And Every Man Has to Die rcc-4

by Frank Zafiro

  Val narrowed his eyes. “What kind of question is that for a soldier to ask?”

  Evgeniy shrugged. “I am not the same soldier I once was, Valeriy. And this is a different kind of war.”

  “War is war,” Val said dismissively. “And soldiers obey.”

  “Yes,” Evgeniy agreed. “And I did obey. I always will. But I am just…”

  “Just what?”

  Evgeniy sighed, his voice sincere. “I am just unsettled by this, is all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it isn’t like the battles we fought in military. Not even like the struggles we had in Kiev against others in this life. This is against our own.” He paused, taking a short drag on his cigarette and letting it out in a wavering breath. When he spoke again, his voice broke with emotion. “This is also children.”

  Val paused, examining the face of the man across from him. As a technician, Evgeniy’s skill was unrivaled. But if he couldn’t be trusted…

  Val adjusted his position in his seat, tapping ash from his cigarette to help disguise the movement. He slid his.45 Colt 1911 from his belt and held it against his leg.

  Evgeniy didn’t seem to notice. He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes far away. After a few moments he shook himself from his reverie and turned to face Val. “It is difficult, that is all.”

  Val nodded slowly. “There is no punishment harsh enough for betrayal,” he reminded Evgeniy.

  “No,” Evgeniy agreed, shaking his head. “There isn’t. That’s true.”

  “And the sins of the fathers…” Val began.

  “Reside in the sons,” Evgeniy finished. “Yes, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, you are correct. I regret that there is some sentimentality creeping into my soul in my old age.”

  “No regrets,” Val said. “Now, tell me about the timers.”

  “They’re made of soft plastic with only a few tiny metal parts,” Evgeniy said. “The entire device will melt except for the metal. Those pieces shouldn’t be detectable.”

  “The police will suspect?”

  “No.” Evgeniy shook his head. “It will look like an electrical short, and the house is old. The police will not suspect a thing.”

  “Good,” Val said. “Then you’ve done well.”

  “We shall see,” Evgeniy answered with a sigh.

  Val smiled slightly. Despite his skill, Evgeniy was always nervous until everything had passed. “Very well,” Val said, his tone dismissive. “Then I will meet with you tomorrow for coffee.”

  “Do svidanija,” Evgeniy said. He nodded at his superior, started his engine, and drove away.

  Only after the technician’s taillights had disappeared did Val replace his pistol inside his belt. Then he dropped his BMW into gear and headed toward Sergey’s house.

  As he drove, he let his thoughts drift over all of the events that were in motion. For someone less focused, so many things might be overwhelming. After all, he had his own plans to tutor young Pavel. Sergey had his plans for the organization, most of which Val took an active part in developing. They had to find a way to deal with the rival gangs in River City, most of whom were blacks from California. The single Hispanic gang would need some attention, too, at some point in the near future.

  The direction that they wanted to take required careful consideration as well. Drugs and prostitution were lucrative, but high risk, so they stayed only marginally involved in those endeavors. Cars were more labor intensive and required more organization, but the payoff was still significant. Particularly with the connections that he and Sergey had maintained in Europe.

  And now they had to deal with the traitor, too. This fucking musor. Betrayal was bad enough, but for it to be someone like Oleg was that much worse. A key player like him turning on them risked everything, for everyone.

  And so the price to be paid was high.

  Val didn’t feel any of Evgeniy’s reticence or regret for the course they’d chosen. The choice was logical and just. Evgeniy had a daughter of his own, so that was probably the reason for his sentimentality, more so than the technician’s age. That was another reason Val remained unencumbered. He had women on occasion, but they meant little to him. He regarded them in much the same way he regarded food and drink, as something to be consumed when the need arose and forgotten once he was sated.

  He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Val had his own plans, which he kept to himself. Every move he made for Sergey, for Pavel, for the organization-all ultimately served his own designs.

