The Russian Problem (Darby Stansfield Thriller Book 2)

by John Charles

  “Yes, Darby, we are truly sorry,” Irina echoed. “Viktor’s escape worries us as well. We are afraid for our family, especially Natasha.”

  The phone line went quiet. Valery wasn’t sure if Darby was still on the line.

  “Are you still there, Darby?”

  “Yes.”

  “We will keep you posted,” Valery promised before hanging up.

  46

  San Francisco, California

  “Hello? Hello?” The phone line was dead and I wasn’t so sure I wouldn’t wind up the same way. The Buchkos left me completely unsatisfied with those answers.

  I could hear Tav bounding up the stairs right before he entered my room.

  “Hey, man. It’s a beautiful day. We should do something. We can take Ralphie over to Dolores Park, over in the Mission. I’ll call some girls to meet us. It’ll be awesome.”

  Here comes the rain and there goes Tav’s parade. His mood faded quickly when I told him what had happened.

  “Buchko confirmed everything?” Tav asked, looking stunned.

  “Yeah. I just got off the phone with him and his wife. They’re just as shocked as I am. They’re worried about him coming after Natasha.”

  “That’s messed up. This guy told you to come over and testify knowing full well what men like Viktor do to witnesses, and now he’s escaped. So what that he gave you 50K for your troubles.” He paused. “He did give you the money, right?”

  “Uh, well, sort of.”

  “Don’t tell me he stiffed you on it.”

  “No. I felt bad for Tatiana’s family, so I told Valery to give them the money instead. They need it more than I do.”

  “That’s very admirable of you. Huge respect. A lot people would have taken it, but now once again, you’re left holding the bag of poo.”

  “One step forward, two steps back. That’s my life.”

  We both fell into a daze until Ralphie’s barking shook us out of it.

  “You’ve got to go to the police, Darby. You can’t let this sit.”

  “But what can they do? Imagine me explaining this. I’ll sound like a nut.”

  “What about those detectives you know, the ones from Chinatown? Maybe you can reach out to them.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Well, I’m wondering if I would be better off calling Ivan Renko—keeping this within the underworld. The minute I go legit, I gotta juggle both sides. I’d rather not.” I knew Tav was looking out for me. I knew he thought I was nuts to take this problem to my Mafiya associates. But somehow I felt like I needed street justice. I had already tried the way of the law and look how that turned out.

  “Are you saying you’re too legit to quit? Is that what I’m hearing?” Tav started to shuffle across my room like an MC Hammer wannabe.

  I tried to keep it serious, but seeing him with his long legs and short torso—it was too much. “Stop it. I’m serious,” I said, trying to look like I meant it. “I’ve got a situation here and I need your help.”

  “I already told you what I think you should do.” Tav stopped his shuffling. He took a seat on my bed and scratched Ralphie’s stomach.

  “Seriously now, what’s Ivan going to do, extort this Viktor guy? I’m sure Ivan is a very important person, but Viktor sounds like a beast.”

  “Ivan’s pretty intimidating. He’s no slouch.”

  “Well, you have three options: hope this Buchko guy deals with it, go to your detective friends, or pay the Russians a visit.”

  Tav was right, as usual. He always had a way of clarifying what my options were in a pragmatic way.

  I fumbled through the pockets of my jeans and pulled out my wallet. I dug around until I found what I was looking for. I dialed the number. “Hi, it’s Darby Stansfield calling. I’m in trouble.”

  47

  An hour and a half later, Detective Pete Sokolov parked the black Monte Carlo SS along Sacramento Street. The ’84 model sported original checkerboard rims, a rear spoiler, and a T-top. As a stock car, the V-8 block maxed out at 165 horsepower. With a new engine and a few modifications made by the Russian, it jumped to 350 horsepower. It could catch anything.

  Sokolov crossed the street and headed up the steps. He had dropped Darby off here once before and remembered where he had lived.

  He knocked on the door and waited patiently. No one answered. He knocked again. Still no one answered. Being the detective that he was, Sokolov pressed his ear against the door and listened quietly. He could hear his own breathing and running water in a pipe, but not much more.

  Suddenly his cell phone rang. It was Darby.

  “Detective Sokolov, are you coming over?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m outside, I’ve been knocking.”

  “Hang on, I’ll be right there. Sorry about that…”

  Sokolov could hear Darby’s voice trail off on the phone.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s no one here. I’m looking outside the front door and no one is here.”

  “I’m standing right outside your door. Apartment four….”

  “Damn, my bad. I forgot to tell you. I moved.”

  “Well that explains the mix-up, but why is your name still on the mailbox?”

  “I still have the lease to the end of the month, but I decided to move into the new place early. Man, for a minute there I thought someone else was messing with me.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Sokolov was at Darby’s new place in less than ten minutes. Nice upgrade, he thought as he walked up the steps of the Victorian.

  As soon as Detective Sokolov entered The Vic, I immediately launched into a retelling of everything that had happened, beginning with my tour to Minsk, Belarus. Pleasantries are overrated sometimes.

