Andrei calls my phone just as I’m parking my Hummer in an alleyway behind the Deutsche Bank.
I already have a good idea what he’s calling about, but I pick up the phone anyway.
“What is it?” I say, brusquely.
“It’s the girl,” he says. “She’s escaping over the back wall. What do you want me to do?”
Andrei means, should he shoot her, or just capture her and bring her back.
I knew this was the likely outcome of leaving Sloane alone in my room, which is not nearly as secure as the basement cells. But still, I feel an unreasonable stab of disappointment. I had hoped she wouldn’t want to run away. Or at least, not so soon.
I should have known better.
“Just let her go,” I say to Andrei.
There’s a pause. Then he says, confused, “Let her go?”
“You heard me!” I bark at him.
“Right, of course,” he says. “You got it, boss.”
I hang up the phone, my face hot.
Sloane was a prisoner. Of course she was going to run the minute she got the chance.
Still, I can’t help feeling like she abandoned me.
What else did I expect?
Nothing. I didn’t expect anything from her.
But stupidly, I hoped.
There’s no time to worry about it now. We’re on Volynskiy Pereulok, close to the Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood. Dom says that Remizov has a safe deposit box at this bank.
We haven’t figured out exactly which box is his. So, we’re going to rob them all.
As I suspected, when we spied on Remizov’s operations at the diamond district, we saw that he now has several uniformed cops standing guard. They’re not involved in the sale of the gemstones, but it’s clear that Remizov is operating with their tacit approval, under their protection.
I’m amazed at the blatant control he’s securing over the St. Petersburg police. It’s not as if the cops haven’t taken bribes to turn a blind eye before, but this is police collaboration on a whole new level.
I’ve met with the heads of the St. Petersburg branches of the Sidarov, Nikitin, and Markov families. Only the Markovs were willing to join my men today. Olaf Sidarov openly admitted that he’s already allied himself with Remizov, and Eli Nikitin said he wanted to remain neutral for the time being—which means he wants to see which way the wind is blowing so he can attach himself to the apparent winner.
If that winner is me, Nikitin is very wrong to think I’m going to forget his cowardice and disloyalty.
Hedeon Markov, by contrast, is an old gangster who’s never kissed the ring of anyone in this city. He’s as stubborn as a mule. Today I love him for that.
He’s sent me four men to add to my nine, including his son Kristoff. Kristoff is as fat and grumpy as his father, but I’ve heard that he once took down four men in a bar fight, and half the walls in the bar as well. So I’m glad to have his scowling bulk next to me.
I’ve also got Alter Farkas, whose wife and daughters were killed by Remizov’s men in the raid on the diamond district. He’s even older than Hedeon Markov, and no fighter, but he has information that will be useful to me today.
I divide my men into three groups, with Markov and Farkas’s men parceled out amongst them. I’m not taking any chances on double-crossing. I’ve instructed Dom and the others that no one texts or calls anybody until after our work is done.
We split up to hit three places at once—the bank, the diamond district, and the customs office where Remizov has been usurping the Stepanov’s drug smuggling operation.
I’m handling the bank job, because it will be the most difficult.
I’ve got Maks with me, and Markov’s son Kristoff.
We check over our weapons, then don our gloves and ski masks.
“No names,” I warn the men, “and don’t let anybody see your face.”
Deutsche Bank has deep ties to the Russian elite. Generally speaking, it’s not a place you’re supposed to rob.
I have no intention of taking money from the tills or the vault—I only want the safe deposit boxes. It should be a small enough score to avoid drawing the ire of the real power players, while still cutting Remizov plenty deep.
We go over the plan several times before leaving the car.
Speed is key in any robbery. We want to be in and out in less than ten minutes, since the police will probably show up in twelve.
This branch of the Deutsche Bank is relatively small, but opulent on the exterior and interior. I can only imagine the sums of money that have passed through its vault—not to mention its computer systems. Money tracked and untracked, earned and unearned, from every country of the world.
As soon as we’re through the front doors, we split up to neutralize the employees. We want to prevent them hitting any silent alarms. Maks covers the tellers, while Kristoff and I gather up the managers and staff.
There are only a few customers inside, including an old man with his grandson, and two women making deposits. Maks tells them all to sit down quietly in the corner of the room.
I’m impressed with his politeness. It’s smart—calm people are easier to control. The old man seems mildly annoyed, and the two women look almost excited. They’re wearing aprons over their clothes, probably having come from work at a shop or cafe. They seem pleased at the opportunity to delay their return.
The bank employees are, of course, less happy about the situation. Particularly the branch manager, who blusters and shouts.
“This is outrageous! Who do you think you are?”
“Just give us the keys to the safe deposit boxes, and we’ll be on our way,” I say.
