by Greg Smith
“Ilya does not care,” the Russian interrupted, speaking in a very bored tone of voice. “Ilya does not give you his money to invest, Albanskiy. You know this, da? You choose to invest money. Risk is on you.”
Aleks stared at the strange man, wondered what the penalty for not returning his money could be.
“If you do not return money, you may have to take holiday. Like Eva.”
At that moment, Aleks realized Eva was dead. That the odd man sitting in front of him had been responsible for her death. The Russian hadn’t even bothered to veil his threat of harming Aleks. Who somehow stifled the urge to throw up on his desk.
All he could manage to say was, “Is that a-a thre–…?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars, Albanskiy. Ilya gives you one week.”
The odd hissing Russian rose to leave. Aleks couldn’t believe his life could be at stake over some investment losses. It was an absurd notion. Like yelling at a dog for barking when a stranger comes to the door. That was the dog’s job. To bark. To warn. Just as Alek’s job was to invest. He couldn’t control the market any more than the dog could control how many strangers came to the door.
“Look. Mr. Klymenko. The market is a fickle thing,” he blabbered. “It goes up, it goes down. Over time, it always goes up. It turns around as quickly as it tanks. You just have to give me some time.”
The odd Russian man had turned his back to Aleks, was walking toward the door. He stopped, turned back. Aleks took the opportunity to continue blubbering.
“The money’s just not available at the snap of a finger. It’s invested. It’s…it’s in the…the cleansing process.”
Ilya’s look said he didn’t care for excuses. Aleks blathered on.
“I’ve lost a lot of my own money as well. I’ve got nothing to pay you with. You understand? I don’t have it to give to you. I’m tapped out.”
Ilya regarded the tall man as though he was a speck of lint to be flicked indifferently off his cashmere coat.
“That is too bad,” he said, faking a pout. “But you will pay, Albanskiy. One way or other. It is our way.”
Aleks now realized how foolish he’d been. Believing he could explain away the loss of the Russian mafia’s money as bad luck. A fickle market. The dot-com bust. He’d failed to understand that a Russian mobster wouldn’t care about market performance. Good or bad. A mobster would just want his money cleaned. Available when he asked for it. That, or he’d want someone’s head on a plate. He’d want to exact his pound of flesh.
“Give me a month. Thirty days. I’ll see what I can do,” Aleks pleaded.
Ilya looked bored.
“You have one week, Albanskiy. One week to get Ilya his money.”
The Russian held up a single slender finger. Then he silently slipped out the door.
Aleks didn’t know what to think about his situation. On the one hand, he had a hard time taking the quirky little man seriously. In the midst of their conversation, he’d found himself getting annoyed with the man’s accent, wondering why it was foreigners had such a hard time learning a few simple English articles like “the,” “a,” “an.” Not to mention pronouns and tenses. It could be infuriating. And who refers to himself in first person?
On the other hand, the odd man had been creepily intimidating. He’d shown balls flying solo into Aleks’s office. Which meant he either had extreme confidence in his ability to handle a much larger man. Or he had some muscle behind him. Probably waiting in the hallway should the need arise.
Either way, the hissing Russian had given Aleks the creeps. There was something sinister, almost evil, about him. He’d obvious had something to do with Eva missing their last appointment.
The more he thought about it, the less he questioned the sincerity of the Russian’s threat.
Had he known the true nature of the odd little man who had confronted him; had he realized that the tip of the Russian’s cane concealed a blade capable of slicing a throat, puncturing a lung or severing the fingers of a doomed adversary; had he known the odd little man who had dared confront him alone in his office was none other than the Butcher of Balabanovo, the Russian criminal who had served fifteen years in a gulag for viciously murdering twenty-eight women and children at St. Spyridon Orphanage in the Borovsky District of Kaluga Oblast; had he known all that, Aleks would have realized the enormity of his situation. And he never would have taken the Russian’s money in the first place.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 52
Monday, October 22. Day 41 post-9/11
Having arrived at the realization that the tall stranger might be Ilya’s Bagman, an investor with ties to the Russian mafia, Griggor was in emotional turmoil. He’d grown to like Aleks. Was disturbed that he now had to tell him something about his past he wouldn’t necessarily want to hear. That he now had to explain to the tall man why he should not pursue his plan to assume his former identity.
