“Arkhip, please. You must be Investigator Gusev. Please come in. I would stand but it seems that space is at a premium.”
Gusev stepped to the side to shut the door, and the two shook hands. Gusev’s eyes roamed the room as he placed a thick maroon file on the table.
“Ah. Good. You brought your file on the Velikayas.”
Gusev smiled, but it was patronizing. “I would need to be a magician to bring you the files on the Velikayas. They would not all fit in this room. This is my personal file.”
“Of course,” Arkhip said. “Please take a seat.” The linoleum squealed as Arkhip pulled the table toward his side of the room to allow Gusev space to sit.
“You have worked for the organized crime control department for many years?”
“OCC,” he said. “And yes, for more than two decades.”
“Then you are familiar with the Velikayas.”
Another smile. Also patronizing. “We’re all familiar with the Velikayas. It is Moscow’s largest crime family,” he said, as if it were an entity more than a family. Gusev adjusted his paisley tie and pressed it against his dark-blue shirt.
“Yes, of course. Perhaps you can give me a synopsis; I am interested in the hierarchy.”
Gusev laughed. “How much time do you have?”
Since his wife’s death . . . “All the time in the world, Investigator Gusev, but perhaps today a short version.”
Gusev let out a breath. “Okay. May I ask what this is about?”
“In time.” Arkhip offered nothing more.
After a few seconds of silence, Gusev got the hint. He chuckled and looked at his watch. “Do you want to record this?”
“Yes. Of course.” Arkhip patted his sport coat and removed his notepad and pencil. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Gusev grinned. “I meant do you wish to record our session?” He looked up at the camera in the ceiling corner. “Are we being recorded?”
“No.” Arkhip smiled. “We are not. And my notes will be sufficient.”
Arkhip learned early in his career that a tape recorder was a crutch. Investigators depended on the recording and failed to listen to a witness’s answers. Without listening, there was no hearing; without hearing, one could not ask intelligent follow-up questions. Opportunities not taken were opportunities lost. Arkhip took notes and maximized his intuitive abilities. With years of practice, he could recall almost verbatim what a witness had said. “Please begin.”
Gusev took a moment, then told Arkhip that the vory dated to tsarist times. The word meant “thief”—a general term used for an underworld member. The Velikayas emerged from the Khitrovka, a notorious slum just a ten-minute walk from the Kremlin.
“I’ve read about it,” Arkhip interrupted.
“You have?”
“I’ve read many books on Russia’s history these last two years. These places were crammed with lean-tos, shacks, tenements, and disease-ridden houses. The poorest of the poor.”
“Criminalized enclaves for thieves and murderers,” Gusev said without sympathy.
“Crime is the stepchild of poverty, is it not?”
“Perhaps, but the modern vory, which is who you are really concerned about, is anything but poor and was shaped in Stalin’s labor camps.”
“The gulags.”
“Those imprisoned had a common enemy and vowed to never support the government. Sergei Velikaya spent years in one of these Siberian gulags. He was an audacious and ambitious gangster with a head for numbers and a natural ability to lead.”
“Good qualities for a leader,” Arkhip said.
Gusev scoffed. “He led by brutal and ruthless violence. His mistake was flaunting his status, promenading through Moscow in a cream-colored suit, bow tie, and straw boater hat, and currying favor with the public by throwing street parties with buckets of free vodka and food. His son, Alexei Velikaya, was educated in Moscow’s finest schools and took over the family business when Sergei was killed in a mafiya war. Alexei moved away from the traditional vory of his father. He was fascinated by the American Godfather movies, specifically the Corleones’ attempt to become a legitimate business family. He tried to blend in with the new elite and create a new breed of gangster-businessman, the avtoritet.”
“The authority. It has a better ring to it than ‘thieves,’ doesn’t it?”
“A thief is a thief, regardless of the label slapped on his backside. In the 1990s with all the chaos, Alexei Velikaya made a fortune in currency speculation and used the capital to buy real estate in Moscow.”