
Across the table, Krylov and his lieutenants ate with unhurried satisfaction.
They were prepared to agree to any financial demand that night.
Long before arriving at the restaurant, they had already decided that once the gold was in their hands, not a single dime would go to the neighboring gang.

For months, the leadership of the Railway-Town syndicate had stood on the brink of open war with their neighbors. By unspoken agreement, Mamonov’s crew had grown careless — pushing past invisible borders, probing territory that did not belong to them, testing how much Krylov was willing to tolerate.
Mamonov called it a flexible interpretation of “spheres of activity.”
Krylov called it encroachment.
Their arguments had never erupted into gunfire, but more than once the city’s criminal authorities had been forced to step in before words hardened into bloodshed.
Vladimir, Afghan, and Elephant were convinced the entire auto-parts trade in Moscow’s Eastern District lay under their dominion. Krylov’s faction disagreed. Railway-Town was theirs — historically, geographically, and by force — and tribute collectors from outside were not welcome.
The Zatorkin brothers had crossed paths with Elephant several times while supervising small businesses at the flea market, where motorists stripped dying Ladas for whatever parts still held value.
The former policemen tried diplomacy first. They told Elephant it was indecent to squeeze tribute from men selling their last carburetors after losing their jobs.
Elephant, a weightlifter who trusted muscle more than language, treated negotiation as weakness.
Violence was avoided — but only barely.
First, the Zatorkins had already buried one brother after their war with the Caucasian diaspora. Another conflict promised nothing but fresh graves.
Second, Krylov himself ordered patience.
A fatal blow, he believed, was always more effective when delivered without haste.
________________________________________
Gorbachev’s withdrawal of Soviet forces from East Germany triggered one of the largest military relocations in modern history. Millions of tons of weapons and ammunition flooded back into Russia. Train after train arrived loaded with tanks, artillery, missile systems — an empire folding its iron limbs inward.
The Ministry of Defense was unprepared for the avalanche. Weapons were dumped wherever space could be found: abandoned depots, unsecured yards, temporary storage sites guarded by exhausted conscripts.
The chaos became an invitation.
Firearms disappeared by the crate.
Retired Lieutenant Colonel Krylov helped himself generously.
Those stolen arsenals became his seed capital. By funneling weapons to Mamonov through Afghan, he financed the birth of his own organization — only to realize, too late, that he had armed a future rival.
Krylov did not resent the mistake.
He simply waited for the right moment to correct it.
________________________________________
The decision to erase the Reutov leadership emerged during a strategy session with Dmitry and Yegor as they refined the preliminary blueprint for the Mint robbery.
When the question of outside manpower arose, Yegor spoke with unsettling calm.
“Let’s bring Mamonov into the operation,” he said. “Use them hard — then remove them.”
Krylov studied him.
“And how exactly do you propose we manage that?”
“I know a Chinese instructor at the Saltykovsky fitness club,” Yegor replied. “Wushu master. Silent type. People say he’s done contract work. Pay him enough, and he’ll carve Mamonov apart at his villa.”
Krylov shook his head.
“No. That leaves Afghan and Elephant alive — and men like them turn funerals into coronations. They’d use the war to expand.”
He paused.
“And professionals are liabilities. Kill the employer, disappear, leave insurance behind — evidence, witnesses, leverage. No.”
His gaze hardened.
“After the job is done, you and Dmitry eliminate all three. Somewhere controlled. One of our restaurants, perhaps.”
The matter was settled without another word.
________________________________________
“So what’s our share?” Mamonov asked, leaning against the restaurant balcony, a Havana cigar glowing between his fingers.
Krylov exhaled slowly, as though reluctant to release numbers of that magnitude into the air.
“Our Mint has struck an equal-share agreement with the Swiss manufacturers. Ten thousand watches — cases and bracelets alone bring the government two hundred million dollars.”
Mamonov let out a low whistle.
“Keep talking.”
“A Yacht-Master sells for around forty thousand. Total market value — roughly four hundred million. Red gold per watch runs seventy-five hundred. Another twenty-five hundred in fabrication. The state clears about a hundred million in profit. The Swiss make the same on the movements — ten grand apiece, doubled at market.”
He tapped ash into the darkness below.
“We won’t move the entire shipment, and fences won’t pay retail. Assume we get a quarter of face value — if we’re lucky. Sell half the order, that still nets fifty million.”
“Jesus…” Vladimir muttered. “Give me a second to breathe.”
“I already did the math,” Krylov continued. “You get a quarter of that.”
“One third,” Mamonov countered immediately.
“Thirty percent,” Krylov said — performing the negotiation exactly as rehearsed with the Zatorkins the night before.
Mamonov held his gaze, then extended his hand.
The deal was sealed.
Neither man acknowledged the quiet certainty that only one of them intended to honor it.


Algis, Mantas, and Alex stood shoulder to shoulder with several dozen silent men, each gripping a suitcase, a few meters from the Printing Factory’s imposing double oak doors on Customs Street. It was the first of April, though nothing about the morning suggested humor. The line crawled forward; every five minutes another worker vanished behind the heavy doors as if swallowed whole.
By noon, Alex stepped into the inspection area and found himself in a cavernous locker room that smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp cloth. Mantas had already cleared security and was zipping up his coverall while a guard snapped shut the suitcase he had just searched.
“Take off your clothes,” a gray-haired inspector ordered after photographing Alex.
Alex removed his jacket and sweater.
The man shoved the camera aside, irritation flashing across his face. “All of it.”
“My underwear too?”
“I said completely. Locker’s there.” He pointed to a row of narrow metal compartments. “Leave your pants inside and take a coverall. You’ll dress after inspection. End of every shift you change back the same way.” He paused, studying Alex with professional indifference. “You’ll bend over, spread your cheeks, and cough. Twice a day. Understood?”
“Yeah,” Alex muttered, the word carrying more resignation than protest.
The search was quick and impersonal. Minutes later he joined the two Lithuanians outside the checkroom, the zipper of his pocketless coverall rasping softly as they walked.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, lit by harsh industrial lamps. Alex noticed the faces around him — immigrants from the former Asian republics, a cluster of men from the Caucasus, only a handful who looked unmistakably European.
A strange workforce for a place that printed the nation’s money, he thought.
Lowering his voice, he asked Mantas, “What’s with the hiring policy? Why bring in mountain shepherds and cotton pickers?”
“Security,” Mantas replied. “The bosses don’t trust Russians. Too many drink. Lithuanians, on the other hand — we look reliable.” He nodded discreetly toward a group of broad-shouldered men. “Those four are probably Balts. Maybe Moldavians.”
“But I’m not Lithuanian. And you drink just fine.”
“You’re nobody,” Mantas said with a crooked grin. “Harmless. As for us — yes, we appreciate Russian vodka. Just don’t advertise it.” His gaze traveled over Alex. “That suit fits you. No pockets, no secrets.”
Alex laughed under his breath. “Harmless, maybe. Still humiliating — stripping, turning around, coughing for them like livestock.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Algis said. “Though I’d pay to see how the Chechens feel about the procedure. Pride doesn’t bend easily.”
After a brief tour of the workshop — and the thick brick walls awaiting demolition — they exited through a side door into an arched passage and stopped at an iron gate.
“Your residential camp is beyond this point,” the foreman announced. “You enter through here for work and return for short breaks. Assistants will pass meals through the gate. During the contract you do not leave the premises. Those who exit via Customs Street are inspected — you are not. Drop your things in the trailers. Work begins in thirty minutes.”
Guards taped sheets of paper bearing names onto the trailer doors. Alex quickly found the unit assigned to the Lithuanians.
As the cousins zipped their coveralls, Alex smirked. “Mantas, you look like a chubby schoolboy.”
Algis turned at the threshold. “And me?”
“A polar bear,” Alex said. “Especially with that hood.”
When the carpenters left, Alex unpacked with methodical care — perishables into the refrigerator, noodles and rice onto the shelves, bread into a metal bin. He checked for utensils, plates, glasses. Only after everything was in order did he step outside to survey the territory.
The layout frustrated him immediately. There were no open passages between workshops; motorized turnstiles blocked every path, and a semicircular roof sealed off any attempt at bypassing them. The factory was less a workplace than a controlled organism.
Still, he refused discouragement.
Sooner or later, I’ll find a vantage point overlooking the finished-goods warehouse, he told himself. Days if I’m lucky. Weeks if I’m not.
Leaving the compound that evening required the same degrading ritual, but Alex endured it without reaction. Humiliation was temporary; the assignment Afghan had given him was not.
“Find somewhere safe for the pager,” Anton had said on his first day.
Following the instruction, Alex spent the next three hours circling the neighborhoods and administrative blocks within a five-hundred-meter radius of the plant. At last he discovered a workable hiding place behind a garage near the State Employees’ Pension Fund — obscure enough to avoid attention, accessible enough in a hurry.
Within days he struck up an easy rapport with several dump-truck drivers hauling away broken brick. One of them, in particular, caught his attention.
When Alex mentioned the driver to Afghan as a potential emergency contact, Anton’s voice sharpened.
“Convince me we need him.”
“I’m inside from ten to five,” Alex explained. “If the vans arrive before my shift, I can warn you myself. But if they show while I’m trapped on-site, I may have to bolt — and that invites questions. Better to have another pair of eyes.”
Afghan considered this.
“You’re right. The less attention on you, the better. They might not even let you leave once the shipment is ready. So — what kind of driver is he?”
“Ordinary at first glance. Strong, about thirty. Name’s Yuri. Always joking — the kind of humor that sticks with you.”
“You can give him a pager,” Anton said. “Not our current one. I’ll activate a new number.”
He paused, faint amusement touching his voice.
“Tell me his best joke. Let’s see if he’s worth the trust.”
“No problem.”
After a moment, Alex began:
“There was a mother with three daughters, all married and scattered across the world…”
Anton chuckled softly.
“Sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale.”
“I thought the same at first,” the young man said with a crooked smile, “but the punch line completely floored me.” He shifted his weight, warming to the story. “Before the daughters left home, their mother asked them to send coded messages about married life — something discreet, but clear enough for her to understand.”
“Soon the eldest wired just two words:
‘Coffee Maxwell House.’
The mother hurried to the shop, bought a tin, and examined it from every angle until she found the slogan printed at the bottom:
‘Good to the last drop.’
She exhaled with relief. My oldest is in very good hands, she thought.
“A few weeks later, the middle daughter sent her telegram:
‘Rothmans Cigarettes.’
Mother bought a pack, slipped on her glasses, and read the line stamped along the side:
‘Life-size — the King’s size.’
A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. Well… looks like the girl didn’t marry a pauper.
“But the youngest remained silent. Days passed. Then weeks. The mother barely slept, imagining every possible misfortune, until — just as she was about to telephone — a final message arrived:
‘British Airways.’
“At first, she couldn’t make sense of it. Was the girl traveling? Moving abroad? Crying for help? The mother sat glued to the television that evening, waiting for some clue. And then she saw it — a news segment showing a sleek Concorde roaring down the runway at Heathrow, lifting into the gray London sky. Beneath the footage ran a bright caption:
‘Twice a day, seven days a week — both ways.’”
________________________________________
Anton's reaction caught Alex off guard. Afghan’s eyes revealed that he understood the joke perfectly, yet instead of laughing, his expression hardened into thoughtful stillness — the kind carved into a man by years in the unforgiving Hindu Kush.
Surprised, Alex asked, “You didn’t find it funny?”
“I did,” Afghan said quietly. “That’s exactly what troubles me.”
“Why would a joke trouble you?”
“Because it isn’t Russian,” Anton replied. “It’s foreign — translated from English. Your language skills are better than mine; if you reverse it in your head, you’ll hear how naturally it belongs somewhere else.”
He paused, studying Alex.
“That driver of yours… he doesn’t sound ordinary. Too sharp. A man who jokes about some imaginary provincial wife — that’s one thing. But Concorde? Heathrow? Most Russians couldn’t tell a Tupolev from an Antonov, let alone name a London airport. No, Alex — keep your distance. Don’t show distrust. Laugh with him, talk about nothing, but reveal nothing. Understood?”
“I understand,” Alex said. “Thanks for the warning, boss.”
________________________________________
The following day, after their conversation about the driver, Alex inspected the reconstruction work spreading across the immense factory floors. By chance, he crossed paths with the Mint’s head of capital reconstruction.
Around lunchtime, when brick dust had finally settled and the jackhammers fell silent, a delegation of five entered the workshop.
At their head walked Alexey Akimovich, who supervised the renovation, accompanied by a deputy from the Ministry of Finance and several aides. The Mint’s press secretary spoke first:
“This fall we will receive machinery from the United States to print new banknotes for the upcoming ruble denomination.”
“Please refrain from writing that phrase down,” the deputy said sharply, turning to his assistants. “The denomination is a state secret.”
“My apologies,” the secretary replied. “I assumed everyone here was cleared.”
“That’s fine,” the deputy said. “My staff has authorization — but no notes.”
He gestured upward.
“The second floor will house the American equipment. The combined weight is forty-five tons, so we must lighten the structure to prevent subsidence. The internal brick walls will be replaced with bulletproof glass.”
“May I record that?” the press secretary asked.
“Yes.”
“And the thickness?”
“Four inches,” the secretary answered promptly. “A square meter of this glass weighs about five hundred pounds — nearly eight times lighter than a cubic meter of red brick.”
Alex trailed the group at a careful distance, absorbing every word.
Great, his inner voice muttered. Now I’m carrying a state secret and don’t even know how to use it. I’ll tell Mamonov — maybe he’ll see value in it. But for now, disappear. If they notice you listening, they might solve the problem by removing your head… tongue included.
That evening he relayed the information to Mamonov.
“I’m no financial strategist,” the boss said after a pause, “but a professional thief — and I fail to see how a currency denomination puts money in our pockets. Before Khrushchev’s reform, clever men bought coins and made fortunes. No guarantee it works now. Paper rubles will probably lose two, maybe three zeroes, and today’s coins may become worthless.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Still, good work. I’ll run it by my accountant — just in case.”
________________________________________
Three days after the cousins and Alex began work, Krylov and Dmitry Zatorkin bent over a map, tracing possible routes from the factory to the city’s airports. Their informant claimed the Swiss might collect the order either via a scheduled Sheremetyevo–Geneva flight, operating three times weekly, or by charter from Vnukovo.
“Either way,” Krylov said, tapping the paper, “they’ll move along Customs Street, Apakov Passage, and Leninsky Avenue. From here they turn north to Sheremetyevo — south to Vnukovo. The only real bottleneck is this passage named after the tram driver, Apakov.”
“Why not head south straight down Customs?” Dmitry asked.
“Builders’ trailers have swallowed two lanes and the sidewalk. It’s one-way north now.”
“Then we intercept them on Customs,” Dmitry suggested.
Krylov shook his head.
“The Mint’s military guards blanket that entire stretch — from the Danilovsky market to the passage. On dispatch days, armed men in civilian clothes stand at every intersection.”
“Where did we learn that?”
“Our boy scout told Afghan the street is locked down whenever cash vans roll out. Anton passed it to me. So — two cargo minivans, at least twenty armed men, and two sets of police uniforms.”
“No problem. What’s next?”
“On day X,” Krylov continued, “place your vans near the T-junction of Shabolovka and Horse Lane. Two men dressed as traffic cops wait by the tram loop. Once our scout confirms the cargo has left the factory, stage an accident between the loop and Leninsky. Force the Mint convoy south onto Shabolovka.”
He traced the final positions with his finger.
“I’ll stand at the tram stop near the Church of the Life-Giving Trinity and signal the motorcade’s approach. When the vans emerge from Horse Lane, they block the road on my command. Remember — no traffic light there, only a ‘Give Way’ sign. And make sure a tram doesn’t plow into us at full speed.”
Krylov looked up, his voice flattening into certainty.
“Success will depend on our audacity… and on whether the Mint drivers have the courage to resist.”


On April tenth, Colonel Baranov dismissed his officers after the operational briefing of the Second Section. Chairs scraped softly against the parquet floor as the men filed out, their footsteps fading down the corridor. Only the deputy chief remained.
“Comrade Colonel,” Major Loboda began, closing the office door with deliberate care, “in accordance with your order, I reviewed the biographies of every worker involved in the overhaul of the Printing Factory. I found two individuals who warrant attention. Please — take a look.”
He opened a folder and laid two thin stacks of documents on the desk. Baranov removed a paper clip from the first bundle and skimmed the pages, his eyes moving faster with each line.
“It’s obvious,” he said at last, tapping the papers into a neat pile. “Highly skilled carpenters, suspected in several burglaries, deliberately hired for three weeks of labor far beneath their expertise.” He looked up. “Excellent work, Major. I’ll handle the rest.”
When Loboda left, silence reclaimed the office.
So — no golden parachute with my pension, Baranov thought grimly. That means it’s time to proceed with Plan Bravo.
Frustration tightening his chest, he picked up the phone and dialed the head of the Special Operations Directorate.
“Comrade General — Colonel Baranov speaking, chief of the Second Section of the Economic Security Department. I will require the support of your personnel in the coming days — approximately thirty men. A formal request will follow protocol, but the matter is urgent. May I report to you directly?”
Protocol demanded the colonel address the general by rank; the general, in turn, could dispense with formality.
“Yevgeny,” came the calm reply, “come by at sixteen hundred. My waitress from the general’s buffet will be bringing a light supper. I’ll order something for you as well. We’ll talk business over a bite.”
________________________________________
With three hours to spare, Baranov stepped outside and crossed the square before the FSB building. Spring sunlight glanced off the stone fa;ade, but the air still carried the brittle chill of a Moscow April.
Twenty-five minutes later he stood in the tiled lobby of the Revolution Square subway station, speaking quietly into a payphone. On the other end was a retired major who, since leaving the Presidential Security Service two years earlier, trained hand-to-hand combat enthusiasts in a school gymnasium in the Golyanovsky district.
“Busy tonight?” Baranov asked without preamble.
“No.”
“Then ten o’clock. Usual place.”
He hung up.
________________________________________
Baranov entered Major General Trofimov’s office behind a waitress pushing a cart from the general’s buffet. The middle-aged woman set down a tray — sandwiches trimmed with surgical precision, small dishes of pickled vegetables, glasses beaded with condensation — then withdrew without a word.
“Sit, Yevgeny,” Trofimov said, not looking up from the final page of a document. “Help yourself. One moment.”
Baranov turned his chair slightly and reached for a glass of juice. Beyond the double-paned window, the muted roar of traffic drifted from Bolshaya Lubyanka Street.
Across from him hung a portrait of Alexander Suvorov — field marshal, conqueror, legend. The painted eyes seemed alive, fixed somewhere beyond the room.
The brush captured my face, that gaze seemed to say, but not the man beneath it. Rivers of blood were spilled in my campaigns, yet I loved those near me — and never signed a death sentence. Not even an insect died by my hand.
Baranov held the generalissimo’s stare, admiration wrestling with reproach.
Suvorov… you speak of mercy while drowning nations in blood. Had you crushed the rebellion’s leaders — Kosciuszko, Madalinsky — swiftly and surgically, thousands of Poles might have lived. History remembers victories; it forgets the arithmetic of corpses.
“So,” Trofimov said, lowering himself into the opposite chair, “what brings you here?”
“Comrade General, the Printing Factory on Customs Street is scheduled to dispatch a shipment of gold watches to Switzerland the day after tomorrow. My officers identified two suspicious workers in the reconstruction crew. There is reason to believe they belong to a gang preparing to rob the Mint in the city center. I need your mobile rapid-response unit to prevent it.”
“Any idea where they’ll strike?”
“Apakov Passage — the only bottleneck. Once the convoy reaches Leninsky Avenue, with four lanes each way, stopping it becomes nearly impossible.”
Trofimov leaned back.
“Why not involve the police? Escort vehicles, reinforced patrols, armed traffic officers at every intersection — that alone might deter them.”
Baranov considered it.
Armed patrols might provoke the very attack we’re trying to avoid, he thought. Push them out of the city, and they’ll strike beyond the Ring Road — fewer witnesses, more freedom to kill.
Aloud he said, “If we flood the streets with weapons, the gang may attack anyway, risking civilian casualties. I must prevent a shootout — no dead guards, no dead drivers. Place the special operations group under my command this Friday. I’ll know the exact time and location roughly two hours beforehand. I’ll lead your men in — we take them alive, cleanly.”
Trofimov smiled faintly.
“You want them breathing so you can learn who leaked the contract.”
“Yes. Alongside financial security, my department handles counterintelligence. If there’s a mole — in our service or at the Mint — I intend to find them. Someone handed criminals the details of the Swiss deal. That much is beyond dispute.”
The general’s smile deepened.
“Important for you… especially with your immediate superior preparing to resign.”
Baranov allowed himself a thin grin.
“Nothing escapes you, Comrade General.”
________________________________________
That same evening, Baranov met his former colleague Ruslan — once a member of the Presidential Guard, reassigned to the Ministry of Internal Affairs by Yeltsin in January 1994.
They shook hands in a parking lot near Golyanovsky Pond and walked along the asphalt path edging the dark, wind-rippled water. After the customary questions about wives and children, they turned to business.
“Yevgeny, we’ve known each other twenty years,” Ruslan said — tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with the relaxed readiness of a lifelong fighter. “Your word is enough. Don’t waste time explaining. I’ll reconnoiter. If it’s simple, I’ll handle it alone. If not, I’ll call the old guard. Out of six hundred presidential protectors, fewer than fifty joined the police. The rest were thrown out by the FSB — no pensions, no severance. But for the right cause… they’ll fight. Even tomorrow.”
“I know you trust me,” Baranov said quietly, “but you deserve the full picture. At the end of January, I attended the signing of a two-hundred-million-dollar contract between a Swiss watch giant and our Mint — at the Swiss embassy.”
Ruslan stopped walking.
“Two hundred million? You’re serious?”
“A week ago, I learned the details reached a criminal group. One gang in the Moscow region has grown unusually active. Its leader — a former police sergeant — once served at the same border outpost as my driver. They still meet every Border Guards Day.”
“You think your warrant officer talked?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. I could refer it to Internal Affairs, but there are complications. First — my driver swears his old comrade is a decent man, still serving in the police. Second — once we catch the bandits in the act, the trail will lead straight to that friend in Railway-Town. Under interrogation, he’ll name his source.”
Baranov exhaled slowly.
“I almost pity Mironov. He may have revealed the Swiss deal without realizing it. But if the detention center doors close behind my driver, my career ends with them. A few years short of retirement — dismissed without ceremony. Even if I stopped the robbery. Do you understand?”
Ruslan nodded once.
“I’ve lived it.”
“Did you tell him why you went to the embassy?” he asked.
“Yes. The Mint chiefs, Finance Ministry officials, even deputy prime ministers were with me. Mironov noticed the sudden procession of high-ranking Russians descending on the modest Swiss embassy — called it an ‘invasion.’ I should have kept quiet… but pride loosened my tongue.”
“Why would command fire you? He’s an FSB warrant officer — cleared for classified material.”
“He is. But at the contract’s outset, its details were state secrets, and I had no authority to hint at its purpose.”
Ruslan considered this, then nodded.
“Alright. I’ll find that border guard in Railway-Town. Give me his name.”

Baranov and all his subordinates had been on duty since five o’clock on the morning of Friday, April 12. While the colonel remained in his office, his officers—dressed in civilian clothes—occupied parked cars, caf;s, and hair salons along Shabolovka Street, from Tram Depot No. 1 to Serpukhov Avenue, awaiting his orders with restrained impatience.
The colonel knew that the Mint’s paramilitary guards would initiate the operation the moment the transport reached Customs Street. Dozens of armed men and women would already be in position, prepared to move at a single command and dispatch the shipment without delay.
At approximately half past five, twenty commandos from the special operations unit assembled in the personnel department of the perfume factory. By six, Baranov had received confirmation of their readiness to apprehend the raiders and relayed it to the head of the Fourth Department. Now nothing remained but to wait for Krylov and the Zatorkins to make their move.
That same morning, at seven, Alex entered the courtyard of the apartment building at Fifty-two Customs Street and sat on a bench opposite the driveway. From there he could clearly see the broad metal gates linking the printing factory’s medical center, the militarized guard post, the blank brick wall crowned with barbed wire, and a narrow slice of the street beyond.
At 7:45, three minivans rolled up to the factory gates. The first two mounted the curb, their suspensions creaking softly, while the third remained idling in the roadway. A guard emerged from the checkpoint at the impatient honk of the lead driver. After examining the documents and giving the cargo compartments a cursory inspection, he signaled to his partner. The massive gate shuddered, slid along its rail, and vanished behind the wall.
I wouldn’t ram those gates if I were stealing a truckload of fresh banknotes, Alex thought. I’ve watched them every morning for two weeks, and never once has a vehicle entered this early.
He rose from the bench. I should notify the boss — and pick up food for the Balts.
The message reached Afghan within seconds:
Transport has arrived.
Anton was already awake but ignored the phone. From seven to eight he ran the forest paths of Izmailovsky Park, a ritual he guarded fiercely. The war had taught him that discipline was the only reliable form of control, and he tolerated no interruptions. He saw Alex’s message only after breakfast.
Aside from Loboda, no one at the factory suspected the existence of Afghan, the Lithuanians, Alex, or Krylov. As soon as the minivans backed up to the finished-goods warehouse, loaders began swiftly transferring crates of watches into the vehicles.
Major Loboda stood ten paces from the warehouse—a soot-darkened building dating back to the turn of the century—and watched the operation unfold. When the drivers slammed the cargo doors and sealed them, the security chief appeared with three thickset men carrying AK 47s.
“Wait for my command,” Loboda said, then stepped inside the warehouse manager’s office.
Moving through aisles stacked with massive rolls of paper, he threaded his way between diesel forklifts darting like mechanical insects. Near the washroom he nearly collided with Yuri, the driver.
“What’s the latest?” Loboda asked.
“Haven’t seen the boy yet,” Yuri replied.
“It’s early. He won’t show before ten,” the major said. “Keep watching him for another week. If he doesn’t vanish, we’ll assume he isn’t the mole.”
“Yes, Comrade Major.”
Loboda entered the manager’s office and dismissed him with a curt nod. Alone, he picked up the phone.
“Comrade Colonel, loading is complete. Request permission to proceed with shipment.”
“Stand by. Stay near the phone. I’ll contact you once the route is confirmed.”
“Yes, sir. Awaiting your command.”
The deputy head did not know the precise contours of Baranov’s plan, yet he sensed the colonel was playing a long strategic game—one that might secure him a promotion and five additional years inside the Agency.
At nine sharp, Afghan finally read Alex’s message and replied at once:
Where are you?
At the grocery store.
Is the transport still there?
Don’t know.
Run back. Watch the gate.
On my way.
Afghan immediately texted Krylov:
Loading has begun.
Meanwhile, during the second week of April, while students were away on spring break, fifteen members of Krylov’s gang occupied dormitory rooms at the Institute of Textile Industry on Donskoy Street. Just five minutes from the planned ambush site, two cargo Gazelles were already parked at the T intersection of Shabolovka Street and Horse Lane by half past nine.
The city was waking up.
And so was the trap.

