“Part of his quest to become legitimate?”
“Thieves don’t die that easily. He persuaded the elderly and invalids to sell their apartments. Those who refused disappeared.”
“Oh,” Arkhip said.
“He bought dozens of buildings for next to nothing, rehabbed them, and sold them at an exorbitant profit. Along the way, he established political connections. In return for their looking the other way, he ensured civic construction projects proceeded on time, and that labor was at a reasonable price. It allowed for unprecedented growth in Moscow, billion-dollar improvements to the Metro super trains, road construction and repairs, and airport expansion. Alexei Velikaya, however, was his father’s son. His philanthropy made him a celebrity, and he thrived on the attention.”
“I see where this is headed,” Arkhip said.
“Yes. When President Putin took power, most of the avtoritet stepped back into the shadows. Alexei Velikaya did not. He believed his extensive business profile, network of informants, and beloved public persona would protect him.”
Gusev paused here, not about to say more with a camera in the room, despite Arkhip’s assurances they were not being recorded. The story of Alexei Velikaya’s death was well known in Moscow. In 2008, during a campaign for a seat in the Duma, Velikaya was shot and killed, despite wearing a bulletproof vest and being surrounded by bodyguards. The government blamed rival gangsters until an oligarch exposed an FSB secret branch authorized by the president and within the Counterterrorist Directorate to kill him and other powerful oligarchs and mafiya family leaders.
“Which brings me to Yekaterina Velikaya,” Gusev said. “His only child. Malen’kaya Printsessa.”
“The little princess?” Arkhip said.
“No longer. She is now—”
“Catherine the Great.” Arkhip said the literal translation of her name. “A woman. That must be unique.”
“Unprecedented,” Gusev said. “The vory sexualizes or reveres women, but never respects them. Yekaterina had an uncle who said she didn’t have the balls to run her father’s business. They found him hanging in a warehouse, castrated, his balls shoved down his throat.”
“She had something to prove,” Arkhip said.
“Clearly. She’s a chip off the old block. She has met every subsequent challenge with quick and decisive violence. She is also bright, like her father, and has legalized the family business while placating the Kremlin with its piece of the pie.”
“How has she avoided her father’s and grandfather’s fates?” Arkhip asked.
“She hired former KGB officers and moonlighting FSB officers who inform her if the state intends to move against her or her businesses. And, unlike her father, she avoids all publicity.”
“And does she have children?” Arkhip asked, knowing she did, of course, but wanting to hear Gusev’s impression of Eldar Velikaya.
Gusev gave a short laugh. “A son. Eldar Velikaya. He is not his mother or his grandfather. He is a mental midget, which makes him dangerous. He runs around town spending money on hookers, gambling, and generally causing problems. There are rumors he has killed at least two prostitutes, but nothing has come of it. Now, Investigator Mishkin, do you wish to tell me what this is about?”
“Not yet. No.”
“If this involves the Velikayas or any other mafiya family, then the OCC should be made aware.”
“I will take that under advisement and consider it carefully. Thank you. You have been most helpful, and I am most grateful.” Arkhip slid the table away, pinning Gusev in his seat and giving Arkhip the chance to stand and move to the door. “I will be in touch.”
12
Manege Square
Moscow, Russia
Late that afternoon, Charles Jenkins, disguised now as an old man, sat on a bench in Manege Square, kitty-corner from the State Duma federal building on Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad. He’d spotted Petrekova’s first tail, the same woman from the railway platform and commuter train earlier that morning. She’d changed her look, trying too hard to be decidedly younger in shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail and wore unflattering black-framed glasses.
At just after six in the evening, Zenaida Petrekova exited the federal building and stepped between rows of parked cars and over a chain designating a pedestrian walk. Per her routine each night, she gave every indication she would cross the street and descend to the Okhotnyy Ryad Metro station for her trip back to the Kazansky railway station. She did not look rushed or concerned, and she never let her gaze roam in search of her tail, though she knew she was being followed.