  “Look, Detective, I know this is a lot to take in,” I said when I summed up the most recent news of the escape. “I’m sure it sounds crazy. But let me just show you something to lend a little credibility to the tale.”

  I showed him both videos: Tatiana’s murder and then the short call from Viktor. “In the second video, you can clearly see that he’s in another place, like a cabin or something.”

  “Darby, I believe you. I have heard of this man. Let me contact some people I know and see if I can get what files the Ukrainian government has on him. If this Buchko says the government has closed its borders to him, it will be very difficult for this man to get on a plane.”

  “That’s it. You’re going to look up some files?” My stomach sank.

  “It’s all I can do right now. I’ll send alerts to Homeland Security and have him put on the Do Not Enter list.”

  “It just seems like there isn’t much being done.”

  “There isn’t. All we can do now is try to track him down.” He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed briefly. “You are a friend. I will work seriously on this and see what I can find.”

  “Thanks, Detective.”

  “I’m sorry you experienced such terrible events. But he is way over there and you are here—much distance to cover.”

  48

  Moscow, Russia

  The temperature was just shy of 150 degrees Fahrenheit when the Elders entered the wooden banya from the predbannik where they stripped their clothes off and hung them neatly along the wall on wooden pegs.

  Next they filed into the washing room where it was customary to wash the day’s grime and sweat from their bodies before entering the steam room. This room would also serve as the antechamber where they would spend their cooling off periods.

  A table on the other sided of the room was filled with various fruit juices and bottles of vodka. There were various smoked meats, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, pickles, caviar, Russian cheese, and a fresh loaf of brown bread.

  One by one the Elders took the rubber hose that hung from the wall and washed their bodies.

  W
rinkled and showing its age, the tattooed skin of the men still told the harrowing stories of their lives. All of them had done a minimum of five years in the merciless Gulags of Siberia. It was considered a rite of passage, and a place where men of their kind bettered their craft. These prisons were essentially training grounds. Survive, and you were meant to be part of the family. The weaker ones were weeded out—but not before serving as targets for the others to practice.

  As they entered the steam room, The Elders passed the heating system on their right that stood from floor to ceiling. Beyond this, at the far end of the room, were two levels of U-shape wooden benches.

  Three of them took seats on the bottom bench while the Tea Maker picked up a chipped wooden ladle and doused the heated rocks with water, filling the room with steam. He then climbed up onto the higher bench where the heat was much more punishing.

  The Elders sat quietly on the wooden benches inhaling the heated air into their lungs, their eyes closed, their bodies flaccid. Sweat began to bubble on their skin and form tiny rivers. After several minutes of stillness, the Oldest dug around inside a wooden bucket and pulled out a eucalyptus branch, which he used to swat his back and legs.

  The door to the steam room creaked open and then closed. A shape moved through the steam, stopping near the benches, where a timid voice called out for the Tea Maker. There was a phone call. The others barely cracked an eyelid.

  A few minutes later, the Tea Maker returned to his high perch. He took a minute to settle in before speaking. “Our friend, Ghostface, has turned down our contract offer.”

  “Did he say why?” the Oldest asked.

  “He says there is nothing special about this job. His last contract was a high-profile banker.”

  “He seems to be changing his tactic. He seeks attention with his kills.”

  “Who is this guy?” the Youngest put in. “A nobody,” he says.

  The Oldest inhaled the hot air deeply, holding it while he contemplated his answer. He released a long, slow breath. “Should we consider doubling the contract offer?”

  “It’s not the money; he has plenty of it.”

  “How dare he refuse us? We should kill him,” said the Unreasonable One.

  “I must agree. He is a hitman. This is his job, no?” the Youngest said.

  “Who can we send? Who is a match for Ghostface?” asked the Tea Maker.

  The Oldest waved a hand. “Let it go. It’s done. We have much more important business to discuss now that Viktor is free. Do we know where he is?”

  The Tea Maker stood up and stretched before saying, “Our eyes and ears tell us he has made it into Belarus. He is in Grodno, near the border of Poland and Lithuania.”

  The Oldest watched the Tea Maker slowly make his way down to the floor. “Viktor has always been loyal to us. Unfortunately, Viktor has a hot temper. This is our biggest problem. We can’t afford unnecessary risk. We must get Viktor back on track and get the operation running.”

  “I will reach out to Viktor once more and explain the delicate situation we have on our hands,” said the Tea Maker as he walked to the heater. “We have a friend in the area who will keep an eye on him as well.”

  “If he finds out we are keeping tabs, it will only make matters worse,” the Youngest added.

  “This is a close friend. Viktor will know nothing of it. If we agree, I will make the calls.” The Tea Maker looked at his long-time friends for opposition and saw none. He then added more water to the rocks. Steam filled the room once again.

  49

  Grodno, Belarus

  “To me, Viktor Kazapov.”

  Viktor threw his head back, allowing the cool liquid to slam against the back of his throat and run down his gullet. He let out a forceful breath before taking a bite out of a pickle to chase the burn elsewhere.