Afghan, after exiting the Shabolovka subway station, walked north along the street. Passing Horse Lane, he noticed the two cargo minivans parked on the opposite side. He continued toward the city center, crossed the street, and retraced his steps. Finally, at the corner of Shabolovka Street and Horse Lane, he entered a small culinary shop. After waiting in line for a few minutes, he settled at a table near the window, a steaming mug of coffee before him and a plate of pastries.
Yevgeny Baranov received a call from a lieutenant while sipping his second cup.
"I'm calling from the accounting department of the State Bearing Plant. Two Gazelles with dark blue awnings just left Shabolovka Street and stopped under the Plant's windows," the lieutenant reported.
"Keep observing; I’ll be there in twenty minutes," Baranov replied, then called the perfume factory: "Major, proceed with 'Plan Alfa.' Repeat the task."
"I need ten commandos at the backyard of building 31 on Shabolovka Street, five to the inner yard of building 29, and another five to the Bearing Plant’s territory. Objective: encircle the intersection from all sides," the capture group commander confirmed.
Baranov nodded, "Understood. I’ll be at the accounting department. Once all teams are in position, report to me there."
Just as he was about to hang up, Baranov’s direct line rang. It was the Head of the Department.
"Baranov, a transport plane from Geneva landed at Vnukovo about an hour ago. It’s refueled and waiting in the hangar for a charter flight. When will the watches ship?" the general asked.
"In thirty minutes, Comrade Lieutenant General," Baranov replied.
"Don’t delay, and keep me informed," came the curt response before the call ended.
Alex, meanwhile, remained on the same bench for two hours, watching the Printing Factory’s iron gates while nibbling a baguette stuffed with smoked sausage and sipping Tarkhun green soda.
"I don’t understand the Lithuanians and this Tarragon drink," he thought. "It tastes revolting. Even diluted fifty-fifty with Stolichnaya vodka, it wouldn’t be Absinthe."
The gates of the Printing Factory creaked open, and a security guard armed with an assault rifle stepped onto the road, bringing the already slow Customs Street traffic to a halt.
Suddenly, three minivans, painted like ambulances, burst through the gate. Engines roaring, they nearly crushed the guard’s legs as they sped toward the city center. The gate clattered shut behind them, chains rattling.
Alex left the green soda on the bench, tapped out a message on the pager: "The transport is en route." He kicked the device forcefully with his heel, then headed toward the Printing Factory.
At the temporary shelter for the carpenters, Alex prepared a meal for the two giant men. At noon, Algis and Mantas arrived for their lunch break, filling the cabin with their imposing presence. Alex set the small table with plates, cutlery, and food.
"Any news?" Algis asked, settling in.
"My unofficial mission is complete. Now I’m at your service," Alex replied.
"When did the load leave the Factory?" Mantas asked.
"Two hours ago," Alex said.
"How did it go?" Algis pressed.
"I don’t know," Alex admitted. "I reported the transport departure to Afghan, then went to buy food for you. I’ll gather more information tonight and update you tomorrow."
"Why are we coming here tomorrow?" Algis asked.
Mantas replied in Lithuanian, "Don’t be foolish, cousin. If we skip tomorrow, the cops will show up. We’ll work just as hard, but behind barbed wire for ten years, without pay."
Alex glanced between them. "I don’t know what you told him, but Afghan instructed me to work as usual until the contract ends, no matter what happens with the raid."
Meanwhile, a beige Volga Thirty-One barreled down Apakov Passage from Donskoy Street. Crossing three lanes in front of the Akademik hotel, it merged into city traffic, slipping between two oncoming cars in the left lane. Contact with the bumpers of both vehicles forced the Nissan in the middle lane to the far right, effectively blocking the oncoming lanes. Impatient Muscovites tried to dodge the jam by venturing into opposing traffic lanes.
The traffic cop stationed on the triangular safety island, where the passage merged with the northbound avenue, turned sharply toward the scene. Dodging between cars, he rushed to intervene. The green light behind him on Leninsky Avenue sent a stream of vehicles toward Apakov Passage, risking a collision. Blowing his whistle, the sergeant waved a red-reflective wand, and fortunately, the crash was avoided, though a massive jam formed.
Two hundred meters east, a gangster disguised as a traffic cop emerged from a park inside the tram ring. Positioning himself at the intersection of Apakov Passage and Shabolovka Street, he directed traffic with a black-and-white striped wand. Ten minutes later, three Moscow Mint minivans thundered past. Once they passed, the fake officer signaled the traffic from Leninsky Prospekt toward Customs Street, halting the southbound flow along Shabolovka Street.

Krylov sat on the hard bench under the tram stop awning near the Church of the Life-Giving Trinity, his fingers wrapped around the pager like it was a lifeline. He scanned the small screen, eyes narrowing, noting that the transport had safely passed the tram depot. Rising carefully, he stepped onto the street and followed the tram tracks with a measured gaze, anticipation coiling in his chest.
Across the road, a covered pickup truck with “Shish Kebab” painted on its side stood idle. In the driver’s seat, a man in his thirties, wearing an apron and baker’s trousers, kept a vigilant watch. Beside him, a larger, older man, easily ten years his senior and heavily muscled, surveyed the tram stop like a hawk.
“See what I see?” the driver muttered.
“Yes,” the passenger replied, tone low but urgent. “He’s waiting at the tram stop but watching the street in the opposite direction.”
The driver’s eyes followed Krylov as he tapped at the pager. “And now he’s fiddling with that device.”
“He is our target. We cannot let him slip away,” the older man said, springing from the vehicle with deliberate speed.
The driver grabbed a heavy canvas bag labeled “Georgian Shish Kebabs” from the truck bed as his companion crossed the street, moving with the quiet precision of a trained operative. Krylov, focused entirely on the pager, did not notice until the man was right in front of him.
The older man’s hands clamped over Krylov’s wrists as he tried to submit the message. The second operative appeared behind him, placing solid hands on Krylov’s shoulders, pinning him to the bench.
“Don’t struggle, comrade,” the man said evenly, meeting Krylov’s eyes. “Resisting will only bring harm.”
Krylov’s heart pounded as he felt the firm grip steadying him. The two men lifted him carefully, his knees trembling as fear and shock surged through his body. His mind raced: They know who I am… they know what I’ve been doing…
Without ceremony, Krylov was hoisted into the rear of the pickup. The doors clanged shut behind him. The driver slid into the seat beside him and immediately merged onto the street, tires gripping asphalt as the vehicle accelerated toward the city center.

Meanwhile, chaos unfurled just south of the ambush site.
The southbound tram had halted a few hundred meters away, and the northbound tram approached the intersection mere steps from the planned blockade. A Volkswagen, trying to squeeze past, nicked the rear of one of the gangsters’ Gazelles, but the twenty criminals surged forward with practiced coordination. Surrounding the waiting minivans, they raised Kalashnikovs with deadly intent. One man moved deftly, affixing TNT charges to the back door locks of the vans, his hands steady despite the tension.
Baranov and his deputy observed from the accounting office window of the Bearing Plant. Their eyes tracked every motion. The colonel’s voice cut through the radio like steel:
“To all units, action!”
Within seconds, the FSB commandos closed the perimeter, moving with the precision of a single organism. Guns were leveled, commands shouted, and the gangsters froze, facing the inevitability of capture.
“The FSB special forces are in operation!”
Baranov’s voice echoed through the loudspeaker mounted on the fourth floor of the Bearing Plant.
“Drop your weapons and lie face down immediately!”
The bandits glanced at one another, the weight of defeat pressing on their shoulders. Reluctantly, they obeyed, flattening against the pavement as Baranov’s teams secured the area. Two officers climbed into the Gazelle cabins, steering them back onto Horse Lane, while the vans carrying the Mint’s gold watches vanished around the corner onto Academician Petrovsky Street, their precious cargo safe.
Tumbling across the ridged floor of the pickup, Krylov reflected on how far removed he was—just a non-combat officer, whose life had revolved around uniforms, rations, fuel, and ammunition—from the seasoned operatives capable of orchestrating such a flawless trap. For the first time, he felt genuine fear of the FSB, dreading the methods they could use in the Lubyanka basements to force him to reveal everything about his life during and after his service in the Democratic Republic of Germany.


Later that evening, Afghan, Elephant, and Mamonov sank into the comfort of a plush sofa and leather chairs within the opulent office of the mansion. The room’s atmosphere weighed heavily on them. The gang leaders from Reutovo were utterly bewildered, grappling with a profound sense of perplexity.
The failed robbery, in which they had been indirectly involved, had unfolded in a manner that caught them completely off guard. The swift and efficient defeat of the neighboring gang left the Reutovo bandits stunned, unable to comprehend the turn of events. Their meticulously crafted plans had crumbled, leaving them to wrestle with frustration, disappointment, and a creeping sense of vulnerability.
Faced with this unexpected collapse, the Reutovo leaders had to consider how to mitigate the consequences of the Krylov & Co. operation’s failure. The room, once filled with an aura of dominance, now reeked of uncertainty. They were left pondering the fate of Mantas, Algis, and Alex, the trio they had dispatched to the Printing Factory.
“I didn’t expect this outcome,” Mamonov admitted.
Anton leaned back, contemplative. “My gut told me Krylov wouldn’t pull it off. The whole setup felt too straightforward, too lucrative.”
“Do you think it was a setup?” the boss asked.
“I doubt it,” Anton replied. “If the FSB had targeted Krylov for arms trading, they would’ve taken him alone and demanded the warehouse’s location. No, this seems like a clash of interests within the agency. You might not know, but Alex at the factory encountered a suspicious dump truck driver. It quickly became clear the guy had motives beyond simple curiosity.”
“Could the Lithuanians be compromised?” Elephant speculated.
“Hard to say,” Anton responded, “but they are one of the weaker links in our brigade. They handle robberies across the Moscow region but only report the Balashikha ones to us.”
“We should keep them quiet,” Elephant suggested. “If the feds get to them, they could talk.”
Mamonov regarded Elephant with a mixture of curiosity and approval. “I like people who speak their minds. As Mark Twain said—and I agree—‘I like people who have courage to speak their minds, especially if they feel like I do.’ The problem, Pavel, is they can’t leave the territory until the contract is completed.”
Anton paused thoughtfully before speaking. “I have an idea for handling them.”
Mamonov’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Go on,” he urged.
“The kid should be told that the success of the operation earns the Lithuanians a celebratory dinner with Lithuanian vodka,” Afghan proposed. “I can get two bottles of ‘Stumbras with a spikelet,’ laced with morphine, and send both carpenters to the realm of sweet dreams with Morpheus.”
“Do you have access to it, or should Elephant check with the local dealers?” Mamonov asked.
“I have a source,” Anton replied confidently.
“Then it’s settled,” Mamonov said. “Use the boy only under cover of darkness. He’s too young to be implicated in a murder.”
“I’ll handle it,” Anton confirmed. Then, with a tinge of concern, he asked, “And what about Alex?”
Mamonov’s tone was final. “Once he finishes his task, I’ll tell him the carpenters decided to quit and returned to Lithuania. From that point, Alex limits his trips to Moscow.”
Vladimir watched Anton leave, turning to Elephant.
“Pavel, do you think Afghan is addicted to drugs?” he asked.
“I haven’t noticed anything like that,” Elephant replied.
“How does he get the morphine?” Mamonov inquired.
A grin spread across Elephant’s face. “He sleeps with an elderly nurse at our city hospital. Pretty sure she supplies him.”
“You surprised me with ‘elderly.’ I doubt a young, muscular, handsome guy like Afghan would willingly share a bed with an older woman. How old is she?” the boss pressed.
“She’s around forty,” Elephant answered, unconcerned.
Mamonov laughed. “Well, Pavel, you truly are a son of a bitch. And do you think I’m old?”
The exchange lightened the mood briefly, offering a fleeting reprieve from the weight of their failure.
________________________________________
An hour before lunch, Alex entered the carpenters’ shed and set about his tasks. He changed the bed linen, tidied the space, and began preparing the midday meal. At a quarter past twelve, the Lithuanians arrived, eyes immediately scanning the table.
A spread of salami, canned caviar, Dutch cheese, and two bottles of ‘Stumbras with a spikelet’ greeted them.
Mantas, eager, asked, “Alex, what are we celebrating today?”
Algis, equally impatient, added, “Tell us it went according to plan, that we hit the jackpot.”
A smile illuminated Alex’s face. “Yes, everything went as planned.”
Algis poured himself a shot of vodka. “Let’s drink to that.”
Mantas intervened, placing the bottle on the table. “Don’t be an idiot. Half the day’s left to work. We’ll celebrate tonight.”
Algis grimly nodded. “Fine, tonight then.”
“I’ve gathered your things and bed linens. Dinner’s in the fridge—you can heat it yourself. Enjoy the meal and the drink. I’m off to the laundry. See you tomorrow,” Alex said, leaving the shed.
“Goodbye, Alex,” Algis called after him.
“Thank you, sonny, for everything,” Mantas said over Alex’s shoulder, his voice filled with genuine delight.
The following morning, Major Loboda and Senior Lieutenant Yuri sat at a long table, engrossed in a serious discussion. Their voices carried the weight of the previous night’s events. Behind them, Colonel Baranov paced the office, his restless footsteps echoing through the room.
Baranov’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Have the causes of death for the carpenters been determined?”
“Yes, sir—morphine overdose,” Loboda replied promptly, retrieving the pathologist’s report from the file and holding it up for Baranov to inspect.
The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information. The revelation of a drug overdose added a layer of complexity to the case, raising questions about how the victims had been poisoned.
“And the source?” Baranov pressed.
Loboda handed over the report again. “Both empty vodka bottles contained traces of the drug, and needle marks were found on the bed covers. Additionally, three sets of fingerprints were lifted from the bottles: two belonging to the Lithuanian carpenters, and the third—almost certainly—belonging to Alex Zaphiros. He brought the vodka to the shed, which was confirmed by the security guard who checked the entrance to the Printing Factory.”
Baranov leaned over the table, eyes fixed on the report. “What do you know about him?”
Senior Lieutenant Yuri answered, “Comrade Colonel, I’ve looked into the boy. After the incident, I checked him against the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ database. He really lived in Reutovo, but his family moved to Ukraine last June, and his traces were lost in Odessa.”
“Since you had access to him, you should have checked his background before the crime. Why didn’t you?” Baranov’s voice was stern, measured, full of authority.
Yuri shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t have the time, sir. There were many others—at least a dozen teenagers—and they all appeared suspicious.”
“Arrest Alex Zaphiros’ parents immediately,” Baranov ordered, rising from his desk. “Find out where their son is.”
Loboda’s face darkened. “Sir, his parents vanished nine months ago after leaving pre-trial detention on recognizance not to leave the city. They disappeared without a trace.”
Baranov sank into his chair, processing the news. “So we don’t even know who this kid really is,” he muttered.
Loboda opened a folder of documents and continued, “The police conducted intensive searches of the Zafiros family for the first three months. They remain on the passive wanted list. They were not hardened criminals and lacked the means to disappear deliberately. This strongly suggests they are deceased. If so, their identities may have fallen into criminal hands. Any child who joined the Railway-town organized crime group could have assumed the name Alex Zaphiros.”
Baranov’s eyes hardened. “Work on it with the detainees we caught during the robbery attempt. They may not reveal their gang leader, but they are likely to identify the kid who killed the two carpenters.”

On Sunday, April 14th, a flight from Tel Aviv touched down at Sheremetyevo Airport around six in the evening. The Zatorkin brothers collected their suitcases from the conveyor belt and passed smoothly through border and customs control by seven. Waiting at the terminal exit was Kotelnikov, Krylov’s trusted driver.
“Why didn’t the boss come himself? Is he avoiding us?” Dmitry asked, irritation and curiosity mingling in his tone.
“Nah,” Kotelnikov replied reluctantly. “The FSB arrested him yesterday. He’s got a lot on his plate.”
Yegor leaned forward. “What exactly are they accusing him of?”
“It’s not entirely clear yet,” the driver said. “His detention coincides with our attempted raid on the Mint cargo. As long as our crew keeps quiet, nothing can be pinned on him.”
Dmitry exhaled sharply.
“We’ve been completely in the dark. I need to know exactly what happened and how.”
Kotelnikov, a seasoned driver with over thirty years of experience, had chauffeured Krylov for three years. The work was less physically demanding than his past jobs, but it carried a constant undercurrent of anxiety. Every New Year’s Eve, he promised himself that the coming year would be his last on the road. He knew the stakes: in 1995 alone, more than five thousand lives had been lost in Moscow and its surrounding areas, eighty percent the result of brutal gang conflicts.
The Audi traced the Leningrad Highway toward Moscow. As they passed Khimki, a satellite city, Kotelnikov noted the monument to the city’s defenders against the Nazis: three five-fold oversized anti-tank hedgehogs, looming over the roadside.
“The FSB set up an ambush on our crew right before our eyes,” Kotelnikov said solemnly, steering smoothly. “The boss and I watched from separate tram stops, thirty or forty meters away. Our team executed the plan perfectly, but the FSB seemed a step ahead. Their special forces apprehended our guys without firing a shot. They foiled the robbery two days ago and hit the boss’ house yesterday. Honestly, the investigators were surprisingly courteous—almost theatrical in their searches, not overly aggressive. So, where to now? Home?”
Dmitry shook his head. “Not home. They could be waiting for us there.”
Yegor objected. “If they wanted us, they’d have taken us at the airport.”
“True,” Dmitry said, “but they’ll also come for our homes. Take us to the office—Ceramic Street.”
“No problem,” Kotelnikov replied.
The Audi left Khimki behind, circling Moscow along the northeastern ring road. Reutov receded in the distance as they sped along the Novokisinskoye Highway toward Zheleznodorozhny. Passing South Kuchino, Kotelnikov turned onto a discreet road leading to the Ceramic Plant, stopping at the iron gates of the Vityaz martial arts club.
Yegor turned to his brother.
“Why hide from the FSB? They can’t pin the attempted robbery on us—we were in Israel all week.”
Dmitry’s voice was firm. “You speak as if we were invisible at the airport. The FSB doesn’t scratch the surface—they dig, seize documents, and turn lives upside down. We stopped here to hide some papers and burn others.”
Yegor went silent, weighing his brother’s words.
“No one’s in the courtyard; the club’s locked tight, seal intact,” Kotelnikov added, reassuring them from behind the wheel.
“Alright,” Dmitry said, resolve in his tone. “Let’s move. I’m exhausted from the trip.”
The Audi slipped through the entrance, the tall fence enclosing the sports club. Kotelnikov stepped out, heading toward the gate—but before he could take three steps, a Volga with tinted windows and state license plates roared into the courtyard.

The Volga left the sports club’s premises in less than a minute.
At the time, the Zatorkin brothers had no inkling of the storm about to descend upon them. From the airport to the club, through the long journey along the Leningrad Highway, the big ring road, and finally into the quiet of the Ceramic Plant’s territory, they had felt only a faint shadow of unease—mostly talk of the FSB, dismissed as something distant. After all, Krylov, a high-ranking officer in the Federal Security Service, was involved; as far as they were concerned, if someone of his stature was on their side, nothing could touch them. That sense of invulnerability followed them like a warm cloak, blinding them to the real danger lurking nearby.
In a dark and dense forest, five men stood just a few steps away from a freshly dug pit. Kneeling on the ground, the Zatorkin brothers faced the hole with their backs turned. Ruslan stood over them, flanked by two of his comrades. A pile of excavated soil rested on a large sheet of black plastic, while neatly cut layers of grass lay on another identical sheet. Shovels, recently used, lay abandoned beside the soil, their metal blades still gleaming in the faint light.
“Gentlemen,” Ruslan addressed the brothers, his voice calm but heavy, “I’ll ask once—who leaked the Goznak contract?”
“We have no clue what you’re talking about,” Dmitry replied, his voice steady despite the pit of unease beginning to form in his stomach.
“Fine. I don’t need both of you,” Ruslan said, flipping a coin. “Heads for you, smart ass,” he pointed at Dmitry, “and tails for your brother. The one who loses will be beheaded.”
Yegor’s anger flared immediately. “You bastard! You’ll regret this. My people will find you, and bury you alive with your whole family!”
Ruslan tossed the coin into the air, catching it effortlessly. “Hawk, shine some light,” he ordered.
The special forces man directed the beam from his assault rifle’s under-barrel flashlight to Ruslan’s palm.
“Heads it is,” Ruslan declared. He pulled a medical plaster from his pocket and sealed Yegor’s mouth, turning to his comrades:
“Step about ten paces away and keep watch.”
The men moved into the shadows, leaving Ruslan alone with Dmitry. With a swift motion, he drew a knife from a sheath on his leg and slit Dmitry’s throat. The man’s eyes widened for a fleeting moment before he collapsed to the ground.
Yegor’s groan of despair cut through the forest as he watched his brother die. Ruslan wiped his knife on Dmitry’s shoulder, then crouched before Yegor.
“Are you ready to talk?”
Swallowing hard, Yegor nodded. The sight of his brother lifeless before him crushed any remaining arrogance. Ruslan removed the plaster from his mouth.
“Did you understand my question?”
Yegor swallowed again.
“Dmitry… he met with the FSB officer. I didn’t see him. At the Small Hall in the restaurant, with Krylov present, Dmitry spoke to the man in the washroom. He only said the man was under fifty, working for the FSB Main Directorate.”
Ruslan shook his head, indifferent. He leaned close and cut Yegor’s throat in a single, fluid motion. Blood gushed, and Yegor slumped to the earth.
The former major of the FSB’s special operations unit meticulously searched the pockets of the corpses, stuffing their passports and wallets into the inner pocket of his jacket. He then called to his men.
“Gather ’round,” he instructed.
The men emerged from the forest, ready to follow orders.
“Decapitate both heads and put them in a plastic bag,” Ruslan commanded. “Dump the bodies in the pit. Cover them with soil and grass. Wrap the rest in plastic and stow it—along with the heads—in the trunk. I’ll handle the driver. Meet me at the dead-end near Nikolo-Arkhangelsk Crematorium.”
The men set to work under Ruslan’s watchful eye. Outside, the silver Audi waited beside the black Volga on a dirt road. Ruslan emerged from the forest and opened the back of the Volga. Kotelnikov lay unconscious on the floor. The driver groaned faintly as Ruslan dragged him out by the legs.
“Coming to your senses?” Ruslan asked, lifting him and tossing him onto the Audi’s back seat.
He then climbed into the driver’s position. With a roar, the engine sprang to life, and the car vanished into the night.
At a dead-end near the cemetery gates, a burned-out Toyota sat abandoned, its windows shattered. Ruslan pulled over, surveying the area. Satisfied, he opened the Audi’s trunk and pulled out two suitcases belonging to the Zatorkins.
Kotelnikov groaned again inside the burning vehicle.
“Hang in there, buddy. Won’t be long now,” Ruslan said, tossing an open suitcase near the rear bumper. He kicked it under the car, bent down, and punctured the gas tank with his knife.
Gasoline seeped into the summer clothes inside, and the sharp smell filled the night air. He yanked the suitcase free and poured its contents over Kotelnikov. The man’s clothes were soaked, the danger immediate and palpable.
The FSB veteran slammed the Audi’s door shut, sealed Kotelnikov inside, and with a flick of his wrist, sent a lighter into the gasoline-soaked interior. Flames erupted instantly, engulfing the car. Ruslan turned away, vanishing into the darkness, leaving the burning vehicle as a grim testament to the evening’s events.
He walked along the forest road, putting distance between himself and the carnage. Behind him, the flames of the burning Audi illuminated the night.
In the distance, the headlights of the approaching Volga blinked, ready to pick him up.
The mission had been executed with such precision that the case of the two unidentified bodies discovered in the forest was closed shortly after the forensic report was filed.

Two days later, on April 16, Baranov sat in front of his TV, absorbed in the evening news about the Shatoy ambush during the First Chechen War. The reporter described the attack in vivid detail—a mountainous area near the town of Shatoy, where Chechen insurgents under Ibn al-Khattab had staged a sudden assault on a large Russian Armed Forces convoy.
Colonel Baranov had learned of the ambush hours earlier, just before leaving his office at the end of the workday. Deputy Loboda had approached him with a file marked "Confidential" and "For FSB Officers' Eyes Only." Intrigued, Baranov opened it, unaware of the explosive content within. As he read, his eyes widened in disbelief.
The classified report revealed losses far heavier than those publicly disclosed. Over 150 soldiers from the 245th Motor Rifle Regiment had been killed, and nearly 100 more critically wounded. The scale of the tragedy stunned him, and a mix of anger and frustration tightened in his chest.
Baranov’s phone rang, pulling him from the news.
"Have you heard about the ambush in Chechnya?" a familiar voice asked.
"Yeah," Baranov said. "The military command's incompetence sometimes infuriates me."
"From what I hear, twenty-six troops lost, about twenty troop carriers and infantry fighting vehicles, and that's just official," the commando added.
"I know the real losses are worse," Baranov replied, "but this isn't a phone conversation."
"I’ve done everything you asked," the retired major said. "Want more details?"
“Yes,” Baranov answered.
"Then come over," his friend said.
"I’ll be there in thirty minutes," Baranov confirmed.
The two old colleagues walked along the asphalt path around Golyanovsky pond, speaking in low tones.
"We met them at Sheremetyevo and followed them to the office," the veteran recalled of Saturday’s operation.
Baranov asked, curious, "Why at the airport?"
"Because the Zatorkin brothers had gone to Israel ten days ago and returned just the day before yesterday in the early evening," Ruslan explained.
"Why the Promised Land? To create an alibi for their gang’s attempted robbery?"
"As far as I know, Dmitry was baptized in the Jerusalem Church of the Apostle Peter," Ruslan said. "We tracked them to their sports club and apprehended the two brothers and Krylov's driver. After leaving the club, we locked the gate so no one would look there for several days."
"Alright, you held them at the club. What next?" Baranov asked.
Ruslan answered calmly, "We took the brothers out of town and eliminated them. If forensics identify the driver via circumstantial evidence, like the car's VIN, the brothers will never be found. They vanished without a trace, along with their documents."
Baranov asked, seemingly detached, "Did they say anything before they died?"
Ruslan replied evenly, "I didn’t ask."
After a pause, Baranov said, "I’ll need your help again soon. It’s a straightforward but sensitive matter."
Ruslan simply nodded.
Baranov continued, "Even though you didn’t question the Zatorkins, I assume you know my operatives captured Krylov. I’ll contact his lawyer soon. Your help building a strong defense for him will be valuable."
"I’ll do it," Ruslan said.
Baranov added, "I apologize for misleading you; I didn’t know there were two Zatorkin brothers. What happened to their driver?"
"Kotelnikov was Krylov's chauffeur. He met a fiery fate in his Audi near the cemetery gates as collateral damage. There were four Zatorkin brothers in total," the presidential guard veteran added. "Three are now dead; the last has been on the run for two years."
After walking around the pond, they returned to Baranov’s Toyota. Yevgeny opened the trunk, retrieved an attach; briefcase, and handed it to Ruslan. "I know you did this out of friendship and would never ask for payment, but I’ve prepared a hundred thousand dollars for you and your comrades. You deserve it."
"Call me if you need anything," the veteran said, taking the black briefcase and heading toward the new buildings of the Golyanovo microdistrict.

