Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5)

by Ian Kharitonov

  “Well,” Sokolov said, “now we have a way in. Let’s see where it takes us.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Getting inside the Mafia is half the problem,” Constantine said. “What I’d really like to know is how do we get out.”

  23

  Four hours later they arrived at the meeting point at Saks Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. A crowded venue like the department store provided both sides of the rendezvous sufficient security and peace of mind. Wasting no time as they waited for their contact to show up, Sokolov spent some of his spare cash on luxury shopping. He donned a fresh polo, denim jacket, jeans, and sneakers, while Constantine changed into a black poplin shirt, slacks, and loafers.

  The contact, Benya Byk, Americanized to Benny the Bull, dressed far more extravagantly. He wore flip-flops, bermudas, and a Dolce & Gabbana orchid-print Hawaii shirt. The most striking aspect of his appearance, however, was a gold chain with a crucifix that hung around his neck. Its thickness could make a Vatican cardinal green with envy.

  He must have been quite a unit back in the day but for his age, he still packed enough muscle under a layer of fat to justify his nickname.

  Sokolov recognized the man’s face from the messaging app avatar.

  His phone buzzed as Benny dialed the number to make sure it was him. Sokolov answered the call and waved his hand.

  “Over here!”

  Satisfied with the authentication, Benny beamed as he approached them, baring full rows of dental veneers.

  “Hey, hey. Glad to meet you guys,” Benny said. “Mark’s friends are my friends. So, what’s up? What brings you to New York?”

  “We’re happy to make new friends,” Sokolov said. “And we’re searching for some old ones.”

  “Luckily, the Big Apple ain’t so big when it comes to expats from the former USSR. I know everyone and everyone knows me. Tell me their names and I’m sure I’ll be able to find them for you.”

  “Just one name. Have you heard of Gosha’s Brigade?”

  All of a sudden, Benny’s porcelain-white smile disappeared.

  “Gosha’s Brigade?” he echoed taken aback. “Are you sure they’re your friends, man?”

  “Depends on what you can tell us about them.”

  Benny frowned. He was about to end the meeting and walk away.

  “I don’t know you guys.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Uncle Ari does,” Constantine said. “I shared a cell with him in Butyrka. Ask Goldstein. But if that’s not good enough for you—”

  Benny froze and held his hands up placatingly. “Hey, relax. I got it. No need to throw your weight around. We cool?”

  “So, what about Gosha?” Sokolov reminded.

  “He’s built himself a reputation that makes him feared,” Benny replied. “He runs a compact, well-run gang. The Brigade isn’t large but what they lack in numbers, they make up for in the ruthlessness of their methods. Last I heard, they were involved in a scuffle somewhere in the D.C. area. One of their own got badly hurt and they shot him dead. No mercy.”

  “Any word on the street what their job was?”

  Benny shook his head. “Nope. I do know that their main business is drugs and they also provide muscle for Anatoly Shaloy.”

  “Who’s Shaloy?”

  “Head honcho in Europe, connected to the upper echelons of the Russian Government.”

  “How high?”

  “Enough to make you dizzy.”

  “Frolov?”

  Benny nodded.

  That’s why he got so fidgety, Sokolov thought. The puzzle pieces were beginning to fall into place.

  “This Gosha fella,” Sokolov said. “How do we find him?”

  “He usually hangs out at Café Natasha, ’cause he owns the place. Ukrainian joint. But you can’t walk in off the street, you know.”

  “Got his number?”

  “Very few people do. But I’m one of them. What do you want it for?”

  “Call him to book a table for tonight. Don’t tell me you dislike Ukrainian food, Benny.”

  “At Gosha’s restaurant? I absolutely hate it.”

  24

  Café Natasha was located in a two-storied brick building on a grim-looking Brighton street, a secluded spot away from the well-trodden Riegelmann Boardwalk, wedged between a hair salon and a locksmith’s shop. The eatery’s name was stenciled in both English and Russian on the awning above the entrance.

  Arriving half an hour before the rendezvous, Constantine parked the Blazer two blocks away from the address Benny had given them and killed the headlights.

