Vektor (12 page)

Berg stared at him for a few seconds before standing up. Reznikov offered his hand, which Berg regarded icily.

“Only children require a handshake to seal a bargain. You’ll get your phone calls. I’d like you to make the first one this morning.”

Reznikov retracted his hand with a scowl and poured three shots of vodka.

“A toast to the destruction of Vektor,” he said.

Petrovich picked up the shot glass, still slightly woozy from the first two drinks. A few seconds later, his throat ached as he slammed the shot glass down. No more shots for him. One more and he’d nap through the rest of the interrogation. He heard Berg ask the security station for a satellite phone to be delivered with breakfast. Berg took a seat at the table and watched Reznikov take another shot.

“Good news. Breakfast is on the way, along with a satellite phone. I hope your friends in Novosibirsk don’t hang up. You get five calls.”

Petrovich walked toward the kitchen, looking for the bathroom. He spied several more bottles of vodka tucked away under a row of kitchen cabinets, which prompted him to open the refrigerator. Nothing. A few seconds later, he heard the buzz of an ATV approaching. Special fucking delivery. He really hoped Berg didn’t intend to honor any deal to let Reznikov stay here. The thought of that psychopath enjoying personally delivered gourmet food for the rest of his life didn’t sit well with him.

Chapter 16

5:55 PM

VTB Bank, Leninsky Avenue

Moscow, Russian Federation

Sergei Dubinin parked his AvtoVAZ sedan and surveyed the sidewalks in front of the bank for any obvious signs of trouble. He had been abruptly interrupted from drinks at his new favorite lounge atop the Swiss Hotel Krasnye Holmy and ordered to run a quick errand nearby. Such requests were not unusual from his boss, but they usually came late at night, when he was busy working the streets. He wasn’t pleased to be yanked away from the company of his newly acquired admirers at the chic and ridiculously expensive rooftop hotel bar.

He’d been recently promoted from
Shestyorka
(associate) to
Vor
(thief) within the Solntsevskaya Bratva, which was the equivalent to becoming a “made” man within Sicilian mafia organizations. Accepting the
Vor
code meant greater responsibility, increased respect and more money.

He reported to a
Boyevik
(warrior) who led the business extortion efforts for their
Brigadier
, who in turn reported directly to Mr. Dima Maksimov, the organization’s
Pakhan
(boss). It was a long list of intermediaries, with numerous cut outs designed to prevent direct links back to the higher-ranking members. Security up the chain-of-command even featured “ghosts,” who watched over everybody and served as an informal version of mafiya internal affairs.

He’d thought his errand boy days were over, but it had only intensified with his new position. He no longer stood lookout outside of the stores or apartment buildings. Now he went inside and made the collections while someone else looked tough on the steps. The only benefit so far had been money to fuel his hunger for the finer things in life. His new errands almost always involved large quantities of cash, either payoffs from local businesses or debt collection.

He learned early in his career never to skim off the top, but instead to insist on an additional collection consisting of petty cash. A small tribute to keep him in a good mood and ensure that his next visit would be just as peaceful. He didn’t push the amounts, purposely setting his sights low to avoid attracting attention. He made several dozen collections a week, so the money added up quickly. No reason to shake down the wealthier “clients” for larger sums that might result in a phone call to his boss. Any money made at any level was subject to a “tax” up the chain of command. Eventually, his
Boyevik
would tactfully bring up the subject of his extra collections, and he would have to cough up money on a monthly basis. This was a natural part of the process and understood by everyone within the ranks.

He hoped this inevitable taxation didn’t impact his newly found place among society’s elite. There was an incredible amount of money to be made from these people, and he planned to tap into it. The combination of wealth and naivety sang to him as they regaled him with stories about yachts and third homes in the Swiss Alps. He felt like a shark in a fish tank as he laughed along with them, flashing the latest luxury watches and buying overpriced drinks with reckless abandon.

But first, another fucking errand…and this time to a bank. His unit didn’t do business with the banks. That was handled by a high-level
Boyevik
that specialized in bribes and government affairs. Maybe this was a good thing for him. A sign that they might be considering him for a special track within the
bratva
.