Chapter Eighteen. April–May, 1996. Moscow–Reutov
On April 12, 1996, the weather in Moscow was calm and sunny. Outside Momonov's office window, the red line of the alcohol thermometer rested at a comfortable seventeen degrees Celsius. Thirty-five years earlier, Yuri Gagarin—the first man in space—had spent almost two hours in orbit. Despite being the same age as that historic event, Vladimir Mamonov found little significance in the coincidence.
That Friday, he sat on the balcony of his house, savoring the smooth taste of Hennessy cognac while relaxing in a comfortable chair. He accompanied the expensive French brandy with lemon slices, enjoying the sweet-and-sour citrus as he dipped them into bowls of ground coffee and powdered sugar.
"Tsar Nicholas II left us with good memories," Vladimir mused. "Nearly eighty years have passed since the communists executed him and his entire family, yet this combination of lemon and seasoning still bears the name Nikolashka."
Elephant stood confidently halfway between the house and the pond. Nearby, a utility shed held garden tools, and a pile of firewood dried in the sun, a black leather jacket draped carelessly on top.
The bodyguard’s sleeves were rolled tightly above his elbows, emphasizing massive biceps that strained the fabric as if it might burst at any moment. From the balcony of Momonov's mansion—and even from the neighboring lawns of other wealthy villas—one could easily spot the axillary holster, the blued steel pistol grip gleaming conspicuously beneath his arm.
As Vladimir observed Elephant, the manicured lawn, and the tranquil pond, Alex’s voice drifted up from below.
While the boss enjoyed his brandy and Elephant tended the coals, Alex was teaching Svetlana English grammar on the veranda.
"Past participles of transitive verbs are passive forms indicating completed actions performed on objects. Here's an example, fitting for Cosmonauts' Day: 'The space flights of Soviet people are admired throughout the world.' Do you understand?" he asked.
"Nope," Svetlana replied, gazing admiringly into Alex’s eyes.
Vladimir spat onto the balcony floor in irritation, rose from his chair, and stepped back into the office, muttering softly, "Fool. Just like her mother."
Below, Elephant fanned the glowing coals with a piece of cardboard while Alex searched for a simpler way to explain past participles to someone who barely grasped Russian grammar.
"Imagine a broken window," Alex suggested.
Svetlana closed her eyes. "Yes, I can see it."
"In the past, someone broke that window. Now the broken window is an example of a past participle," Alex explained, convinced of his own talent as a teacher and eager to reinforce it. "Someone broke the window earlier, so the word broken is the passive participle."
"I get it," Svetlana said brightly. "Some idiot smashed the window, so it suffered—it can’t be active anymore, and it became passive."
A cold wave of disappointment washed over Alex. He searched desperately for better words, but at that moment Mamonov emerged from beneath the balcony, abruptly ending the lesson.
The tails of the villa owner’s housecoat swayed with each step as the formidable man strode toward his loyal guard. Alex hurried after him.
"Boss, may I share an idea with you?" Alex called from behind.
Mamonov turned with a faint smile. "Go ahead."
"Before I joined you, I traveled the country with truckers. I saw their work firsthand and heard plenty of harrowing stories—especially about road ambushes. I propose setting traps on the Eastern Highway and robbing trucks carrying spare parts from the Volga region to Moscow. Auto parts could become a very profitable line of business for us."
"It’s intriguing," the boss admitted, "but we’d be stepping on the toes of many respected criminals who already profit from the parts trade in Moscow and across Russia. They’ll quickly notice our interference and try to eliminate us—that’s the first concern."
After a brief pause, he added, "And second—how do you plan to manage traffic on a four-lane highway?"
"To avoid conflict with our neighbors, we should target only trucks from Ukraine and the Baltic states and block the highway near the village of Yuchmer in the Vladimir region. There’s a two-kilometer forest road leading from the village to the highway. We could hide our truck there and reload the stolen parts," the teenager explained.
"An ambush in the Vladimir region?" Mamonov asked, narrowing his eyes with an amused smile. "Did someone suggest robbing trucks outside our territory, or did you think of it yourself?"
"I didn’t consider regional boundaries, boss," Alex admitted. "It just seemed like a quiet, convenient place."
Mamonov chuckled. "I see you know the highway to Gorky as well as I know my own backyard."
"Once I rode with a driver from Odessa. He picked up a shipment of auto parts from the Gorky plant and dropped me near the entrance to Balashikha on the way back," Alex lied, though in truth he knew the highway from trips to Vladimir and Gorky for boxing competitions.
"I remember. Your aunt lives somewhere around there," Mamonov said.
"She used to live in Novaya Kupavna. The Ukrainian driver took her to Ukraine back in February, a couple of weeks after our raid," Alex replied.
Mamonov seemed uncertain about the feasibility of attacking trucks carrying auto parts.
“Okay, I’ll think about it.
“On one hand, the number of Ukrainian and Baltic trucks on our roads isn’t significant,” he reflected. “On the other, the risk of retaliation from the victims is negligible.”
“Conduct reconnaissance among the truckers and find an informant. Then discuss with Afghan the brigade’s composition, the vehicle fleet, and the weapons cache. Afghan will report to me when you’re ready. He’ll also be in charge of the raids. You’ll serve as coordinator,” Mamonov instructed.
“I can handle it, Boss. Thanks for trusting me,” Alex replied with enthusiasm.
As Vladimir continued strolling toward Elephant, Alex returned to Svetlana beneath the balcony and resumed teaching her. Afghan emerged from the banquet hall into the backyard carrying a pan of pickled lamb.
Glancing at Afghan’s back, Alex muttered in English:
“Fuck.”
“What happened?” Svetlana asked.
“Nothing,” Alex said, already weighing the situation.
Three murderers gathered in one place — and my gun is in the guest house.
If I slipped away to the bathroom, I could retrieve the pistol and deal with them quickly. I could drop the guard too when he comes running at the sound of the shots.
But what about Svetlana?
I can’t harm an innocent child… nor can I kill her father right in front of her.
“Am I late?” Afghan asked, handing the container to Elephant.
“No,” Mamonov replied. “What’s new?”
Elephant expertly threaded chunks of meat onto skewers while Mamonov and Afghan strolled toward the pond.
“Svyat is unhappy with our activity on ‘his’ territory,” Anton said in the thieves’ cant, choosing each word with care. “The brazen bastard sent a written complaint about you to the brotherhood. He’s been spreading grievances everywhere, claiming we’re stripping him bare. Keeps saying he should’ve killed you the moment you got out of prison.”
Drawing a finger across his throat, Vladimir said coldly,
“I’ve had enough of him. He refused to return my business after my release — and now he’s turned the thieves against me.”
“Everyone knows that while you were eating prison stew, he seized some of your shops. Let’s scare him properly so he learns to hold his tongue,” Afghan proposed.
“What do you suggest?” Vladimir asked.
“Burn down Svyat’s head office and a store in the Izmailovsky district.”
“And behave like juvenile thugs tossing Molotov cocktails?” the Boss chuckled.
“Too clich;. He might miss the warning,” Afghan replied calmly. “I propose planting a field mine with five gallons of gasoline — enough to obliterate the two story store and his headquarters on Enthusiasts Highway.”
“Along with the sellers and buyers?” Mamonov asked, frowning.
“Employees and customers won’t suffer. We’ll detonate the store during the Victory Day fireworks on May ninth,” Afghan assured him. “No collateral damage.”
“Do you have someone who can prepare the charge?” the Boss asked.
“I’ll find a sapper,” Afghan promised.
"Wait. My wife's brother has long sought the position of a bomber in our gang," Mamonov explained.
"Potap?" Afghan asked, surprised. "Vladimir, do you really want such a delicate matter in the hands of a tailor?"
"He told me he served in the engineering troops and studied sapper work twenty years ago," Mamonov shrugged. "Marina confirmed that her brother was a Sergeant in a combat engineer unit."
"I think he won’t cope. More than twenty years have passed since he left the Army," Afghan continued. "New mines have been designed since then, and he could have lost his skills."
"When were your mines made?" Mamonov asked.
"MON-50 was developed in the sixties, but the fuses we used in Afghanistan were released in the eighties," Anton explained.
"As the military proverb says, a sapper makes one mistake," Vladimir smiled. "Now, if his skills have rusted, he might blow himself up. Let’s assume that he asked for it."
Despite knowing Mamonov was likely mistaken, Afghan didn’t argue. He understood the boss’s feelings toward his ex-wife.
"We squeezed out his new accommodation with blood," Mamonov said thoughtfully. "Let him pay us for his one-bedroom apartment."
"Bloodless," Afghan interjected.
"What's bloodless?" Mamonov asked, frowning.
"I'm saying Elephant and I took care of Zafiros’ spouses with plastic bags. Not spilling a drop of their blood," Afghan clarified.
Vladimir said nothing, glanced at his assistant, and then returned to watching Elephant. Afghan followed.
Svetlana stood by the barbecue with her father’s bodyguard, holding a skewer with five large pieces of lamb.
She bit off a few pieces, praising the cook, "Pavel, you’re doing a great job; the meat is neither raw nor overcooked. My father can’t grill nearly as well."
"Your father can do a lot more," Elephant replied.
"For instance?" Svetlana asked.
"To think for all of us," the giant said. "Not everyone can run such an organization. The city administration, the police, and neighboring district bosses respect him."
Mamonov and Afghan came closer, and Vladimir overheard a fragment of their conversation.
He asked his daughter, "What are you talking about?"
Svetlana replied, "Pavel told me you’re a good leader."
Mamonov laughed. "You shouldn’t trust him; he’s just a sycophant."
Afghan and Elephant chuckled too, but Svetlana couldn’t tell if the joke was funny or if her father’s men were bootlickers.
As the men enjoyed their shish kebabs, Afghan asked Mamonov, "Boss, would you mind having a drink with us?"
"First, I have to finish something. Then Elephant will take Svetlana to her mother, and later we’ll get drunk. Pavel, wrap a few kebabs for Marina and come to the garage in half an hour," the boss instructed.
Elephant nodded, and Mamonov headed toward his mansion.
Thirty minutes later, while Svetlana played with the dog in the front yard, Mamonov descended the mansion stairs. The shepherd chased her around the flower beds, careful not to push through the roses, hyacinths, and adonis.
The boss exited the building, and Svetlana stopped in front of him. Placing a food bag before her, Vladimir asked, "Svetlana, do you remember what I told you about safety measures?"
"Yes, dad," she answered quickly. Then, realizing he expected more, she added, "No stops on the way home, no bathroom breaks, no ice cream. Keep my eyes on the bag. Sit in the back without getting out, even if Elephant gets out."
"That’s right," Vladimir said, bending to kiss her. "Be a good girl. Behave as always. Can you remind me what’s in the bag?"
"Delicacies," Svetlana answered firmly.
Elephant left the house carrying the plastic bag. Holding it out, he said, "I was looking for you in the house."
Mamonov placed the bag beside him.
"The meat is still hot; I wrapped it in clean paper and a towel. It won’t cool before I get there," Elephant said, heading to the garage.
Mamonov’s black Mercedes rolled out. He opened the back door as Svetlana walked around and settled in the rear passenger seat. Placing two bags at her feet, he gave Elephant instructions.
"Pavel, do everything as usual," Mamonov said by the driver’s window. "Take Svetlana home. Do not stop anywhere; follow her to the apartment. And as I said before..."
"Hand her to Marina," Elephant concluded.
"Exactly," Mamonov said. "She’s my treasure. Nothing must happen to her on the way back."
The Mercedes slowly left the courtyard. Mamonov watched it go, then entered the house. Afghan, who had been waiting around the corner, went to the guest house.

Hundreds of thousands of Muscovites crowded their balconies, filled the streets, gathered in parks, climbed onto rooftops, and lined the riverbanks, eagerly awaiting the evening’s fireworks. The entire city hummed with excitement as people sought vantage points to witness the dazzling display of lights illuminating the night sky.
On the balcony of a twelve-story residential building in Yakimanka, two drunken couples swayed gently. Both men and their wives were in their early forties.
Boris Cherkanov and Peter Fedotov served as Lieutenant Colonels of the Anti-Terror Center’s pyrotechnic branch.
The women chatted about trifles—the latest fashions, favorite TV shows, funny anecdotes, recent gossip, and weekend plans. Their laughter carried lightly into the warm evening air.
Meanwhile, their husbands muttered near-political discussions, the words muffled beneath the women’s chatter.
"My friend Boris, why didn’t the authorities cover Lenin’s name on the mausoleum this year, as they had for the past four?" Fedotov asked.
"For the same reason the military parade resumed after a five-year break," Cherkanov replied.
"Do you think Yeltsin is flirting with the electorate ahead of the June elections?"
"It doesn’t matter what I think," Boris said cautiously. "He’ll win anyway."
Thousands of flashes painted the sky above Zamosvorechye. Capital-Auto auto parts store and Svyat’s central office occupied the lower floors of the fifteen-story building belonging to a defense enterprise’s design bureau. A production facility of the same enterprise also stood in the high-rise. The streets below bustled as people prepared to enjoy the fireworks and evening festivities.
A minivan rolled silently into a deserted parking lot outside Svyat’s office, precisely thirty minutes before the first artillery salute. The emptiness lent a sense of secrecy, anticipation thick in the air.
Afghan sat behind the wheel, tense, aware of the bomb resting beside a canister of gasoline. Potap fidgeted nervously, glancing around the square in front of Svyat’s store and biting the nail of his right thumb. Sergei lay along the back seat, absentmindedly picking at his nose, studying the boogers with morbid curiosity. The minivan’s windows were down, the stench of gasoline a constant reminder of the perilous mission.
Anton stepped out, circled the vehicle, and halted at the passenger door. "Nobody’s around. Muscovites are glued to their TVs, waiting for fireworks. Are you certain the bomb will go off on time?"
"I’m sure," Potap said, trying to sound confident.
"You need to understand, Potap," Anton said, choosing his words carefully, "there’s almost two pounds of TNT and over six hundred metal balls in that anti-personnel mine. When it goes off, everything within fifty meters will be destroyed. If MON-Fifty explodes while you’re installing it, you and Sergey will be shredded, the minivan obliterated, and I’ll look like a pasta colander."
The weight of the mission pressed down on them. Tension between Afghan and Potap simmered.
Potap sneered, "Don’t shit yourself ahead of time, Afghan. It won’t go off until ten o’clock. I know what I’m doing."
"I know what you’re doing too," Anton growled.
"And what am I doing?" Potap asked, sarcasm coating his words.
"You’re trying to leap from a tailor in a cheap studio into the pants of the main demolition man of Moscow’s Eastern District," Anton spat.
With hatred burning in his eyes, Potap opened the minivan door and shoved Afghan aside, feigning indifference. Then he turned, coldly instructing, "Sergey, take the gasoline canister to the store entrance."
Sergey stepped out, holding the canister, and walked confidently toward the main steps of the auto parts store. Potap followed, five careful steps behind, carrying the zipped laundry bag containing the field mine. Afghan stayed discreetly around the corner in his Ford Transit; his gaze locked on the bomber and his assistant.
Sergey carefully set the canister at the store’s door and awaited instructions.
"Put it in the bag next to the mine," Potap directed, pulling the canvas edges wide.
"Can I go now?" Sergey asked, wiping sweat from his brow, the pressure mounting.
"Stay here until I finish installing the detonator," Potap said. His hands trembled as he connected the fuse wires to the mine. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the canister and explosives, betraying his nerves.
As Sergey watched, a thought struck him like a bullet: He’s afraid to die alone. This son of a bitch wants to take another young life with him. At just seventeen, Sergey confronted the grim reality of the path he had chosen. Damn it! I never imagined it would come to this. I’m not just a thief now; I’m becoming a terrorist.

On the mansion’s balcony, Mamonov and Elephant watched fireworks bloom over Moscow, cocooned in the comfort of luxurious blue-red-white checked Scottish wool throws.
“Boss, Potap promised to blow up that pig’s office at ten o’clock. The fireworks are winding down, and I haven’t heard the explosion yet. Could the mine have failed?” Elephant asked.
“Don’t be a fool, Pavel. We wouldn’t be able to see or hear the explosion from here. Svyat’s den is twelve miles away, though the blast from seven hundred grams of TNT would carry for roughly a mile,” Mamonov explained.
Elephant groaned. “And if Potap failed and the mine didn’t detonate on time?” Doubt gnawed at him. “Can Svyat’s bandits disarm it?”
“Afghan assured me they can’t,” the boss replied. “He gave Potap an additional detonator designed to prevent tampering. Anton told me that even local sappers trained by the Americans couldn’t neutralize devices like that during his service in Afghanistan. And American instructors have far more experience than Svyat’s little rats.”
________________________________________
Meanwhile, the Ford Transit was parked in the right lane of Budyonny Avenue’s viaduct, rising above Enthusiasts Highway, just before ten o’clock in the evening.
Afghan had selected the spot for two reasons: safety and a clear view. Drawing from experience, Anton knew that fragments from anti-personnel mines travel low to the ground. Thirty feet above the highway, the viaduct offered both distance and visibility. He parked in the middle, a couple of hundred feet from Svyat’s office, allowing the crew to monitor both the bomb and the entrance with precision.
The demolition team’s eyes were fixed on Capital-Auto. A few annoyed drivers honked as they passed. Anton glanced at his watch.
“Well, Potap,” he said sharply, “it’s eleven. The mine should have gone off an hour ago.”
“I must have done something wrong,” the tailor muttered, sounding indifferent.
“If you made a mistake,” Anton roared, firing up the diesel, “get ready to fix it. We’ll go to the store. Disconnect the fuses and bring the land mine back to us. Leave the gasoline canister behind.”
“I can’t,” Potap whispered, terror creeping into his voice. “I installed the fuses so no one could disarm it.”
“I knew you shouldn’t have been assigned this,” Afghan shouted, swinging his elbow toward Potap. “I warned Mamonov, and he went ahead anyway.”
Potap trembled, bent toward the window, his hands shielding his head. “Why are you screaming? If not now, it’ll explode tomorrow. Does it matter whether Svyat’s shop burns down today or tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? You brainless horse’s dick!” Afghan spat, slamming the transmission into gear and roaring down Budyonny Avenue. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? If the bomb doesn’t explode, army engineers — or worse, counterintelligence — will trace it by serial number. Within three days, my name will be on the all-Russian wanted list.
“Military counterintelligence will take over the case. They’ll raid my house first. Even if I manage to escape, special units will begin rounding up everyone who has ever contacted me. Every bandit in Reutov and Balashikha will be dragged in without a prosecutor’s warrant.
“And then,” he shot Potap a murderous glance, “the Feds will squeeze them until they hand over every name and every address of our gang members during interrogation.”

Unlike most Russian adults, Alex did not trouble himself with questions about Yeltsin’s plans for the upcoming elections. That morning, he had no interest in whether tanks, artillery, and rockets would roll past the Kremlin in parade formation. Politics remained far from his mind; he was simply too young to concern himself with such trifles.
The teenager’s thoughts were occupied with a different mission — preparing to rob a truck loaded with car parts. To carry out the plan, he needed the right target, and he already knew exactly where to look. After breakfast, he boarded a bus bound for Reutov’s industrial zone. He knew that several trucking companies and garages were located on the outskirts of the city, where drivers often repaired their rigs.
The industrial zone began just behind the buildings of the Aerospace Faculty at Bauman Moscow State Technical University. Only a year earlier, Alex — then still a high school student — had dreamed of studying in one of those buildings. It had been a mere five-minute walk from his former apartment on Mira Street to the institute, and ten minutes to Factory, Plant, Labor Union, and Transport streets in the industrial district.
That third-floor apartment no longer belonged to his family — and he no longer had a family at all. Now it took Alex nearly two hours to travel from Mamonov’s mansion to the outskirts of Reutov.
He spent another forty minutes passing businesses closed for the holidays. As he walked, he hummed the American song “Hotel California” under his breath, adding his own irreverent twist to the lyrics:
“On dirty Transport Street,
Calm wind in my hair.
The stinky smell of my feet
Rising up through the air.”
Alex strolled without the slightest hint of fatigue. From one end of Transport Street to the other, he walked singing, occasionally breaking into a half-dance to the rhythm echoing inside his head.
How did I pull that off? he thought with quiet pride. I changed almost every word and still made it rhyme. Here’s another one for you, music lovers.
He sang softly:
“Disheveled sheets and nights so hot,
That’s all I can recall.
Last time, I hit the spot,
I fled her chamber’s thrall.”
Across the street from Everything for Home, his eyes widened in surprise when he spotted the open gate of the Partner garage.
The spacious courtyard was crowded with rows of drivers’ cabs and repair bays. A two-story office building stood to the left of the entrance. Behind the tall metal swing gates, a pair of worn sneakers protruded into view.
Still improvising, Alex crossed the road toward the garage cooperative:
“Up ahead in the distance,
I spotted an open gate.
No need for assistance
To trick that old mate.”
Reaching the barrier, Alex surveyed the garage grounds. He expected security at the gate — and he was right. An elderly watchman sat in the building’s shadow with a stack of crossword puzzles on his lap, a pencil stub tucked behind his right ear.
“Excuse me, sir. Have the Odessa trucks been here recently?” Alex asked politely.
“Two came in last night,” the man replied, lifting his eyes from the puzzle. “One left for Gorky this morning, but the other is still here for repairs.”
“I’m from Odessa. May I speak with my fellow countryman? I’ll be quick,” Alex said, his voice earnest.

The guard glanced at him incredulously over his glasses, narrowing his eyes. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “You’re from Odessa?” He paused, thoughtful, then added, “So you grew up on the Black Sea coast. Tell me, son—the name of a small Black Sea fish, four letters.”
“Goby,” Alex replied without hesitation.
The guard jotted the word into his crossword puzzle with the stub of a pencil. “The goby fits here,” he said, glancing up at the boy. “I see. You’re from Odessa. Come in. The truck from your city is in box number six. The driver’s name is Artem. If he’s not there, ask the technician working on the engine. He’ll tell you where to find him.”
Alex ducked under the barrier and stepped onto the garage’s grounds.
Navigating toward the only open box in the seemingly deserted yard proved trickier than expected. The truck cab was clearly visible from the gate, impossible to miss. Checking the license plate on the front bumper of the tractor, Alex hummed a new chorus to his variation of a familiar song:
“Welcome to the trap I’ve already laid for you.
What a lovely trap—no gaps for you to sneak through!”
Two men were absorbed in inspecting the engine beneath the cab. Alex approached cautiously. “Excuse me,” he said, “but who’s Artem?”
One of the men looked up and met his gaze. “That’s me. And who are you?”
“I’m from your city,” Alex answered, trying to sound casual. “I was visiting my grandmother here, but I’m eager to get back to Odessa. I’ll pay whatever it takes for a ride. Can you help me out?”
Artem raised a skeptical eyebrow. “If you’ve got money, why not just take a train to Odessa?”
Alex leaned forward slightly, earnestly.
“Ah, you see, I need my birth certificate to buy a train ticket, and my grandmother won’t give it to me. Hitching a ride with truckers seemed like a reliable option. And I trust you the most.”
Artem still didn’t look convinced. He pressed further. “Where exactly do you live in Odessa?”
Alex answered confidently, the address etched in his mind like the stars tattooed on Mamonov’s shoulders. “I live at 1B Admirals Avenue, not far from the intersection with Fontaine Road.”
Artem narrowed his eyes. “Is that near Fontaine Road, Third Station?”
With a hint of pride, Alex replied in his Odessa accent, “Actually, Fontaine Road intersects Admirals Avenue at the Fifth Station of Fountain Road.”
Artem considered him for a moment, then finally nodded. “Alright. I’ll take you with me—but not today. I have cargo to pick up in Tatarstan. I’ll be back in three days, around seven in the evening. We can settle the price of your trip to Odessa then.”


Chapter Nineteen. May 10, 1996. Moscow
Just after seven in the morning, a lonely bum with long, greasy hair in filthy clothes leaned on a stick and emerged from the underpass onto the tram tracks at sunrise on the morning of May 10. He looked around, then continued along Budyonny Avenue past the Capital-Auto store. At the traffic light, he bent over a trash can, rummaged through the garbage with his hand, and was about to move on when a large bag in front of the store caught his attention.
The homeless man strode up the steps, reached into the bag, parted its edges with his stick, glanced indifferently at the canister, knelt, and carefully examined its contents.
The slightly bent green brick, tethered with white duct tape to a wooden block, stared back at him with the words “To the enemy.” The alarm clock perched atop the device greeted the morning passerby with an ominous smile, its hands ticking silently, counting down the minutes. Wires snaked from the clock to the fuse and the land mine itself.
The homeless man jumped back in horror, falling onto the concrete with a thud. Within seconds, he crawled across the pavement in front of the store, another five meters on his hands and knees, before springing to his feet and bolting down Budyonny Avenue. He spat out in a strangled, heart-breaking voice:
“A bo-o-o-omb!!!”
The rare early passerby gawked at him. As he shouted the warning to the entire micro-district, the bum’s gaze fell upon a telephone booth. He rushed inside and quickly dialed, murmuring into the brown carbolic receiver:
“The police dispatcher on duty, Anna. What is the reason for your call?” The operator’s voice remained calm and measured.
“Hello, hello, the police? There’s a bomb here!” the homeless man gasped, breathless.
“Where are you?” she asked, still calm, but with a note of urgency creeping in.
“Where am I?” the bum replied, startled.
“Yes, where are you?”
“At the corner of Budyonny Avenue and Garage Street,” he answered.
“Sir, I need more details. Please describe the current situation. Are you safe?” The question was asked in the tone of someone genuinely hoping for a reassuring “yes.”
“Not at all. I’m scared to death! There’s a huge bomb there!” he snapped, no pretense of politeness.
“Is the bomb near you?” she pressed.
“No, not here, dummy! I said it’s there—the bomb is at the intersection of Budyonny Avenue and Enthusiasts Highway,” he barked.
The operator’s voice grew more insistent: “At a public transport stop?”
“No, not at the tram or the bus stop. It’s in front of the auto parts store’s door,” he clarified.
“What’s the name of the store?” she asked.
“I don’t know what it’s called,” he muttered, losing patience.
“What’s your name?”
“My name?” The man blinked, surprised—he couldn’t even recall the last time anyone had asked. Still, he answered: “It won’t help you.”
“And your address?” The operator read the question from the emergency protocol.
“What’s my address?” the man, who had once worked as an engineer at a Moscow television production factory and now sunk to society’s lowest rungs, replied bitterly: “I’ve been homeless for the past three years.”
“That’s impossible. You must have a current address, as all Russian citizens do,” the operator insisted.
“Oh, God. She doesn’t believe me,” he whispered to himself in despair before snapping into the receiver: “Then fuck yourself,” and hung up.
________________________________________
Hawk's Hill micro-district jolted as police sirens shattered the morning calm. A yellow-and-blue police minibus screeched into the parking lot in front of Capital-Auto.
The locals nicknamed such vans “loafs of bread.” Two officers emerged, leaving the driver behind.
The sergeant, donning his bulletproof vest, advanced toward the store, while the other officer swept the surroundings for witnesses—or the culprit. The young recruit circled the parking lot with methodical diligence, searching for any sign of suspicious activity.
At the store entrance, the senior officer inspected the abandoned bag before hurrying back to the minibus. He nodded to the driver, who acknowledged the prearranged signal. Without delay, the driver picked up the radio and confirmed the anonymous tip with the on-duty officer. Before he could finish, the wailing sirens of several patrol cars echoed through the micro-district. Units from Lefortovsky, Tagansky, and Perovsky police stations rushed toward the potentially dangerous site.
As they arrived at the scene, the police formed a secure cordon. Sergeants strung red-and-white warning tape to seal off the parking lot, their movements precise and deliberate, marking the boundary between danger and safety.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the shrill ring of a telephone rudely interrupted the quiet of a modest one-bedroom apartment on the twelfth floor of building 60 on Proletarians Street.
Boris Cherkanov, forty, answered with a grumble. “Yes?”
“Cherkanov, this is Vassiliev,” came the serious voice on the line. “I won’t wish you a good morning. I need you here in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be there on time, Comrade General,” Boris replied, a trace of annoyance in his tone.
“One more thing, Boris. Where is Fedotov? My aide called him at home, but got no answer.”
“Fedotov and his wife crashed on my sofa in the dining room. We celebrated Victory Day yesterday and watched the fireworks from the balcony. You know, I have a small one-bedroom apartment on the twelfth floor, right under the roof,” he added teasingly, a subtle jab at the state-provided accommodations.
“Boris, don’t be cheeky,” the General retorted sharply. “You were offered a two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Moscow, yet you insisted on staying in this prestigious location. Now, wake Fedotov up and come immediately. We have an emergency.”
“Oh God, who calls so early?” groaned Cherkanov’s wife from under the pillow.
“Go back to sleep, Honey. It’s work-related,” he assured her as he swung his legs out of bed.
Speeding through the still-sleeping streets of Moscow, a five-year-old dark cherry Volvo 940 purred beneath him—a car that cost far more than Lieutenant Colonel Cherkanov could have afforded. Fedotov, sitting in the passenger seat, clearly noticed.
“Boris,” he asked, curiosity mixed with amusement, “when I joined your department a year ago, you already had this car. How did you manage to get it, my sapper-brother?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Boris replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re wondering how the head of the explosive-technical department at the Institute of Forensic Science of the FSB can afford a luxury ride. Here’s the story: it’s a reward. For disarming several foreign-made booby traps during the arrest of a foreign spy, I was awarded the prestigious Order of the Red Star. But the counterintelligence officers insisted on discretion—they didn’t want the details public. So they offered me something else: the confiscated car of the captured spy, a magnificent Swedish Mercedes. They figured the allure of a luxury car, paired with secrecy, outweighed a small Soviet order.”
Fedotov chuckled. “Quite a tale, Boris. I’ll happily believe it. Now, let’s find out why Vassiliev has summoned us at this ungodly hour.”
Boris navigated the Volvo through the awakening streets, his mind racing with questions. Both men understood that General Vassiliev would not appear in person at such an early hour for anything trivial, certainly not for disassembling leftover fireworks.
At their department, they found General Vassiliev waiting in the task-setting hall, accompanied by three junior officers. The room, lined with glass tables displaying samples of explosive devices, exuded a serious, almost forbidding atmosphere.
Once Boris and Fedotov settled at the desk, General Vassiliev briefed them. “I apologize for waking you on your day off, but circumstances left us no choice. A sapper from the Main Directorate of Internal Affairs reports that an amateur bomber has installed non-removable fuses on the Enthusiasts Highway. Cherkanov, Fedotov, you will conduct reconnaissance there. Boris, if the bomb proves too complicated for the central police station’s sappers, you will defuse it yourself. Should the device be as complex as the report suggests, establish a one-hundred-meter cordon, await the mine-clearing truck, and proceed with a controlled detonation. You are the best specialist in Russia—exercise utmost caution.”
He turned to the junior officers. “You three will accompany the special equipment truck and follow Cherkanov. Do you understand your orders?”
“Yes, Comrade General. The task is clear,” they responded in unison.
“Very well,” Vassiliev concluded. “Carry out the mission and report back every thirty minutes.”

Cherkanov’s Volvo came to a stop near the police minibus. Two officers in camouflage, with no insignia, stepped out. A police lieutenant colonel approached and asked, “Comrades, which one of you is Cherkanov?”
“I am,” Boris replied, then added, “And who are you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Maximov, Deputy Chief of the Tagansky District Police Department, reporting for duty under your command,” the officer said.
“That’s right, Maximov. Move your minibus out of the parking lot and keep it fifty steps away from us,” Cherkanov ordered, walking toward his car’s trunk.
“Is it really that dangerous here?” Maximov asked, eyeing the scene.
“I don’t know yet,” Cherkanov admitted, donning his bulletproof vest. “I’ll approach the bomb to assess the situation. But if it’s an army field mine, we’ll have to block traffic on the highway.”
“You plan to stop traffic on a ten-lane highway heading east?” Maximov exclaimed in disbelief. “Are you serious? I doubt anyone will allow it.”
“Step aside. Let’s see what we’re dealing with first. After that, we’ll decide if the authorities permit it,” Fedotov said, securing his helmet with a protective plexiglass visor.
The senior police officer nodded in acknowledgment and moved toward his subordinates waiting by the service vehicles.
The counterintelligence sappers ascended the stairs to the store entrance.
Cherkanov leaned over the open laundry bag and whispered to Fedotov, “Peter, step back.”
Fedotov obeyed immediately, moving ten meters away from the store and squatting down. “What do we have, Boris?” he asked.
Cherkanov gripped the handles of the heavy bag. “MON-Fifty with an alarm clock fuse set for ten o’clock, along with five gallons of gasoline.”
Fedotov asked, “What’s your plan?”
“I’ll turn the bag 180 degrees to direct the explosion toward the store,” Cherkanov replied. “After that, we’ll report to Vasiliev.”
Minutes later, over the radio, Cherkanov reported, “Comrade General, it’s me. We have an anti-personnel army mine here, with a canister of gasoline. I’ve repositioned it toward the building to minimize dispersion of the submunition. It appears to be a homemade mine. The bomber has set a time fuse for ten o’clock.”
“So you have about an hour to neutralize the bomb,” General Vasiliev acknowledged.
“Yes. I have an hour if they planned the explosion for the morning. But what if the bomber intended to detonate it at ten p.m. yesterday?” Cherkanov replied, answering his own question. “The fuse is frozen and could go off at any moment.”
“What is your plan?” the general asked.
“I suggest we block traffic on Enthusiasts’ Highway, wait for our mobile laboratory, and use a water cannon to destroy the bomb,” Cherkanov said firmly.
“Are you sure we need to close the highway?” Vasiliev asked.
“Yes. If the explosive device goes off, multiple casualties are inevitable,” Cherkanov answered without hesitation.
“And Budyonny Avenue?” the general pressed. “It’s even closer to the blast site.”
“There’s no need to block Budyonny Avenue. The shrapnel will not rise higher than twelve feet, and the concrete edge of the viaduct crossing Enthusiasts’ Highway is twice that height,” Cherkanov explained.
“Stand by. I will report to the Director of the Federal Counterintelligence Service,” Vasiliev concluded, shutting off the radio.
Ten minutes later, the radio in Cherkanov’s hands crackled to life.
“Boris, block the highway,” Vasiliev’s voice ordered. “The director gave the go-ahead.”


