by Greig Beck
In turn, Marcus pretended not to notice and jammed his in his pockets. “Like I said, can I help you?”
The man nodded as he dropped his hand. He looked over the grounds. “You have done good work here. No one ever expected this old place would ever be anything but a roost for owls, and maybe home to a few bears.”
He grinned wider, displaying a brilliant gold side-tooth. “But now, it is almost ready, and as soon as your fish and eggs arrive…” He paused to grin again, and maybe to study Marcus’ face at his insightful delivery before going on. “… then this business will be booming, yes?”
“We’ve still got a lot of work to do, Mr.…?” Marcus lifted his chin.
“Ah, of course, I am so rude. Introductions…” He half-turned to point toward his huge and leering colleagues.
“Mr. Drago, Mr. Volodin, and the big ugly ones are Borya and Egor Orlov… they are twins, but not so alike, yes?” He touched his chest and bowed slightly. “And I am Arkady Tushino, manager and emissary of Mr. Gennardy Zyuganov, the local area director of… business.”
“Director, huh?” Marcus snorted. “Of the bratva.”
“No, no, no.” Tushino maintained his grin. “We are professional people who provide services to many businesses—guaranteed product delivery, laborers, and of course, security.” He looked from under his brow. “You know there is a lot of bad people around, and we can ensure they never bother you.”
Marcus chuckled. “You don’t say?”
“Yes, is true.” Tushino seemed to miss the sarcasm.
“You know, I think we’ll be okay for now.” Marcus walked forward. “But if you leave a card and I think of anything, I’ll call, okay?”
Tushino’s smile fell away, as he seemed a little surprised. He then waved an arm around at the compound.
“This place used to be paper mill. Made water very dirty a few years ago. I hear some of those chemicals may still be around. May still even find their way back into the lake. That would be very bad.” Tushino turned to fix cold dead eyes on Marcus. “If that happened, it would kill everything; every fish, every seal, everything alive.” He smirked. “And I think then it would kill your business.”
There it is, Marcus thought. He lifted his chin. “Listen, buddy. I’m running on fumes and I won’t make any money out of this place for five years. Come back then.” He began to turn away.
Tushino didn’t budge. “I think you won’t be here in five years. Maybe not even five months.”
Marcus stopped and slowly turned back. The Russian tilted his head.
“You are not from around here, Mr. Stenson.” Tushino drew in a deep breath and his chest swelled, his lips turning down. “Foreigners do not get much help from the local police. Sometimes crimes do not even get reported. And without security, you risk everything.” His grin returned. “When did you say your pretty wife was arriving?”
Marcus’ jaw clenched and he squared his shoulders. Yuri also straightened, but so did Tushino’s goons. The tension suddenly became so heavy it was like a living thing.
Finally, Yuri broke the spell, by belly laughing and clapping his hands. Only Tushino and Marcus continued to glare at each other.
“So, we will think over your suggestions, okay?” Yuri rubbed big hands together. “Some very good ideas, thank you.” He shook each of the mafia men’s hands. “Thank you, thank you.” He began to turn Tushino away. “Thank you for coming.” He guided him back to his car, holding onto his arm. “We will let you know. Don’t worry. Leave with me, we work something out.”
Tushino and his men climbed back into their SUV, and the man’s window glided down so he could lean out. He looked past Yuri.
“Mr. Stenson, you do a lot of hard work here. Lot of work. Don’t waste it.” He grinned. “We hear from you… soon.” He pulled his head back, and his grin was gone and in his flat stare, a warning.
As the car left, his team visibly relaxed, and Marcus exhaled. Yuri came and raised his eyebrow.
“Thanks. Was going to get ugly, huh?” Marcus asked.
Yuri bobbed his head. “Maybe not this time.”
“So, what do we do? Do you believe him when he said that the police might ignore any crime out here?” Marcus hated to hear the worst.
