He could only imagine what the Velikayas had planned for him.
46
Vasin Estate
Irkutsk, Russia
Maria Kulikova stared at the ornate iron gates at which Viktor Federov had stopped the car. What looked like an insect of some sort had been designed into each gate, which hung from thick brick columns and spanned an expansive entrance to a long, paved road. A guard, armed with an assault rifle and a German shepherd on a leash, stepped from a stone guardhouse and approached the gate. A second guard within the guardhouse spoke over a speaker and asked Federov to identify himself and to state his business.
Federov did so and within a minute the gates pulled open. Federov drove forward and the gate closed behind the car. The guard ran a mirror on the end of a long telescopic stick beneath the body of the car, while the dog sniffed and panted. After circling the car in both directions, the guard waved them through.
Unlike the front entrance, which conjured images of a prison, decorative lawn lights outlined the contours of the road as it cut between manicured lawns, pristine flower beds, and sculpted fir and birch trees that gave the property a softer feel.
“This home belongs to Plato Vasin,” Federov said. “He is a childhood friend of mine.”
“What does he do?” Arkhip asked.
“The Vasins are to Siberia what the Velikayas are to Moscow, and there is no love lost between the two families. Alexei Velikaya got his start here in Irkutsk but left when he became rich and successful. He tried to run a lucrative heroin trade from Moscow, but the Vasins would have none of it. Eventually they came to a bloody truce. The Vasins control much of the heroin trade through Siberia.”
“What is the design on the gate?” Maria asked. “It looked like an insect.”
“It is. A fly. When Plato was a young man he specialized in burglaries of small stores and warehouses. A Siberian mob boss said Plato Vasin was nothing but a nuisance, a fly he would squash. Before killing him, Plato made the man eat a bowl full of dead flies.”
“Oh God,” Maria said.
“He keeps the name to remind others of their fate if they cross him.”
“And that is what you call him?” Arkhip asked. “‘Fly’？”
“Only his friends call him ‘the Fly.’ He embraces the name, as you will see from the décor; so much so he once tried to have a fly tattooed onto the tip of his penis but gave up when it proved too painful. He settled instead for flies throughout his home, including the tiles of his shower and the headboard of his bed.”
“His wife must love that,” Maria said.
Federov smirked. “His first two, not so much. His third has come to terms with it. Plato likes to say: ‘Love and wives are more easily exchanged than flies cast in iron or stone.’”
Maria didn’t know whether escaping the clutches of one mafiya family for another was wise, but she also had no choice but to trust Viktor Federov. She had known him to be an excellent and thorough FSB officer, one who had become a scapegoat when Jenkins avoided capture. Sokalov had, in effect, offered up Federov’s head on a platter. Perhaps Federov’s desire to do the same would be enough, though she worried it would not be in time to save Charlie.
“Whatever we intend to do, we must do it quickly, before the Velikayas kill Mr. Jenkins.”
“I will be as quick as I can,” Federov said. “But one does not rush Plato Vasin when asking a favor.”
Eventually the road came to a circular drive and a mammoth house perched on a hill. The high ground. It looked like an expensive hotel, bright-yellow stucco with a promenade, columns, and balconies. More armed guards waited atop the staircase.
Before pushing from the car, Federov turned and spoke directly to Arkhip. “I would not volunteer your profession, Chief Investigator Mishkin. Or you may find yourself sitting in front of a bowl full of flies. Please, allow me to do the talking.”
“With certainty,” Arkhip said.
47
Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant
Irkutsk, Russia
Jenkins felt each blow, like wedges of sharp ice crashing into his skin, penetrating his body, then splintering into millions of shards that ran up and down his torso and into his extremities. They started with the body, which made sense since blows to the head would possibly knock him unconscious or senseless and unable to answer questions. They wanted him to feel every punch. They had also removed the black bag, wanting him to see each blow delivered.
His assessment had been accurate. They had brought him to a slaughterhouse. He hung from a hook attached to a conveyor belt in a long room that seemed the size of half a soccer field. All around him hung the carcasses of animals stripped of their fur; what remained of cows, sheep, goats, pigs, and buffalo. The two men from the back seat had meted out his punishment and were adept at doing so. They resembled boxers or wrestlers in training, wearing sweatpants and sweatshirts, their hands taped to keep them from breaking a knuckle while they delivered maximum impact. The man from the passenger seat, older than the others, sat comfortably in a chair, his legs crossed, his body bundled in a long wool overcoat, gloves, and an ushanka. He looked like a wealthy grandfather.