“How important?” Berg said.
“They won’t need it until right before the attack on the facility. I will tell you how to destroy the bioweapons laboratory without using explosives. Very easy. Very complete.”
Berg stared at him for a few seconds before standing up. Reznikov offered his hand, which Berg regarded icily.
“Only children require a handshake to seal a bargain. You’ll get your phone calls. I’d like you to make the first one this morning.”
Reznikov retracted his hand with a scowl and poured three shots of vodka.
“A toast to the destruction of Vektor,” he said.
Petrovich picked up the shot glass, still slightly woozy from the first two drinks. A few seconds later, his throat ached as he slammed the shot glass down. No more shots for him. One more and he’d nap through the rest of the interrogation. He heard Berg ask the security station for a satellite phone to be delivered with breakfast. Berg took a seat at the table and watched Reznikov take another shot.
“Good news. Breakfast is on the way, along with a satellite phone. I hope your friends in Novosibirsk don’t hang up. You get five calls.”
Petrovich walked toward the kitchen, looking for the bathroom. He spied several more bottles of vodka tucked away under a row of kitchen cabinets, which prompted him to open the refrigerator. Nothing. A few seconds later, he heard the buzz of an ATV approaching. Special fucking delivery. He really hoped Berg didn’t intend to honor any deal to let Reznikov stay here. The thought of that psychopath enjoying personally delivered gourmet food for the rest of his life didn’t sit well with him.
Chapter 16
Sergei Dubinin parked his AvtoVAZ sedan and surveyed the sidewalks in front of the bank for any obvious signs of trouble. He had been abruptly interrupted from drinks at his new favorite lounge atop the Swiss Hotel Krasnye Holmy and ordered to run a quick errand nearby. Such requests were not unusual from his boss, but they usually came late at night, when he was busy working the streets. He wasn’t pleased to be yanked away from the company of his newly acquired admirers at the chic and ridiculously expensive rooftop hotel bar.
He’d been recently promoted from Shestyorka (associate) to Vor (thief) within the Solntsevskaya Bratva, which was the equivalent to becoming a “made” man within Sicilian mafia organizations. Accepting the Vor code meant greater responsibility, increased respect and more money.
He reported to a Boyevik (warrior) who led the business extortion efforts for their Brigadier, who in turn reported directly to Mr. Dima Maksimov, the organization’s Pakhan (boss). It was a long list of intermediaries, with numerous cut outs designed to prevent direct links back to the higher-ranking members. Security up the chain-of-command even featured “ghosts,” who watched over everybody and served as an informal version of mafiya internal affairs.
He’d thought his errand boy days were over, but it had only intensified with his new position. He no longer stood lookout outside of the stores or apartment buildings. Now he went inside and made the collections while someone else looked tough on the steps. The only benefit so far had been money to fuel his hunger for the finer things in life. His new errands almost always involved large quantities of cash, either payoffs from local businesses or debt collection.
He learned early in his career never to skim off the top, but instead to insist on an additional collection consisting of petty cash. A small tribute to keep him in a good mood and ensure that his next visit would be just as peaceful. He didn’t push the amounts, purposely setting his sights low to avoid attracting attention. He made several dozen collections a week, so the money added up quickly. No reason to shake down the wealthier “clients” for larger sums that might result in a phone call to his boss. Any money made at any level was subject to a “tax” up the chain of command. Eventually, his Boyevik would tactfully bring up the subject of his extra collections, and he would have to cough up money on a monthly basis. This was a natural part of the process and understood by everyone within the ranks.
He hoped this inevitable taxation didn’t impact his newly found place among society’s elite. There was an incredible amount of money to be made from these people, and he planned to tap into it. The combination of wealth and naivety sang to him as they regaled him with stories about yachts and third homes in the Swiss Alps. He felt like a shark in a fish tank as he laughed along with them, flashing the latest luxury watches and buying overpriced drinks with reckless abandon.
But first, another fucking errand…and this time to a bank. His unit didn’t do business with the banks. That was handled by a high-level Boyevik that specialized in bribes and government affairs. Maybe this was a good thing for him. A sign that they might be considering him for a special track within the bratva.
He opened the car door and stepped into the street, careful to examine the door mirror before making the near suicidal leap of faith into traffic. At six in the evening, Leninsky Avenue was packed with edgy drivers trying to race home. Fortunately, the bank was located on the eastern side of the ten-lane boulevard that carried traffic toward Moscow, and was slightly less packed than the other side. After quickly navigating to the sidewalk, he approached the bank, mindful of the time. The bank closed at six, and his boss would have a fit if he screwed this up. As a new member of the bratva, his actions were more closely scrutinized than ever before. Everything was a test of loyalty and commitment. He wondered if the downward pressure ever stopped.
He found the bank door unlocked, which was a relief. He had three minutes to spare until closing, which in Russia didn’t guarantee anything. He’d protested the time constraint, having received the phone call less than twenty minutes ago. If the bank manager wanted to go home at 5:30, the bank closed early. The last thing he wanted to do was visit the bank manager at home. Things were certain to get ugly if that happened, but orders were orders, and he was expected to return with the contents of the safety deposit box.
Sergei pulled on the heavy reinforced steel door and entered the bank, drawing a few stares from the staff. He saw one of them grimace, apparently unsatisfied that the bank might not close on time tonight. A guard armed with a shortened military carbine eyed him from the front corner of the lobby as he approached the more attractive of the two blond tellers. Bank robberies were relatively common in Moscow, though they were rare along this stretch of Leninsky Avenue. His bratva didn’t look kindly upon this kind of activity here, and transgressors were punished severely and publicly. Only the most desperate criminal upstarts dared to try and pull off a robbery in this district of Moscow.
The teller avoided eye contact with him, likely hoping that he’d turn to the other teller and let her continue to close out her station. No such luck, though he wouldn’t keep her for long, unless she wanted to join him for a drink later. Always a possibility. Handsomely dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, tailored to his fit ex-military frame, he looked sharp and could easily pass for one of the hundred thousand millionaires living in Moscow. When the blue-eyed blonde finally looked up at him, a look of relief flashed, which quickly transformed into a flirtatious smile. The evening just got more interesting.