Yuri hiked his shoulders. “Some people pay the bratva, and some people get paid off by the bratva. I wouldn’t like to see whose side the police took if there was a crime committed out here and it was reported… by a foreigner.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Marcus sat down on an old tree stump that might have been lopped down a hundred years ago and was now weathered and grey. “What do they want, ah, I mean, how much would they want?”
“Want?” Yuri went and grabbed an old wooden chair that had been beside the fire pit and sat down heavily. “Here is problem.” He opened his hands wide. “To them, all Americans are rich, so…”
“Yeah, from Hollywood, right?” Marcus scoffed. “So they’re going to ask for a lot.” He sighed. “We haven’t budgeted for any of this. We’ll end up broke before we even turn a dime, or rouble.” He rubbed both hands up through his short, blond hair. “Shit.”
Yuri held up a hand. “I will meet with them, and I will explain how things are. Maybe I can negotiate a very small payment, perhaps monthly. Hopefully, that only starts in a few years, when you are making some money.”
“And if we don’t pay?” Marcus sat forward. “I’d rather hire extra security than give in to these assholes.”
Yuri bobbed his head for a moment. “These are serious people. If he says your fish might get poisoned, I believe him. Or maybe house burned down, or mill, or the boats.” He looked into Marcus’ eyes. “Or someone gets hurt. Very hurt.”
Marcus waved over his team who were talking amongst themselves. “Pavel, Nikolay, Leonid, Dmitry, what do you think? Please speak freely. Have you seen these people before?”
The four talked again amongst themselves for a few rapid seconds, before Nikolay turned to face him.
“Not these men, but there are bratva even in Listvyanka. Also many who work for bratva are there who will inform for them. Nothing goes on without them knowing.”
Marcus snorted. “They want payment, protection money we call it. It’s a rip-off.”
Nikolay nodded. “Yes, but everyone pays.”
“And I’ll ask again; what if you don’t?” Marcus asked.
Nikolay turned to talk to his father in soft Russian for a moment, and Pavel pulled at his chin as he listened. He responded slowly and Nikolay nodded and then faced Marcus. “My father says there was a man in the town, a shopkeeper, who said he couldn’t afford to pay. Then his shop burned down. With shopkeeper in it.” He smiled ruefully. “So now everyone pays.”
“Kill a chicken to scare a monkey—and everyone else gets the message.” Marcus exhaled. “Okay, Yuri, meet with them, and find out what’s the absolute least we can get away with. And I mean, the rock-freaking-bottom.”
CHAPTER 08
Listvyanka—Proshly Vek Bar
Yuri Revkin drove into the town and pulled up at the end of the single long street. He sat for a while in the cabin with the engine off, and felt like he had a small sack of sand in his gut. He wasn’t feeling confident.
He was due to meet Arkady Tushino as Marcus Stenson’s emissary to discuss their future relationship. But he knew the bratva, and they were no benign business partners. In fact, they had no qualms about bleeding a business dry until it, and its owners, were nothing but lifeless husks. After all, there were always more businesses to feed off.
Yuri’s objective was to convince them to be patient, and maybe secure a smaller but longer-term payment system. Then as the business got on its feet, they could pay a little more.
To begin with, he’d off them 30,000 roubles per month, which was about 400 U.S., and a little less than the average monthly wage. Not bad for doing nothing, he thought. He’d also be prepared to negotiate up to 500 dollars per month as a fallback if need be.
> Yuri reached down beside his hip and felt the butt of his gun. He left his hand there for a moment, and then exhaled slowly as he unclipped the holster from his belt and stuck it in the truck’s map compartment—the bratva would have guns, more of them than him, and probably be better shots. He liked Marcus Stenson, but wasn’t yet ready to die for him. So there was no use trying to provoke something that he could never win.
Yuri wasn’t a particularly religious person, but he always prayed to anyone who was listening when he thought he needed some divine help. He inhaled deeply, and then blew air through his lips with a growl.
“You can do this,” he said into the rear-view mirror, and then elbowed open his door and headed for the bar.
The men he would meet weren’t from this village, but were just doing their monthly sweep through all the local villages, collecting payments. They were just bagmen, and local warlords.