“I do not know why this does not hit me before now, hey? I should make two plus two. You are tall. You are numbers man. Investor. I just do not have all pieces for puzzle. Until I hear you say you are bagman…”
Lost in thought, Griggor seemed to be talking to himself. His muttering providing verbal static while he thought things out.
“See, you are not foreign. That is peste (fish) painted red to me. But you have Albanian name, hey? So of course, makes you foreign to Ilya. I should see this sooner.”
Aleks had no idea what the old man was going on about or why he seemed so agitated.
“Aleks, if, as you say, you are Ilya’s Bagman. If that is truly you? You are better off to stay buried. Inside memory, hey?”
Aleks gaped at Griggor in open-mouthed bewilderment.
“I never said I was Ilya’s bagman. I don’t even know what a bagman is. And I sure as hell don’t know who this Ilya character is.”
“Bagman, he is monies man for mob, hey? Sometimes he is just courier. But sometimes, he is more. Like…counter of beans.”
“An accountant?”
“Da. Bagman, he handles all mob monies, hey? As to Ilya Klymenko. Butcher of Balabanovo. He is very bad man, Aleks. Very bad, hey?”
“Buh-Butcher? Of Balaba–… Where?”
“Balabanovo. Rooshia. Believe Griggor. You do not want details,” the old man said with an ominous gravity.
Aleks conjured up an image of a muscular, bearded Russian holding a bloody meat cleaver, leering maniacally. He had no idea the likeness couldn’t be more contrary to the actual Butcher of Balabanovo.
“That isn’t…that can’t be true, Griggor. I’m not him. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Though his memory was still sketchy, Aleks didn’t think it was possible he would have gotten involved with any Russians. Not after what had happened to Jills.
“Ilya’s Bagman. Tall, foreign investor. He takes Ilya’s monies,” Griggor resumed. “Roosha mafia monies. Multe monies. Now, Ilya, he wants his monies back, hey? Or he wants his Bagman asasinat.”
The old man swept a thumb across his throat.
Aleks no longer questioned Griggor’s sporadic use of Romanian words, could usually discern their meaning from the context. Any word with a “Roosh” sound referred to Russia or Russians. “Multe” meant “a lot.” “Asasinat” was blatantly obvious. The notion of killing the investor because he lost money in the market, however, was preposterous.
“People lose money in the market every day, Griggor. Lots of money. Every day. There are never any guarantees,” Aleks babbled nervously. “They may ask for their money back. They certainly don’t kill the investor.”
“Nu. Aleks. Ilya does not invest his monies,” Griggor said, shutting off the tall man’s babble. “He pays Bagman to clean his monies. C’mon. You must know this, hey?”
Aleks said nothing. He didn’t want to accept the possibility that he’d been an accountant for the Russian mob. Someone known as Ilya’s Bagman. A money launderer who had st
olen money from a Russian named “the Butcher.”
“Bagman, he cleans monies, then he gives clean monies back,” Griggor elaborated. “For this, he takes some small portion, hey? Sometimes, bagman…he gets greedy.”
Griggor eyed Aleks for any reaction to this accusation. When he perceived none, he cleared his throat, resumed speaking.
“Anyways, if Aleks Bag-guh-duh-sarian, he is Ilya’s Bagman… You keep him buried in memory. You become somebodies else. Griggor gives you new name. New identity, hey?”
Aleks didn’t like the thought of giving away his identity so easily. He’d just remembered who he was. Though he wasn’t so sure he liked the man he’d been. A murderer. A mob accountant. A thief. None of that seemed to fit him.
Binyak on the other hand…
The briefest of memories flashed through his mind. An argument. With Binyak. About his greed.
As the truth slowly sank in, Aleks had a disturbing suspicion about what had happened. It had been Binyak. For some reason, Binyak had gotten involved with this Russian. He’d been laundering the money, taking his cut. At some point, his cut hadn’t been enough. He’d gotten greedy. Binyak always got greedy.