“I’m not giving you any keys,” the bank manager retorts stubbornly. His black hair is combed flat against his head, shiny with gel. He’s wearing a blue suit, as well as rings on several fingers.
Kristoff seizes him by the lapels, lifts him in the air, and throws him across the room. The manager skids across the floor, coming to rest in front of the reception desk.
“Anybody else got keys?” Kristoff grunts.
A redheaded account manager fumbles a clutch of keys off her belt.
“H-here,” she stammers, holding them out to Kristoff. “Use mine.”
I take the keys and head down to the safe deposit boxes.
I start opening the lock boxes, scanning their contents. I ignore the ones that hold papers, documents, photographs, and family jewelry, I’m looking only for those that contain serious cash.
Before I’ve gone through more than five or six, Maks comes hurrying down the stairs.
“Remizov’s are twelve and thirteen,” he says.
“How do you know that?”
“The little blonde teller told me,” he says. I see the white flash of his teeth as he grins through the slit in his ski mask.
Even with his face covered, Maks is popular with the girls.
I unlock box twelve and thirteen.
Here’s what I’ve been looking for—stacks of cash, piled six inches deep. I take it all, clearing the boxes bare.
I check my watch. Eight minutes gone. We’re ahead of schedule.
I jog up the stairs again, my sack of cash slung over my shoulder.
“Got it,” I say to Kristoff and Max.
Max tips a wink at the blonde teller. She tries to hide her smile behind her hand.
Kristoff steps over the bank manager, who’s still laying in front of the desk, though I don’t think he’s actually hurt. He looks more like he’s sulking.
We leave the bank in only eight minutes, fifty-one seconds.
We get back in the Hummer, and I drive to the rendezvous point to meet up with the other groups.
Dom returns first, with Jasha and Alter Farkas.
Despite all the police prowling the diamond district, they managed to sneak in the back of Farkas’s old shop. The locks on the doors had been changed, but the safe code had not. They made off with a bag of loose stones and another hefty stack of banded hundred-dollar bills.
Farkas doesn’t look pleased about the score.
“The place is going to shit already,” he complains. “They haven’t washed the windows once.”
I give him the stones and the cash, though I know it’s poor recompense for what he’s lost.
“I hope to get your shop back too, before long,” I tell him.
The money from the security boxes I split with the Markovs.
Kristoff hands it over to his father at once.
Hedeon tucks it in his jacket without counting it.
“That’s how the Bratva do business,” he says to me, with a slow nod. “As equals. With honor.”
Efrem comes back with a different sort of plunder entirely—two of Remizov’s men. He’s got them bound and gagged in the back of his GLK.
Dom and I climb in Efrem’s car for the second part of our little adventure.
We drive out to the warehouse where Remizov has been storing my guns.
Like Efrem said, there’s still only two men guarding the guns, and not very well. One of them is texting on his phone when Efrem hits him from behind. The other goes down after only a cursory fight.
Dom and Efrem were right. This is much too easy.
Through the dusty windows, I can see the crates of Kalashnikovs stacked inside the warehouse. I nod for Dom to untie Remizov’s kidnapped men.
Dom hauls them out of the back of the GLK, cutting his ropes.
Efrem trains his rifle on the two goons.
“Get in there and bring out our guns,” he says. “And make it fast. Don’t make me come in there after you.”
The two guards from the warehouse are sitting next to each other on the cement, leaned up against the tires of the GLK. They glance at each other nervously as their colleagues head inside.
I hear the sound of a crate shifting, dragging.
Then an explosion rips through the warehouse.
Dom, Efrem, and I are standing back a good hundred feet, and we’re still blown backward onto the cement. I tear a hole in my suit pants and scrape the shit out of my hands.
Dom stands up slowly, wiping away a streak of blood from under his nose. Efrem stares at the blast, his face glowing orange in the reflected light.
The warehouse is a fireball, which turns into a column of billowing black smoke. The guns are surely destroyed, and Remizov’s men too.
Efrem looks at the two guards, tied up against the wheels of Dom’s car.
“Didn’t care to warn your buddies?” he says in disgust.
“I didn’t know that was going to happen!” one of the men cries, staring at the flaming warehouse in shock. “Remizov just told us to stay outside.”
I can see that he’s thinking we might just as easily have sent him in to retrieve the guns instead.
“We’d better go,” Dom says to me.
A blaze like that will draw the police and fire trucks.
“What about them?” Efrem says, nodding to the guards.
“Leave them for the cops,” I say.
I can see that Efrem thinks they deserve worse than that.
But we’ve made it through the day without killing anyone so far. I’d like to keep it that way. I’m afraid there will be more than enough bloodshed to go around before this thing with Remizov is done.