The big boss would be situated in Moscow and have political connections all the way to the top of business and government. The bratva had been around for hundreds of years and would be around for hundreds more. The upside was they weren’t dumb, and very quickly spotted good business opportunities. Yuri was hoping what he presented was exactly that—an easy way for them to make ongoing money by doing very little.
He pushed open the bar door. It was just gone 11 in the morning and there were few patrons. The large woman behind the bar with the Slavic folds over her eyes indicating strong Mongolian stock sized him up in seconds and nodded to a door at the rear. He crossed to it, knocked once, and then waited, calming himself.
It was pulled inward and he was met by heavy blue smoke hanging in a layer just above his head—everyone in Russia smoked, and you either smoked yourself, or sucked in the next guy’s chimney-like exhalations.
“Comrade Revkin.”
Tushino grinned his golden shark grin but didn’t stand. Four men sat around a table, and Yuri recognized them as the small gang of muscle from their visit to the lake.
Yuri nodded. “Mr. Tushino… and esteemed colleagues.” He gave a small salute. “A nice day for a meeting.”
“Every day is a good day for a meeting with friends.” Tushino motioned to a vacant chair beside him.
As Yuri sat, one of the huge Orlov twins slid an empty glass in front of him and then half filled it with clear fluid—it was good quality vodka, and Yuri doubted it was available at the bar outside.
Tushino lifted his glass. “Proust.”
Yuri nodded and lifted his glass in return. “Proust.” And downed it in one. It was very good quality and finished with a smooth burn on his palate.
Tushino put his glass down, and his smile turned to that of a favorite uncle. “Now, my friend. What does Mr. Stenson say to our offer of security and guaranteed product delivery services?”
Yuri opened his hands and shrugged a little. “Of course he wants to have a good relationship with the local businesses.” Yuri pulled on a look of mock concern. “But as his cash flow is weak right now, he can only pay what he can afford. The upside is we hope the relationship is a long term and mutually beneficial one.”
Tushino didn’t blink. “How long term our relationship is depends on what he offers—now, here, today.”
Yuri nodded. “We think we can afford 30,000 roubles a month.”
“Four hundred American dollars a month?” Tushino burst out laughing and was joined by his goons. He lifted a hand and slowly twirled the finger in the air. “This little bar in the middle of nowhere pays that much.” He lowered his brow. “Your millionaire American friend was joking, I think.” He leaned forward. “Because that would be an insult, and one I would not dare telegraph to my boss.” He tapped the table with one finger. “Now you tell me what he is really offering.”
Yuri felt a little ball of panic begin in his stomach. He didn’t think the offer was that small, and he didn’t have all that much further to negotiate. “Maybe we can go to 35,000 Roubles, $500 a month, if we push ourselves.” He drew on his poker face and waited.
Tushino lifted his tiny glass of vodka and held it up to the light. “Stolichnaya Elit. Made from Russian Alpha Spirit distilled from winter wheat and then filtered through quartz sand, Siberian birch charcoal, and then cloth fibers.” He continued to hold the glass in his fingertips and turn it, catching the light through the clear liquid. “It is then flash-chilled to -5 degrees and finally passed through ion-charged filters to ensure its purity.” He threw it back into his mouth and then put the glass down. “I drink a bottle a day, at a cost of 80 dollars. That’s 2,400 dollars per month.”
Tushino slapped the table as his gang sniggered. “So, maybe you need a little help with this pushing yourself thing. I think you can afford a little more than $500 a month.” Tushino’s face dropped all pretense of good humor. “You will pay $1,000 per week… to begin with. After a year, it will be $2,000, then the year after $4,000, and so on.” Tushino sat back and shrugged. “Inflation.”
Yuri felt his heart sink in his chest—they were miles apart, and this wasn’t negotiation, but extortion. He suddenly felt stupid thinking he could ever have bargained with these people.
“We cannot afford this. Mr. Stenson will be bankrupt before he has made single rouble. We offer a long-term partnership, where you don’t need to do anything other than collect your pay. I even bring it to you.”