  Val smiled coldly as he drove. One of the first Western books he had read was a battered paperback called Dune. After he read the science-fiction epic, Val thought that the author could very well have been a Russian. The plot was suffused with political intrigue, which captivated Val. It was there he first read the words, “Plans within plans within plans,” and realized the wisdom of that sentiment. The book became an educational text for him. He read it over again once a year, studying the nuances carefully. When his English proficiency allowed, he read the book in the original language, finding still more intriguing subtleties. When he eventually read Machiavelli’s The Prince, he found it weak in comparison.

  Val knew that the actions of his organization had to be attracting the attention of the police. When he had told Sergey, the boss agreed with him but didn’t seem concerned. “American police are weak,” he’d told Val. “Their jails are like having a dacha in the country.”

  Sergey was right. But police attention would eventually hamper their operation. So Val devised a plan.

  So did Sergey. “Don’t buy the house,” he’d told Val, “buy the neighborhood. We need to expand, Valeriy. Beat down our rivals and take control of this city.”

  Val turned onto Sergey’s street, his cold smile still in place. He’d embraced Sergey’s plan and they’d discussed how to make it happen. They had planned deep into the night for better than a week, mapping out their moves like chess masters. When they’d finished, both men were certain that they’d be successful.

  And Val was well pleased, for Sergey’s plans fit his own. Plans within plans within plans.

  Sergey’s driveway was full. The boss’s black Lincoln and Pavel’s tricked-out Honda were nestled side by side, so Val found an open spot along the curb and parked. As he stepped up the walkway he flicked away his cigarette butt. The warm night air was full of that clean freshness that Val attributed to all the trees that grew within the city. Only the barest wisp of a faraway barbecue disturbed the unpolluted essence of the breath he drew deep into his lungs. Only in the winter after a hard snow had the Kiev air ever seemed so clean.

  Val knocked quietly at the door. After a few moments his sister appeared in her robe. Marina Aleksandrovna Markov smiled at her brother and swung open the door. “Valera! Come in.”

  Val stepped inside, brushing a kiss across his sister’s cheek as he did so. Marina’s exuberance always overwhelmed him. He had long held that their parents’ genetics had bestowed all of their calculation and reason to him, the eldest son, and all of their love and joy upon their daughter, Marina.

  “Can I pour you something?” Marina asked him, sliding her arm through his and putting her head on his shoulder.

  “What is Sergey having?”

  “He is upstairs, just coming out of the shower. But he opened a bottle of red wine before he went upstairs.”

  “Red wine needs to breathe,” Val said.

  “I see,” Marina said, teasing. “Aren’t my two men just the worldliest men there is?”

  Val smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll have the wine, sestra.”

  Marina squeezed his arm and moved toward the kitchen. Val settled into a chair near the fireplace, leaving Sergey’s favorite chair empty. He glanced around the simple room adorned with a couple of paintings and several family photographs. The photographs included some black and white shots of his parents and grandparents back in the old country. The house was nice. It was comfortable. No one would ever suspect that the head of t
he Russian Mafia in River City resided there.

  Val scratched his arm absently. Of course, the truth of the matter was that their organization wasn’t the powerhouse here that it had once been in Kiev. Even as a second-tier power, they’d held considerable sway over their territory. It’d been almost three years since they’d come to America, arriving in Seattle and migrating east across the Cascades to River City. Marina had joked that they were the opposite of American pioneers, who had gone west to discover their fortune.

  Fortune, Valeriy mused. They’d chosen the Pacific Northwest to avoid the epicenter of Russian organized crime in Brighton Beach, New York. Those Russians were largely Muscovites who had emigrated in the 1970s, using their Jewish ethnicity as a pretext to request asylum. Of course, Brezhnev had only been too glad to rid the Soviet Union of them. Valeriy wasn’t sure if that was more because they were criminals or because they were Jews, but he supposed it didn’t matter. They’d done well in America, but they were a tight group. Once the Soviet Union disintegrated, so did some of the solidarity within the criminal networks. Now it mattered if you were Russian, Ukrainian, or Georgian. So they came instead to the Pacific Northwest, away from the established families. Someplace not as grand, but unspoiled. There was plenty of opportunity in River City, but no one had made a fortune yet. That was going to change, and soon.