He opened the car door and stepped into the street, careful to examine the door mirror before making the near suicidal leap of faith into traffic. At six in the evening, Leninsky Avenue was packed with edgy drivers trying to race home. Fortunately, the bank was located on the eastern side of the ten-lane boulevard that carried traffic toward Moscow, and was slightly less packed than the other side. After quickly navigating to the sidewalk, he approached the bank, mindful of the time. The bank closed at six, and his boss would have a fit if he screwed this up. As a new member of the
bratva
, his actions were more closely scrutinized than ever before. Everything was a test of loyalty and commitment. He wondered if the downward pressure ever stopped.

He found the bank door unlocked, which was a relief. He had three minutes to spare until closing, which in Russia didn’t guarantee anything. He’d protested the time constraint, having received the phone call less than twenty minutes ago. If the bank manager wanted to go home at 5:30, the bank closed early. The last thing he wanted to do was visit the bank manager at home. Things were certain to get ugly if that happened, but orders were orders, and he was expected to return with the contents of the safety deposit box.

Sergei pulled on the heavy reinforced steel door and entered the bank, drawing a few stares from the staff. He saw one of them grimace, apparently unsatisfied that the bank might not close on time tonight. A guard armed with a shortened military carbine eyed him from the front corner of the lobby as he approached the more attractive of the two blond tellers. Bank robberies were relatively common in Moscow, though they were rare along this stretch of Leninsky Avenue. His
bratva
didn’t look kindly upon this kind of activity here, and transgressors were punished severely and publicly. Only the most desperate criminal upstarts dared to try and pull off a robbery in this district of Moscow.

The teller avoided eye contact with him, likely hoping that he’d turn to the other teller and let her continue to close out her station. No such luck, though he wouldn’t keep her for long, unless she wanted to join him for a drink later. Always a possibility. Handsomely dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, tailored to his fit ex-military frame, he looked sharp and could easily pass for one of the hundred thousand millionaires living in Moscow. When the blue-eyed blonde finally looked up at him, a look of relief flashed, which quickly transformed into a flirtatious smile. The evening just got more interesting.

“Can I be of assistance to you?” she said.

Maybe later
, he thought. Out loud, he said, “I need to access one of your digital safety deposit boxes. The circumstances are unique, and I believe arrangements have been made for me.”

She seemed confused for a moment, asking him to hold on while she contacted the bank manager. A few seconds later, the manager emerged from one of the glass-encased offices on the far right side of the bank.

“Good evening. My name is Yakov Krutin. I received a call about twenty minutes ago with one of two remote access codes to a safety deposit box. Do you have the second code?”

“Yes. A twenty-four digit code,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.

The number had been sent to him via text by his immediate boss. The order to retrieve the box’s contents had been sent straight to him a few minutes ago by their
Brigadier
, Matvey Penkin, which made this a priority task.

“Please follow me,” the manager said and started walking toward a hallway leading deeper into the bank.

They pushed through a set of rich wooden doors into a harsh fluorescent environment that stood in stark contrast to the welcome, subtle lighting of the lobby. A second guard stood up from a chair at a small computer station and picked up an assault rifle similar to the one held by the guard in the lobby. Sergei guessed it was an AKS-74U, a short barreled, folding stock version of the Russian service rifle he’d carried as a conscript. The guard cradled it in a non-threatening manner and nodded as they passed through another set of doors into the safety deposit area.

The room extended at least twenty feet into the building, measuring at least fifteen feet wide. Boxes of varying size lined the walls, flush with each other. The larger boxes were located at the bottom, extending upward to several rows of standard sized boxes. The boxes on the flanking walls contained the same dual key mechanism typically used by banks to open safety deposit boxes. Once the key holder’s identity was confirmed as the owner of the box, the bank manager and key holder would simultaneously insert their keys, opening the drawer. Another metal container typically sat inside the drawer, providing immediate privacy from the bank staff. The contents of the box were examined by the key holder in a nearby, private room.