  “Time to split up,” Sokolov told his brother.

  “I still think you shouldn’t be going there alone. What if your plan goes to hell?”

  “Then I really need someone to stay behind and pray for me. Or come to my rescue.”

  “All right,” Constantine replied as he held up his phone. “I’ll be ready but I hope you won’t have to call me for help.”

  “So do I.”

  Sokolov got out and headed toward the café. He spent the remaining time scouting the area. Litter filled the street and the stench of waste filled the air. The hunched buildings appeared run down. Sokolov might as well have been transported back to the dirty back alleys of St. Petersburg or any other provincial Russian town.

  Now he waited for Benny himself to show up for the eight o’clock meeting. Finally, his Cadillac pulled up in front of the restaurant’s entrance. As he pulled himself out from behind the wheel and slammed the door, Sokolov approached him from behind.

  “All set?”

  “Dammit!” Benny the Bull jerked, startled. “Don’t you sneak up on me like that.”

  “Any reason to be so jumpy?”

  “You don’t realize where you are, do you? I vouched for you, don’t let me down, guy.”

  “Don’t fret.”

  Despite a CLOSED sign on the door, Benny turned the handle and ushered him inside the dimly lit restaurant.

  Sokolov surveyed the layout. There were only eight tables in the surprisingly small space, pushed against either wall with an aisle down the middle. All were empty save for one, occupied by three hulking hoodlums who sat over beers. They sported tattoo sleeves, tracksuit bottoms, and tacky jewelry.

  “Can’t you read? We’re closed!” a menacing voice snapped.

  Glaring viciously, the hood got up and confronted Sokolov, puffing his chest, trying to stare him down. Sokolov calmly matched his gaze.

  His two comrades set down their beers and surrounded him.

  “Mykola, the guy’s with me,” Benny said. “Gosha is expecting us.”

  Mykola nodded to Benny and then smirked at Sokolov, letting him know that he’d passed the test.

  “We must pat you down first,” Mykola replied.

  He gestured to lift their arms and part their legs. The hoodlums frisked Sokolov and Benny, going over their clothes and pockets thoroughly.

  Discovering no weapons on the visitors, Mykola said, “Follow me.”

  He led them up the narrow staircase, with the two other hoods staying behind on guard duty.

  The upper floor had just one large, circular, white-clothed table.

  A man in his fifties sat hunched over a steaming bowl of deep-crimson soup. His mustached face looked as if it had been chiseled from rock. His close-cropped black hair had receded to a widow’s peak. A napkin was tucked into the collar of his purple shirt.

  Sokolov smelled the rich aroma of meaty borscht, a touch sour, earthy, and spicy.

  The table was loaded with side dishes to accompany the borscht. Pickled mushrooms, garlic pampushki buns, and slices of salo pork fat. A saucer of thick cream. A carafe of vodka.

  “Boss, these guys are here to see you,” Mykola announced.

  Gosha slurped a spoonful and turned his gaze to the approaching men.

  “Salaam alaikum,” Benny exclaimed.


  It wasn’t a nod to Gosha’s ethnicity or religion, whatever he might belong to. Sokolov struggled to decipher the bizarre Mafia ritual until he remembered hearing from Constantine that, for some reason, the Muslim greeting had become the norm among Russian criminals, who apparently viewed it as more respectful than a simple hello.

  “Salaam,” Gosha uttered in return without getting up or offering a handshake. According to gulag tradition, Russian criminals shunned physical contact for fear of unwittingly shaking hands with a member of the untouchable caste, which would demote their own status.

  Then he sized up Sokolov.

  “This is the guy I told you about,” Benny said by way of introduction.

  “So, who the hell are you?” The gangster’s eyes narrowed into slits.

  “I’m just a Cossack,” Sokolov replied.

  “Cossack? Is that a nickname or something?”

  Sokolov shrugged.

  “Do sit down,” Gosha rasped unimpressed. Besides snubbing a handshake, he offered his visitors no food or drinks, either.

  Obviously, he intended to keep the conversation short.