The truck labeled “Mine clearing” moved slowly through the congested traffic. Its orange flashing beacon spun continuously, and the driver from the anti-terrorist office honked and gestured frantically, urging other vehicles to make way. Most drivers ignored the sappers’ demands, continuing at their own pace.
The sappers’ driver spotted a gap in the left lane and attempted to overtake a passing Lada as he changed lanes from Znamenka to Borovitskaya Square. Steering carefully and glancing into the rear-view mirror, he misjudged the distance and clipped the Lada’s rear fender just before the Big Stone Bridge.
Both drivers involved in the fender-bender stopped and exchanged angry words. Traffic slowed behind them, creating a temporary bottleneck. On behalf of the Counter-Terrorist Directorate, one of the FSB junior officers traveling with his colleagues offered compensation to the Lada’s owner. The driver, however, refused to move until the traffic police arrived, blocking the cargo van in the meantime.
________________________________________
Forty minutes after police had halted traffic on Enthusiasts Highway, the sound of a walkie-talkie pierced the quiet inside the dark cherry Volvo. Vasiliev’s voice came through:
“Cherkanov, do you hear me?”
Boris responded almost immediately, “Yes, Comrade General.”
“There are two pieces of news for you, one worse than the other,” Vasiliev said. “First, our truck carrying mine-clearing equipment has been involved in an accident, and the driver of the damaged vehicle is blocking the way for our group. Therefore, the mine-clearing laboratory won’t be available anytime soon. Second… it’s even worse. The Moscow leadership has asked us to reopen Enthusiasts Highway as soon as possible.”
“What does the Director of the Federal Counterintelligence Service think about this?” Cherkanov asked.
The General’s disappointment was evident in his reply: “Do you really think Moscow Mayor Luzhkov personally called me? Of course not. The Mayor spoke with our Director, who then relayed Luzhkov’s sentiments in blunt and unpleasant terms.”
“Comrade General, I understand. Fedotov and I will try to handle everything ourselves,” Cherkanov replied, turning off the radio.
“Did you hear?”
“Yes,” his deputy answered.
As they exchanged glances, a surge of conflicting emotions passed between them. Determination collided with doubt, each man reading the same grim calculation in the other’s eyes. The situation was dire, their chances of survival uncertain, yet neither considered retreat. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon them, and the tension of the moment seemed to thicken the very air they breathed.
In that charged silence, camaraderie and trust drew them closer. They had endured countless dangerous assignments together, but this one felt different—sharper, more unpredictable. Still, there would be no turning back. Duty left no room for hesitation, and fear had no authority here.
Cherkanov’s voice wavered almost imperceptibly, betraying the struggle within, but he forced a facade of composure for his colleague.
“We have no choice, my friend Peter. We proceed with the plan,” he said firmly, as much to steady himself as to reassure Fedotov.
When the officers returned to the store entrance and climbed the steps toward the mine, Cherkanov ordered, “Take the canister and go around the corner.”
Peter obeyed without a word. He carefully lifted the canister from the bag, descended the stairs, and moved along the store’s glass wall toward Budyonny Avenue.
Watching his partner withdraw, Cherkanov slipped a pair of long-nose pliers from his pocket and gently touched the wire connecting the anti-personnel mine to the alarm clock.
The contact lasted only a fraction of a second.
It was enough to pull the mine out of its hovering state.
The MON-50 exploded.
________________________________________
The crackle of a walkie-talkie shattered the silence inside the dark cherry Volvo forty minutes after police had halted traffic on Enthusiasts Highway.
“Cherkanov, do you hear me?” Vasiliev’s voice cut through the static.
“Yes, Comrade General,” Boris replied almost immediately.
“There are two pieces of news for you—one worse than the other,” Vasiliev said. “First, our truck carrying the mine-clearing equipment has been involved in an accident, and the driver of the damaged vehicle is refusing to clear the road. The laboratory won’t reach you anytime soon. Second—and this is worse—the Moscow leadership has ordered us to reopen Enthusiasts Highway as quickly as possible.”
“What does the Director of the Federal Counterintelligence Service think about this?” Cherkanov asked.
The General did not hide his frustration.
“Do you really believe Mayor Luzhkov called me personally? Of course not. The Mayor spoke with our Director, and he relayed Luzhkov’s sentiments in rather blunt—and unpleasant—terms.”
“Understood, Comrade General. Fedotov and I will handle it ourselves,” Cherkanov said, switching off the radio.
“Did you hear that?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” his deputy replied.
Their eyes met again. Determination battled doubt, but the decision had already been made. The odds were poor, the risk unmistakable, yet forward was the only direction left to them. Responsibility settled on their shoulders like lead.
Once more, the unspoken bond between them held firm. They had walked dangerous paths before, but never one quite like this—so exposed, so unforgiving. Still, duty demanded action.
Cherkanov drew a slow breath.
“We have no choice, my friend Peter. We proceed with the plan.”
When the officers returned to the store entrance and mounted the steps toward the mine, Cherkanov repeated the order:
“Take the canister and go around the corner.”
Following the order, Peter carefully removed the canister from the bag, descended the stairs, and moved along the store’s glass wall toward Budyonny Avenue.
Cherkanov watched his partner withdraw, then pulled a pair of long-nose pliers from his pocket and gently touched the wire running from the anti-personnel mine to the alarm clock.
It was enough to release the mine from its suspended state.
The MON-50 detonated.
The blast hurled Boris Cherkanov’s body several meters from the store entrance, while a storm of shrapnel tore into Fedotov’s back. Peter pitched forward, collapsing over the canister of gasoline, his wounded body shielding it as he hit the ground.
________________________________________
In Mamonov’s office, a Sony Trinitron television blared breaking news. The crime lord sat on a leather sofa facing the screen, Potap beside him, while Elephant and Afghan occupied Lazy Boy recliners on either side.
After the announcer finished reading the official statement from the General Directorate of Internal Affairs, an MTV reporter took over the broadcast. The segment opened with stark, gripping footage from the scene.
“Shattered glass, the double iron doors of the Capital Auto store ripped from the frame along with part of the wall, the body of a senior Federal Counterintelligence officer, and his wounded colleague—all suggest a criminal confrontation between gangs operating in Moscow and the surrounding region,” the reporter said as the camera lingered on the devastation.
“At 7:40 a.m., an unidentified caller alerted police after discovering an object resembling an anti-personnel mine near Enthusiasts Highway. A gasoline canister was found inside a Chinese laundry bag placed beside the device. Lieutenant Colonel Boris Cherkanov, an explosives specialist with the Federal Counterintelligence Service, was killed while attempting to neutralize the improvised bomb. Another officer sustained severe injuries.
The nearby defense enterprise, Agat, also suffered damage. Fortunately, no additional casualties have been reported.”
As the camera panned toward the highway, a dark cherry Volvo riddled with round punctures slid into view.
Mamonov reached for the remote and switched off the television. Silence fell over the room.
He slowly surveyed the faces around him, rose from the sofa, and extended his hand toward the knife lying on the desk.

“We are not changing our stance until there is clear proof that we are suspects. We will go on living exactly as we always have. Any deviation from our routine will draw attention — and tie us to the death of that federal officer.”
“Potap,” the boss said coldly, stepping closer to his brother-in-law and lifting his chin with the tip of a knife, “your incompetence has put us all at risk. If you weren’t my ex-wife’s older brother, I would have flayed you right here on this couch.”
He pressed the blade a little higher.
“Get back to the tailor shop immediately. Stay out of matters that don’t concern you and keep your distance from my people. Blink if you understand.”
With his head pinned against the back of the sofa and his jaw forced upward by the knife, Potap’s eyelashes fluttered like hummingbird wings as tears gathered in his eyes.
Seemingly satisfied with his relative’s reaction, Mamonov shifted his attention to Anton.
“Find me another bodyguard — someone who can drive,” he ordered. Then, glancing at Elephant, he added,
“I have a feeling this summer is going to be a hot one.”
________________________________________
Chapter Twenty. May 13, 1996 — Moscow–Gorky Highway
On the third day after the failed attempt to blow up Svyat’s office, a red Toyota Celica stood parked on the roadside a hundred kilometers east of Moscow. The rear plastic bumper and trunk still bore the unmistakable scars of a recent fender-bender.
Alex stood beside the passenger door, scanning the license plates of approaching trucks through a pair of marine binoculars. About a hundred meters west of a Toyota sat a Lada with Sergey behind the wheel, its left headlight shattered and the radiator grille bent inward.
Alex shifted restlessly as he waited, pacing beside the car and glancing at his watch. When the hands reached quarter to six, another eighteen-wheeler appeared on the horizon. He raised the binoculars, focused on the tiny characters of the license plate, and muttered,
“Ukrainian flag… E-9833 OD. That’s my guy.”
He tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat, pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket, and said,
“I have the client in sight.”

A similar two-car accident occurred ten kilometers west of the Toyota–Lada Sputnik collision, bringing traffic on the Gorky Highway to a standstill in both directions.
While the men were busy blocking the road, the truck bound for Odessa smoothly covered several more kilometers and passed the final checkpoint.
In a secluded clearing at the forest’s edge, a young man, not yet twenty sat astride the trunk of a fallen tree. A trendy song blasted from his tape recorder — rapid drumbeats and a pulsing electric guitar underscoring a high-pitched male voice complaining about modern girls:
“I’ll come to her and give her a punch in the left eye.”
As the Ukrainian truck approached, the young man pressed pause, and the singer’s voice died abruptly.
“Then I’ll take off my belt…”
Silence fell.
The sentinel lifted his walkie-talkie.
“Third, come in for Second.”
________________________________________
An old wheeled tractor waited at the junction where the highway met a rural road leading to Yuchmer, screened from Moscow-bound drivers by a dense forest belt. Afghan sat in the cab of the diesel tractor, a radio in his hand.
Anton acknowledged the call at once.
“Second, this is Third. Go ahead.”
“The First has identified the client. He just passed my position,” the voice crackled through the static.
“Copy that. He’s mine.”
Anton slipped the radio into his pocket, started the engine, and steered toward the highway.
The tractor rolled to a stop in the middle of the road. Afghan waved cheerfully at the approaching truck driver and jumped down from the cab.




Chapter Twenty-One. May 17, 1996. Reutov–Balashikha
Late on the evening of May seventeenth, Mamonov sat at his desk, absorbed in routine work. He methodically counted bundles of cash from plastic bags, read the notes attached to them, and recorded the sums delivered by the commanders of the fives in his ledger.
Elephant, his bodyguard, lounged in a nearby armchair, leafing through a battered copy of Playboy while half-listening to the television news.
“In connection with Russia’s entry into the Council of Europe, President Boris Yeltsin has signed a decree initiating a gradual reduction in the use of the death penalty,” the news anchor announced.
Elephant nodded approvingly.
Without looking up from the magazine, he said,
“Did you hear that? The lads will be pleased — Yeltsin just declared a moratorium on executions.”
Vladimir secured an elastic band around another stack of dollars.
“I doubt everyone will celebrate,” he said evenly. “Opinions will split down the middle. Some killers would still choose a bullet to the forehead. Others might prefer to rot in places like Black Dolphin or Polar Owl.”
At that moment, the phone on Vladimir’s desk rang.
Elephant glanced at his boss. After a brief pause, Mamonov gave a slight nod.
The bodyguard picked up the receiver.
“What is it?”
A second later he extended the phone.
“For you, boss.”
“Who is it?” Vladimir asked, raising his eyes.
“Svyat.”
Vladimir snatched the receiver.
“What do you want, you bastard?”
An enraged roar exploded through the line.
“Mamonov, have you completely lost your fear? Why did you plant a bomb near my office? Do you even realize that two counterintelligence colonels were killed while clearing it?”
“You’ve got the wrong idea — and I don’t appreciate your tone,” Vladimir replied calmly. “First, remember who you’re speaking to and show the respect owed to a king’s man. You seem to have forgotten whose hand fed you not so long ago. Second, I had nothing to do with the explosion outside your office. And finally — only one federal officer was torn apart by that bomb. The other is still alive.”
The receiver fell silent for several seconds. Mamonov guessed Svyat had covered the mouthpiece and was conferring with his aides.
Vladimir was about to hang up when Svyat returned to the line.
“I see this can’t be settled over the phone. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at the Gorky Outpost restaurant — one hour before midnight. You’ll answer for everything there. Ignore my invitation, and I’ll inform every regional kingpin that you’re a coward who refuses to answer for his actions.”
“Keep your voice down,”  Mamonov said with a laugh. “I accept your invitation. You’re nothing but a strutting rooster and hardly worthy of respect. Be at the Outpost tomorrow — I’ll show you who truly runs Moscow’s Eastern District.”
Vladimir handed the phone back to Elephant and said thoughtfully,
“Get Afghan here. Now.”

An hour later, Vladimir and Afghan sat on the veranda beneath the balcony. The red disc of the sun brushed the treetops beyond the pond before slowly sinking below the horizon. Mamonov lit a cigar and let the smoke drift through the still air as he considered how to resolve the problem with Svyat once and for all. Meanwhile, Afghan savored a glass of Pavillon de L;oville Poyferr;, recently delivered to Mamonov’s villa from Bordeaux, occupying himself with the wine’s layered taste while watching the tranquil landscape unfold before them.
As the yellow dwarf slipped beneath the horizon, Vladimir finally spoke.
“Can you guess why I called you here?”
“I think so,” Anton replied. “Because of our recent failure.”
“The death of a Lieutenant Colonel from the FSB could cost us dearly. We need to scale back our operations. All second-echelon fighters must leave the Moscow region. Give them the coordinates of our allies in Rostov-on-Don and have them write to me once they arrive. Let the boys lie low in the south until things cool off. I’d do the same here with the rest of our crew, but we have unfinished business. It’s a shame we didn’t finish Svyat on his own turf — but tomorrow, we may get the chance to do it on ours.”
“You’re planning to kill your former deputy in Reutov?” Anton asked.
“The meeting is tomorrow in Balashikha, at the Gorky Outpost restaurant. Go there first thing in the morning and decide where best to position the shooter.”
Afghan shook his head.
“Svyat’s murder will have consequences. The Moscow Central Police Investigation Bureau and the FSB’s Organized Crime Directorate will connect the dots. After the failed bombing of his Moscow office, killing him on our doorstep will make everything obvious.”
Silence settled heavily beneath the balcony. Birds called across the lake; crickets rasped in the nearby grove.
“Here and now,” Mamonov said at last, “I must decide how criminal Russia will remember me — as a ruthless predator or a pimply pickpocket spoken of with contempt. My quiet life in this country house is over. There are more than twenty gangs in the Moscow region alone. At least half would gladly offer protection — maybe even help move money to Europe.”
“Thinking of hiding in Turkey?” Afghan asked.
“That won’t work. The Chechens have taken over Istanbul since their war for independence began. “They’d slit a Russian thief-in-law’s throat,” Mamonov said, drawing his thumb across his own throat from ear to ear. “Without hesitation, if I set foot in their enclave.”
“What about Greece?”
“Rumor says the best Russian hitman — Sasha Soldier — is hiding there. He killed the famous thieves Globe, Gide, and Rambo last year. If someone paid him, he wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate me. Spain or Portugal would be safer.”
At that moment, Mamonov faced the most important decision of his life: retreat and live in disgrace — or strike, placing his gang, his family, and himself on the edge of annihilation.
“It’s decided,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “We take out Svyat and run. I have no choice. Losing face is worse than losing freedom. If I hesitate now, they’ll dethrone me at the next gathering of kingpins, and no one will extend a hand.”
“Do you want Svyat alone — or his entire crew? I can handle his men while you deal with him.”
“I don’t care about him anymore. I asked several times for the auto-parts stores to be returned to my control. He said only what I held before prison was mine — everything he took under his roof belonged to him.
“He forgets that he built his empire with my people. Without them, he’d be nothing. He refused peace — so I’ll erase him, along with every traitor who once served me. Prepare an ambush. Kill everyone who shows up, starting with Svyat.”
Afghan studied him carefully.
“Vladimir, I’m a veteran. I’m used to clear orders. Are you telling me to kill them before you  even talk?”
“Only in Hollywood does the killer explain himself,” Mamonov said impatiently. “Shoot the moment they enter the line of fire. Don’t let them fire first.”
“Yes… in Hollywood they explain it,” Afghan said quietly. “In Bollywood, they sing and dance about it. Boss — you do understand this is a death sentence for both of us?”
“Not anymore. Yeltsin replaced capital punishment with life imprisonment. So don’t piss yourself — if they catch us, we’ll grow old in neighboring cells.”
“I’ll do exactly as you say,” Anton replied.

The Azerbaijani cafeteria’s summer veranda nestled between the glass fa;ade of the Gorky Outpost restaurant and the brick wall of the Miracle Oven bakery. At the back, a tall wooden fence enclosed the space, with a narrow gate leading to a vast parking lot in front of the three establishments.
Six men were seated at three tables along the rear of the teahouse. Mamonov and Elephant occupied one table near the restaurant’s side window. A couple of gangsters sat slightly ahead and to the left, and further along the fence against the bakery wall there were two more.
At 10:50 p.m., three black Land Cruisers rolled into the parking lot. Three muscular men with guns stepped out of the first vehicle, glancing briefly at two empty BMW 5 Series before heading inside. The Gorky Outpost was nearly empty at this hour. The eldest of the gangsters made his way to the washroom, passing four youngsters and girls sipping cocktails at the bar.
Svyat’s bodyguard signaled two assistants at the front door to search the patrons. Within half a minute, the security chief returned from the washroom to the bar, where his men patted down pockets and, it seemed, indulged in groping the girls.
“There’s no one in the washroom,” the elder gangster announced.
One of his men cursed under his breath, “Mamonov, that cowardly piece of shit, didn’t show up.” At that moment, someone tapped metal against the glass.
Mamonov observed the bustling scene inside, twirling a fork absentmindedly in his hand, contemplating the fragility of life.
“Elephant, do you know what the frailty of being is?” he asked.

“I don’t know such smart words,” the bodyguard replied. “Why philosophy all of a sudden?”
“Look at them. They run, they fuss, and they don’t know they have only a few minutes to live. I would like such a sudden, unexpected death myself. Alive one moment, gone the next. No sickness, no suffering, no waiting, no fear,” Mamonov said, tapping the fork handle against the thick window glass.
Svyat’s fighters drew their pistols, moving to knock—but Mamonov, smiling broadly, waved them off with ease.
The trio stepped outside and approached the gate. From deep inside the teahouse, Elephant shouted, “You clowns! Hide your guns!”
As Mamonov’s bodyguards reached for their weapons, Svyat’s men slipped theirs back into holsters, though their hands remained on the grips. Two stayed by the gate, while the third returned to the SUV, lowering the tinted window halfway to reveal Svyat’s face inside.
“What do we have here?” he asked the security chief.
“There are no waiters or patrons inside. Mamonov and his five bulls sit at three tables. About ten meters separate them from the gate. With only the restaurant window for light, accurate shooting is difficult. Mamonov is visible, the rest mostly in shadow. To take them all at once, you’d need to halve the distance,” the bodyguard reported.
“I understand. A conversation with Mamonov is unavoidable,” Svyat said, thoughtful. “Take five more men. When I say, ‘You’re done,’ eliminate the Reutov gang. Focus on Mamonov. Use a full clip if necessary. After that, he’s none of our concern.”
“I will,” the bodyguard replied.
Svyat exited the Toyota and approached the teahouse with six guards. Two of his men remained behind the gate, turning to face the street and covering their leader from any attack from behind. The rest of the group moved toward the entrance.
“Hi, Svyat,” Vladimir said warmly as the visitor stepped into the harsh fluorescent light spilling from the restaurant windows.

Without a sound, the wooden planks of the summer veranda fence slid sideways, and the black flash suppressor of an AK-47 emerged through the gap.
Svyat had not yet answered Mamonov’s greeting when Vladimir added quietly:
“I’ll see you in Hell.”
The barrel jerked, and a burst of tracer rounds tore through Svyat and his bodyguards. Within seconds, nine young men lay scattered across the dusty concrete.
Mamonov turned toward the gate.
“We’re leaving.”
“Vladimir,” Elephant called from four paces behind him. “Some of them are still moving. Shall I finish them off?”
The thief-in-law turned, pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, and grinned.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He stepped over the dead and wounded, making sure that anyone still clinging to life did not remain so for long.
A lone shooter in camouflage rose from the grass, briefly silvered by the moon beneath a cloudless sky, then slipped into the forest and vanished.
________________________________________
Chapter Twenty-Two. May 17, 1996
The Moscow–Petushki suburban train pulled into Reutov station precisely at midnight. A few passengers stepped down from the cars, trudging wearily toward the station square. Locals skirted puddles, casting uneasy glances at the thunderclouds drifting overhead. Each wondered the same thing: had the storm passed, or was it merely gathering strength before breaking loose with thunder, violent gusts, and torrential rain?
Meanwhile, four young gangsters were returning from a successful raid on retail outlets in Novogireevo, an eastern Moscow microdistrict. After collecting tribute from seven auto parts stores and two tire shops, the racketeers strolled along the platform, casually discussing the evening’s take.
Alex, the boss’s favorite, carried the weapon — a role racketeers called being the “mule.” He walked three paces ahead of the group, a medium-sized gym bag slung over his shoulder. Ten paces behind them followed the gang’s leader, a forty-year-old woman recently released after serving time for shoplifting.
It had been Afghan’s idea to employ female criminals as cash couriers. He had advised Mamonov to use inconspicuous middle-aged women to transport money, believing they attracted far less attention.
As the group approached the station square, Alex noticed two patrol cars parked beside the minibus waiting for them.
“Fuck,” he muttered in English, casting a gloomy look toward Dan, who stood near the concrete stairs. A dark premonition settled over him — an encounter with the police at this hour promised nothing good.
One of the patrol cars rolled forward and blocked Alex’s path.
The three older gang members tried to slip past both Alex and the officers, but the sergeant fixed them with a hard stare.
“Take it easy, boys. ID checks apply to you as well.”
They stopped.
A woman in a raincoat walked around the group and headed toward Dan.
“Good evening, lad,” the sergeant said politely.
“Good evening, Comrade Sergeant.”
“Where are you headed?” the officer asked, watching closely for the fear young offenders often failed to hide.
“Home.”
The sergeant nodded toward the men behind him.
“Are you together?”
Sergey answered at once, “We don’t know him. Saw him on the train.”
“Let me see your documents,” the patrolman ordered.
“I’m under sixteen. I don’t have an ID yet.”
The sergeant studied the boy coldly, then stepped toward the trio.
“And yours?”
“Our IDs are at home,” Sergey replied for all of them.
The sergeant glanced at his patrolmen.
“Well, the evening just got more interesting. Looks like we have a reason to bring these travelers in for identification.”
“It’ll be a fine excuse to grab some supper at the station,” one of the officers added.
The sergeant turned back to Alex.
“What’s in the bag?”
“My sports gear,” Alex answered steadily, betraying none of the anxiety tightening inside him. “Sneakers, a T-shirt, underwear, a towel, and a washcloth.”
“Put the bag on the ground and step back,” the sergeant ordered, turning to one of the patrolmen. “Hand me your Kalashnikov and check the bag.”
The officer passed over the rifle, knelt in front of the bag, and reached inside.
Keeping his eyes on the young men, the sergeant asked impatiently, “Well? What’s in there? Anything prohibited?”
“At the bottom of the bag there are two pistols wrapped in a terry towel and a couple of electric cattle prods in plastic bags,” the patrolman replied.
The sergeant raised his assault rifle and barked, “Everyone on the ground — now! Faces down, hands behind your heads.”
The boys reluctantly stretched out on the rain-soaked platform. Without taking his eyes off them, the sergeant called to the driver of the second patrol car:
“Anatoliy, do you copy?”
“Yes. What’s going on?” the radio crackled.
Irritated by the blunt question, the sergeant growled into the handset, “Don’t argue. Find two witnesses and get over to the station stairs.”
Sergey lifted his head slightly. “Why are we lying on the asphalt? We’ve never even seen this kid before.”
The sergeant ignored him. Instead, he dropped to one knee on Alex’s back and told the patrolman, “Cuff the three of them. I’ll handle this one.”
Then he aimed the rifle at Sergey.
“Open your mouth again and I’ll smash your skull with the butt of this AK.”
The patrolman zipped Alex’s bag and carried out the order. When the two privates began escorting the trio toward the stairs, the sergeant sprang off Alex’s back, seized the collar of his leather jacket, and hauled him upright.
The scene unfolding on the platform drew the attention of half a dozen curious passengers who had just stepped off the suburban train, along with a knot of teenagers. Among the onlookers near the stairs stood Dan and the cashier, silent and motionless.
As soon as the accomplices were handcuffed, the gang’s leader murmured to Dan, “Now we have a problem. Afghan must hear about this immediately.” She turned and walked slowly toward the minibus waiting nearby.
The patrolmen marched the detainees onto the station square, where an elderly couple already waited beside the police vehicles as attesting witnesses.
“Good evening, citizens,” the sergeant called, introducing himself. “We need you to observe the search of a bag belonging to one of these four individuals and serve as witnesses.”
Sergey could not hold back any longer.
“Wait, Comrade Sergeant — I’m telling you, it isn’t our bag.”
In a flash of temper, the sergeant swung the rifle, driving the butt toward the youngster’s forehead. Sergey barely managed to shield himself with his hands.
“Petrov,” the sergeant ordered coldly, “empty the bag onto the asphalt.”
With a swift motion, the officer inverted the bag and spilled its contents before the witnesses.
“As you can see,” the sergeant declared, “two nine-millimeter pistols wrapped in a towel and two electric cattle prods in plastic bags. Any objections? Any questions?”
The man, about seventy, shook his head. “No questions. I recognize the pistols — never seen devices like those, though. But if you say they came out of the bag, I’ll confirm it.”
“Good enough,” the sergeant said with a nod. “Petrov, record the witnesses’ names and addresses.”
Turning back to the couple, he added, “Please report to the city police department on Victory Square tomorrow at eight. Tell the duty officer you’re the station witnesses.”
Petrov jotted down the information, and the couple departed.
The sergeant then seated the detainees in pairs inside the patrol cars, tossed Alex’s bag onto the passenger-side floor, slid behind the wheel, and pulled away. The second vehicle followed close behind.
As the patrol cars disappeared into the night, Dan’s minibus idled quietly, its diesel engine humming while the gang’s cashier sat inside.
The police brought the four detainees to the station shortly after midnight. A duty officer stepped out of his office into the lobby to meet them.
“What did these boys do?” he asked.
Instead of answering, the sergeant took the bag from Petrov, opened it, and angled it toward the officer so he could see the weapons.
“I see,” the captain sighed.
He unlocked the barred door of the temporary holding cell — an iron enclosure installed right in the lobby — and gestured inside.
“Welcome to the monkey cage, boys.”
An average-built man in jeans and a blazer entered the department lobby just as the patrolman removed the detainees’ handcuffs.
“Good night, Detective,” the sergeant greeted him. “My patrol picked up four suspected racketeers at the station.”
The duty officer retreated to his office and observed the exchange through the thick glass.
“Report in detail where, why, and under what circumstances you detained them,” the detective ordered.
“At midnight, that kid over there”—the sergeant pointed to Alex—“got off the Moscow train carrying this bag. We stopped him for an ID check. Since he had no documents, I searched his belongings and found two nine-millimeter pistols and a couple of stun guns. We brought in witnesses and searched the bag again in their presence.”
“And what do those three have to do with it?” the detective asked, nodding toward the others.
“They were walking right behind him. At the station they denied knowing him, but I’m certain they were lying.”
“Why don’t you trust them?” The detective already knew the answer but wanted to test the sergeant’s instincts.
“Because that youngster looks like a weapon mule for older criminals. Two pistols and two stun guns — one for each member of a four-man crew,” the sergeant replied, passing the test.
“Did you instruct the witnesses to report here in the morning?”
Patrolman Petrov stepped from behind the sergeant, pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, tore out a page, and handed it to the detective.
“This is their information,” the sergeant added. “I told them to be here by eight. They agreed.”
“Write the detention report immediately,” the detective said.
“Yes, sir.”
The detective lifted Alex’s bag from the floor and turned to the duty officer.
“Gennady, bring the kid to my office in five minutes — and call the duty detectives.”
He disappeared behind a door bearing a metal plaque:
Acting Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, Captain Erokhin.
The duty officer dialed a number, spoke briefly, then reluctantly approached the holding cage.
Captain Erokhin was a little over forty — broad-shouldered, solid, with the first hints of heaviness around the waist. Spreading the bag’s contents across his desk, he slipped on thin rubber gloves. After inspecting the pistols, he removed the magazines, locked them in a drawer, and checked the chambers.
A moment later, Alex entered with the duty captain, his hands cuffed behind his back. The captain guided the boy to a chair opposite the desk.
Erokhin pulled up his own chair and nodded to the officer.
“Thank you, Gennady. I’ll take it from here.”
When the door closed, the detective fixed his gaze on the boy.
“Name. Patronymic. Surname. Year of birth. Address.”
“Alexander Georgievich Mikheev. Born in 1980. No permanent address,” the young man replied.
Erokhin wrote down the details.
“A pity you can’t provide an address,” the detective said evenly. “It suggests our heart-to-heart has gone wrong from the very start.”
“I’m telling the truth, sir. I’m homeless. I was on the train to Pavlovsky Posad to visit a friend — planned to spend the night there.” His voice trembled, almost breaking. “At Novogireevo, one stop before Reutov, I saw three drunk men leave the carriage. They’d abandoned a bag under the seat. I took their place and stole it. I never even opened it.”
Erokhin knew the boy was lying, but he preferred to let him sink deeper into his own story.
“That may be,” he said calmly, “but if you were headed for Pavlovsky Posad, why get off in Reutov? How did we earn such good fortune?”
“Curiosity got the better of me,” Alex answered quickly, a flicker of energy returning to his voice. “I couldn’t wait to see what was inside the bag.”