  Marina emerged from the kitchen with a pair of wine glasses. She handed the half-full one to Val, keeping the glass with just a splash inside it for herself. “I’m going to bed soon,” she explained. “A little wine helps me sleep. A lot gives me terrible dreams.”

  “What could you have to dream terrible about?” Val asked. “You have a wonderful life.”

  “Yes,” Marina agreed, dropping into Sergey’s seat, “and my bad dreams are about losing it.”

  Val turned up his mouth and shrugged. “Very little chance of that,” he told her.

  “I didn’t say it was a rational fear,” Marina answered playfully.

  Val raised the wine to his nose and sniffed. One of the things he had learned from Sergey was to appreciate the beautiful things in life. Val refused to dwell on hedonistic thoughts during most of his life, but between Sergey and his sister, he’d slowly learned to appreciate certain things in the moment. Wine was one of those things.

  “What do you smell?” Marina asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Val said. “Black cherry? And a little vanilla, perhaps.”

  She smiled and sipped her own wine.

  Val did the same. He was rewarded with a rich, velvety sensation. Black cherries and a hint of vanilla exploded across his palate. He swallowed and held the wine up to the light.

  “It has a nice color, doesn’t it?” Sergey’s voice came from the doorway. He held a glass of his own and wore a thick blue robe. He walked toward his seat, which Marina vacated only to slide onto his lap after he sat down. “It’s a pinot noir,” he explained, “from right here in Washington.”

  Val nodded slowly. “Perhaps we should invest in a winery someday.”

  “Perhaps someday,” Sergey agreed.

  The threesome fell silent, sipping quietly and enjoying the easy presence of each other. After Marina finished the last of her wine, she rose and kissed Sergey on the corner of his mouth, whispering something into his ear.

  “I will,” Sergey answered.

  Marina crossed to Val and kissed him on the cheek. “Pavel loves spending time with you, Valera. Thank you for being such a wonderful uncle.”

  “It’s my honor,” Val answered. “He’s a fine young man.”

  Marina gave his arm a squeeze, bid them both good night, and left the room.

  Once she was out of earshot, Sergey eyed Val. “It is a bit late, little brother.” The chide was softened by the term of affection.

  “Too late for family,” Val agreed, “but not for business.”

  Sergey chuckled. “Very well. What is the business?”

  “I spoke with the technician. Everything is in place.”

  Sergey’s chuckle faded. His mouth tightened. “So the bookkeeper will be taken care of.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. When a man begins to have doubts, that is bad enough. But for him to steal from his own people? His family? The ones who stand shoulder to shoulder with him?” Sergey shook his head in disgust. “Stukatch. No death is hard enough for such a man.”

  “I believe you will find this a hard death,” Val said quietly.

  “As it should be. And what is the danger to us?”

  “Evgeniy says there will be none,” Val answered. “Of course, every one of our people will know what truly happened. It will send quite a message, Sergey.”

  “Beat your own and others will fear you,” Sergey said, quoting a Russian proverb.

  Val shrugged, conceding the point. Sergey liked to use proverbs to make his point, but Val had to admit that he was usually right. Sergey was an excellent tactician. Fortunately for Val, he was not such a wonderful strategist.

  “Is that the only news?”

  “No,” Val replied. “I gave Dmitri the parts for the Kalashnikovs. He is making the transition on them now.”

  “Good. I had heard that Black Ivan was arrested, though. How were you able to get the parts?”

  “His wife gave them to me.”

  “What did they arrest him for?”

  Val suppressed a smile. He knew that Sergey was fully aware of everything that had happened at Ivan’s apartment, including the charges against the man. This was merely a ploy to see how well informed Val kept himself. Sergey made sure to test his lieutenant every so often.

