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Oleg Branislava, a bald, mid-level Bratva soldier in his mid-fifties sat with his feet propped up on a deeply scarred oak table at the unofficial, makeshift office of “the brotherhood” located in a rundown tobacco warehouse just south of the James River. He finished his report to Dimitri and tried to avoid the look of rage on his boss’s face. Oleg chewed his pencil anxiously, put it down for a moment, picked up his heavy glass of vodka and drank greedily.
Dimitri Kazimir, a forty-some-year-old leader in the Bratva Russian mob raised his thick, black eyebrows in disapproval. His face was suffused with anger. Dimitri was powerfully built, a tree trunk of a man. His upper arms were the size of a Gwaltney holiday ham, and his thighs were even larger in proportion. His face had a long, thick scar that ran down the right side, adding to his sinister appearance. He grunted in disgust and rose from his seat, moving near the windows. He blew smoke rings toward the grimy warehouse windowpanes. The numerous windows, designed more than a hundred years ago to offer sunlight to cure tobacco, were grimy with a hundred years’ worth of dirt. Even on a bright, sunny day, the light in the room was dull and dismal.
Oleg sat uncomfortably as Dimitri paced back and forth in front of the windows.
“How’re things at home?” Oleg finally asked. “How’s business?”
Dimitri returned to the table, sat down and reached for a smoke. “Good. Business is good. We’ve about recovered from the Soviet days when our businesses ran on the black markets. Even though we didn’t thrive in those days, we managed to persevere and wait out Communism.”
Oleg smiled and nodded. “Thank God for that. I’ve been away from the homeland a long time and didn’t know.” He reflected for a moment and said, “Those were bad times for Bratva, particularly for the family business since so much of our work back then was taken over by the gangs in Stalin’s Gulags.”
Dimitri frowned as angry emotions flickered over his heavy face as he remembered the past twenty-five years. He’d been a young man in Bratva then, a street soldier, but he remembered what had happened. “Yes, back when the “official” bastards in the Soviet Union cooperated with us during the day and cheated and murdered us by night,” he growled as he slammed his fist on the table. He cursed in Russian.
“I remember,” Oleg responded, his face sullen. “Bastards, indeed. Murderers, thieves, kidnappers. You name it, they did it.”
Dimitri coughed and gave him a half smile. “But those days are gone, my friend. We’re in power with our enemies dead or dying. It’s been a heroic revival to have planned and been a part of.” He toasted air with his heavy goblet.
“Yes.” Oleg reached again for the vodka bottle and refilled their tumblers. “Now we control the government instead of them controlling us. I hear we control more than ten percent of Russia—particularly Moscow, St. Petersburg, Siberia, and the land to the south. Is this true?”
Dimitri smiled his wicked smile as the pair clinked glasses. “Oh yes, and more now. We control the richest and most productive areas of the largest country in the world. We’ve come a long way baby, eh.” He downed his vodka.
Oleg slid the bottle toward his boss. “How big is the slave trade for us? I’ve not heard for a while.”
Dimitri’s smile widened. “It’s huge and profitable. Second only to drugs and much safer. We’re projecting over ten billion in women alone this year. We’re getting them by the thousands from South and Central America and selling them as sex slaves all over the world.” Dimitri looked happier than a kid on Christmas morning. “It’s easy. Like taking candy from a baby.”
Oleg nodded, pleased his boss was in a better mood. “Ten billion is a lot of revenue. Any problems getting them transported?”
Dimitri shook his head. “Nah, not much. No one cares about these people. They are poor, come from poor countries. It’s so easy, low risk, very safe,” he added as he rubbed his huge hands together in glee.
Oleg smiled broadly. “So, you’re pleased to be heading up this profit center? Running the Bratva trafficking syndicate?”
Dimitri shrugged his shoulders and gave him an ambiguous look. “It’s fine, I guess, but boring. I like more exciting assignments where you encounter danger ...you know, like running arms, even drugs. Running women and children is dull for me. It is an old man’s job, and I am not yet old,” he scowled as he considered his position.
Oleg said nothing but sipped his vodka. It was almost dark outside. He wondered where Smirkowitz was but didn’t want to raise Dimitri’s anger again. He’d heard stories that the man’s temper was horrific, and he’d lash out cruelly at most anyone, even if they were his closest friend.
Dimitri continued to talk. “There is one thing though ...there is a growing market for white, blond American women, so we need to plan a way to capture more of them for the slave trade. They are a highly desirable commodity in the Middle East. Each woman is worth easily one mil. Let’s think about that, eh, Oleg?”
“Of course, I’ve some ideas as does another comrade you haven’t met yet.”
Dimitri nodded, “Good. Things are set for tonight, Oleg, correct?”
The men drank in silence for a few seconds, and Dimitri stared at Oleg and repeated his question. “Things are set for tonight, yes?”
Oleg wiped his dry lips with a soiled handkerchief. He stared at the short, stocky, man across from him and said, “I don’t know. I saw one woman yesterday. She’s a prize.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Things must be set for this evening,” he said harshly.
Oleg groaned inwardly. “I hope so, but Smirkowitz isn’t always reliable, at least like I’d like.”
Dimitri waited patiently to hear more.
“I talked to Nicholas earlier, and he assured me things were set and on schedule.”
“Do you think they are fine?” Dimitri glared at him, his face angry.
Oleg swallowed, “I hope so. But, I’m not sure. I’ve found him to be more and more unreliable lately.” Oleg sighed deeply. “Nikolay has been slipping lately. He’s difficult to reach and hard to read.”