This was Alex’s first encounter with a police detective, and so far he seemed to be holding his own. The man across the desk looked older than Alex’s father, yet Alex felt he was deceiving him successfully. Sensing momentum, he pressed on.
“I wanted to look inside the bag,” he said evenly, “but I didn’t want to attract the attention of the other passengers. I figured I’d find a quiet corner in your town and go through it there. Had I known there were guns inside, I would’ve moved to another car and never touched it.”
Erokhin turned slightly toward the desk.
“Did you rehearse that story,” he asked, “or are you improvising?”
“What is the address of this friend in Pavlovsky Posad?”
“My friend Victor lives on Herzen Street. I don’t remember the building number — he always met me at the station. But there was an auto parts shop on the ground floor… just a second… Capital-Auto.”
Alex knew the chain well; its stores dotted the entire Eastern District, including one in Pavlovsky Posad. He had stepped inside only once, yet the name and location had stuck. In his mind he pictured a twelve-story slab with eight entrances. Eight multiplied by six apartments per landing — over five hundred flats.
Grinding his teeth inwardly, he thought:
There has to be at least one Victor my age. Send a detective — he’ll be knocking on doors until morning.
What Alex failed to grasp was how thorough — and how relentless — the machinery of law enforcement could be.
“Let’s assume you’re telling the truth,” Erokhin said with a slow nod. “Now think carefully before you answer. Do you know the boys sitting in the monkey house?”
“No.” Alex didn’t hesitate. “They must’ve been behind me on the train. I saw them for the first time on the platform, when the sergeant ordered us face-down into the puddles.”
“Alright,” the detective said. “I’ll check.”
He lifted the receiver and dialed.
After two long beeps, the duty officer in Pavlovsky Posad answered.
“Good evening. Interim head of criminal investigations, Captain Erokhin, Reutov. Who’s on duty?”
“Captain Ravgaliev.”
“Still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
A click.
“Marat, Erokhin here… Yes, still alive — and working nights. Listen, I’ve got a boy in front of me claiming his friend Victor lives in the building with the Capital-Auto store. Didn’t you used to head Juvenile? Even better. Tell me — is there a problem kid named Victor in that building? … Thought so. Thank you.”
Erokhin replaced the receiver with deliberate care and studied Alex through narrowed eyes.
“Oh, you’re clever,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen every trick there is, son. You’re not the first to try your luck with me — and you won’t be the first whose luck runs out. One way or another, I always get the truth.”
Alex felt his pulse hammering in his throat but forced his face into a mask of dull confusion.
“Let’s try again,” Erokhin said, leaning forward until Alex could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. “Tell me the truth, and you might spare yourself a great deal of pain. Who were those boys at the station? What were you planning to do with the weapons?”
“I swear, I don’t know them,” Alex said, letting a tremor enter his voice. “I’ve never seen them before. And I had no idea there were guns in the bag — I just thought I could sell whatever was inside.”
“Sell it?” One eyebrow rose. “You expect me to believe that? You’re hardly the innocent type, Alex Mikheev. I’ve got a file on you. You’ve been mixed up in things before.”
It was a bluff.
No criminal case existed. Despite the FSB’s suspicions about a teenager from Reutov connected to the “Swiss watch” affair, neither Major Loboda nor Colonel Baranov had ever passed his name to the local police.
But Alex couldn’t know that.
Whether the detective was lying or working from informants, silence felt safer than risk. The pause stretched — less than a minute, yet long enough for Erokhin’s patience to fray.
The boy wasn’t bending.
Time for pressure.
Without breaking eye contact, Erokhin reached for the electric cattle prod lying on the table. His thumb hovered over the discharge switch — then pressed.
The strike landed beneath Alex’s right ribs.
White agony tore through his body, just below the liver. A scream ripped from his throat before he could stop it; his muscles seized, locking, twisting. The chair toppled as he crashed onto the floor.
For several seconds Erokhin simply watched — head tilted, expression curious, almost clinical — as if observing a specimen rather than a human being.

When Alex finally went still, the detective bent over him, jaw tight, breath heavy with irritation.
“Listen carefully, asshole,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “Every time you lie to me, I’ll give you nine hundred thousand volts. Consider this a humane warning. Next time, I’ll send the current through your groin. You’ll be impotent for the rest of your life. Do you understand?”
Alex didn’t answer. He kept his eyes closed, pretending the words never reached him.
The pain was unlike anything he had ever known. Even though the time a bottle had been smashed over his head during a restaurant brawl seemed trivial now. Back then he had blacked out almost instantly — blood everywhere, yes, but the pain itself had been dull, manageable, like a split eyebrow after a boxing match.
This was different.
The electricity did not fade. It burrowed into the muscles, locked them, stretched the seconds into something shapeless and eternal.
So, this is what they do, he thought dimly. Not beat you — dismantle you.
Gradually, sensation crept back into his limbs. His body responded in reluctant fragments.
Erokhin removed the handcuffs and forced him upright in the chair.
Alex lifted his head slowly, arranging his face into the blank, wounded expression of an innocent victim of police brutality.
The door opened. Two men in their early thirties stepped inside.
Erokhin glanced at them.
“Morning, guys. Sorry to drag you out of bed. Gennadiy brief you?”
“He did,” one of the detectives replied.
“Take the three detainees to your offices. Find out who the guns belong to — and don’t worry about procedure. This one lies too smoothly; he’s rehearsed. And he’s too small to fire with both hands, which means the weapons are someone else’s. I want names. However, you get them.”
“By morning, we’ll beat it out of them,” the second detective said matter-of-factly.
The men left.
Erokhin had just begun finishing the interrogation report when the phone rang.
He picked up immediately.
“Captain Erokhin.”
As he listened, his expression hardened.
“Where exactly?... How many victims?... Understood. Tell every patrol unit to move toward the shooting. And get the duty forensic officer out of bed — now.”
He hung up, rose from his chair, and seized Alex by the arm, hauling him to his feet.
They stepped into the lobby. Without ceremony, Erokhin shoved the disheveled teenager into the holding pen — the so-called monkey house.
Through the dusty window of the duty office, he caught Gennady watching.
Disapproval needed no words.
Erokhin noticed it — and dismissed it.
Duty officers always judge, he thought. To them it looks ugly: a forty-year-old detective dragging a half-conscious kid through the station after a night of questioning.
His mouth tightened.
If they saw what these young bastards do to their victims, they’d sleep easier knowing I was the one asking the questions.
Alex dragged his feet, exaggerating the collapse of his body, letting his knees buckle at the right moments. By the time he reached the wooden bench, he dropped onto it heavily and stared straight ahead, glassy-eyed.
Erokhin’s assistants soon returned with the other detainees and sat them on the opposite bench.
“Wait here,” Erokhin said with a thin smile. “We’ll continue when we get back.”
A sleepy man in civilian clothes emerged from the corridor, a small kit bag dangling from his hand — the forensic specialist.
After a brief exchange, the four men headed out into the night.
The station fell quiet.
Only the humming fluorescent lights remained — and the slow, uneven breathing of the boys behind the bars.

Chapter Twenty-three. May 18, 1996
The moment the front door slammed shut behind them, Alex slid off the bench and collapsed onto the floor, a low moan escaping his lips.
Sergey dropped to his knees beside him.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Alex whispered, barely audible. “I told the cop I found the bag in a train car… but he didn’t believe me. Used an electric prod. Right under the ribs.”
“What a bastard,” Sergey muttered.
“Forget him. I need to get out of here,” Alex breathed, fighting for air. His eyes flickered toward the others. “Just play along.”
“Guys!” Sergey shouted. “Something’s seriously wrong with him!”
“Hey, watchdog!” a third detainee barked toward the duty office. “Your detective zapped the kid. He looks like he’s dying!”
Gennady turned sharply to his assistant.
“Call an ambulance. We can’t have the boy dying on our watch. Try explaining that later — Erokhin will say he left him alive, and we failed to notice he was half-dead.”
The duty officer approached the holding cage.
“Help him up. Bring him to the door.”
The accomplices hauled Alex to his feet and dragged him toward the bars.
“Can you stand?” the officer asked.
“Barely.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Under the ribs… on the right.”
“Show me.”
Alex lifted his shirt and touched the burn with trembling fingers.
“A sharp… cutting pain. Right here.”
At that moment the lobby door burst open. A paramedic carrying a worn medical bag stepped inside, followed by a doctor with a stethoscope draped around his neck. Both wore white coats pinned with small Red Cross badges.
The doctor looked at the captain.
“What have we got?”
“Sharp pain in the right hypochondrium,” Gennady replied.
Without hesitation, the doctor entered the cage. He raised Alex’s shirt and examined the burn — swollen, angry, roughly the size of a chicken egg. His brows knitted as he shot a cold glance at the duty officer before gently pressing the reddened skin.
Pain exploded through Alex. He clenched his jaw but couldn’t suppress a cry louder than he intended.
“It’s possible the gallbladder has ruptured,” the doctor said grimly. “He needs a hospital. Immediately.”
“Oh really?” Gennady sneered. “Never knew special equipment could cause such dramatic consequences.”
The doctor straightened.
“There’s a difference between applying a device that leaves two harmless marks and driving a cattle prod into someone’s ribs. You’re looking at a deep subcutaneous bruise layered over a burn. By tomorrow he’ll have a hematoma the size of a fist.”
The officer hesitated, then waved toward the duty window.
“Sign the detainee register and take him.”
Then to his assistant:
“Sergeant — the journal.”
As the doctor filled out the form, the duty officer added casually,
“We’ll send an investigator to the hospital in the morning. Assuming he doesn’t run.”
“Not in this condition,” the doctor replied, unable to hide his contempt. “The medical center is two minutes away. You could drive him yourselves.”
“We might,” the captain said flatly. “All vehicles are out.”
“Something serious happening in the city?”
“You’ll find out soon.”
________________________________________
Behind the reception desk at the medical center sat a nurse of about forty. Only her head and shoulders were visible above the glass partition. Soft waves of hair brushed the pale green straps beneath the collar of her white coat, and an ornate script on the breast pocket read:
Olga Ostapenko.
She spoke onto the phone while jotting notes into the night log.
They were not alone.
Under a poster of the muscular and skeletal systems sat a woman with a darkening black eye, pressing a blood-soaked handkerchief to her nose and muttering curses.
Nearby, an unshaven older man occupied another chair beneath a chart of internal organs, holding a wad of cotton to a split scalp.
The bell above the entrance chimed.
Olga looked up.
The doctor stepped inside, guiding a pale blond boy through the doors.

“Alex, have a seat here while we handle the paperwork,” the doctor said, taking in the disarray before heading toward the front desk.
Alex lowered himself into the first chair by the door, one arm wrapped protectively around his right side.
“Olga, my dear,” the doctor called out lightly, “are you aware that a pair of misfits have taken up residence in your kingdom?”
Without looking up from the phone, Olga replied quietly, “Father and daughter. Domestic fight. We patched them up, but they refuse to leave. Started demanding opioids. I told them to get lost — opiates aren’t for vagrants — yet here they are.”
The doctor nodded. “I see. Then please take care of this handsome young man allegedly injured by the authorities. I suspect a ruptured gallbladder.”
“Vasiliy, wait,” the nurse said, covering the receiver. “I don’t have time for charming boys tonight. There’s been a bloody shootout on the outskirts — four dead, two critical with gunshot wounds, three more barely hanging on after multiple stabbings. We’re desperate for blood. At least four gallons. I’ve called everyone I can, but no one is eager to come in. Can your patient wait?”
“He can,” the ambulance doctor agreed, “but the surgeon should see him as soon as possible. He may need a laparoscopy.”
“God help you, Vasiliy,” Olga muttered grimly. “The only surgeon capable of that is the head of department — and his schedule is booked a month out.”
“Well, Olga, I happen to know you’re having an affair with him,” the doctor said with a crooked smile. “So make it happen.”
“That affair is ancient history.”
“Then perhaps I should apply for the vacancy?” the fifty-five-year-old womanizer teased.
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” Olga shot back. “His place has long been taken by a handsome, fearless thirty-year-old Afghan war veteran.”
At that moment, the ambulance nurse burst into the emergency room.
“Doc,” he interrupted, “dispatch is sending us to Eastern Highway, Building Three. Tanya says all units are to report to the Gorky Outpost restaurant immediately.”
The doctor smiled at Olga. “Looks like we’re heading to that gang shootout you mentioned. Don’t forget to log the young man.”
Olga gave him a thumbs-up and returned to her notes as Vasiliy and the nurse hurried out.
Passing Alex, the doctor briefly squeezed his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said in English. “Everything will be all right.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Alex answered in the same language. “I’m counting on it.”
Moments after they left, the emergency room doors slammed open again. Orderlies rushed in with one wounded man, then another close behind. The nurse on duty immediately began calling for doctors, nurses, anyone available.
Within minutes, the room flooded with medics — and with the gravely wounded members of Svyat’s brigade. Stretchers rattled across the floor as bodies were transferred onto examination tables. Staff moved with mechanical urgency: some patients were wheeled toward the operating theaters in fragile hope of survival, others toward the morgue.
Faced with the spreading nightmare, the father and daughter who had been quarreling only an hour earlier slipped quietly out of the room.
Soon after, Alex rose as well — and just as discreetly walked out.
________________________________________
An ambulance tore eastward along Gorky Highway. With the driver focused on the road, the nurse finally gave in to his curiosity.
“Vasiliy… I didn’t understand a word you said to that boy.”
“There was nothing remarkable about it,” the weary doctor replied. “I told him not to worry — that everything would be fine. He thanked me and said he believed it.”
“Why English?”
“I wanted to be sure I was helping a smart boy,” the doctor said after a pause, “and not a piece of trash.”
“And now? Convinced?”
The doctor nodded slowly.
“More than convinced.”

The distance between Central City Hospital and Alex’s grandmother’s house in Old Kosino was no more than four kilometers — a stretch he meant to cover in under half an hour. For the first ten minutes he ran along Lenin Street without incident.
Rain slicked the asphalt, turning the deserted central road into a dim ribbon of reflected light. As he ran, Alex mapped out his next moves, weaving through the narrow avenues of trees that separated the roadway from the sidewalk.
I can’t stay in Reutov — not with my fingerprints all over the Walther. Once the police catch me, I’m looking at real time. Even if Mamonov hides me with Lipchansky, the Kuntsevo boss, it’ll only postpone the inevitable. No… I can’t stay in Reutov. I can’t even stay in Russia.
Near the intersection with Karl Marx Street, he noticed the only other soul on the road — a middle-aged man dragging along a dirty white lapdog. When the animal burst into sharp, hysterical barking, the man jerked the leash and grumbled:
“Do your business and let’s go home.”
Alex did not slow down.
The Moscow rail line split Reutov into northern and southern halves. The police station and the hospital stood on the northern side; the train station waited on the southern. Tonight, Alex was heading toward Kosino — one of the oldest settlements in the Moscow region, nestled between three lakes just beyond South Reutov. An underground passage connected the two parts of the town.
He descended into it at a run.
Twenty meters ahead, three policemen moved through the tunnel, their gray patrol uniforms rendered almost black beneath the dying neon lights.
Alex reacted instantly — a fighter’s reflex. He slipped sideways and flattened himself behind a pharmacy kiosk, stopping just short of stepping fully into the light.
The stripes keep changing, he thought. White, black. A good score — then arrest. Escape — and now this. The same cops who hauled me in two hours ago.
He pressed his shoulder against the cold wall, listening to their footsteps recede.
My life looks like a zebra’s back.
A crooked smile touched his lips.
The question is — am I running toward the zebra’s head or its tail? Toward life… or straight into the asshole?
Ahead, Sergeant Petrov lowered his voice.
“Comrade Sergeant.”
“What is it?” the senior patrolman asked without turning.
Keeping pace beside him, Petrov leaned closer.
“When I glanced back, I saw someone coming down the stairs behind us. Looked like the guy we arrested before midnight.”
The sergeant cast a quick look over his shoulder. The tunnel was empty.
“Unlikely,” he muttered. “The teenage bandit should be cooling off in the monkey house by now. Still… if someone is there, he’s hiding behind that kiosk with the aspirin and condoms. Which means he’s avoiding us.”
He kept walking.
“If we double back, he’ll bolt up the stairs and vanish. Better let him think we didn’t notice. We’ll set a trap in the station square and take him with the patrol jeep.”
At that moment, a freight train thundered past overhead, its roar swallowing the sound of their boots on the stairs.
Alex cautiously leaned out from behind the kiosk.
Empty.
He followed with elastic, measured steps — like a boxer circling an opponent — already calculating angles and exits.
If they’re waiting near the ticket hall stairs, I sprint back into the passage. If they cut me off there, I push forward to the square. Either way — they’re not taking me. I just can’t miss their move.
Outside, the sergeant and his partners concealed themselves behind the corrugated metal wall of a bus stop, shielding themselves from both the wind and curious eyes.
Inside the ticket hall, Alex moved carefully, scanning the vast waiting area.
Only one person was there — an elderly cleaning woman methodically sweeping candy wrappers and fruit peels from beneath long rows of plywood benches.
The fugitive approached the massive entrance doors and pressed his ear against the cold surface.
Silence.
Ready… set… go.
With a violent kick, he flung the door open and exploded into motion, sprinting along the station building and down October Street toward the Park of Culture and Rest — the park that bore the name of his hometown.
The patrol had not expected aggression.
For a split second they froze, stunned by the sight of the young gangster — recently arrested with a firearm and supposedly locked behind bars — bursting into the open like a shell.
The sergeant recovered first.
“After him, you idiots!!”

Petrov and his partner slung their short-barreled rifles over their backs and ran after Alex, straight through a large flower bed that encircled the station square, providing circular movement within the area.

The sergeant barked into the radio, "Anatoliy! Rush to the bus stop."

The yellow Jeep with the blue stripe screeched to a halt in front of the sergeant.

The sergeant jumped into the passenger seat and shouted, "Speed up along South Street until Jubilee Avenue, then turn left. Stop at the park exit."
"There are three exits from the park. Which one do you mean?" the driver asked.
"The one closest to South Street," replied the sergeant.

The Jeep sped off.

"Should I use the siren?" Anatoliy asked as he accelerated to ninety kilometers per hour on an empty street.
The sergeant gripped the vertical handrail on the door frame of the passenger seat and snapped, "Don't be stupid!"
Anatoliy grinned, "Are you afraid of civilian complaints for interrupting their peaceful sleep?"
"I don't give a damn about their dreams," the sergeant replied angrily. "It appears our fugitive is quite clever. I've encountered him twice today. I don't want him to know we're chasing him."

As they approached the park's exit, the police Jeep stopped ten meters away from a pedestrian crossing. The driver couldn't believe what he had heard, "Are we pursuing the same kid that we caught with the guns and shockers?"
The sergeant shrugged in confusion and replied, "Yes, that's him. We spotted this suspect in an underpass and considered arresting him at the square, but as he left the terminal, he rushed into the park. I'm completely baffled. How did he manage to escape from the police department? Why aren't his accomplices with him? He had three of them."

Alex sped up towards the park at the same pace he usually does before training in the ring. He could not hear his pursuers' footsteps as the wind rustled in his ears.
Two patrolmen ran after him, but soon Alex was out of their sight. The last time Petrov saw him, Alex had turned from the church's trampled path onto Commune Street, but when policemen arrived at the church, he was gone. The policemen on the run adjusted their assault rifles behind their backs as the boy ran along Commune Street, turned left, and headed to the artificial pond at the Winter Skating Rink.
In the Reutovo central park, the winding paths created an enchanting maze, meandering between tall, human-sized bushes that swayed gently in the breeze. Those bushes, with their dark green foliage, seemed to have a life of their own, as if whispering secrets about Alex's location to each other. The branches of majestic pines and graceful larches stretched out like arms, forming a natural curtain behind the fugitive's back.

For those who wished to vanish into anonymity or evade prying eyes, the park offered a haven of seclusion. Its abundant vegetation became a sanctuary, where one could easily slip away and disappear among the foliage. The rustling leaves and softly swaying branches created a sense of tranquility and secrecy, making it much easier to conceal oneself than to be found.

Five minutes after Alex had vanished, Petrov and his partner rushed onto Jubilee Avenue.
The sergeant stepped out of the Jeep and approached them, asking, "Have you lost the fugitive?"
"That's right, comrade sergeant," Petrov replied. "The last time we saw him, he turned toward this exit. Would you like to return to the park and continue the search?"
"I don't think it's worth the time. He could be anywhere by now. Get in the Jeep; we're heading back to the station. Don't say a word about how we saw him," the sergeant replied, poking a finger into Petrov's chest, and adding, "Otherwise, the authorities will blame us for his escape.”

The half-hour after Alex managed to shake off his pursuers, he knocked on grandma's window frame.
Spotting her grandson in the glow of the streetlamp, grandma hurried to the front door to let him in.
A woman who was used to Alex's late-night returns wasted no time asking, "What happened? Where are your keys?"
"They're at the police station," Alex replied as he entered the kitchen, shoes still on.
Concern evident in her eyes, grandma inquired, "Have you eaten yet?"
“Nah… food can wait. I need a drink more than anything,” Alex muttered, bending over the sink and gulping water straight from the tap. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Last night was a merry-go-round — collecting tribute from stall owners in Izmailovo, an hour in a police cell, twenty minutes in a hospital… and now I’m here.”
Leaning both palms on the back of a chair, his grandmother studied him carefully.
“How did you end up behind bars?”
“They grabbed me at Reutovo station — me and three of the guys. Found two pistols in my bag,” Alex said evenly. “While a detective was working me over, a shootout erupted nearby. Every officer ran for it. I didn’t waste the chance.”
“And the hospital?”
Without a word, Alex lifted his shirt. An angry burn marked his side.
“The investigator used a cattle prod. When he left for the shooting, I staged a collapse. They hauled me to the hospital. It was pandemonium — wounded everywhere, the dead coming in faster than the living. No one noticed when I slipped out.”
She absorbed this in silence, then asked quietly:
“What name did you give them?”
“Alex Mikheev. Just as you taught me.”
Daria shook her head.
“That won’t save you. If they’ve marked you once, they’ll search patiently… and they will find you.”
Alex cursed under his breath.
“Sergey is still at the station. He knows who I really am — Zafiros.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before the detectives know as well,” she said.
He set a pan on the stove and lit the burner. The small domestic sound — the click of flame — felt strangely fragile after everything he had described.
Daria disappeared into the next room and returned with an envelope.
“My cousin lives in Livny, in the Oryol region. He can arrange new documents.”
Alex stared at the letter but did not take it.
“What about revenge, Granny? You said those bastards must answer.”
“Revenge is a dish that does not spoil,” she replied softly. “Do not throw your life away chasing it — but do not forgive, either.”
Her voice faltered for the first time.
“I buried my daughter. That grief is mine to carry. Yours is to live… and to continue our bloodline.”
Alex lowered his eyes, wrestling with something unspoken.
“I’m not going to Livny. I won’t spend my life hiding. One day I’ll leave Russia — go to America, like my father dreamed. Maybe not tomorrow… but soon.”
“Who will help you? How will you cross the border?” she asked, fear tightening her voice.
“There’s a man in Odessa who owes me. He’ll pay for the journey.”
Alex met her gaze, his expression hardening.
“And he will answer for what happened to my parents.”
Daria nodded slowly.
“If this is your road, I won’t stand in the way. But you have no proper papers. How do you plan to travel?”
“My Athlete Qualification Book — the boxing one. It has my photograph and the club seal. Right now, it’s the closest thing I have to an identity.”
“Where is it?”
“In the coach’s office.”
She glanced at the dark window.
“It’s too late to call on anyone.”
“I won’t call. I can open the club and his office in minutes. Those books are usually left on his desk.”
He went to his room and packed quickly. When he returned with the backpack slung over one shoulder, the house already felt emptier — as though his departure had begun before he stepped outside.
At the door, Daria asked the question she had been holding back:
“Will we see each other again?”
“I intend to live,” he said after a pause. “But while even one of my parents’ killers walks this earth, I will know no rest. I’ll stay in Europe, learn what I must… and then I’ll come back.”
She searched his face, memorizing it.
“I will survive,” he continued more quietly. “The hope of seeing you again will be reason enough.”
A shadow crossed his features.
“I still regret stopping the train guard from shooting Afghan last autumn. One less piece of filth in the world.”
He reached for the latch, then hesitated.
“You once told me it’s wiser to use another man’s hands for revenge. Maybe. But if Afghan dies without knowing why… it won’t ease what’s inside me. He must understand before he pays.”
Outside, the night smelled of wet earth and cooling rain.
Daria walked him to the gate and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Her lips trembled against his cheek.
“I curse fate for letting me outlive my daughter,” she whispered. “Yet I thank God for the six months He gave me with you.”
“I’ll never forget you, Granny.”
He turned before she could answer and strode down the dark street toward Reutov without looking back.
Only when his figure dissolved into the night did Daria allow herself to weep.