  “Benny never told me what it was that you wanted to talk about,” he told Sokolov. “You have exactly sixty seconds to give me a reason for interrupting my dinner. Or Mykola will kick you out and break your bones so you’ll know better than to waste my time.”

  “Five seconds is enough for my message,” Sokolov replied. “You’re about to die.”

  Gosha chuckled.

  “What a letdown. I expected to discuss serious business and you tell me unfunny jokes.”

  “I’m dead serious. Do I look like a clown to you?”

  Benny shot a stern look at Sokolov for his show of disrespect. The meeting wasn’t going according to plan and Benny’s reputation was on the line for bringing him there.

  The Brigade boss finished off the borscht, his spoon clinking against the bowl after he swallowed the last mouthful.

  “One way or another,” he said pushing away the empty bowl, “you’ve grabbed my attention. But if you’re not a comedian, who the hell are you? Which bratva gang do you belong to?”

  “The Aquarium,” Sokolov replied, referring to the old headquarters of the Russian military intelligence agency, the GRU.

  Now Sokolov really got his attention.

  He wiped bits of borscht off his mustache.

  “The GRU?” he asked, intrigued. “How are you going to prove it?”

  “Do you think I carry my Russian military ID around New York?” Sokolov countered with brazen arrogance.

  It was a tightrope act. Russian mobsters were the kind of men who wouldn’t think twice about killing him, cutting off his wrists and disfiguring his face with acid before dumping his body somewhere it wouldn’t be found for a very long time.

  Gosha’s brows furrowed. He was beginning to lose his temper.

  “Actually, here’s all the proof you’ll ever need,” Sokolov said.

  He dug into a pocket and produced a miniature liquid-containing vial. He held it up between his fingers for Gosha to see.

  “What the hell is this?” the mobster demanded angrily.

  “Saxitoxin. A highly lethal nerve poison,” Sokolov explained. “You may have heard about the KGB’s Poison Laboratory, going back to Stalin, or even Lenin’s Special Office. The covert research has never stopped, of course. This little vial is one of the Lab’s finest creations. Not as exotic as polonium or Novichok but it gets the job done. The poison acts as a sodium-channel blocker that affects the central nervous system. It causes paralysis and, ultimately, death from respiratory failure. And, best of all, it will look perfectly natural, because this neurotoxin is found in shellfish and algae. It’s a hundred times deadlier than cobra venom and this synthesized formula is even more potent. You’ll only have a couple of hours to live after ingesting it.”

  “Ingesting it?” Gosha asked with a bemused expression. “Why would I ingest that crap?”

  “You already have,” Sokolov said. “With your borscht.”

  It took a moment for his words to register in the mobster’s mind.

  “What? What!” Gosha exploded. “How dare you!”

  “Breaking into your kitchen required almost no effort.”

  Gosha opened his mouth but, short of breath, he sucked air like a fish out of water. The veins in his neck bulged.

  Polonium-210 and Novichok were two recent additions to dictionaries worldwide thanks to Russian assassins running riot in the U.K. Gosha hardly dreamed of getting his own footnote in a Wikipedia article on saxitoxin. Not as a famous victim.

  “Mykola!” he managed to yell.

  The hoodlum whipped out a handgun and leveled it at Sokolov’s head.

  “Bad idea,” Sokolov said. “The lethal dose is two micrograms per kee-gee. If I spray some of the stuff in the air, you’ll all die within minutes. If, God forbid, I drop the vial, and it breaks, the poison will vaporize and kill everyone instantly.”

  “Easy, easy! Calm down, guys!” Benny the Bull pleaded. “You wanna poison yourself too, you maniac?” His voice quivered and his face turned ash pale.

  “I took an antidote pill one hour ago,” Sokolov replied. “My partner is waiting outside but you won’t find him. He’s the only one who has the antidote. If anything happens to me, he’ll destroy it. It’s your only lifeline, Gosha.”

  “Bullshit!” Mykola muttered. “He’s bluffing, boss! He’s alone.”

  “No, no!” Benny stammered. “He’s not lying. I saw the other guy. Brown hair, black shirt. They were together. He drives a black Chevy Blazer.”