  “Spousal assault,” Val answered. “But that charge won’t hold. Elena is refusing to cooperate. The more serious charge is for assaulting the woman police officer who responded.”

  “How is it that he was arrested?”

  “Two more cops came to her rescue,” Val said. “Three against one.” He considered a moment. “Well, two.”

  “I’m surprised Ivan lost that fight,” Sergey said, taking a healthy sip of his wine. “He is very strong.”

  “I think perhaps he gave up in order to avoid further problems. But I won’t know until he is released.”

  “Perhaps,” Sergey answered, staring at the glass of wine. “What about the other package?”

  “I was able to get that from Elena, as well. It is already in distribution.”

  “Who is handling that?”

  “Andrei.”

  Sergey nodded his approval. “Then all is well, little brother.”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “And here we sit in the calm before the storm.” Sergey sipped again.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a peaceful feeling, isn’t it?” Sergey asked. “To know what is going to happen next? It is comforting.”

  “Yes,” Val agreed, “it is.” He smiled and raised his glass. “To the coming storm.”

  Sergey raised his own glass, and they drank.

  Valeriy leaned back in his chair, enjoying the calm, the wine, and his own secret knowledge.

  Plans within plans within plans.

  Sunday, July 13th

  0117 hours

  “Let’s get a burrito before they close,” Battaglia suggested.

  “Taco Shack is open twenty-four hours, goombah,” Sully told him.

  Batts made a face. “Taco Puke? No, I mean Guillermo’s.”

  It was Sully’s turn to make a face. “You want to talk about smell? That place used to be a Chinese restaurant. You know that, don’t you?”

  “So?”

  “So, I can still smell the Szechuan in there. The tortillas taste like soy sauce.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Battaglia said. “Guillermo’s has the best burrito in town.”

  “Every time we go there, three things happen.”

  “One thing happens,” Battaglia said. “I get a good burrito and ain’t hungry anymore.”

  Sully shook his head. He removed his right hand fro
m the wheel and held up a single finger. “One, you eat one of those huge freakin’ burritos.”

  “Duh. That’s why I go.”

  Sully raised a second finger. “Two, as soon as we get back in the car, you crash in the passenger seat and fall asleep.”

  “Like anyone gets any sleep on graveyard anymore,” Battaglia argued. “This isn’t the ’60s.”

  “Three,” Sully said, ignoring him and flicking a third finger upward, “you get horrible gas and fart up the car like crazy.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s true. It ends up reeking like your ass in here.”

  “That’s complete bullshit.”

  “How would you know? You’re asleep when it happens.”

  “More bullshit,” Battaglia said, shaking his head. “How do you live with yourself, making up all this stuff about people?”

  “Adam-122?” chirped the radio.

  Sully smiled. “Here comes a call.”

  “Shit,” Battaglia muttered. “I’m starving.”

  “You going to get that?”

  Battaglia shook his head. “You’ve got a free hand there with your magic counting fingers. You answer it.”

  “I’m driving.”

  “What, Irishmen can’t multitask?”

  “Adam-122?” the dispatcher repeated, slower and with more force. There was a brief battle of wills, then Sully reached for the mike. Battaglia snatched it off the holder first.

  “Adam-122, go ahead,” Battaglia said, smirking at Sully.

  “Feckin’ guinea,” Sully said.

  Battaglia shot him the bird.

  “Adam-122, respond to 1409 West Grace. The fire department is on scene with a structure fire, requesting traffic control.”

  “Wonderful,” Battaglia groused before raising the microphone to his lips. “Copy.”

  Sully slowed, checked front and rear, and swung a U-turn.

  “Just what we need tonight,” Battaglia complained, replacing the mike on its holder. “Perimeter duty while the fire mopes save another foundation.”

  “And no time for Guillermo’s,” Sully added.

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “I can swing through the Taco Shack on the way, if you want.”