Ever since the run-in with Lynd, Igor had made it a point not to stray far from his protectors. But he thought it was okay one day to head down to the prison mail center when a friend told him that there was a package there from his brother. Hoping that his clever twin had discovered a new way to smuggle in drugs-a little marijuana or perhaps some Ecstasy-he wasn't paying attention when he arrived in the hallway outside the mail center. However, he knew something was wrong when the normally busy hall was empty except for Monster Lynd.
Igor tried to turn and flee, but he was suddenly grabbed from behind by two men he couldn't see. His eyes went to the blade that had appeared in Lynd's hand. He tried to yell for help but a large hand covered his mouth.
In a way he was thankful that it was over quickly. He felt three powerful punches, knocking the wind out of him. There really wasn't much pain, though when he looked down at his hands, which were holding his belly, he noted that they were covered with blood. Then he was lying on the floor.
Someone kicked him and then he saw feet quickly retreating. He gasped but couldn't quite seem to catch his breath, and wondered if that was how fish felt when hauled onto land. His mind wandered to a time when he was a child and his father took him and his brother fishing in the Volga River…a fish flopping on the deck of the boat, working its mouth…and passed out.
Svetlov may have thought that the toughness that made Igor's father a good soldier had skipped a generation, but maybe not entirely. Although it took the equivalent of six bodies' worth of blood transfusions, he held on, fortunate that the shiv had only nicked his liver and no major blood vessels. After a few days, when he began to feel up to looking around from his bed, he discovered that the big man in the hospital bed next to him was also Russian. The funny thing was that there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the man. And, in fact, when the orderlies left the ward at night and there was no one to see-or at least snitch-the man would get out of his bed and work out, doing push-ups and sit-ups. As soon as the man was done, he'd stand, wink at Igor, and get back into bed. It finally dawned on Igor that the man was his bodyguard, and he slept peacefully.
After Igor had for the most part recovered from his wounds, he was placed in administrative segregation for his own safety until parole. He'd been told by the parole board that he was going to be released to the INS and then deported. However, on the day of his release from the prison, he was given a cheap suit and a bus ticket back to Brooklyn. Waiting for his ride in the station, he'd called his brother, Ivan, on a pay phone and told him to meet him at Grand Central station and "be ready to party like is no tomorrow."
Ivan laughed and said he'd be there. He was sure that his boss, Olav Radinskaya, the Brooklyn borough president and a middle man for the mob who used Ivan to pick up "insurance payments" from business owners, would let him off early.
As soon as he arrived at Grand Central Station, Igor had hurried to the number 4 train platform. He got to the bottom of the stairs and immediately spotted his brother standing at the other end of the platform. Ivan didn't see him, however, because he was bending over looking down the tunnel for the train.
Idiot, Igor thought. How many times do I have to tell him not to stand so close? Someday somebody is going to bump him onto the tracks. I'm going to have to talk to…
Igor's brotherly thoughts screeched to a halt when he noticed the four young black men who were closing rapidly on Ivan, just as the light from the train appeared in the tunnel. One of the men was Jayshon Sykes.
"IVAN!" he screamed but wasn't heard above the crowd noise and the approach of the train. He started for his brother, knowing he was already too late. "IVAN!" His brother finally heard him and turned with a smile. But his face melted to a look of concern and then fear as a tough-looking black man walked up to him and pushed him out onto the tracks just as the train arrived.
Ivan's scream was cut short but dozens of other people on the platform took it up as the conductor hit the brakes far too late to save him. Igor stopped and doubled over as if he'd been stabbed again.
He looked up just as Sykes turned toward him. The killer had a smile on his face, which changed to a puzzled look and then a mask of rage. His eyes darted to the empty sleeve of Igor's cheap jacket. He shouted something to his comrades and started to run toward Igor.
The anger in Sykes's face brought Igor to his senses-his sense of self-preservation. His brother was dead, and he would soon be, too, if he didn't run. He escaped only because the screaming, yelling crowd rushed in a half-dozen panicked directions, hindering Sykes and his gang. It had taken nearly three hours of staying to alleys and side streets-as well as a terrifying jog across the Brooklyn Bridge thinking that every car driven by a black man contained his brother's killer-but at last he'd arrived in the relative safety of Brighton Beach.
As he made his way to the tearoom of his benefactor, his fear was gradually replaced by anger. He had loved his brother, who was all the family he had left. And he was murdered because they thought he was me, he thought miserably. He entered the tearoom to beg for safety, but he was also blinded by a desire for revenge and hardly noticed the two women who had to jump out of his way to avoid being trampled.
He stumbled to the back of the room, where he declared to the bodyguards, "Please, I am Igor Kaminsky. I need to see my Uncle Yvgeny."
The two large men looked at each other. They didn't know this wild-eyed nobody with one arm and were about to throw him out on the street when the intercom on the wall buzzed. One of the men picked up the receiver as the other kept his hand on his gun in case the crazy man tried to make a sudden move for the office door.
The man listening to the receiver grunted, "Da." He approached Igor and did a quick pat-down for weapons, then motioned him toward the door.
Inside, Igor was surprised to see two men in the room. He'd expected to see his "Uncle Yvgeny" Karchovski, the muscular middle-aged man with the pewter-colored crew cut and a black eye-patch who sat behind the desk. But he was surprised by the presence of the old man who was sitting on a couch off to the side. Vladimir Karchovski, he thought, the big boss himself.
A deep, commanding voice brought him back from his surprise. "Igor Kaminsky," Yvgeny said. "I'd heard you were out of prison. What is it that brings you to me?"
Igor didn't bother to ask how Yvgeny, the de facto head of the crime family now that his father, Vladimir, had supposedly retired, knew so quickly that he was out of prison. He'd suspected all along that Vladimir had had something to do with the apparent confusion about the INS, as well as the protection in prison.
Suddenly tears and rage boiled to the surface of his face. "My brother is murdered!"
There was no reaction on Yvgeny's face, though Igor thought he saw a flicker of something that could have been interpreted as sadness or anger in the man's one good eye. "Explain this. Who would murder your brother?"
6
After Igor Kaminsky was shown from the office, Yvgeny Karchovski leaned back in his chair without speaking. He was tall and his face looked as much Eurasian, with its high cheekbones and curiously slanted eyes, as it did Slavic. He would have been movie-star handsome, except that the right side of his face was disfigured as though by a fire. The black patch covered a missing eye, but it did not hide the waxy, melted appearance of his skin.
Beneath the thick, blue wool sweater and the shirt he wore, the right side of his body was also scarred from his waist up. A soft, black leather glove covered his right hand.
When he looked in the mirror, he felt repulsed by his appearance. Yet, women still found themselves drawn to him when he entered a room. It was something about the way he carried himself, as well as the combination of intelligence, humor, and a romantic sadness stored in his remaining gray-and-gold-flecked eye. Instead of being repulsed, as he was, women seemed to want to touch his scars, as if they might be the one to heal old wounds. But he'd remained a bachelor, even after arriving in the United States some ten years earlier from Russia.