He’d stolen the Russian’s money. Probably created false accounts to show it had been lost in the stock market. Invested in dot-coms. Binyak’s get-rich-quick scheme. The more Aleks thought about it, the more sense that made. Binyak had been Ilya’s Bagman.
“So, uh…this bagman…he stole money from this Ilya guy. Instead of cleaning it. He stole it,” Aleks confirmed.
“Da. Ilya’s Bagman, he is in profound rahat, my friend, hey? Deep shit.”
Ah, Binyak, what have you gotten us into? Aleks thought. What have you done?
Binyak had obviously fucked up.
Aleks tried to understand what his twin could have been thinking. Getting involved with Russians. Stealing money from someone named “the Butcher.” All he could think to tell Griggor was that it hadn’t been him. It had been Binyak. And Binyak was dead.
“It wasn’t me,” he said dejectedly. “It had to be Binyak. There’s no other explanation, Griggor. Binyak did this.”
Blaming it on ‘twin,’ hey? Griggor thought.
The old man tried to work out the logic.
“So…Binyak…twin brother to you…he maybe pretends to be you, hey? He tells Russian he is you? That he is Aleks Bag-guh-duh-sarian? Then he steals monies.”
“It’s Bag-duh-sarian, Griggor. No Bag-guh-duh. Just Bag-duh. Sarian. Could you do me the simple favor of saying our name correctly, please?”
“Scuzati-ma,” Griggor apologized politely. “Why does he do this, Aleks? Why does one brother put other brother in such danger, hey?”
“I…I don’t know. I have no idea what he could have been thinking.”
He struggled to grasp the implications of Griggor’s last comment. None of it made any sense. Why would Binyak involve himself with Russians? Why would he put Aleks in danger?
Was I involved with them and can’t remember? Could I actually be Ilya’s Bagman?
He was flustered, tired of flipping back and forth. Was he Ilya’s Bagman? Was Binyak Ilya’s Bagman? No, it was him. Then again, it must have been Binyak.
“Does not matter which of you is Bagman, hey? To Ilya, you are one and same. What does matter is Ilya Klymenko – Butcher of Balabanovo – he is not someone you want against you, hey? Believe Griggor when he tells you this.”
Aleks had noticed a change in Griggor’s attitude toward him. The old man seemed to have acquired some disdain for him. Or, at least, for Ilya’s Bagman. The Aleks he may have once been.
“If I am Aleks Bag-DUH-sarian,” Griggor continued, making certain to pronounce the name correctly. “If I am Ilya’s Bagman and I lose his monies. If Butcher of Balabanovo wants me dead. I stay buried. I take new identity, hey? I tell you that.”
Aleks considered his predicament. A week ago he hadn’t been sure he wanted to remember who he was. He wasn’t certain he’d want to return to being his former self. That he would even like the former him. Because he thought his former self might be a murderer. Now, Griggor was telling him his former self may have been involved with the Russian mafia. That he may have been someone known as “Ilya’s Bagman.” As if that weren’t troubling enough, he may have stolen money from the Russians. Worst of all, he now had a price on his head. This Russian gangster known as “the Butcher” wanted him dead.
“Maybe I can meet with the Russian,” he proposed. “Explain that it was Binyak who stole the money. Tell this Ilya there’s no need to kill his Bagman. Binyak is already dead.”
“I do not allow that,” Griggor objected. “You do not know Ilya. He is savage. Unless you have his monies, I do not allow it.”
There’s a thought, Aleks reflected. Pay the Butcher off. How much money can we be talking about anyway?
He had money. If he could get to his bank accounts. If he could get to his apartment. If he had his identity.
“How much, Griggor?”
“Scuzé?”
“How much money are we talking about? How much money does, uh…does this Ilya…the Buh-Butcher want?”
“I do not know exact amount. Close to one half millions of dollars, I hear. Maybe more, hey?”
Aleks gasped
“Whuh–? A half million dollars?”
“Unfortunately, da. Is what I hear. One half millions. Give and take.”
A half million fucking dollars! That was a bit irresponsible, Binyak!
“Whuh-would he take less? Half? A quarter on the dollar maybe? That’s better than nothing. And Binyak is already dead.”