  Mykola cursed. “You’re right. I spotted him driving around here half an hour ago.”

  Sokolov could almost see Gosha’s brain working out the calculations. Plenty of time to tamper with his dinner. Gosha’s breathing became rapid, his worst fears taking shape.

  But it was the steel in Sokolov’s voice and the icy gaze that made his act so convincing.

  “What do you want in exchange for the antidote?” Gosha asked.

  “The woman,” Sokolov replied. “The one you snatched in Virginia.”

  “It’s him!” Mykola growled, the gun still hovering in his hand. “I’ve recognized him, boss. He’s the guy we were supposed hit at the motel!”

  “That’s true,” Sokolov said coolly. “And your stupid attack disrupted a vital intelligence operation. One that’s taken years to set up. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Hey, now listen, Cossack,” Gosha said. “I dunno nothing about any turf wars between the FSB or SVR and your GRU boys. We just did what we were told, got it?” His cool was all but gone replaced by beads of perspiration on his forehead. He was effectively bargaining for his life.

  “By whom?”

  “I ain’t a snitch.”

  “Time is running out for you, Gosha. Very soon, you’ll experience the effects of intoxication. Your legs will go numb first, then your arms. When you stop feeling your face and your jaw slackens, it will be too late to do anything about it. I want everything, spill it.”

  His warning had a profound effect. The liquid in the vial which Sokolov held between his fingers might as well have been truth serum.

  “Shaloy,” the mobster admitted.

  Unsurprisingly, the name cropped up again.

  “What did he instruct you to do?”

  “Grab the woman and wipe out anyone she was with.”

  “What next?”

  “We gave her to Shaloy’s courier.”

  “His name?”

  “Chepa. Ever heard of him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Roman Chepurin. The Russian Ambassador to the U.N. He’s the guy we get the goods from.”

  “Are you telling me that the Russian mission to the U.N. is engaged in smuggling drugs?”

  “Didn’t you know? The entire delegation is involved. They ship the white stuff by diplomatic mail. Planeloads of dope from the Venezuelan Cartel of the Suns. We push it in the streets
. VHQ—very high quality. The money goes back the other way to Chepa. It’s the perfect cover.”

  It was, indeed.

  “Where did you take her?”

  “We brought her right to JFK, inside a bag, to a waiting Russian transport jet.”

  “A body bag?”

  “A diplomatic bag. So that the contents would be immune from security checks. She was alive but sedated when we loaded her aboard.”

  “Where was the plane headed to?”

  “Spain.”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell would I know? I don’t care about what happened next. I mind my own business.”

  Spain. Back where it had all started. Full circle.

  “One last thing,” Sokolov said. “What about the CIA guy? Did your boys carry out that job as well?”

  “It was me,” Mykola grinned. “I’m the one who did it. Fried him like a chicken.”

  “Good.”

  Sokolov tossed the vial at Mykola, catching the thug completely by surprise as he fumbled for it awkwardly.

  Abruptly, Sokolov lunged toward the table, grabbing the spoon, and swung it at the thug’s head.

  He rammed the end of the spoon handle into Mykola’s left ear, driving it deep inside to burst the eardrum, the metal piercing the thin skull bone to wedge itself into the brain. It stuck grotesquely out of Mykola’s bleeding ear canal as he collapsed to the floor in a heap, dead. Sokolov scooped up the handgun and leveled it at Gosha who sat frozen in mute shock.

  “The vial! What about the vial?” Benny panicked.

  “Don’t worry,” Sokolov said. “It’s harmless.”

  “Huh? Whaddaya mean, guy?”

  “It’s a perfume tester from Saks Fifth Avenue,” Sokolov explained.

  Enraged that he’d been made an utter fool of, Gosha reached for his own piece tucked under his belt but before he could aim the gun, Sokolov fired off a couple of rounds.

  The bullets went right through the carafe as it smashed into crystal shards, vodka spraying, and smacked Gosha square in the chest. The two bright splashes of crimson popping on his shirt looked as if he’d spilled the borscht all over himself. He gaped incredulously and then his stare went blank and his body sagged in the chair, the gun dropping to the floor with a thud.