In this case, the door to this private area stood in the center of the room’s far wall. The rest of the wall contained digital safety deposit boxes, one of which contained the items he had been sent to retrieve. He had never heard of a digital safety deposit box until tonight. A curious development in the world of banking, they offered more flexibility in terms of content retrieval, since a digital code replaced the need to present a physical key. The box’s owner could still request the additional security layer of identity confirmation, but this had become less common and didn’t serve the most common purpose of these boxes. Money drops.

The proliferation of digital boxes across Europe, and particularly Moscow, served organized crime well, allowing them to not only hide money effectively, but to disburse it anonymously to anyone given the second code. Born in Russia, the idea was quickly spreading west, creating serious difficulty for federal law enforcement agencies investigating the major drug cartels and organized crime gangs. The days of staking out the big money drops were evaporating, as money changed hands behind vault doors, free from the prying eyes and ears of the police.

The bank manager approached a row of boxes at chest height to the right of the door and slid open a small keypad on the front of the box.

“I’ll enter the first code, and then you’ll have three tries to enter your code. The box will automatically lock after a third unsuccessful attempt, so please take you time. There is no rush. Make sure to press enter after all of the digits appear. If you don’t mind,” he said, waiting patiently for Sergei to face a different direction.

He heard the man pushing the buttons on the keypad and wondered what would happen if the first code was entered incorrectly. A few moments later, the manager asked him to enter the code. He removed his cell phone and approached the box, glancing over his shoulder at the manager, who had started to pace toward the center of the room with his hands behind his back. He eyed the phone’s screen and carefully entered the code, confirming that the red numbers on the small, thin digital screen matched the numbers on his cell phone. He pressed enter, and a green light blinked, followed by several beeps and the hushed rumbling of mechanisms in the wall. The bank official appeared out of nowhere next to him.

“Most excellent. You may open the drawer and retrieve the contents. The room through this door will assure you complete privacy. When you are finished, there is a telephone mounted on the wall. Simply pick up the phone and let whomever answers know that you are done. I will arrive shortly after that to escort you to the lobby. Do you anticipate needing a bag to carry the contents?”

“Yes.”

“You will find a low cabinet on the far side of this room filled with a variety of sturdy bags. Take whichever best suits your needs. If you have any questions after I leave, you can reach me on the phone,” he said and nodded, stepping back.

“Thank you,” Sergei said.

When the outer doors to the room clicked shut, Sergei opened the one-foot-by-one-foot drawer and reached inside, removing a metal case. He glanced at the door again, wondering what the low-wage security guard thought of the wealth concentrated in this room. The thought made him uneasy. The money and secrets stashed in this room remained frustratingly out of the guard’s grasp most of the day, until someone like Sergei arrived. It had to drive the guard insane with curiosity. Was Sergei here to collect ten million rubles or some old rich geezer’s last will and testament? Diamonds? Gold? He could never work a job like this. Every person that walked through those doors represented a life-changing gamble.

He entered the private room, which contained a simple metal table surrounded by four equally utilitarian metal chairs. The cabinet sat against the far wall as promised, just a few feet from the table, and a single black phone hung on the wall to the left of the door. Out of habit, he scanned the room for cameras or any other surveillance devices and found none. Time to verify the contents and get the fuck out of here. He was expected to meet his boss at an apartment complex in the Tverskoy District by six-thirty, which would take a near superhuman effort at this time of the day.

The metal slid open to reveal three individually secured stacks of one hundred dollar bills, a worn three-by-five inch notebook, and a small thumb drive. Exactly what he had been told to expect. He picked up one of the stacks, which measured roughly three inches thick, and thumbed through one of the corners slowly. As far as he could tell, the entire stack contained crisp one hundred dollar bills. He repeated the process for the two remaining stacks. Two hundred thousand U.S. dollars was one of the largest amounts he had been tasked to handle, and he had no intention of fucking this up. Anything could go wrong with a drop like this, robbery being the least of his problems.