“You have such monies?”
Griggor seemed skeptical.
The question made Aleks leery. It occurred to him that the old Romanian could be pulling some kind of scam. Aleks hadn’t fully believed Binyak would have had anything to do with any Russians. Despite the gaps in his memory, he was also fairly certain he hadn’t dealt with any Russians himself.
“You know, Griggor, it seems to me you’re pretty close to these Russians. Maybe too close.”
He tried to assume an air of convincing confidence.
“If there even are any Roosh.”
Griggor was instantly incensed, furious.
“You think I make this up? How do I know you have monies like this, hey? You are stranger to me, Aleks. Stranger Nadia takes off street because he is injured.”
“Injured, yes! Exactly,” Aleks shot back. “I’ve had amnesia, old man. You’ve been questioning me for weeks. Maybe I told you something. About money I have. Maybe you created this whole story about the Russians to get your hands on money I don’t even remember I have! Maybe that’s why you and the gypsy woman have kept me here for over a month!”
Griggor slapped him. Hard. Across the face. Spoke angrily in Romanian.
“Fiul nerecunoscator al unei curva! (Ungrateful son of a whore!)”
Nostrils flaring, moustache aquiver, he glared at the tall man. Astounded, Aleks stared back, open-mouthed. It was the first time he’d seen the old man angry. Grigger struggled to control his rage. Slowly, he relaxed. His scowl softened. He spoke firmly, deliberately.
“I tell you this already, hey? Nadia, she is not gypsy. You do not call her that. I also tell you, you are free to go. Anytime. Leave. La revedere. Good-bye, hey? You choose to stay. I do not want you here. I think you are dangerous. Nadia, she insists. ‘He is gift from god, Griggor. He is angel,’ she says. You are no inger, hey? I tell her this.”
Aleks said nothing, listened meekly as the old man spoke.
“I know nothing about you, stranger. I know only that you hide something. Could be that you are Bagman. Could be something else, hey?
“I do not know if you have twin. If this brother of which you speak – Binyak – he is real…or you make him up. I do not care, hey? This is demon you fight.
“I do not know if you have one half millions of dollars…or one dollars, hey? I do not care.
“I
help you only because Nadia helps you. This is what we do, hey? When somebodies, they are in trouble, we do what we can do.”
Aleks felt ashamed for accusing this man who’d been so kind to him of treachery. Griggor wasn’t working for the Russians. He wasn’t scamming Aleks. The old Romanian had done nothing but help him.
“I…I’m sorry, Griggor. I apologize,” he said with genuine remorse.
His metamorphosis from rage to calm complete, Griggor held one hand aloft, bowed his head, accepted the apology silently.
Aleks wasn’t sure where he stood with the old man. He hoped Griggor was still willing to help. At the very least, Aleks needed addresses. For both himself and for Binyak. He needed to know where he lived. Where Binyak had lived. If he could locate where they lived, he could access records. He could find answers.
“I need two things from you, Griggor. First, your forgiveness for that insane outburst. That was…that was completely out of line. I’m truly sorry.”
“All is forgiven. We all have some times with some crazy business.”
“Thank you,” Aleks responded humbly. “Second, I need you to find out whatever you can about me. About Aleks Bagdasarian. About Binyak. About A/S/B Financial. If you can find out anything about Connie and/or Jills, that would also be good. I need my address. I need to know where I live. I need Binyak’s address, too. Addresses will lead to computers. Computers will have files. Records. Financial statements. Bank account numbers…”
While Griggor didn’t seem as enthusiastic, he did sound hopeful.
“We have name for you. We have date of birthing. Should not be so difficult to track down records on you. How many Aleks Bag-guh-duh-sarians can live in city of eight millions of peoples, hey? I do not think so many.”
Aleks let the Romanian’s mispronunciation of his name slide. He actually found it somewhat charming.
“Be happy your name, it is not Smith, hey?” the old man noted.
“Or You-on Doe,” Aleks joked, happy to see Griggor coming around.
“Ewan Doh. That is good prank, hey? Very good.”
The old man hesitated momentarily before laying out his plan.