Chapter Twenty-Four. May 18–22, 1996
Sometime between seven and half past seven that morning, Captain Erokhin, his detectives, the forensic team, and the city police chief returned to the station.
The detectives and crime-scene technicians peeled off toward their offices without a word. Colonel Nosov paused briefly beside the monkey house, glanced through the bars at the half-asleep detainees, then strode into the duty officer’s room.
Only minutes earlier, Gennady had allowed himself a fragile hope — that the chief might be delayed by the night’s firefight. Perhaps he would linger in some woman’s bed, take an unhurried shower, shave, eat a proper breakfast, and only then remember his department.
Gennady imagined handing over the watch to the next shift, driving back to his bachelor apartment in Balashikha, pouring a heavy glass of Stolichnaya, and collapsing into dreamless sleep.
But luck, it seemed, had chosen another favorite that morning.
Alex was sleeping peacefully on the upper berth of a compartment carriage, the train carrying him from Moscow toward Odessa — farther with every passing minute from the men now destined to answer for his escape.
The reckoning, as always, began with the duty officer.
From behind the thick glass separating the holding area from the lobby, Sergey and his two companions watched with dull curiosity as Nosov tore into Gennady. The colonel spoke in a low voice, yet his language was vivid enough to carry through the partition.
Nosov stepped into the Duty Unit — a cramped room with two battered desks, a safe stuffed with reports, and an iron door leading to the weapons locker.
“Get the hell out,” he barked at the assistant sergeant.
The sergeant vanished instantly.
Nosov fixed Gennady with a stare.
“Why wasn’t I informed about the fugitive last night?”
“I believed the mass shooting took priority over a teenager with minor injuries,” the captain replied carefully.
Nosov’s face darkened.
“Do you think with your ass, Captain? Or have you pickled your brain in vodka?”
He jabbed a finger toward the floor for emphasis.
“How exactly does a gang shootout in Balashikha threaten this department? Let the Moscow bandits slaughter each other — it’s none of my concern. But one wounded boy, injured by one of my lead detectives? That is precisely the kind of disaster that ends careers.”
His voice dropped, turning colder.
“Because of this, every one of us — you, Erokhin, and me — could be thrown out without a pension. Stripped of rank. Finished. Do you grasp that?”
“I do, Comrade Colonel. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t save you,” Nosov snapped. “And you’re far from the only one responsible.”
He paused.
“Is the head of the duty unit in the building?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel. He arrived about five minutes before you.”
“Send him to my office.”
The colonel spun on his heel and marched out.
________________________________________
Before going upstairs, Nosov stopped at Erokhin’s office.
He didn’t sit.
Instead, he looked down at the detective with quiet menace.
“Were you aware,” he began softly, “that your prime suspect — the one carrying firearms — escaped from the hospital?”
Erokhin’s jaw tightened.
“I am now, Comrade Colonel.”
“Don’t get clever with me,” Nosov cut in. “It was a hard night — I understand that. But I am still the one in command here.”
He leaned forward.
“What exactly did you do to that boy? Didn’t it occur to you he might fake an internal injury? He fooled the nurses. Fooled the ambulance crew. Apparently, he fooled you most of all.”
Erokhin rose slowly from his chair.
“I misjudged him.”
“What stopped you from working him over properly?” Nosov pressed. “A few strokes with a rubber truncheon to the kidneys — no bruises, no paperwork.”
“Nothing stopped me,” Erokhin admitted hoarsely. “And now I see that would have been the wiser approach.”
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Erokhin added:
“But who could have predicted the gun battle at Gorky Outpost? I believed I had the entire night for questioning. If the massacre hadn’t erupted, I would have had every report tied to those pistols on your desk by morning.”
Nosov studied him in silence — not convinced, not absolving.
Somewhere deep in the building, a metal door slammed.
The workday had begun.
And already it smelled of scapegoats.
“If you had a pussy, I’d call you Natasha,” Nosov sneered. “I hope you at least took the runaway kid’s fingerprints.”
Erokhin let out a heavy sigh.
“There was no time. I was going to do it first thing in the morning.”
“Remind me to strike both you and the criminologist from the monthly bonus list,” Nosov said, already turning toward the door.
“The criminologist had nothing to do with it,” Erokhin objected. “Valerian didn’t even know I had a suspect. He was asleep in his office until we woke him.”
“And since he was sleeping during working hours, he’ll lose the bonus as well,” Nosov replied flatly.
He opened the door, then paused on the threshold.
“Keep working with the others — and don’t mention the fugitive to anyone. I’ll have the duty officer rewrite the report. Officially, we detained only three suspects. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Nosov left.
Erokhin immediately summoned his detectives. Within a minute, three men filed into the office of the acting head of the criminal investigation unit — two hollow-eyed from the sleepless night at the crime scene, the third freshly assigned and still carrying the stiff posture of a recent academy graduate.
“To avoid unnecessary questions, I’ll repeat Nosov’s orders verbatim,” Erokhin said, studying their faces. “No one is to mention the fugitive — not even Internal Affairs. There was no fourth suspect. Understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Captain,” the two veterans answered in unison.
The youngest detective only shrugged.
“Good. Now that we’ve covered the night’s incident, let’s move on to more pressing matters.”
He pointed at the older detectives.
“Take the two senior detainees for questioning. They won’t talk — men like that never do — so release them by the end of the day.”
Then his gaze settled on the graduate.
“You’ll handle Sergey Morozov. Find out where they went yesterday and what they were doing. Keep him in the monkey house. Cut his food ration in half, but don’t restrict water. Before your shift ends, instruct the next duty officer not to let him sleep. By the third day, I want him exhausted — and hungry.”
The young detective nodded.
“You’re on duty the night after tomorrow, correct?”
“Yes, Comrade Captain.”
“If nothing happens on your watch, question him through the night. A light beating during interrogation is permissible — but don’t overdo it. We don’t need another faker claiming internal injuries.”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“That’s all. Get to work.”
________________________________________
Late in the evening of the third day, Sergey sat slumped in a chair opposite Erokhin’s desk.
His left eye had swollen shut, the lids puffed into a purple mass. The sclera was flooded with blood, and through the narrow slit between his lashes a dark pupil trembled like something trapped.
On the desk stood a liter bottle of vodka, a single glass, and two plates piled with snacks — cheese, bacon, salami, black bread.
Erokhin chewed thoughtfully on a slice of Hungarian salami.
“Who decorated your eye like that?”
Sergey swallowed.
“I fell off the bench… accidentally.”
“Accidentally,” Erokhin repeated, as if savoring the word. “Well — accidents happen.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Legally, I’ve no right to keep you in the monkey house this long. To be honest, I would’ve released you two days ago. But what am I supposed to do about that eye? I wouldn’t want you leaving here harboring resentment toward my detectives. They do their jobs the best they can… though sometimes they get carried away.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“We’re all sinners, after all. I trust you’re not holding a grudge?”
“No,” Sergey muttered.
Erokhin opened his safe and produced a second glass.
“Well then — if there’s no offense taken — let’s drink to peace, and you can go home.”
“I don’t drink vodka,” Sergey said hoarsely. “I’ve barely eaten in three days. I’d rather have some cheese… or salami, Comrade Captain.”
Ignoring him, Erokhin filled his own glass, lifted it, and peered at the boy through the trembling transparency of the liquor.
“As the great bard Vysotsky used to say — he who does not drink, does not eat.”
Sergey hesitated, then said quietly,
“Pour me the same as you.”
Erokhin filled a half-glass and slid it across the desk.
“Care to make a toast?”
Sergey raised the drink with a shaking hand.
“I’ll drink to never seeing you again.”
Erokhin nodded approvingly.
“Excellent words. Very profound.”
He lifted his glass.
“You leave the gang — and we never meet again. Let’s drink to that.”
Their glasses touched with a dull, fragile sound.
Sergey drank and reached for the food, but before his fingers touched the plate, Erokhin refilled the detainee’s glass to the brim, splashing only a token measure into his own.
“Not much time between the first and second,” the captain said mildly. “Allow me a toast. I’d like us to meet again someday… as friends.”
Sergey stared at the glass, his thoughts already slowing after the first hundred grams.
Erokhin leaned forward.
“Tell me, Sergey — would you like to be friends with the head of the criminal investigation department? Do you respect me?”
The boy pulled himself together and emptied the glass in three desperate gulps. Tears burst from his swollen eyes. With trembling fingers, he shoved the sliced cheese into his mouth, trying to erase the vile burn of Absolut vodka.
Erokhin watched closely.
The moment had come.
He rose, opened the safe, and removed a thick folder — interrogation transcripts, forensic reports. When he turned back, every trace of warmth had vanished from his face.
“Now listen carefully, you little whore from Mamonov’s crew.”
His voice was flat, almost bored.
“When we picked you up at the station with firearms, your gang was busy wiping out the entire leadership of Svyat’s brigade. Your errand boy, Alexei Mikheev, slipped out of the hospital — with your help. Forensic analysis shows weapons oil on your hands. That makes you an accessory to the murder of a gang leader and his bodyguards.”
He paused just long enough for the words to settle.
“You’re looking at no less than ten years.”
“No — it wasn’t me!” Sergey cried, panic cracking his voice. “I had nothing to do with that shooting! We were somewhere else entirely. And that wasn’t gun oil — it was machine lubricant!”
Erokhin flipped open the folder.
“Your accomplices say otherwise. Every one of them places you in a different location. If you keep lying about where you were on May seventeenth, I’ll forward your file to the prosecutor tonight. Two months in pre-trial detention should help your memory.”
Sergey’s tongue felt thick.
“There were five of us… we spent the whole evening collecting tribute from shops in the Novogireevo district. The last place was a tire service near the garages on Ketcherskaya. Around ten.”
“Where else?”
Erokhin wrote without looking up.
“‘Auto-All’… ‘Country of Auto Parts’… both on the same street. Then ‘Risko,’ ‘Elikon-S’… I can’t remember them all. Eight — maybe ten places.”
“You said five of you?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the fifth?”
“A woman. Used to be a shoplifter. Did time. After she got out, Afghan assigned her to us as cashier. Maria. She followed behind with the money.”
“And when my men detained you — where did she go?”
Without lifting his pen, Erokhin added a note:
Check with patrol regarding cashier.
Sergey swallowed.
“A minivan was waiting near the station. Den picked her up from the square.”
Erokhin finally raised his eyes.
“And who is Den?”
“Nothing special. He’s been driving a GAZelle ever since Algis disappeared,” Sergey replied.
Erokhin noted the explanation and placed a small question mark beside the name.
“And Algis?”
“A Lithuanian carpenter,” the young man said quickly. “I met him and his cousin Mantas last summer — they were renovating Mamonov’s villa.”
“Were they already in the trade back then?”
“Both were apartment burglars. Haven’t seen them in about a month.”
“Did your squire Mikheev accompany you that evening?”
At the sound of his friend’s name, Sergey shuddered. Erokhin caught it immediately — the boy had just crossed another invisible line inside himself.
The words tore out of him:
“He’s not Mikheev… He’s Alex Zafiros. Mamonov’s closest young lieutenant.”
“Oh?” Erokhin’s brows rose in theatrical surprise. “Then it seems you drank that vodka for nothing. You and I will be seeing each other quite often now.”
He stood, opened the safe, removed a document, and placed it on the desk.
“Sign. Print your full name and address clearly.”
Sergey blinked, the room drifting in a gray haze.
“What is it?”
“An agreement on voluntary cooperation with law enforcement.”
“I’m not becoming a snitch,” Sergey said hoarsely.
Erokhin didn’t raise his voice.
“If you refuse, you won’t last a day. Tell me — how long do you think you’d survive if Vladimir Mamonov learned about this conversation?”
The silence stretched.
Sergey picked up the pen.
“Where?”
“Right there.”
The signature came out crooked, the letters trembling across the page.
Erokhin noticed it at once — and with it, the fragile spark of hope in the boy’s eyes. Hope was useful. Hope made people obedient.
He locked the document in the safe.
Now he’s mine, the captain thought calmly. Time to bleed him dry.
Returning to the desk, he studied Sergey with open appraisal.
“Now that we understand one another, tell me everything about Mamonov’s organization. Names, hierarchy, operations, your role in it.”
He leaned back slightly.
“Start with this: who killed Svyat three days ago? And more importantly — who tried to blow him up on Enthusiasts Highway on Victory Day?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” Sergey rushed out. “Just… don’t put me in a cell with the others. I don’t want to answer for their crimes.”
“If you tell the truth, you walk,” Erokhin said evenly. “Hold something back, and you’ll be transferred to a juvenile detention facility before sunset. Try to play games with me, and you’ll join the first wave of Mamonov’s bandits behind bars.”
Sergey swallowed.
“And if I tell you who planted the bomb on May ninth… you’ll release me?”
For a fleeting instant, triumph flickered through Erokhin.
Major, he thought. The word “acting” will vanish from my door within the week.
Outwardly, he remained composed.
“Not only will I release you,” the captain said, his voice turning almost reassuring, “I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

Olga’s apartment still clung to the fragile illusion of an ordinary morning — pale light spilling across the quiet kitchen, warmth lingering beneath the blankets. Only Afghan — Anton to Olga — did not belong to that illusion.
Half-naked, he pushed through a series of brutal sit-ups on the floor, breathing steady, face unreadable — a man preparing for a day that might demand violence.
Olga stepped out of the bedroom, watching him with the tender caution of someone already more attached than she should have been.
“Shall I hold your legs?” she asked softly.
“That’s my line,” he muttered. “Go make coffee.”
Obliging, Olga moved to the kitchen to brew Turkish coffee. While Afghan stepped into the shower, she lingered, opening the curtain just enough to peek in, her eyes hopeful.
“I hope you’re not leaving today,” she said, a note of longing in her voice.
He turned briefly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I feel so comfortable here, I’m thinking of selling my own place.”
“Anton, please move in with me,” she whispered, her heart pushing her forward. He seemed genuinely interested, and she seized the chance to solidify their bond. “I’m tired of waiting. Every night I dream of falling asleep on your shoulder, waking up in your arms.”
From behind the shower curtain, Afghan’s voice was calm, measured. “Don’t rush me. I’m close, but I’m not sure about your son. He’ll return from conscript service in October. So what? He’s expected to live with us in your one-bedroom apartment?”
She offered a compromise. “Don’t sell your condo right away. You live here with me; your son can stay there until he finds a job.”
“I’ll think about it,” he replied over the sound of running water. “Meanwhile, don’t tell anyone I’m here — especially friends. Envious fools can be dangerous. They might ruin our little peace.”
Anton had no intention of tying his life to Olga; he spent time with her only because her apartment offered convenience — a place to stay overnight in Reutovo without scrutiny. At her place, he could count on a hot dinner, mediocre sex, and Italian coffee Rosa with a sandwich. Beyond these small comforts, he maintained absolute indifference toward the nurse from the Moscow suburbs. Yet, after Svyat’s execution and the death of the FSB lieutenant colonel, Afghan had made an effort to appear affectionate. For a few days, he needed a reliable hideout where nobody would think to look for him, and Olga’s apartment was perfect for that purpose.

Olga finished breakfast and got ready for work, humming softly to herself as she moved through the apartment. Afghan kissed her goodbye at the door, his lips lingering just long enough to offer comfort without attachment. She watched him leave, unaware of the calculations and preparations hidden behind his calm exterior.
Once the door clicked shut, the fragile illusion of morning dissolved. Afghan returned to the living room, stripped to his underpants, and moved with the precision of a predator. Every muscle tensed and flexed as he prepared for the day ahead — a day that might demand violence.
He picked up the phone with deliberate care.
“Cop, want to relax in the sauna?” he asked the district officer, skipping the usual pleasantries. The officer’s voice wavered on the other end. “Right in the morning?”
“Why wait?” Afghan replied smoothly. “Your wife will be home by evening, and my old cow returns from duty late afternoon.”
“And the girls?” the policeman asked.
“And the boys, too. Everything to your taste,” Afghan assured him.
He listened as the officer confirmed the location and time.
“The usual place — bathhouse behind the car wash, Fifth Line. I’ll be there in an hour,” Anton said.
Within minutes, the Police Lada threaded its way behind the car wash, stopping at a dead-end flanked by dense forest and the bathhouse attached to the rear wall.
Afghan melted into the shadows behind the glass showcase, every movement deliberate, eyes scanning for tails. Once he was certain the captain had arrived alone, he stepped from the office, turned the corner, and approached the driver’s window.
The officer’s surprise was audible. “What were you doing back there?”
“Making sure you didn’t bring company,” Anton said casually.
“You mentioned there’d be young girls and boys for entertainment. Where are their cars?” the policeman pressed.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s ready,” Afghan replied. Then, without hesitation, he drew a pistol with a silencer from under his summer jacket and fired once into the officer’s left temple.
Blood and fragments erupted from the right temple, splattering the passenger seat, the plastic panel above the glove compartment, and the ceiling above the door.
Anton surveyed the scene, opened the driver’s door, hauled the lifeless body from the car, and dragged it into the nearby forest, leaving no trace for anyone to follow.



Chapter Twenty-five. May 25, 1996

Nosov and Erokhin meticulously examined Mamonov's office, while the crime scene investigators diligently collected evidence from various items around the two-story mansion. Fingerprints were carefully lifted from furniture, doorknobs, and kitchen utensils, and hair samples were taken from the carpet. Toothbrushes and combs were packed in evidence bags.

As they conducted the search, Erokhin's detectives were busy searching Vladimir's bedroom and his daughter's room.

In dismay, Nosov paused at the open door of the empty safe and said, "A snake has crawled away. Could someone from my department have warned him?"
Erokhin replied, "I don't think we've got a rat. It's the journalists' fault. I saw the local newspaper, the Daily News, on his desk. A crime blogger mentioned the arrest of four gangsters from the Reutov organized criminal group in Stupino. Mamonov must have panicked and didn't wait for us to bring the rest of the gang here."
Nosov asked, "How about the rest of the members of his gang?"
Erokhin informed him, "Their bomber, Potap Sviridov, was arrested by counterintelligence officers on Saturday evening. He confessed everything during his first interrogation. We arrested seven more gang members last night based on information from Potap. All of them are in the temporary detention center in different cells, but we haven't interrogated them yet. Afghan was last seen two days ago, and my informant isn't sure where he is now. Elephant and Mamonov are still at large. They're likely hiding in one of the Moscow suburban towns, either Balashikha or Lyubertsy."
"Why am I learning about Sviridov's arrest and confession only today?" Nosov muttered in a displeased tone.

The captain reflected, "He's clearly out of sorts, but why? All seems to be going our way - we have defeated the gang, we have captured the bomb-maker, and we know who committed the murder of Svyat. It won't take long to catch Mamonov. What is the chief upset about? Is it because the safe is empty? It's not for nothing that he has been standing in front of it for a quarter of an hour, staring blankly into an empty box.”
Erokhin replied, "I didn't have time to report. It's now seven a.m. on Monday. You came here straight from home."
"I won't sign the paperwork for your promotion if you keep playing the role of a too-clever guy," the Colonel answered with a hint of humor.

The threat of Nosov was empty, and Erokhin already knew it. On Friday, the head of the personnel department had told Erokhin in secret that an order to appoint him as the head of the city criminal investigation department and to promote him to the rank of major had already come from the central police department. On the same day, Nosov signed both documents, and they were taken by courier to the central police office.

“Who are Afghan and Elephant?” The head of the Department finally stepped away from the safe and sat down next to Erokhin. "Do they have any names?"
“Afghan's name is Anton. We still don't know his surname or address. As far as we know, he served as an officer in Afghanistan. In Russia, there are several thousand junior officers like him. By the way, the mine detonated two weeks ago was his. Things are more straightforward with Elephant. Pavel Semyonov is a native of our city, thirty-two years old, and he is a local champion in weightlifting.”

In contrast to Erokhin, Nosov was committed not only to arresting the vast majority of the gang members but also to finding their arsenal. The next question from him was: “How are you going to identify Afghan and find that veteran?”
“In the next three days, I'll extort the address of a weapons warehouse from detainees. Then, by the catalog numbers on mines and assault rifles, we'll find out the source, and it will lead us to his name. When we know Afghan's name, we will get his photo from the Ministry of Defence... ,” Erokhin did not finish his thought.
“And with his name and photo, we will list him on the Russian wanted list, and maybe Interpol can help us,” the police chief finished the sentence for his subordinate before exiting Mamonov's office and walking into the spacious hallway on the second floor.

Erokhin's detectives left the bedroom and met Nosov in the hallway.

“Have you found anything relevant to the case?” The lieutenant colonel asked the detectives.
One of the detectives replied, “Nothing was found in the wardrobes, or in the chest of drawers, or under the bed, or in the bedside table.”
“The bandit's sexodrome is huge. The bed is large enough to accommodate at least four people. The criminal lord lived even better than an English lord. Mamonov's bedroom had a mirrored ceiling in addition to the mirrored closet doors,” said the second detective.
“Inspect the guest house and garage,” Nosov instructed, adding, “Look for weapons, drugs, and notebooks there. Any information on the whereabouts of Mamonov and his accomplices will be beneficial.”

The Colonel stepped inside Mamonov's bedroom as the young detectives were still descending the stairs.

Indifferently glancing at the huge bed, he thought, “The younger generation invents new words by combining existing ones. They simply took the English word 'sex,' tore the core from the French word 'aerodrome,' and it turned out to be a 'sexodrome.' Very original. Literally translated as a vast place for sex."

Discarding the envious thought of the bed, Nosov examined a white furniture set, and mirrored ceiling, which were so much admired by one of his subordinates, he turned his attention to the 'red corner' of the bedroom, the place where all Orthodox Russians keep their icons.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I can't believe what I'm seeing.”

With a handkerchief, Nosov wiped sweat from his forehead, looked at the door behind him, and turned the lock on the handle.

When he approached the iconostasis, he examined the icon closely and thought: “My Lord, this is the famous Icon of the Mother of God that six hundred years ago belonged to the Byzantine emperor Andronicus III. It has been sought all over the world for twelve years, and it stands calmly in a bedroom of a bandit, just ten kilometers from the Moscow Ring Road. I was a captain when I heard about the loss of a religious shrine of the Kazan Convent of the Tver Diocese.”

Nosov reached into his pocket for a miniature magnifying glass and leaned toward the face of the Mother of God.

“This is the original. Even traces of the case where the icon-hating Turk's knife was kept are visible below. A chance like this can't be missed. Now or never. It will be too late when the criminologists arrive here with their cameras,” Nosov thought as he opened the leather folder he always carried in his left hand while visiting crime scenes, and placed the icon inside.


Sergey had been sitting by the window in the Fairy Tale caf; since it opened. The young man had stopped attending Viktor's boxing sessions after being released from the police. On rainy days, he spent time aimlessly in shopping centers, inexpensive cafes, and, when the weather permitted, in the park near the Factory Pond.

As he heard the creak of brakes coming from the street, Sergey glanced around and saw a cargo Gazelle stop in front of the caf;'s windows. He turned away and continued eating his strawberry ice cream.

The Gazelle driver blew twice on the horn. Sergey looked on the street again and saw Elephant waving with a hand out the window of the truck.

The waitress shouted after the man when he rushed to the exit, “Hey, you! Are you going to pay?”
"I'll be back soon,” Sergey answered and walked out of the caf; toward the mini-truck.

Sergey went to the passenger door, and Elephant surveyed the street, glancing in the rearview mirror before turning to him.

Elephant handed the guy a crumpled piece of paper and told him, “Walk around this address from lunch until ten in the evening.”

Sergey began to unfold the note.

“Don't read it here,” the giant said. “Put the note in your pocket. If you see cops near that building or suspicious men in civilian clothes, call the number on the back of the note. Wait for me exactly at ten in the parking lot in front of Novokosinsky grocery market. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he replied and tucked the note into his pocket.
Elephant expelled a heavy breath, “I hope so. Get back to finishing your ice cream, and in two hours, you have to be at the address.”

The giant waved his hand to the driver, and the Gazelle began to move.


A week after Mamonov's mansion search, Erokhin sat on a couch in front of the furniture wall in the apartment that once belonged to Zafiros' family. He was dressed in a brown flight jacket and jeans and had sneakers on his feet as he rested them on the chair. The captain held a black-covered second volume of Conan Doyle and read aloud the story of Brigadier Gerard.

“Whenever the Emperor needed a confidant, he recalled my name, although it often slipped his mind when he was distributing awards. Even so, I was a colonel at twenty-eight and a brigadier at thirty-one.”
“Gerard lied,” Erokhin thought, “but perhaps he didn't. At twenty-four, Napoleon was promoted to brigadier general. In the past, captains could become generals by the age of thirty, but today it isn't true. My goal is to achieve the rank of major at forty, and I will be glad if the promotion occurs.”

He sighed heavily and looked at his left wrist. It read five to eleven.

“An interesting collection of books for Potap Sviridov: Conan Doyle, Pushkin, Tolstoy, Mayakovsky, and even Bunin, the Nobel laureate. Does the self-taught bomber like classical literature? I don't believe so. The tailor was probably so greedy that he took all the family's property along with the apartment, including the family's library. Time for the 'snitch' to show up,” Erokhin thought, and the doorbell rang.

Stepping silently on the worn carpet, the captain looked through the peephole at the door. Sergey stood on the staircase, gnawing his thumbnail as he looked around. The detective allowed the informant into the hallway while hiding behind a closed door to avoid prying eyes.

Sergey whispered, “Just a minute.”
Erokhin replied quietly, “Not here. Let's go to the living room.”

In the living room, the teen whispered quickly, “Mamonov is going to visit his ex-wife tonight. She lives in a nine-story building on Workers Street. I don't know her apartment number.”
Erokhin wrote down what the informant said in a notebook, confirming, “Who told you about this?”
“Elephant found me an hour ago in the Fairy Tale cafe on Jubilee Avenue, where I usually hang out in the morning. He ordered me to watch the house's perimeter on Workers from noon until ten in the evening. If I see police or suspicious men in civilian clothes, I must call this number immediately,” Sergey pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Erokhin. “He also said that I should wait for him in the parking lot in front of the entrance to Novokosinsky grocery market at ten to ten.”

Erokhin wrote down the phone number in his notebook, gave the crumpled note to the informant, and took out his wallet.

“Here are ten bucks for you,” the detective told the teen. “Go back to the Fairy Tale cafe and sit there until lunchtime. Then do everything as Elephant instructed.”

Sergey nodded and entered the corridor.

Escorting Sergey to the entrance door, Erokhin wondered if the guy knew that they were meeting in the apartment of his best friend, whom he had betrayed, but changed his mind. "The guy doesn't need extra stress now. I use this psychological leverage in case of internal doubts of the informant about his snitching," Erokhin thought, trying to be cautious with Sergey's emotions

Erokhin locked the door after Sergey, returned to the room, and dialed Nosov's number: “Comrade Colonel, tonight may be our last chance to capture Mamonov. Therefore, I propose informing Moscow's counterintelligence headquarters of this situation. Their assistance won't harm us.”
“Erokhin, where are you?” The chief of the city police asked, as usual unhappy. “Your phone number is not identified.”
“I'm in the apartment of George Zafiros. He vanished a year ago,” replied Erokhin.
. Nosov was surprised, “How did you end up there?”
“This flat was illegally registered in the name of Potap Sviridov. He lived in it with his family until the Federals arrested him,” the captain replied, but knew that such an answer would not be acceptable to the Colonel.
“We still don't know how and who helped him with re-registration,” Nosov said thoughtfully, and after a pause, added: “I think this may be connected with the disappearance of the district precinct. By the way, did you find out where the Zafiros are?”
“Only their son. It was he who escaped from us during the Gorky Outpost massacre.”
“Damn it! I thought it was him. Do you know that the Feds are looking for him in connection with the Moscow Mint robbery attempt?” Nosov hissed quietly but viciously.
“Nobody in our group knows about it, and I've already forgotten about it,” the detective assured the chief.
“You did the right thing. What about his parents?”
"They have vanished, with no trace left behind," Erokhin gasped.
Nosov drawled his words, relishing the opportunity to poke the captain's nose in the shit once more. He said, "Ero-khi-in! People couldn't disappear at the molecular level. Even in theory, it is impossible.”
"I didn't know our district precinct officer also was missing," Erokhin didn't want to talk about the missing family, because for him, it was a sore subject, so he tried to divert the conversation from them asking, "How long has the precinct been gone?"
"It's none of your business," snapped the Lieutenant Colonel, taking the subject deviation as a personal attack. The local police chief already assumed the disappearance of the Zaphiros family and the police precinct were connected. "The internal interrogation department will deal with him. You didn't answer the question directly: how did you get there?"
"The risk of further angering Nosov is too great. The current monthly bonus is already gone," Erokhin thought, observing his own silence. "But if I bring Nosov to a boiling point, then he'll delay the assignment of a Major for three months. The cost is too high, so I'm telling the truth."
"After learning that the Internal Affairs Central Investigation Bureau was planning to conduct an operation on our territory along with counterintelligence, I asked permission to stand behind their backs. They gave the okay. As soon as the Feds arrested Sviridov and his wife, I called the locksmith to change their door locks. Since then, I have the keys from their flat."
"Why do you need them?" The chief of police asked. "To fuck your whores there?"
The captain confessed, "I use it to meet with informants and also with the girls."
"I hope you have documented this properly as a service apartment," Nosov cooled slowly, but remained angry with Erokhin.
The detective responded, "I didn't have time. I planned on doing it today."

The interim head of the criminal investigation unit always irritated the chief of police for procedural issues. If it weren't for the captain's aversion to paperwork, he would have long been a major. Unfortunately for Nosov, his best detective would rather spend a night in ambush than spend two hours at his desk.

"Come to my office immediately for a reprimand," the Colonel exploded and hung up the phone.


The Novokosinsky food market's parking lot lay empty as Sergey's solitary figure cast a long shadow between two lampposts. An air of trepidation filled him as he paced along the asphalt, trying not to dwell on what the next few hours might hold. Around ten past ten, he heard the distant hum of an engine behind him, causing him to turn around nervously. A sleek black BMW approached slowly, its darkened windows concealing its occupants. Sergey couldn't help but tremble with fear, convinced that it was one of Mamonov's cars.

The front window of the BMW rolled down two-thirds as it came to a halt. Elephant's imposing figure leaned out, his head turning to fixate on Sergey.
"Get into the car,” the giant said in a bass voice.

Sergey settled into the back seat next to Mamonov, and without any formal greeting, Vladimir asked, "Have you noticed anything unusual around the building?"
"No, sir," Sergey responded. "I've been lurking around the entrance since noon."
Elephant interjected without turning around, "Haven't you gone anywhere? Not even for a quick break?"
Reluctantly, Sergey admitted, "I did step out for ten minutes around seven to grab a snack at the donut shop. But then I returned right away."
"Well, at least you're being honest," Mamonov acknowledged thoughtfully, gently tapping the driver's shoulder. "Sting, pull up to my entrance, and wait until Elephant takes me to my apartment. After that, return to Lyubertsy. If I'm not out by quarter past seven in the morning, assume the cops got me. In that case, bury this kid alive, and tell Afghan he's in charge while I'm behind bars."

The black car crossed Novokosinsky Avenue and disappeared into the courtyard of a high-rise building.

"No one has heard from Afghan since we went into hiding. He vanished without leaving any clues," Elephant remarked.

Quietly rustling its tires on the asphalt, the BMW approached the Mamonov's ex-wife's apartment building and stopped at the entrance.