  The other three men enjoyed the vodka’s warmth in their chests. They returned their empty glasses to the wobbly wooden table before them and picked at the spread of dried meats, cheeses, and pickles. The cottage they were in was barely eighteen feet by twenty feet and was dimly lit by a few oil lamps, but it fulfilled their needs. One of the men grabbed the bottle and refilled the glasses. The series of toasts continue.

  “To freedom.”

  “To health.”

  “To success.”

  “To Russia.”

  “To his death.”

  “Die, American, die,” Viktor added.

  On and on they went, celebrating their release from prison by drinking and eating. They had no worries. The dacha served as the perfect safe house. A thick Birch forest near the outskirts of the city surrounded it. The nearest neighbor was an old babushka about 200 yards away. It was safe for the time being.

  Grodno was a fairly big city in the northern corner of Belarus—the perfect place to lay low for a while. Viktor knew the area well and had friends he could trust; they had arranged for the dacha. The city itself was strategically located near the border of Poland to the west and Lithuania to the north. If need be, they could easily cross over into either country undetected.

  After the massive attack on their convoy, the gang immediately hit the road. Grodno was a straight shot north, only eleven hours by car. By the time local authorities had figured out what had gone on at the scene, the gang was halfway to their destination and singing the praises of the Elders back in Moscow for their help.

  When the last of the vodka and food was gone, the men slowly retired their singing voices and found a portion of the cabin where they could bed down for the night. Only one other, Pasha, remained up with Viktor.

  “What are we to do now? Minsk?”

  “We stay here.” Viktor had no intention of heading anywhere just yet. “Too dangerous to move around now. SBU will be looking for us in Minsk. We are safe here.”

  “What about the Elders? They orchestrated our escape so we can get the operation running again.”

  “Let them wait. They will not go broke. I’m tired of them always with their hands out.”

  “But, Viktor, this is how it is.”

  “Then maybe it is time for a change.” With that, Viktor rolled over and was soon snorting and grunting like the rest. He was content to stay at the dacha. No bothers or worries. Plus there was a banya.

  Early the next morning, Viktor rose with the birds, but worms weren’t on his mind. He fixed a small pot of coffee and then poured the thick brown liquid into a cup, waiting for the grounds to settle before taking a sip. He dug around in a bag, pulled out a black laptop, and smiled. Viktor had taken it from Tatiana’s room before leaving to make sure he had all of the evidence of his act. Of course, he hadn’t realized until the trial that Darby could record the feed. He was grateful that he had stashed it away with a mistress in Minsk before he was captured. The laptop contained everything he needed to track down Darby Stansfield and torment him.

  Viktor couldn’t stop obsessing about the American. How dare he testify? Never before had the gangster been arrested. Never, until the American showed up. Such bravado, such arrogance, as if this were his country. Darby had become Enemy Number 1 in Viktor’s head.

  All he could think of was the American. It made him crazy. Darby was in his thoughts when he was drunk, was there when he slept, was there even when he took a shit. No matter how much he tried to shut Darby out of his mind, that stupid smiling grin popped into Viktor’s head. It made him want to strangle the man. A personal kill.

  The American needed to learn respect. Who was he to testify against the great Viktor Kazapov? He should know what it’s like to experience true fear. A lesson in humility was due.

  About a week later, Pasha was awakened in the early morning by nature’s call and headed outside with a flashlight. It wasn’t until he came back in from the cold, shivering, that he noticed that Viktor was gone.

  50

  San Francisco, California

  It was another late night in the den for Pete Sokolov. Most of that time was spent going over the details of the cases in
which Darby had been involved in Ukraine. The bold escape from the prison convoy outside of Lviv was embarrassing for the Ukrainian government. They would need to save face. Sokolov could already see from the reports that the Belarusian government was contributing resources to the manhunt.

  After perusing the material for hours, he could find no good reason that Viktor would come after Darby now that he was back on American soil; the risk would be far too big. With the SBU hunting him, Viktor would probably be forced underground—unless he was stupid. Sokolov never ruled out stupid.

  None of that made him any less interesting to the detective. “How is it that I have not heard more about this guy?” Sokolov muttered as he shuffled through the information on the gangster. He sent a text message to his personal contact in Interpol to see if there was any classified information about the man known as Viktor Kazapov.

  It was just after midnight when Sokolov turned his attention to Ghostface. He pored over the latest picture and reports from the recent kill in Paris again, searching for an angle—anything that might have been overlooked. Such a brave kill in the open. Is he losing his touch or is he getting better and thinks he’s untouchable?

  In the past, Ghostface’s kills were intimate. He always made sure the targets got to see who their executioner was right before they died—the last thing they ever saw. These two most recent hits were a departure. Distance in the Paris hit enhanced the glory of the kill, it sensationalized the act. Brave, spectacular kills seem to be the objective. He’s trying to make a statement.

  Maybe Ghostface was getting bored with only being a hitman and wanted more from his job as an assassin. Recognition seemed to be the answer. His kills could showcase how good he was. He wanted everyone to know he was the best.