Tushino sat staring back for a few moments as his brow knitted slightly. “Dear loyal friend, you do not know what potential you have in that business.” He poured himself another drink, and then one for Yuri. “The real value in your business is not a simple fish breeding program, but the results of that breeding program. You have good contacts with the Federal Agency for Fisheries and Conservation, but more importantly, you have a formal contract for the supply and receipt of Beluga caviar.”
A smile began to spread on the man’s face. “Beluga caviar, which they call black gold. Which is now so very rare and in demand that it can trade for up to $5,000 per pound.”
Tushino downed his vodka. “So, if some of those eggs were diverted for sale, and only some for hatching, we could all be rich very quickly.”
Yuri’s eyes widened. “This is not possible.” He held his hands up flat and sat back. “Not possible at all. Mr. Stenson will never agree to this. His business will remain honorable and committed to working faithfully with those who have put faith in him at the highest levels.” Yuri frowned. “Mr. Stenson is an honorable man.”
“Oh, I see.” Tushino nodded and his brow creased. Then he snapped his fingers as though he had a sudden thought. “I know; I have an idea where you get to pay nothing.”
Yuri waited, knowing this suggestion wasn’t going to be any better, and probably far worse.
Tushino meshed his fingers together on the table. “We take over half of your business. You run the farming, and we run the export of Beluga caviar. Mr. Stenson gets to remain honorable, and we get to be rich—good deal for everyone, yes?”
Yuri’s mouth gaped for a moment. “There is no—”
Tushino lunged and swept a hand across the table, wiping the glasses from it to shatter against the wall. His face was terrifying as he leaned closer to the bigger Yuri, a finger pointed gun-like into his face.
“This is what will happen. You scurry back and tell this richy-rich American bastard that if he wants to do business in Russia, and have a long and healthy life for himself and his pretty wife, he will accept us as a business partner. If not, then his business is dead, only option is to pack up and go home… while we let him.”
Yuri sat there blinking for a moment, trying to process the implications. He knew his boss would never agree to what the bratva had demanded.
“Maybe we can—”
Tushino made a small sound like spit, and waved him away. “Show him out.”
His goons got to their feet and stood behind him. A huge hand fell on Yuri’s shoulder and he slowly rose. He walked stiff-legged to the door and when he got there, Tushino called to
him.
“One week, you come back, with Mr. Marcus, and you sign agreement with us as your new business partners.” He made a small jerking motion with his chin, and Yuri was pushed outside the room.
The meeting was over.
*****
“What?”
Marcus’ mouth hung open and his brow was so deeply furrowed it looked like someone had taken an axe to his forehead.
He threw his hands up as he got to his feet. “We have to tell someone.” He paced. “The police, or secret service, or what’s the equivalent of the FBI over here?”
“The FSB, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation,” Yuri said glumly.
Marcus spun back and pointed. “Exactly. These guys can’t get away with this. We’ve done everything by the book and have the government on our side.”
“Marcus.” Yuri sighed long and deep, and his shoulders slumped. “This is not America. This is Russia, and things move very slowly here. If, and that is big if, the FSB looks into this, it’ll take them months to even get moving.”
“Months?” Marcus ran hands up through his hair. “We’ve got to respond to those thieves by next week. It’s fucking extortion… a crime.” He began to pace again. “We’ve got to stall them somehow. I can tell them that I need a lawyer to look over the documents. Then we throw a lot of legal questions at them.”
“They have lawyers; lots of them.” Yuri shrugged. “Corrupt ones.”
Marcus turned, and Yuri went on.
“And doctors, and police, and politicians, and just about everyone they need. In Russia, they are another form of government.”
“Well, it’s not happening. It can’t.” Marcus folded his arms. “We need to use our good contacts at the highest level in the Federal Agency for Fisheries and Conservation, which is surely in a direct line to the Kremlin.” Marcus rubbed his chin. “But I can’t call from here and have the damn lines drop out. I need to be there myself. Make my case personally.” He quickly looked at his watch.