"If he doesn't show up soon, you'll have to take over the business the best you can. I don't see any other choice," Vladimir said with a heavy sigh. "And don't forget to take care of my girls financially."
Elephant asked, "Are you sure it's time to write yourself off?"
"I can't shake this feeling of danger, Pavel," the criminal lord replied. "I sense it right now, but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from."

Meanwhile, Mamonov's ex-wife, Marina,  anxiously glanced at the roof of his car from her apartment's kitchen window. The water on the stove boiled, but thirty-two years old woman paid it no mind, waiting eagerly for her beloved man to exit the BMW and come through the entrance.

The three passengers sat in complete silence for five minutes. The new driver, and part-time second bodyguard, Sting, who served in formations of the Soviet Army as a scout twenty years ago, still had the habit of listening to the environment while scanning three hundred and sixty degrees before embarking on a risky venture. Lowering all the windows of the car, he listened to the noises of the city, trying to catch something unusual in them, while his eyes continuously scanned the front hemisphere through the windshield, and the rear through the rear-view mirror and side mirrors.

After five minutes of Sting discreetly surveying the surroundings, he reported, "Vladimir, it seems pretty quiet around here."
"Alright, let's go," Mamonov commanded, stepping out of the car.



Elephant was the first to enter the building. After climbing to the top of the first floor landing, the bodyguard turned to the elevator doors and pressed the call button.

"Let's go up on foot," Mamonov said as he passed behind the bodyguard.

Pavel obeyed his boss.

"Your wife will ruin you," the bodyguard said, moving heavily up the staircase. "It's not in vain that the thieves' law forbids crime lords to live with one woman and have children from her alone.”
"I divorced Marina because of this law," Vladimir said without turning around. "The truth is, I broke up with her and my daughter, but I can't live without them. I love these fools. But you know that. Instead of hurting my soul, you'd better stomp faster and don't lag."

Mamonov and Elephant were climbing to the fifth floor of a high-rise building when the Federal Counterintelligence Service's anti-terrorism unit commandos surrounded the BMW, dragged Sting and Sergey from their car, put black bags on their heads and carried them around the corner of the building. The second group of special forces followed the gangsters silently to the entrance.

The door to Marina's apartment was closest to the flight of stairs. Vladimir approached it with the thought that behind this door he spent the best years of his life. He sighed heavily as he remembered how fifteen years ago he had carried his wife into the hallway of their new apartment in arms. Vladimir reached into his pocket and found the keys.

Elephant stopped halfway up the flight of stairs, breathing heavily. As Pavel placed his right hand on the railing, he felt a faint vibration.

"There's someone here," the bodyguard said quietly, reaching for his axillary holster.
"Where are they?" As he asked, Mamonov pulled a sharp knife from his pocket instead of a key.

Elephant nodded toward the sixth floor, and they both heard the sound of footsteps. Erokhin and his two detectives walked down the stairs, and as their eyes met the kingpin's, the head of the criminal investigation unit calmly ordered: “Mamonov and Semyonov, raise your hands and face the wall. Special counterterrorism forces and the police have blocked the entrance.”
Mamonov shouted in response, “I'll kill you, bitch!” and rushed at the detective.

Elephant was stunned upon hearing his last name. Pavel hadn't heard it in so long that he was confident nobody in Reutov remembered it.

“Semyonov, you say?” yelled his inner voice. “Now, I'll show you who I am.”

Erokhin dodged a stab aimed at his stomach, grabbed Mamonov's hand, twisted his wrist with a wrestling technique, and pulled Vladimir by the collar of his jacket so hard that he turned the crowned thief on his back. When the knife fell, the thief tried to reach it with his free hand. But as soon as he bent down, Erokhin's detectives jumped on his back and knocked him to the concrete floor.

Elephant held a Beretta and waited for a chance to shoot the senior policeman. Once two detectives had hauled Mamonov to the ground, Semyonov opened fire. Four of the six bullets fired by Semyonov struck the target.

Erokhin covered his chest with his hands after the first strike. The captain's legs buckled, and he slowly sank on the steps.

Elephant jerked his pistol five more times before the special operations forces opened fire with short-barreled assault rifles. At least two dozen bullets pierced the bodyguard's jacket. Brown blood spots covered the leather jacket as it reared up. Having dropped the pistol, the giant straightened up to his full height, froze for a moment, and then collapsed onto his back, almost crushing the special operatives.

In the cramped space of the staircase, right in front of the elevator car, two detectives of the criminal investigation department beat Mamonov, who was lying on the floor. He resisted as well as he could. Unlike his opponents, the master of knife fighting was not a master of combat wrestling techniques. Soon, one detective managed to stomp with his knee on Vladimir's neck. The external branch of the carotid artery was pinched, and the kingpin stopped resisting within seconds.

The special forces would probably have managed to save the local mafia boss for investigation had Semyonov's body not been lying in their way. The soldiers could not run up the stairs beside Elephant's enormous body, as there was no room, and they did not realize the corpse could be dragged down onto the inter-story walkway. Leaning on the smooth wall, they carefully walked over the dead body.

Two minutes ago, Mamonov had a chance to survive, but he could not hold out for an additional one hundred and twenty seconds under the continuous blows of the police.

When the special forces dragged the detectives away from Mamonov, he was already dead.

"Why the hell did you beat him to death?" the commando sergeant growled at the two young detectives, raising the thick protective visor of his helmet. "Who will you interrogate now?"
"In some ways, the worse the calamity, the less there is for the first medical responders to do," Valeriy snapped back, still breathing heavily.
"The neighbors have probably already called both the ambulance and the police, and if our guys, like us and you, are already here and won't send reinforcements, then all the ambulance vehicles will definitely be here. It wouldn't hurt to warn them not to waste gasoline unnecessarily. There's no one left to save anyway," Eugene said wearily, sitting on the concrete steps.


Marina stood in front of the door and sobbed soundlessly on her knees. During the last five minutes she spent at the peephole, the thirty-two year old woman's hair turned gray. The ex-wife's soul was torn by the screams and groans of a dying man. Marina knew she was powerless to help her husband, and this realization was killing her.
In a saucepan, dumplings boiled, and the bubbly water lifted the lid, causing hot water to overflow the gas burner fire. Slowly, the kitchen filled with propane.


Chapter Twenty-six. June 10, 1996. Moscow and Moscow Region

Marina, Svetlana, and several elderly women dressed in black stood at the grave two weeks later. A temporary Orthodox cross with Mamonov's portrait was placed at the burial head, slightly leaning over the mound of the tomb.

Marina and the women wept bitterly, their grief pouring out in raw emotion.

Svetlana, however, seemed detached, her gaze fixed on the hillock of dirt. The two detectives who observed her from afar during the ceremony wondered if she truly grasped the magnitude of the moment.

A mournful funeral march composed by Frederic Chopin played nearby, performed by a substandard orchestra, adding to the somber atmosphere. The elderly women laid flowers on the grave and slowly made their way along the aisle between the fences toward the exit.

Marina and Svetlana followed them to the bus stop. Marina, looking worn and aged by the ordeal, checked the schedule with her wristwatch and then sat down on a bench.

Meanwhile, the detectives discreetly sat in an inconspicuous beige Volkswagen 'Bug' near the cemetery exit.
"No one came to the funeral of the bastard we expected," one detective reported.
His partner replied, "I told you it was a waste of time. They are either dead or in jail."
"Not all," objected the first detective. "Nosov ordered us to look for Afghan. He believes the widow may be in contact with him."
"What makes him think that?" asked his partner.
The detective glanced at his comrade and replied, "Ask this question at the next meeting with the colonel."
"Let's move on; there's already a hunt to eat," the partner suggested, hinting at their next meal.
"You're always right about that," the detective conceded. He turned on the ignition, and the beige runabout drove off toward the Nosovikhinsky highway.

Unbeknownst to them, just twenty meters from the 'Bug,' behind the long-burnt Toyota and Audi, there was a "Gazelle" cargo van. A cemetery employee in overalls and a baseball cap was working beside it, throwing shovels, buckets, and picks into the back of the vehicle, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the ‘Bug’s’ passengers from beneath the visor of his cap.

The detectives left the parking lot, but the bus was nowhere in sight. Gazing at the dark-gray sky, Marina commented to her daughter, “It seems that we don't have enough problems, now the rain is approaching.”
“Mom, is it true the rain is the tears of angels for the dead?” Svetlana asked.
“No, my dear, angels can’t cry, for of all their feelings, they have only smiles,” Marina answered as she raised her head at the sound of the ‘Gazelle’s' brakes.
The driver waved his hand at the Mamonovs from the open passenger side window, “Marina, Svetlana, get in the cabin.”

The widow looked at the unfamiliar man with surprise and wariness, gripping her daughter's forearm just above the elbow.

“Mom, I know him. This is Anton. He was dad's right hand,” the girl revealed to her mother. Before Marina could completely come to her senses, her daughter had already climbed into the truck's salon.

The woman looked around helplessly as sad people slowly trickled out of the cemetery gates and filled the cracked asphalt of the bus stop.

“My daughter is already in the car, there is no one to ask for help, and it could not get any worse than it is,” the widow thought and sat down next to her daughter in the ‘Gazelle’s' cabin.

Afghan broke the silence as he drove up to Lake Street on the Nosovikhinskoye Highway. “I apologize, Marina, for not having the opportunity to be introduced to you personally for the two years of working with your deceased spouse,” he said.
The untimely gray woman gloomily said, “Not deceased. But brutally murdered by two cops.”
“Yes, Marina, you are right, I saw the murderers today at the funeral,” Anton replied.
“I didn't see them,” Marina replied indifferently.
“I can totally understand, you didn't have time to do that, and they didn't come to say goodbye to him. But, still, to see who would come to pay tribute to an authoritative person,” Afghan spoke quietly and confidently, driving the ‘Gazelle’ down the highway toward Moscow.


Marina gazed out the open window. In front of her was the Bumer-service, which once belonged to her husband. Next was the swampy the Chechera River, and finally the new Reutov Park shopping center. After the furniture salon, the mini-truck passed her apartment building's turn.

Marina asked, “Where are we going? I thought you wanted to take us home, but we just passed the turn.”
Afghan replied calmly, “Your house is being watched and we have a crucial issue to resolve without unnecessary eyes and ears. Therefore, we are not going to you, but me.”
“What are you on about?” Marina asked, looking at Afghan.
Anton replied, “About the gang's common fund.”
“I don't have it.”
“I know. I do.”
“So, why should we discuss it?” The woman asked in surprise.
“Give me a minute, and I will explain.” Afghan was choosing the right words. “Our gang is totally destroyed. Law enforcers have killed some members, some are in the FSB or police detention centers, and I still have a thieves' common fund. I won't remain in the region and will not take it with me.”
“It sounds strange,” Marina chuckled contemptuously.  “I was sure everything you did was for the money, and now you want to leave it with me. Did I understand you correctly?”
“Yes, that's right. However, as you already know, the common fund belongs to the thieves' world and not to me or any other authority. Consequently, if I assign it, first, all the criminal lord of the country will look for me. I don't need this. Having some enemies among criminals and my name on the police wanted list, I already have too much to deal with.  Second, if I disappear with the fund, the criminals will turn to you for answers,” Afghan thought for a moment and then added: "It's no secret that Vladimir loved you both, so he could easily entrust the money to you.”
“If you keep a gang's common fund and don't want to expose my daughter and me to reprisals, then why did you not bring it to my apartment today, or did you not bring it to my apartment anytime you wanted?” The woman asked.
“Has your flat been searched by the police?” Anton replied by asking a question.
“Two detectives came,” the widow said. “They were looking for money and jewelry. Vladimir was killed in the stairwell by those motherfuckers.”
“Did they leave with nothing?” Anton knew the answer, but he asked anyway.
“What could they take from a pure widow?” Marina was truly indignant.
“They won't rest until they find the money. Your close relative, Potap, sang to them about the riches of his brother-in-law, so you can't come home with cash. As I said before, I’m on the wanted list. So, they’ll apprehend me as soon as they identify me, and your appearance with a bag can prompt a second search,” said Anton.
“If they graze me at the house, how will I get back there with cash?” Marina asked.
Afghan thought, “Mamonov was right - Marina is a fool,” but said something completely different: “You shouldn't bring it home. Place the money in a bank, open a bank account, and leave it there.”

“Mom, we already have a safety deposit box,” the girl said, who had been silent since the cemetery.

The words, “Everything is like a dead man said, both of them are fools,” echoed in Afghan's head.

“Great, Svetlana will wait for us at my place, and I'll accompany you to the bank with the money; I'll stay on the street until you deposit the cash, and then we'll go back to get her,” Anton offered.

Marina asked, “Do I need to do anything with the money?”

Anton replied, parking near the apartment building's entrance, “If criminals come after them, then keep ten percent and give the rest; otherwise, spend wisely.”

Afghan let Marina and her daughter enter the hallway of his apartment, followed them, and locked the door behind them. The mother and daughter went into the studio while Afghan went to the kitchen. Marina went to the sectional furniture wall and began looking at the books on the shelves, while Svetlana sat down on an unfolded, but not covered, sofa bed and turned on the TV with the remote control.

“Girls, would you like some tea, coffee, or a snack?” The man asked from the kitchen.
Marina answered for herself and her daughter, “Thanks, but let's get this over with already.”
“Well, let's get this over with,” said Afghan, entering the room with a carpetbag.
“Is that all you have?” Marina moved away from the wall furniture units, surprised by the small bag's size.

Afghan put the bag on the table, turned around, and answered, “Not all,” and struck Marina's jaw with an uppercut.
The woman’s head abruptly threw back, and she collapsed unconscious on the sofa bed next to her daughter.

Anton did not wait for Svetlana to come to her senses and scream. He took a step towards her, placed his hand on her nape, and covered her mouth with the other. Slowly and steadily picking up Svetlana from the sofa, Afghan turned her back to him, grabbed her thin neck with his forearm, and squeezed her throat. The girl almost instantly became limp and collapsed to the floor.

Marina was the first to wake up. Lying on her side, she looked at her unconscious daughter and tried to say something, but she couldn't. Afghan taped her mouth shut. Marina realized that her hands were tied behind her back, but she was still able to move. Leaning against the wall carpet, the widow sat down. When she raised her head above the table, she saw the open carpetbag on it, as well as a plaster, a syringe, and several ampules.

Afghan looked out of the window at the distance beyond the Moscow Ring Road. Hearing something behind him, Anton turned around.

“You see, Marina,” he said as he sat at her feet. “I don't have our gang's common fund and have never had it. It was your responsibility to keep it in the safe. Your husband believed he was the smartest one around. The man was sure that no one knew the contents of the food bags that Svetlana was taking away from the villa every week, but I'll tell you, widow, he managed to fool Elephant and the guard at the gate, but I'm sure even Alex knew about the food bag's real content. We have only one choice for the development of events: We will go to the bank, you will take the cash out of the cell, we will return here, and I will drive you two to Reutov. After that, I will vanish from your lives.”

The woman shook her head from side to side.
“Well, if you reject my proposal, I will strangle you both. Please, nod if you understand.”
When Marina nodded, he slowly removed the plaster from her mouth and she told him, “There are crumbs in our safe deposit box. The sum is barely enough for Svetlana and me to live on. I haven't worked all my life. If you take everything, we will die of hunger.”
“Sincerely, I'm not a monster. Let's look at how much is there. If it's not enough for us both, I'll take a couple of hundred dollars for sandwiches, and the rest will go to you. If there is more than you say, we will divide it equally,” Anton said peacefully.
“There is so little there that the trip is worthless,” snapped the widow.
Afghan sighed heavily and looked intently at Marina, then said, “Well, then I'll try giving you morphine first, and if it doesn't work, I'll tie you to a chair and throw you on the floor, and I'll rape your daughter here on this couch until you change your mind. During this time, the morphine buzz will already be coming out of you, and we'll go to the bank with you for money.”
Marina glanced at her daughter, at the syringe with ampoules on the table, and replied, “Okay, but promise not to touch her.”
“I give you the officer's word I wouldn't harm her,” Afghan said. “I also promise to shoot you without hesitation if you try to call someone for help on the streets or in the bank, then I'll come back and rape your daughter.”
Afghan lifted the girl from the floor, placed her on the sofa, tied her arms and legs, and untied Marina. Together they left the apartment.


The Head of the Investigative Service of the FSB, also known as the Federal Security Service, of Russia for Moscow and the Moscow region, Major General of Justice Shishkov, listened to his deputy.

The portrait of the Minister of Justice, Valentin Kovalev, hung on the wall behind the General, while the oily image of Boris Yeltsin with a light smile on his face observed the office from the opposite wall, gazing directly at Shishkov's face.

Colonel Popov, the Deputy of the Head of Service, stood a few meters from General's desk with a folder in his hands, ready to read summaries of current affairs.

“Report the very essence,” Shishkov said.
“Potap Sviridov, the main suspect in the Entuziastov explosion, confirmed during the confrontation that Sergey Samokhin, age 18, was his accomplice in the assassination plot. Samokhin confessed to his crimes but maintained that he had been an informant of Captain Erokhin, the acting chief of criminal investigations at the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Reutov. The captain was killed during Mamonov's arrest, so we weren't able to verify that claim. The documents seized from Erokhin's working safe confirmed the presence of an informant in the case of the Reutov organized crime group. In the agreement, Captain Erokhin did not mention the informant's name, but only gave him a pseudonym - ‘The Boxer’. However, it suited half of the gang perfectly.”
“Is that all you have to report on the death of Cherkanov?”  Shishkov asked.
“No, comrade General, that's not all. A third suspect in the bombing case is Afghan, the henchman of the late leader of the Reutov organized criminal group. His real name was unknown until recently. A breakthrough, in this case, happened the day before yesterday, when the Ministry of Internal Affairs reported two bodies found in his bachelor apartment in Izmailovo. The corpses belonged to Mamonov's widow and their thirteen-year-old daughter. Both died of overdoses of morphine.  The girl was raped by the suspect before she died. The forensic analysis of the crime scene revealed his fingerprints and other DNA evidence, which positively identified Afghan as the perpetrator.”
“Sit down; it won't work out briefly,” said the general, and asked: “How does this pertain to our case?”
“It is tightly connected, sir. Currently, we are investigating the death of two people who overdosed on medical morphine. Security officers found the bodies of two workers in the Goznak Printing factory in mid-April. Both were citizens of the Russian Federation and Lithuania. The murder's handwriting is similar to the one in Izmailovo, and the substance used in the killing is similar as well. The victims were all related to Mamonov. Male fingerprints found at his home matched those taken in Izmailovo. With the help of the Ministry of Defence, we were able to confirm that Afghan's name is Anton Yegorov. The suspect's fingerprints confirmed his identity.”
“Is he on the wanted list already?” Shishkov asked.
“All Russian, yes, we have sent orientations to colleagues in our Commonwealth Independent States countries. We are preparing a request for Interpol,” the colonel said.
“From what I have heard, the investigators have enough evidence in the bombing case. There is no need to incriminate Sviridov further. He cooperated with the investigation from the very beginning. The sentence for Cherkanov's death is sufficient for him. Sergey Samokhin should be sentenced as an accomplice without extenuating circumstances. I'll be on vacation next week, so you'll take over my responsibilities. After the investigators sign the indictment bill, sign the consent to transfer cases to the prosecutor's office,” ordered Shishkov. “And keep a keen eye on the search for Afghan-Yegorov.”
“I'll do it,” replied Colonel Popov, standing up.

With that, the meeting concluded, and Colonel Popov left to continue his investigation into the intertwined criminal activities surrounding Mamonov's death and the bombings. Major General Shishkov sat back in his chair, deep in thought, knowing that justice needed to be served, and there was no room for error in such a complex and dangerous case.


Chapter Twenty-seven. June 14. Odessa, Ukraine

Tanya and Alex sat on a bench in the back of the apartment building's courtyard near Admirals Prospect. The youths held hands and reminisced about last year's adventures.

“I'm glad you're renting out your new apartment instead of moving into it,” Alex said after the girl finished describing her experiences over the past eight months. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have known where you lived."
"You're selfish," Tanya smiled and poked the guy lightly in the side. "You only think about yourself." Sighing, she added, "But by the way, most of you men are like that as well."
Tanya leaned her head against Alex's shoulder, hugged him, and said, "It's a pity you're so young. I'd spend the rest of my life with you."
Alex replied, "We would have a boring life."
The girl asked, "Why?"
"I would never put my wife, and even more so the mother of my children, at risk, and I cannot live without adrenaline. That's why," Alex said.

Silence fell over the bench. The young people inhaled the fragrance of white acacia and listened to the bird song.

"It's him," Tanya broke the silence by saying, "I told you he would show up soon."

Pometkin escorted a young couple of tenants to the entrance where Alex lived one year ago.

The teen kissed the girl on the cheek and replied, "I never doubted you. You're the smartest and the most beautiful girl in the world."
In return, Tanya kissed Alex on the lips, saying, "Don't get me started; otherwise, we'll do something else instead of doing business."
"We won't lose this chance, I promise," the guy replied, rising to his feet. "But first, let's find out where this creature lives. Follow him as soon as he leaves the entrance. Maintain a distance of twenty paces."
"What if he looks around on the road?" The girl asked.
"If he does it once, then keep walking. Don't slow down, and don't look away. If it seems to you that he checked for a tail, go to the first door you come across - a caf;, a tour company, a hairdresser. I'll follow you and pick up the trail."
"Should I follow him if he goes to a pizzeria or pub?"
Alex replied, "If he goes to a pizzeria, then yes. If he goes to the bar 'Our beer', I'll go after him. In this case, you must return here. Once I find his address, I'll come back to meet with you."
"He came out," Tanya said.
"Follow him, but most importantly, don't be afraid. I'll always be there for you," Alex replied.


As Pometkin rounded the corner of the building, Tanya leapt up and followed him. Approaching Admirals Avenue, he looked in both directions. The man walked toward the intersection of the avenue with Fountain Road, and Tanya followed him. In the midst of the surveillance, the man passed real estate agencies and a grocery store; opposite the 'Our Beer' bar, Pometkin unexpectedly turned to the roadway and crossed diagonally to reach a four-story residential building.

Tanya looked around in confusion. She saw Alex cross the road thirty steps behind her. She felt her heart flutter when the boy almost fell under the wheels of a passing car.

Finding himself on a narrow strip of green space dividing the avenue, the young tracker gave the girl a friendly wave, let a couple of cars pass, and then disappeared into the courtyards on the opposite side of Admirals Avenue.

The young woman went home, took the keys to the cottage, then returned to the bench.

Alex sat down with her ten minutes later.

“I followed him almost to the apartment building entrance and saw his entry through the street window. In the morning, I'll see if he has a wife and children,” said the young man.
“How?” Tanya was surprised.
“The answer is pretty straightforward. If Pometkin is married, his wife would go to work, and if there are children, they would go to school. There's always the chance that he will live alone, but I need to be ready for it,” Alex said.
Tanya kissed him on the lips and said, “I have the keys to the cottage. Let's stay there tonight.”
“But what would your parents think of this?” Alex asked.
“I wrote a note to tell them I'm going to sleepover at my girl-schoolmate's house,” Tanya said.
“Are you kidding me? And they're gonna buy this bullshit?” Alex was surprised.
“Nah, of course not. It's a family game,” the girl laughed. “I pretend to respect them, and they pretend to trust me.”
“Is there food in your cottage?” Alex asked.
“We won't go hungry,” Tanya promised, grabbing Alex by the arm and dragging him toward Admiral Avenue. “We'll take a taxi, and on the way, we can stop at the grocery store.”

The sun had already slipped behind a hawk ravine and was somewhere over the Atlantic. Tanya and Alex sat on an open veranda at dusk, watching a small garden of fruit trees, and drinking dry white wine and eating goat cheese.

“Tell me about your parents,” Alex said to the young, pretty woman, looking at her through the glass with wine remnants. “I just saw them one time a year ago and didn't get to know them.”
“What can I tell you about them?” Tanya asked. "They are ordinary ancestors. There are hundreds of thousands like them in Odessa."

Alex said, “Don't tell me that. There aren't many locals who own a two-bedroom apartment in a prestigious neighborhood and a garden villa in a nearby suburb.”

Tanya said, “Don't cling to words. My father is a well-known physician at the city hospital. Like all Jewish doctors around the world, he also knows how to help those in need during work hours and after hours at patients' homes. We celebrated his fiftieth birthday here two months ago. He received a live ram as a gift from the Chechen diaspora. The ram was slaughtered and skinned by a Chechen. You wouldn't believe how highly regarded he is in this city! I mean, picture this: the Muslims actually gave a gift to a Jew. That's how much they respect him. It's incredible! The apartment and this house are the result of his hard work.”

“I didn't realize you are Jewish,” Alex responded, surprised.
“That can only be said about me in Odessa. Locals in Israel won't recognize me as their own. By the way, my mother is Russian and a doctor as well. For that reason, we will never leave Ukraine.”
Tanya leaned over the coffee table, touched Alex's chin, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Your light hair makes me doubt you're Greek. However, when I look at your profile, I see you are the descendant of a proud, independent, and freedom-loving people. As a person, you are restrained in your emotions, loyal to friends, and love wealth. You are like the Greeks.”
“Don't compliment me if you don't want to embarrass me. I am not Plistarchus, the son of Sparta's king Leonidas. I am half-blood like you. "It's our mothers' fault,” Alex said.
“No way. My mother has nothing to do with it,” Tanya continued, “When my father was criticized by the 'chosen of God' people because he married a goyka, he replied: 'I could marry a Jewish woman, but they are too talkative. They hold the last word. Twenty years ago, when I graduated from Vinnitsa medical school, I had to focus on my future and not spend time on futile arguments in the kitchen.”
“My father was the head of the household too. He was fiery, quick to make decisions, and angry whenever he disagreed. My dad avoided Greek women. Once, he said: I don't need another boiler in my house. It's a pity he didn't have time to make me a person,” Alex said, remembering his father.
“You're doing very well,” Tatiana said. “At sixteen, you're as hard as a metal nail.”
“It seems that way to you because you only see me when I know what I must do,” replied the young man.
“Let's go to the bedroom, and we'll see whether you know what to do or not,” Tanya got up from the rocking chair, grabbed Alex's hand, and pulled him together.
He picked Tanya up, hugged her, kissed her on the lips, and then carried her inside.

In the end of May, on a scorching day, Alex was sitting down on the steps leading to the fourth floor of the apartment building where Pometkin lived. His trusty backpack, a faithful companion for years, lay at his feet.
The aroma of fish and cabbage stew filled the air around the building's entrance, while distant violin melodies and heated arguments echoed from the upper floors. Uninterested in either, Alex's attention was captured by primitive drawings of male and female genitals etched on the staircase wall, accompanied by the mysterious mention of a girl named Elena.

A quiet creak from the driveway door hinges signaled the arrival of a tenant ascending the steps. Alex silently got up and moved downwards, trying not to make a sound.

At the metal door to Pometkin's apartment, Nikolay fumbled with a set of keys, but the soft singing and footsteps he heard behind him put him on high alert. As Alex leisurely strolled down the stairs, he softly hummed in English,

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away."


Nikolay turned around and saw the fair-haired young man on his way down, casually draping his backpack strap over his shoulder with his left hand, while his right hand glided along the railing with an air of ease. Pometkin turned back to the door and managed to open two of the three locks but paused, puzzled by the sight of Alex wearing black leather gloves in the sweltering heat, “Why would he be wearing gloves when it's so hot outside?”

Nikolay didn't have time to find out the answer to his dumb question.

He looked at the man's face again, met Alex's gaze, and then the fleeting thought of gloves faded into the background.

Pometkin asked himself, "Where could I have seen him before?" The calm start to the day suddenly darkened by a feeling of unease.

Nikolay felt indecent to look at the young stranger's face for several seconds.  A further thought flashed into man’s mind: "He might think that I'm flirting with him like some old pedophile. Better open the lock as soon as possible and hide in my fortress."

The man turned toward the door and inserted the key into the lower lock hole.

From behind the man, Alex sang,

"Now it looks as though they're here to stay."

Pometkin opened the third lock, put the keys in his pocket, and grabbed the handle of the lower lock.

The song ended louder than it started,

"Oh, I believe in yesterday!"

At the last word, Alex struck Pometkin forcefully with his fist on the hindhead. The man's forehead slammed against the iron door, his legs swayed unsteadily, and he fell to the floor.


Pometkin's consciousness did not return immediately. After he opened his eyes, he found himself naked in the middle of his apartment's living room. Several wide strips of duct tape wrapped around his torso and arms. He tried to get up but couldn't. His body was bound to the back of a chair. When he looked down, he saw his arms pressed against his body and hips, and his thighs were tied to the seat with tape. Despite his efforts, the prisoner couldn't move his legs. The clothesline pressed their calf muscles against the chair's legs, digging into his skin.
There was a gaping red bump along the border of Pometkin's hairline and forehead. Nikolay couldn't see the result of the injury, but he could clearly observe that most of his T-shirt was hanging from his mouth, down to his chest.

When Nikolay examined his apartment, he was horrified. He had never allowed an apartment to become so cluttered. All the items found in cabinets, drawers, shelves, and mezzanines were scattered on the floor by the intruder.

