"From this moment, there is a one-million-dollar bounty on each and every one of your heads, as well as one hundred thousand dollars for each member of your family they kill. An attack on one of us will be their signal to begin collecting. It will not matter which of you commits this offense; all of you will be hunted. As you have seen, these men know how to kill-most were with me in Afghanistan and have certainly known tougher men to kill than you. I would suggest that it is vital to your interests that no member of my family or friends suffers an 'accident' as you will all pay the price."
Yvgeny paused to let his threat sink in. "Now, you are all free to leave in peace," he said.
When they were gone, Yvgeny slumped down onto the couch while his father, who'd watched the affair with admiration, sat behind the desk.
"You did not enjoy that," Vladimir said.
Yvgeny shook his head. "I hated it," he replied. "I've never enjoyed killing, despite my former occupation. But I learned the hard lesson that sometimes the death of one or two at the critical moment can save the lives of many later. In Afghanistan, I learned that the only way to combat terrorists was with terror. But I did not enjoy it then, and did not enjoy it tonight."
Vladimir pursed his lips and nodded. "Good," he said. "It is good that such a thing troubles you. It shows that you still have a conscience. This is a hard business that sometimes requires hard decisions, but we should never make them lightly. Americans like to argue that violence never solves anything, but the history of the world demonstrates that sometimes violence is the only way to stop the violent."
Vladimir rose from his seat behind the desk. "Come here," he said.
Yvgeny got up from the couch and walked over to the old man, wondering what he was up to.
"Sit," Vladimir said, indicating his chair behind the desk.
Yvgeny shrugged and sat down. He watched, puzzled, as his father walked around the desk to the couch where he sat as well and then grinned at his son.
"What?" Yvgeny said, smiling in his confusion.
"It's your house now," Vladimir said.
"What do you mean?"
"As I said before, I'm tired and this is a business for a younger man."
"But I don't want to be the boss."
"Perhaps not. But you need to accept the responsibility anyway. There are a lot of people who depend on the house of Karchovski remaining strong, lest the wolves of the world, those young men you dealt with so decisively out there, devour them. When we bring people to this country, we charge them, yes, and they give us a percentage of their paychecks until they have redeemed what they owe us. But they are paying for a service for which they receive good value. These other men, they would not care-they'd enslave them, threaten them all the days of their lives with exposure to the authorities. And there are the people who work for us. All of these depend on the leader of the Karchovskis to be strong for them. I'm no longer strong enough. I'm asking you to take my place as you have now behind the desk."
Yvgeny had looked at his father and saw that this was more than an old man turning over his business to his son. It was a plea to continue his life's work.
In the short time he'd been in America, one thing had perplexed Yvgeny about his father's attitude. He was a criminal, had even committed murder-whatever the provocation. Yet, he professed to believe in the American justice system, as well as the U.S. Constitution, which he called "the single greatest document in the world."
When he'd finally asked the old man about the apparent contradiction, Vladimir shrugged. "I've done what I had to do to survive, though I would have preferred to be the simple owner of a teahouse. I've been lucky and smart and avoided the authorities. However, if I'd been caught and convicted, I would have accepted my punishment. I am like the sinner who nevertheless loves God; I am a criminal, but I am also a patriot."
More than ten years later, Yvgeny thought about that conversation as he sat in the chair behind the desk and looked at his father on the couch. The Kaminsky twins had been a constant headache almost since their arrival in the United States. They weren't bad as in evil, but they were lazy, and rather than pursue any legal means of making a living, they'd constantly pressured him to let them join the family business.
When he refused, Igor had decided to strike out on his own, robbing stores. But he'd proved extraordinarily inept and got sent to prison. Yvgeny had called in a lot of favors and paid a lot of money to keep him alive.
It was fortunate that Sergei Svetlov was in the same prison. The former wrestling champion had made a mistake transporting the body of a man who'd raped a woman in the Brighton Beach Russian enclave and paid the price when Svetlov tracked him down. Such things were not to be tolerated.
Unfortunately, Svetlov had had the bad luck of getting pulled over for a missing taillight as he drove toward a pig farm in New Jersey where the tenants would have made quick work of the body. As he talked to the officer who'd pulled him over, a rookie cop on his first patrol and trying to look as if he knew what he was doing, the cop tapped his flashlight absently on the lid of the trunk. Apparently, the locking mechanism was faulty, the lid sprang open, and the rookie found himself looking into the dead eyes of the pigs' dinner.
Yvgeny's team of lawyers managed to get the charges reduced from murder to manslaughter. (There was some evidence that the rapist was still alive-barely-when placed in the trunk, which, the defense attorney contended, meant that Svetlov had not necessarily intended to kill the deceased despite breaking nearly every bone in his body.) They'd also introduced at his sentencing that the man he killed was a serial rapist. However, the big man was going to spend the next seven to ten in prison, which had been fortunate for Igor.
Svetlov was nearly beside himself for having failed to protect the young man from Lynd when Yvgeny visited him in prison. "Such things happen in a place like this," he consoled Sergei. "You are not to blame yourself, my old friend."
The attack was going to require retribution-otherwise, the black hoodlums would take liberties-but he'd let it wait until he'd arranged for Igor to be freed, which had taken large payments to the INS and Department of Corrections officials but had not been difficult to arrange.
Yvgeny had wondered why the Bloods were so eager to kill Igor that they'd risk a war with the Russian mob, knowing he was under their protection. But this story about the confession by the piece of garbage Villalobos explained it. He kicked himself for not sending a car to pick Igor up outside the prison, but he'd thought that once the young man was outside the prison he'd be safe.
Now, Ivan was dead. Obviously a case of mistaken identity, which meant that Igor was still in danger. Which means that what he was told by Villalobos must be the truth, Yvgeny thought, and they're worried.
He remembered the trials of the so-called Coney Island Four. A woman raped beneath the pier on Coney Island. A horrible thing, Yvgeny thought, and if it had happened to one of my own, then perhaps I would take care of the animals myself…but this is not my business. The family didn't need to draw attention to itself by having an associate, Igor, going to the authorities, who might or might not believe him, but they would certainly deport him. And who knew what he might say when questioned. Igor wasn't the bravest or toughest soul on the planet.
Unlike his father, Yvgeny was no fan of justice systems whether they were Russian or American, and not just because he was a gangster. He believed they were all just as corrupt-from the cops to the judges-as any crime family. And in the case of the Americans, what wasn't corrupt had been so bastardized in a ridiculous effort to protect criminals that victims had fewer rights.
The woman raped beneath the pier wasn't his concern, but protecting Igor was. Once again, he'd failed to live up to his oath to Vasily. Now two of the old sergeant's children were gone and there was only one left.