Valentin Panov had gone on a grocery and vodka run, and when he got back, a couple of the guys helped him put the stuff away in the cabinets and fridge. At thirty-eight he pretty well figured he had found his place in the world, a situation where he belonged.
He’d grown up in a small town in Russia’s wild far east, not far from Vladivostok, and from the age of fourteen he’d been a runner for the mob, helping hijack shipments by sea of just about everything from condoms to cigarettes to booze, and once even four Mercedes SUVs.
At sixteen he’d killed his first man, a security guard on the docks, and instead of traumatizing him, he’d thought it was the greatest accomplishment of his life. Thereafter he’d been a marked man, of interest to the local cops, and held in high esteem by the mob, and finally the big guys in Moscow, some who’d originally earned their chops in the old KGB.
By the time he was twenty-nine it was suggested by a friend that he get out of Russia. Some people in Brighton Beach would be waiting when he got off the plane, and they would have a job and a home for him.
He’d never once looked back, never once regretted the move, and never once missed his old friends. The U.S. was his home, a land of opportunity where the pickings for the right man were unlimited.
“Where’s Leonid?” he asked one of the kitchen crew.
“Upstairs, waiting for you to get back.”
Panov went up to Anosov’s room, where their computer was located, and knocked once on the doorframe.
“Vstupat,” Anosov said. Enter.
He was sitting at his desk, and he looked up. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Restocking the pantry.”
“Well, I have a job for you, and it has to be done immediately,” Anosov said. “With no fuckups. Ponimayu?” Understand?
“Da.”
“The guy who got nailed by the garbage truck when we picked up the Levin bitch was almost certainly taken to the city morgue. His name is Donni Imani. I want you to go over there and look through his personal possessions. He may have been carrying a flash drive.” Anosov held one up. “Just like this.”
“I don’t know where the place is.”
“It’s inside Bellevue Hospital, in Kips Bay just above Twenty-third on First Avenue.”
“I haven’t had lunch yet,” Panov said.
“Right now, and don’t fucking come back empty-handed. This is important. Our entire operation could depend on it. Are you clear?”
“They only give out that kind of shit to a relative or cops.”
“Tell them you’re his uncle,” Anosov said. “Again, the guy’s name is Donni Imani.”
Panov nodded.
“Jump.”