Dimitri turned and focused his non-expressive, beady eyes on Oleg. “That’s not acceptable, Oleg. He must deliver or be expended.” He paused for a moment and studied Oleg’s face to be sure he understood and then continued, “Tell him he must deliver or else.”
Oleg shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “I’ve done that. I threatened the lives of his children today as well as the life of his new wife and baby.”
Dimitri’s scarred face darkened in anger as he reached for the vodka bottle and threw it against the wall. “Unacceptable,” he hissed as the smell of vodka permeated the senses and clear liquid spread across the scarred, wooden floor.
Oleg ignored the outburst. “Nikolay thinks he’s untouchable.”
Dimitri stared out the windows and said nothing.
“His wealth and power have gotten in the way of his commitment to Mafiya.”
Dimitri slammed his huge hand on the table and roared, “That arrogant little prick. This is offensive. Get him in here, so I can talk with him and show him just how ‘touchable’ he is.” He jumped from his chair, picked up a large piece of glass from the vodka bottle and hurled it at the brick wall. The glass broke into smithereens and fell to the floor. Fear crawled up Oleg’s back.
“I have tried to reach him,” Oleg began and stared at Dimitri’s knotted fist. It was enormous and covered with long, black hair. The hand resembled the paw of a wild animal, perhaps a bear, with short, stubby, powerful fingers. He wondered how many people Dimitri had killed with his bare hands. Dimitri hadn’t risen to his power in the Bratva by being a choirboy. “I’ve called him. There’s no answer.”
Dimitri hurled another piece of glass against the wall and walked over to the window, lit a cigarette and stared down at the James River. “Can you track his phone?”
Oleg shook his head. “No, he has a private cell. He doesn’t check in like the rest of the comrades,” he mumbled softly.
Dimitri turned quickly and glared at him, his beady eyes blazing. “And why is that? Why doesn’t he have a GPS in his cell like the others? Why is he treated differently?” His voice was accusing, and the red scar on his face glowed dark with anger.
Oleg shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “His handler was Sarkanov, and he allowed him special privileges. He’s never been treated like the others. He’s well connected and has been given concessions.”
Dimitri snorted in disapproval. “He is rich and connected but only because of us.” He turned from the window and faced Oleg. “That changes today. Keep calling him and tell him if he doesn’t deliver the women tonight, he is a dead man, but first, he will watch his family die, one by one by one.” Dimitri’s eyes were cold as he stared at Oleg.
“I will tell him. I will keep calling,” Oleg promised as he reached for his phone. In truth, Oleg had his cell programmed to redial Smirkowitz every five minutes, and as he checked the display, it was clear the phone had indeed dialed him more than fifty times.”
“What’s the plan? We do have a plan, don’t we, Oleg?” Dimitri prodded sarcastically, his face dark and furrowed.
Oleg felt fear shoot through him. It took his breath away, and his gut constricted as he nodded. “Yes, Smirkowitz will bring the two women, one an American and the other from South America to the port of Richmond at about one in the morning. The American is a real prize. I was there when we abducted her.”
Dimitri looked pleased. “A prize? She will fetch a lot of money,” he said happily. “Does she have sisters?” he joked as his smiled widened
Oleg gave a short laugh. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out. She’s a real looker, and American women with pale skin and blond hair are a dime a dozen. They’re all over Virginia Beach and the beaches in North and South Carolina. All of the southern beaches, in fact,” he added cheerfully. “There’ll be no problem finding them.”
Dimitri nodded, “Ah ha! A dime a dozen? I like that price.” A smile flickered across his face. His beady eyes danced in anticipation.
Oleg nodded. “Yes, they’re everywhere, I promise,” he said as raised his glass in a mock salute and drank from his glass of vodka.
Dimitri was pensive for a moment, caught up in thought. For once, his broad arms looked less fearful to Oleg. “Eh, um, what do you say? Perhaps we should take a road trip tomorrow after we conclude our business. Consider it a scouting expedition?” Anticipation brightened his face, and his angry red scar paled in color.
Oleg raised his glass in a toast. “To a road trip. Tomorrow. A new plan and more money for Bratva.” The pair clanked glasses again.
“Now, tell me the plan for tonight,” Dimitri demanded, once again all business.
“Yes, the women. We’ll put them on a trawler and take them down toward the North Carolina coast. I hear they picked up several blond beach bunnies over near the Outer Banks. And some others as well. All in all, six or seven women. It’s easy, and all should go well.”
Dimitri smiled and nodded. “I hear Richmond’s an empty port? No people? No police, eh? You know we’ve had trouble in Baltimore,” he cautioned as he filed his stubby fingernails.
Oleg wagged his head in agreement. “Yes, Richmond’s port hasn’t been used much for years. Mostly barges travel up and down the James River carrying supplies,” he assured Dimitri. “We should have no trouble. Don’t even think there’s a guard there overnight.”
Dimitri smiled happily. “Good, one more drink, and then a nap before we work tonight.”
Oleg nodded.
“Find your boy, Smirkowitz, and make sure we’re on track. If he screws up, he and his family are dead.” Dimitri barked as he downed his double shot of vodka.
Oleg studied the clear liquid in his glass, and his anxiety increased. “Done, now get some rest.”
He redialed Smirkowitz’s private cell and got no answer. What the hell would Dimitri do if they couldn’t find Smirkowitz? A bad feeling nagged at him.