Pometkin's anger reached a boiling point when he saw a teenager exiting the kitchen wearing dusty sneakers. With a piece of dry-cured salami in his hand, the guy walked through Pometkin’s underwear.

Before he had time to decide what infuriated him more - an expensive smoked Gotto salami in his hand or dirty shoes on a new carpet - the uninvited guest said,
“Woke up? It's great. I was in the kitchen, and I heard that you were moaning. So, I decided to come see you. I'm glad that you finally woke up. Two hours remain before your wife gets home from work. It's both a long and short period of human life at the same time. This is a philosophical paradox. The lads from my gang in Moscow taught me this. These two hours will slowly creep by for you, but they will fly by unnoticed for me.”

Pometkin moaned and shifted his head from side to side.

"I see in your eyes that two questions trouble you: the first, who I am, and the second, why you ended up in such a terrible situation. Nod if I guess correctly,” the intruder scoffed.

The man nodded desperately.

“To answer both questions and to dispel your ignorance about my intentions, I'll explain everything to you right now,” the young man said.

Alex went into the bedroom for a moment, opened the wardrobe, took out an electric steam iron from the top shelf, and returned to Pometkin to plug the iron in.

"I'm the son of the Zafiros couple, who gave you sixteen hundred bucks a year ago, after which you immediately handed them over to corrupt cops. Then you decided that money wasn’t enough for you and stole two suitcases of our family's belongings."

Nikolay shook his head in disbelief.

"Do you think I'm wrong?" the youth asked.

Potetkin nodded.

"Like, it was someone else," Alex mocked.

The captive's entrails made a guttural noise.

"No, rat. That was you. I saw you give the envelope with the money to a shameful cop. I saw his butchers shackling my parents and how you dragged two suitcases filled with our clothes. I'm amazed at you. What kind of creature are you? I found my dead mother's dresses in your closet. What happened? Why did you bulge your eyes at me? Do you want to tell me that my parents' deaths were accidental?"

Pometkin nodded.

"You are lying to me. I found a pair of my dad's shirts and his favorite tie, and if you misbehave, I'll suffocate you with it," Saying that, Alex spat on the electric iron. Saliva bounced off the mirror surface with a hiss. "You probably took revenge on them for bargaining with you for rent? So," Alex continued. "I haven't forgiven you either and came to pay you back. Your bookshelf contains volumes of the Great Soviet Encyclopedia. I understand you draw knowledge from them. I used to be a simple guy, and I didn't have such smart books at home. Elephant, the sadist, and murderer who taught me my life lessons, once saw me with a book in my hand and said: 'Boy, the source of knowledge is not a book, but a steam iron. Using it, you can discover the information you wish to know.' Nod your head when you are ready to give me all the cash you have."

Pometkin's eyes widened in horror, and before he could respond, the young man had applied the iron to the upper surface of his thigh. Nikolai fidgeted in his chair, a wave passed through his body, he rounded his back and froze.

"You're wriggling like a snake," Alex's face wrinkled at the smell of burnt skin.

The lad then removed the electric iron from the victim's leg. When Nikolay came to consciousness and opened his eyes,  the torturer said, "Listen, you fucking cunt. You have no idea whose family you ran into a year ago. To help you understand what to expect, I'll draw you a small picture of my childhood."

Alex sat down on Pometkin's unharmed leg, hugged his shoulder, and bent down to Nikolay's face. The boy stared at his victim with blue eyes as cold as ice.

"You see," the uninvited guest said. "I'm a Greek by my father. You don't know that the name Zafiros derives from the Spartan branch of the Greek ethnos. My father raised me the same way our distant ancestors raised their boys. Before going to bed, he read me stories about ancient Greek heroes. A year ago, I thought that this knowledge would be useless. I studied English and did well in school. I won the Moscow championship in boxing in my age category and was planning to attend the Bauman Moscow State Technical University, which is located across the street from my apartment building in Reutovo. So, a year ago, after receiving money from my father, you called the police officer, crossing out my future and ending the lives of my parents. Do you understand, bitch? We haven't seen each other since the day you put a money envelope in the hands of a corrupt cop, and only a few months ago, I learned that local gangsters tortured my parents to death in a forest and then burned their corpses there.”

As Alex looked away, his eyes welled up with tears. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, and getting up, the lad touched Pometkin's leg with an electric iron for a moment. As Nikolay made a dull howl, twitched for a moment, and then fell silent, the young man set the iron on the hardwood floor, pulled out the cord, and left the living room.

The teen returned from the bathroom with a bucket of water. Pometkin's head hung low, but as Alex splashed him with the water, he began to come to his senses.

"Are you aware of why you are still alive?" Alex asked, his voice laced with anger. "It's because my mother was Russian. She was kind and loved me very much. When my father was away on business, she never told me legends about Spartans, who were fierce warriors. Instead she  read me Russian fairy tales, and one of them stuck with me for life.

The fairy tale I'm referring to is called 'Fire, Water, and Copper Pipes.' I'm sure you're familiar with it, but let me refresh your memory so you can feel the atmosphere. It tells the story of Vasily, who meets and falls in love with Alyona. Unfortunately, dark forces steal her away from him. In the plot, Vasily must fight for his happiness and endure numerous trials, even having to battle with his own inner demons to remain human. You will undergo similar kinds of tests. Despite enduring the 'fire,' you still haven't disclosed the location of the money. Perhaps you wanted to tell but couldn't. Don't worry; you'll have more opportunities to reveal the cache. Now, get ready to face the next test - the one involving water."

Saying that, Alex struck Pometkin's forehead with his fist, and the victim with on the chair fell to the floor. The teen covered Nikolay's face with a T-short then poured water on his head, while the man tried to dodge the jet of water.
“This is normally done with an assistant,” the young man noted, continuing to fill the captive's nasopharynx. “He poured from the bucket, and I held the head, so the victims wouldn't dodge. Since I am here alone, I have to take care of everything on my own. Nikolay, stop twitching, or I'll put you on your knees and dip your head into a bucket of water. You'll feel much worse.”

After emptying the bucket, Alex squatted down next to the man and asked: “Where's the money?”

Pometkin shook his head negatively.

“Clearly, you claim that there is no money. It seems to me that you are stubborn since you don't understand the whole plan,” Alex smiled unkindly. “Listen, scum. Here's the final test for you: a copper pipe. As a child, I loved to read fiction about knights. I recall that in one novel, ‘The Iron King’, there is a story about how the younger brother of the English monarch kills the heir to the throne without leaving a single sign of the killing on the body. You can't imagine what he came up with, but let me tell you. They bent the king on a table, stuck a piece of a severed bovine horn in his ass, and inserted into his rectum a red-hot rod used to stir the coals in the fireplace. The local priests inspected the body of the king and were unable to determine what caused the death. You understand that the Vatican forbade autopsies at the time. I did not bother with the horn. Anyway, your physician will understand what caused your death. Instead of a horn, I brought a short piece of copper pipe with a diameter similar to that of an iron ruble. I also have a drill and a soldering iron. Unless you tell me where the money is hidden, I will turn you over with the chair, drill a hole in the seat, insert a pipe into your ass, and burn your insides with a soldering iron to its entire length. By the way, that king was a fagot, and his subjects weren't sorry about his fate. Since you are a rat, no one will be sorry for you."

Pometkin lay on his back and vigorously shook his head from side to side. Alex kicked the chair to which the victim was tied onto its side, pulled a drill out of his backpack, plugged in the Forstner bit, and hooked up the power cord. Nikolay did not notice the boy's activities behind him and was taken aback when a one-inch cutting disc spun dangerously close to his eyes.

The young man calmly observed the puddle of urine growing in diameter on the carpet and asked, “Where's the money?”

Pometkin pointed at the balcony door with his head.

Alex stepped out onto the glassed-in balcony and examined the walls, bedside table, and floor carefully. As he scuffed his foot on the fringed linen rug, he noticed that the legs of the nightstand had left a mark on the concrete floor below. As soon as the guy had moved the bedside table out of the way, he discovered that the back wall was double. With a screwdriver in hand, Alex unscrewed the screws from the plywood wall and found three packs of American tens and a pack of twenties.

The young man thought pessimistically, “Five thousand? Not much.” The young man smiled, “But better than nothing and the blood of that nit on my hands.”

Alex tucked tools into his backpack and dollars into pockets, then quietly left Pometkin’s apartment.

Tanya's bedroom was lit, but her window was closed. Alex threw a small pebble at the window to get the girl's attention. Tanya cracked the window to look out.

“Open it wider,” Alex said.
The young woman flung open the window and offered, “Come to me, my parents went to the cottage.”
Alex threw a wad of money into the window opening and whispered, “I'm sorry, but I can't stay in Odessa. It is too dangerous for me.”
“Are you leaving?” Tanya asked.
“Yes. My childhood ended with the death of my parents, and my youth ended when our gang was defeated. It's time to start over in adulthood. From scratch and as far as I can,” Alex replied.
“How far?” The girl asked, hoping that Alex wanted to return to Russia and, in the future, would return to Odessa again.
He said sadly, “I'll stop in France first. My parents always wanted to go to the States. Maybe one day I can fulfill their dream.”
“Will I see you again?" Tanya frowned in hope that Alex would leave her at least a glimmer of hope.
The young man's heart sank from pain, but his brain said, "To stay is to die. Life moves forward, not back."
“No,” came the answer from the darkness.
Tanya's voice was pleading, as she asked, “But why?”
In the shadow of the acacias, the boy quoted Forrest Gump and said, “My Mama always said you have to put the past behind you before you can move forward."
"Goodbye, my love,” the quickly grown man said before disappearing.
The girl clutched a pack of American tens to her chest and began to sob. Through her tears, she whispered, “Goodbye, Alex.”


Chapter Twenty-eight. June 17, 1996. Brest, Belarus.

At the Belarusian Brest railway station, a Moscow-Berlin express train stood prominently on the first track, ready to continue its journey. As passengers disembarked for the regional center, porters swiftly rushed forward with their carts, while a watchful police patrol followed closely behind.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, Alex calmly strolled along the railway embankment between the first and second tracks. He sported a dark gray jumpsuit adorned with an orange track fitter's vest, along with a uniform baseball cap displaying the label ‘Second Brigade, Third District.’ Completing his attire were short barnyard boots, and as the evening clouds loomed, the reflective stripes on his legs and sleeves seemed grayer than usual. On his right shoulder, the young man carried a track template he had acquired earlier, having liberated it from the locker room of the railway station workers.

Alex carefully observed the gravel beneath his feet, not relying on mere visual judgment, as he carried a track template with him. Despite the unpleasant odor emanating from his shoes, he remained focused on his plan.

Reflecting on the past year, Alex had endured trials that would be unparalleled in most people's lives. Unbeknownst to him, those who were involved in his tragic journey had inadvertently become his teachers.

“My father was right to push me to learn English,” Alex mused as he meandered alongside the train carriages. “It's not just about its practicality; it helped develop my memory. My tutoring sessions and boxing training with Victor taught me to value every lesson life threw my way. My encounter with Captain Erokhin, though challenging, offered a valuable lesson about using any means necessary to achieve high goals. Thank you, detective, for the demonstration. You didn't hesitate to utilize special equipment against me, and I learned from it. The tales of Afghan's military tactics and Elephant's teachings on self-control have been invaluable. And Mamonov's quote, ‘The most important thing is to truly want something, and those who will fulfill your desire will always be here,’ rings true in my mind as I stand among these individuals.”


Meanwhile, near the open door of the dining car, two conductors appeared to be engaging in some covert activity. Dressed in dark blue uniforms and knee-length skirts, they seemed occupied with mysterious tasks.

One of the conductors, a young lady in her early twenties, skillfully accepted boxes filled with vodka bottles from a man in the nearby train, passing them off to her partner with practiced ease. Her older colleague diligently transferred the boxes to the cook in the dining car.

From Alex's point of view, it appeared that way. In reality, he could only catch a glimpse of the dining car cook's hands receiving the boxes from the car's lobby.

"Good evening to the Russian Railways workers," Alex greeted, slowing his pace.
"Valentina, look what a cute railway track fitter showed up," said the young woman to her older friend. "We didn't notice him."
"Ah, screw him. We have no time to chat with this youngster," Valentina swore, handing her colleague another box.
"Ladies, can I help you?" The youth asked.
"How can you help us? Don't you see that we have a team? One person fetches boxes from the train, another person takes them to the restaurant, and we pass them from hand to hand, between two trains," the burly conductor explained the situation, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. "Don't bother. We don't need you."
"Valentina, if you give me another minute of your precious time, things may turn around for you. I have a business proposal for both of you," Alex said.
"While the cook is gone, tell us about your offer quickly," Valentina replied.
"I need to go to Berlin, and I'm willing to pay a lot," the guy said.
"Have you lost your mind, and are you afraid to return to the company office?" The young woman looked deeply into the boy's eyes.
"No, not that," her partner laughed. "He left a crutch hammer under his girlfriend's bed."
"I'm not a rail track fitter," Alex replied, tossing a track template onto the sleepers of the second track. "This outfit is intended to divert unnecessary attention from the station police."
"Everyone wants to get to the German capital after the Berlin Wall falls," the younger conductor said. "Oh, boy, that's expensive."
"How much is it?" Alex stood his ground.
"I think you don't have that much," Valentina paused and glanced at her partner.
"But still?" Alex persisted.
"Three thousand dollars," she replied quietly.
Instead of answering, Alex took off his backpack, rummaged in it, pulled out a packet of American dollars, and said, "I agree."
The puffy Valentina said, "Stay here; I'll be back soon," and she hurriedly climbed the iron steps into the dining car.

The cook encountered her in the vestibule.
“Are we done yet?” he asked.
“No, Gleb, there are still five boxes left, but we need to discuss an urgent matter,” the conductor said as she entered, with the cook following behind.
“What happened?” The cook inquired when the conductor turned to face him.
“A boy of about sixteen is standing outside. He wants to go to Berlin. I quoted the price as three thousand greens, and he agreed without blinking. I'm offering you fifteen hundred, I'll take one thousand, and my assistant will get five hundred greens. Will you hide the boy for us?”
The cook replied, “Is he big?”
Valentina responded, “Medium height, but slim.”
Gleb agreed, “I'll hide him this time. I have space for one illegal passenger.”

The conductor descended to the gravel. Five boxes stood next to her colleague, and the door of the adjacent train was closed.
“Have you paid Ostap yet?” Valentina asked a junior conductor.
“Yes,” the woman replied. “What about the kid?”
“I sorted it out, but we need to hurry. In ten minutes, the train will leave for the wheel rearrangement. Let's get in the car and raise the threshold, and you," Valentina turned to the young man and asked, "What's your name?”
The teen replied, “Alex.”
Upon hearing his response, she said, “Alexander and I will load the boxes under your feet.”

The older conductor received a pack of twenties from the passenger in the vestibule of the dining car.

Passing the money to Valentina, the teen said, “Here are only two thousand. I’ll give you another five hundred when we cross the Polish border, and I’ll pay you the rest when we get to Germany. So, don't try to change the terms, and please feed me along the way. I get angry when I'm hungry.”
The young woman behind Valentina sarcastically asked, “And when you're angry and hungry, do you bite?”
“Leave him alone,” Valentina told her colleague, hiding the cash in her bra. “We have to think about the business now. The time spent in the hangar for 'shoe change' will be seventy minutes, followed by a two-hour wait while we go through customs and border checks on the Moscow and Warsaw sides of the Brest station, and a forty-minute trip through the Polish sanitary zone. This totals almost four hours. The boy will pee in his pants in Gleb's kitchen. Go to your carriage; we need to leave him alone for a couple of minutes. And you, Alex, after urinating in the open door, lock it and go straight to the cook. Gleb will instruct you, and you will hide. Got it?”
“Got it,” Alex replied.

The train came to a stop at the bogie carts change point. After the locomotive departed from the massive building, railroad workers surrounded the wheelsets of the cars. Within five minutes, the workers moved away from the train cars, and electric jacks lifted them above the carts.
As the Dining Car was smoothly elevated, Alex quickly devoured a meal prepared by Gleb in Navy style – spaghetti with fried ground beef.

With the Dining Car swaying smoothly, Alex inquired, "How high did we rise?"
The cook replied, "About four feet."
"Will they put us on narrower carts and send us on our way?" Alex asked again.
"No," Gleb responded, casting a curious look at Alex. "The workers will change the couplings between the intercars and send us back."
Astonishment showed on Alex's face, and the cook explained, "The Brest railway station has both Moscow and Warsaw sides. The Moscow side is Russian and wider, while the Warsaw side is European, four inches narrower!"
"I had no idea," the guy admitted. "What's the reason behind this?"
"This has two versions, official and popular," it seemed to Alex that the chef had not been the only one to mention it. "According to the official one, it was done to prevent the enemy from using our railways to transport their troops."
"And what about the popular version?" Alex inquired.
"I prefer it better," Gleb said. "In that version, a German-Bohemian engineer, Franz Gerstner, who built the first railway in the Russian Empire, asked Emperor Nicholas the First whether he should make a railroad from St. Petersburg to Moscow the same width as the Europeans or wider. The Emperor replied, 'For a dick wider?' The Austrian didn't understand the Emperor's sarcastic response and took it literally. Franz Gerstner asked His Majesty's courtiers to measure the tsar's penis in the bathhouse and made Russian roads four inches wider than European ones."
"That's quite the historical anecdote," Alex laughed.

A winch motor hummed, and the broad-gauge bogie rolled out from under the dining car. A motor-car brought up the 'shoes', and the dining car descended smoothly.

"The workers will fasten the connections in five minutes, and then they'll roll us out of the hangar. I see you've finished your meal," the cook said to Alex as he rose from his seat. "I won't offer you a drink. You know why. Let's go. I'll show you where to hide.”

The cook and his passenger left the dining car and proceeded to the kitchen, where they squatted at an iron-made counter with cabinets. Gleb opened a cabinet door and pulled out four drawers. One of them contained meat forks, knives, and spoons. Another held cutting boards, baking trays, and serving trays for side dishes. The third one had pans, and the bottom one stored saucepans and pots. Gleb arranged the utensils on the countertop and fetched an electric drill from a nearby cabinet.
“Look in the drawers,” the chef said. “What is their length?”
“Two feet,” Alex replied.
“Close, but to be accurate, it's three inches shorter,” Gleb corrected him. “And the countertop is three feet. Look inside. Do you see the back wall?”
Not understanding where the cook was going with this, Alex answered, “Yes,” uncertainly.
“There's space behind it, along with the entire counter. Cables and piping run in there. When I first saw the wall, it was solid, so I carefully cut it out in one cabinet and fashioned a new one from the same metal, but slightly longer. I bent the edges from the top and the bottom and drilled holes for screws in the ‘sweep’. The wall became removable. If I need to, I can take it off in three minutes and put it back in the same time,” explained Gleb, pleased with his ingenuity.
“How do you hold the removable wall during installation? Plus, after all, self-tapping screws require precision during installation,” the curious guy said.
The cook replied, “With two plungers,” and noticing Alex's confusion, he explained: “These suckers are an integral part of any kitchen. I use them to clean the pipes in the sink if they get clogged with leftover food from washing dishes. Let me hide you in there now. There will be no comfort sitting there, so I suggest you lie on the pipes. I won't use hot water until the restaurant opens. I'll take you out of there once we've crossed the border. Have you used a drill before?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good, then take down the back wall. I'll start cooking,” the chef said and began to retrieve seasonings from the cabinets.
“You said the restaurant wouldn't open soon. Why are you cooking so early?” The young man wondered.
“It's not for passengers. It's for the dog's nose that will soon arrive with the Belarusian border guards.”
“I understand you want to mask my smell with spices,” the young man said and unzipped his backpack.


The locomotive backed into the station's Warsaw side, and Alex swiftly changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. He crawled into a snug cranny between the carriage walls and the kitchen counter, lying down on the stolen railroad workers' uniform.

Gleb patiently waited for Alex to finish hiding before restoring the cabinet wall to conceal the hidden space. Satisfied that there were no traces of Alex's presence in the kitchen, he made his way to Valentina's carriage.

"Valentina, you promised me fifteen hundred dollars, and here's a thousand," the cook asked, counting the money. "Is this a scam?"
"I'll give you five hundred when you let the kid out," the conductor replied.
"Who do you think I am?" Gleb retorted indignantly. "No doubt, I'm a bastard, but I'm not a murderer. Of course, I'll let him out. I don't want his corpse in the kitchen. I won't feed passengers with human flesh."
Valentina burst into laughter. "I didn't mean that. The guy gave me two thousand. I kept the extra five hundred for myself. He promised to give you the rest in Poland, so you can get it from him. Later, I'll shake the money from him for my partner."
"Do you trust him?" The cook asked skeptically.
"Where will he go?" Valentina replied seriously. "If he deceives me, I'll give you my five hundred, and I'll throw him out of the train at full speed."

Two border guards entered the dining car. The first was a young lieutenant with the Golden Star of the Hero of the USSR on his jacket. Behind the young lieutenant followed a sergeant-dog handler with his loyal shepherd dog, the oldest member of the trio.

The dog, though still energetic and spry, had reached an age equivalent to that of a human in their late sixtieth, making it the most experienced and mature member of the group. Despite its age, the shepherd dog's training and dedication were evident in every step it took alongside its handler, displaying the wisdom and loyalty that come with years of service and companionship.

The officer introduced himself as Lieutenant Yevgeny Povolyaev of the Belarus border service and politely requested Gleb's passport.

Gleb cordially greeted the border guard and handed over the document.

The officer meticulously examined each page of the passport, making notes in his notebook and pulling out a plastic rotary stamp from his pocket.

Gleb couldn't help but be curious about the young man on the other side of the table.

"Have you got the Golden Star of the Hero at the train station?" The cook asked, trying to strike up a conversation.

The lieutenant didn't seem offended by the question, having probably been asked about the Golden Star before.

"Of course not," the officer replied a bit begrudgingly. "I served in a motorized rifle brigade for a year and a half in Afghanistan."
"I didn't think you could be an Afghan war veteran," said Gleb.

The cook felt guilty before a man with such an extraordinary past and decided to make amends by showing genuine interest in listening to the officer's story about his heroic feat.

"While your sergeant looks around the kitchen, maybe you can tell me about your heroic experiences during your time in Afghanistan," Gleb asked with genuine curiosity, showing interest in the officer's past service.

The border guard did not distinguish himself in any way - perhaps repeating his story for the hundredth time, he began: “I was an ordinary tank driver. My tank was blown up six times by landmines during the war. I was wounded twice, and shell-shocked six times. Every time, the chain of command offered me the chance to return to the Soviet Union, but I declined. Because of my stubbornness, they awarded me the Hero title and granted me the right to attend any military college of the USSR without taking an entrance exam. The KGB college was my choice. I dreamed of joining the Secret Intelligence Service after graduation, but it seems I'm too dumb for that field. I had a C in all of my classes during college. As a Hero, I had the privilege of choosing my service placement following graduation, and I ended up serving at the Belarusian-Polish border point.”
Gleb said, “Well done, you're brave and stubborn.”
“More stubborn than courageous,” the officer replied.

While the young officer checked the cook's passport and talked about his service with a motorized rifle brigade, his subordinate walked around the restaurant nooks with his dog.

The dog studied the legs of tables and chairs, checked out the shelves of wine bottles, and carefully evaluated the bar.

After the K-9 handler entered the kitchen, his four-leg companion grunted at the frozen mutton lying on the cutting board. As the dog approached the cabinet of kitchen utensils, he grunted maniacally toward the door and bared his teeth.

“What's the matter, Charlie?” The man asked the dog, opening the iron door.

Behind the door were four drawers. Despite seeing this picture several times a day, the sergeant could not ignore the dog's reaction. He trusted Charlie's scent more than his own experience. He turned on a pocket flashlight to illuminate the cabinet's back wall. Seeing nothing unusual, he straightened his back and looked at the counter.
Saffron, barberry, peeled garlic cloves, turmeric, cumin seeds, two onions and two chili peppers were on clean parchment paper in front of him.

“Charlie,” the sergeant said as he squatted next to the German shepherd, brushed gently the black wool on the dog's neck with his fingers, patted it gently, and looked into the dog's eyes, saying softly: “My old friend, you don't need to worry. The chef will cook pilaf for customers.”

The dog relaxed, his eyes became indifferent, he yawned widely and lost interest in the kitchen.

“Is everything in order?” The officer asked when the dog handler returned to the dining room.
“Yes, comrade Lieutenant,” the sergeant answered wearily. “There are no illegals.”
“Then good luck to you,” the officer said, handing the passport to Gleb, and with the sergeant left the dining car.

Just as their footsteps melted in the next car, a plump customs officer burst in to see the cook.

The inspector, fully aware of the prevailing sentiment towards customs officers, skipped over the self-introduction and greeting. He knew that any politeness from his side wouldn't change the Russian cook's opinion, not about him personally, nor about the Custom servicemen in general. After all, customs officers were despised throughout the vast expanse of Russia, from the Arctic to the scorching deserts in the deep South, and from the Far East to the Western borders. They were considered the most corrupt of all public servants, perched atop the corruption pyramid, surpassing even the taxmen and traffic police officers.

He asked directly, “Is anything in the dining car forbidden for export outside Belarus?”
The cook replied, “No.”
“And if I find something?”
“Look. I'm not a railway conductor. Smuggling isn't my business,” Gleb replied.

The customs officer pulled a unique key from his jacket pocket, selectively opened several hatches in the dining room, and walked to the kitchen. The chef followed him.

“Get out of here while I search the kitchen,” the inspector ordered the cook.
“It's illegal to search my workplace without my presence,” Gleb said in an imperturbable tone.

The inspector took out a flashlight and began searching through cabinets, drawers, the refrigerator, and the dishwasher. He rearranged the cans of canned food, peered at the labels, put his fingers in several baskets of cereal, and felt the plastic trash bag. When he got to a cutting table with fitted wardrobes, the officer pulled out every drawer and opened every door.
“The table is wider than the drawers. What has hidden behind the cabinet wall?” The customs inspector asked sternly.
In disgust over the customs officers, Gleb asked contemptuously, “What are you, a moron? There are the same features as in all dining cars built in the Soviet Union; pipelines, exhaust ventilation, and electrical wiring. There is nothing contrary to federal law on customs regulations that could replenish your state's budget.”
Having no idea what the cook was talking about, the inspector asked, “What are you talking about?”
“I'm quoting the second clause of the first paragraph of the Custom code of the Belarus Republic, which reads: Customs regulation is the process of establishing procedures and rules for the movement of goods and vehicles across customs borders"
With a tone of confidence, the cook added, "I responsibly state that there are no goods or vehicles inside the table."
“So what is there then?” The customs officer asked, his eyes widening.
“It's incredible how stupid you are. It's just a nightmare. Do you want me to disassemble the entire counter and show you the age-old mold? Do you want to risk lung cancer? If you're so stubborn, tell your bosses on the radio that you are delaying the international fast train, calling a team of locksmiths, and dismantling the kitchen. I'm in no hurry to Berlin. I've been there two hundred times.”
“Please give me fifty dollars,” the inspector begged.

Gleb took out of his pocket ten thousand rubles, twenty times less than the custom inspector asked, thrust it into his breast pocket, and said: “I have no right to carry foreign currency across the border. And you, provocateur, know that. Get out of here.”

The customs officer left, defeated and empty-handed, while Gleb continued with his preparations, ensuring Alex's safe journey towards Berlin.


Chapter twenty-nine. June 30, 1996. Kehl. Germany

Greta sat in a chair, clutching an empty glass, still in shock. Her thoughts raced:

        "Meeting a real-life gangster is nothing like I imagined. He doesn’t resemble the vicious thugs from TV or movies. When I first saw Alex at the central railway station, bundled up in a brown quilted puffer jacket, he looked more like an overstuffed sausage than a hardened predator. His innocent smile, revealing two rows of gleaming white teeth, completely misled me. Oh, the horror—it wasn’t a friendly grin; it was the smile of a shark, the ocean’s deadliest predator. That’s what they do—circle their prey, tightening the loops ever so slowly.

        For two weeks, I treated him like a pet, like a puppy or a kitten. Oh my God! He could have snapped my neck at any moment—not just at night, but in the morning, afternoon, or evening. Every day, I tried to civilize him, bring order and respect for the law into his life, without realizing he was a Russian gangster. He grew up between Europe and Asia, absorbing the vices of the Italian mafia and the Japanese yakuza. He might be even more dangerous than both. The only reason I’m still alive is that he hasn’t realized it yet."

        Tiny beads of sweat formed on Greta’s forehead. She glanced at Alex, who was still sitting on the floor, just two steps away. The stem of the glass rested in her palm, and spilled wine had seeped into the carpet.

        Gently, she pleaded, “Please, just leave. Pack your things and go.”

        Alex stood up. “Is it okay if I take some money from the pay terminal?”

        Her voice trembled. “Take whatever you want. I won’t call the police. Just go… and don’t come back.”

      “No problem,” he said with an indifferent shrug, as if her desperation meant nothing. “I’ll grab my stuff, put it in my backpack, and vanish into the night.”

        He packed quickly, slipped on his sneakers in the hallway, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and left Greta’s apartment without a word of farewell.