Boston—later that night
Tolevi was just getting into his car at the parking garage two blocks from his house when a large man in a dark suit approached from the shadows. This was not entirely unexpected; if it had been, Tolevi would have stepped on the gas and run him down.
Actually, he was sorely tempted to do just that now, even though he knew the man well. Or more accurately, because he knew the man quite well.
Instead, he held his temper and rolled his window down.
“What are you doing, Stratowich?”
“Looking for you. Medved wants to talk to you.”
“What a coincidence. I want to talk to him.”
Stratowich snorted. He didn’t believe him, though it was in fact true.
“Get in,” Tolevi told him.
“That’s not how this works. I drive you.”
“I’m not getting out of my car. You can get in, or you can follow. Your choice.”
Stratowich thought about it for a moment, then went around to the passenger side. Once again, Tolevi suppressed the urge to hit the gas.
“Nice car,” said Stratowich as he closed the door. “New?”
“Six months.”
“You could have used this to pay your debt.”
“I need a car.”
In truth, though expensive, the Mercedes E63 S wouldn’t come close. And it was leased.
Tolevi played with a bit of its twin turbo V-8 power as he raced the light. The big brakes worked pretty well, too; they kept him from crashing into the side of a Nissan Altima that pulled out in front of him just ahead of the intersection.
“Jeez, take it easy,” croaked Stratowich.
Tolevi grinned. “I will if you put the pistol away.”
“It’s in my pocket.”
“Then take your hand out of your pocket. You’re likely to blow your nuts off and mess up the leather.”
Tolevi drove at an easier pace for the next half hour, skirting the airport and heading north along Route 1A, heading for a bar Medved owned not far from the Boston Yacht Club; how he had managed to get the zoning changed to permit the conversion of two former family homes to commercial was a mystery only to those naive enough to believe in the Tooth Fairy. The Russian mafya was not particularly large in the Boston area, at least not when compared to places like New York and L.A., but what it lacked in absolute size it made up for in connections, with both the legitimate power structures and the illegal underground, still largely dominated by the Irish and the Italians, respectively.
Maarav Medved was not the top Russian in the local network. Not only did Tolevi not know who the chief was—the “pa khan” had no business contact with anyone below his generals—but Medved’s exact position was murky as well. Maybe he was a general, or maybe he was just a colonel; Tolevi couldn’t tell. And obviously he would never ask.
Like many other Russian mafya organizations around the world, activities in Boston were decentralized and malleable; your position often depended as much on your ability to bully and persuade as it did on the size of your army and the number of your guns. Tolevi had to deal with Medved because he needed his dock connections to unload his items without problems; from that arrangement, others flowed. Tolevi cut him percentages of certain deals that were of interest, and sometimes carried messages back to Russian and other Eastern European countries for him. He’d also borrowed a fair sum, which had come due with interest, undoubtedly the subject of tonight’s meeting.
Medved welcomed Tolevi with a bear hug when he walked into the club. One reason was that, business aside, he seemed to like Tolevi, who was easy to talk to and smarter than most of the goons Medved surrounded himself with. The other was that he liked to personally make sure his visitors were unarmed.
“Beautiful night,” said Medved. He nodded to Statowich, who went off to sulk by the bar. “Nice and warm. Should we sit outside?”
“Fine with me.”
Tolevi followed him outside. They chatted in Russian for a while, Medved asking about his daughter; Tolevi inquiring about the health of Medved’s mother, who had recently had a heart attack.
“You were in Russia last week?”
“No,” said Tolevi. “Crimea.”
“That’s Russia. Now.” Medved raise his glass. “Putin, he is a bold one, no?”
Tolevi shrugged. “Obama’s a pansy. Anyone could have taken it.”
“What were you doing in Crimea?”
“For one thing, seeing my mother-in-law.”
“Your mother-in-law?” Medved laughed. “And she didn’t shoot you?”
“She would if she could. I had some other business. When the arrangements are finalized, of course we’ll make the appropriate requests.”
“Very good.” Medved reached across the table for the vodka bottle. Tolevi caught the strong scent of sweat. It was not a warm night; there was no reason for Medved to sweat as if he’d been out running a marathon.
Medved filled Tolevi’s glass, then his own.
“So what did your friends want?” Medved asked.
Tolevi heard the door opening behind him and immediately went on his guard. He shifted his weight in the chair, calculating what he would do if grabbed from behind.
If it was Stratowich, kick him in the shin—the bone there had been broken barely a year before and was still tender. Anyone else, though . . .
“Which friends do you mean?” asked Tolevi. “My cousin?”
“Your friends at Center Plaza.” Medved slapped his glass on the table.
As if that’s going to intimidate me, you fat frog.
“The FBI?”
“So Stratowich was right.”
“Like a broken clock,” said Tolevi. “They seem to think I’m a spy.”
“Are you?”
“Not as far as I know.” Tolevi pushed his glass forward, staring into Medved’s eyes. After a few moments, Medved frowned, then refilled both glasses.
“They followed me there from the airport,” Tolevi told him. “They made some sort of bullshit excuse. You know something about it?”
“I know that you don’t want to talk to the FBI under any circumstances.”
“No shit.”
That was the moment, Tolevi thought, when Medved would signal whoever was behind Tolevi.
He waited, trying to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible. He’d need to push into whoever attacked, catching them off guard before he kicked for the groin.
Would it work?
Probably not. But it was better than simply giving up.
“Why are they following you?” Medved asked.
“I’m wondering the same thing,” said Tolevi. “They followed me to the ATM and accused me of being involved in some sort of scam they didn’t explain. Maybe you can find out why. You have contacts.”
“Why did they release you?”
“I called a friend.” Tolevi had to be careful not to give too much away about that—mentioning that he worked with the CIA would be even worse than the FBI. “An attorney. I have rights.”
Medved smirked.
“They were asking about ATM cards, something I don’t deal with,” added Tolevi quickly. “Is that something I should be worrying about?”
Medved shrugged—which convinced Tolevi that he had an ATM scam operating.
Great. But why did they come after me?
A subject for another time—Medved will tell you nothing you can trust.
“In any event,” said Tolevi, “I assume they were looking to make me into some sort of spy. But they failed.”
Medved studied his drink. “You owe me a lot of money.”
“I’m about to conclude a deal that will pay you in full.”
“With the FBI’s help?”
“You think I’ve lost my head?”
“I think you need money.”
“I do need money. You know I’m good for it. I’ve owed you more in the past. I always pay.”
“You see, Gabor, this is why we are friends.” Medved downed his drink and poured another. “Because we understand each other. We’re family. But. Debts must be paid. And talking to the FBI, to the federal’nyy d’yavol—that would be something my friends would not like. And I would not like.”
Tolevi’s Russian was not perfect, but Medved’s was worse. Still, the meaning—“federal devils”—was pretty clear.
“I can’t stop them from harassing me. I think this whole business is them thinking I’m a spy. So if you have influence—”
“I think this is a personal matter for you,” said Medved lightly.
“Fine. I do need your help. I need some travel documents to go to Donetsk.”
“Why there?”
“You want your money, right?”
“You can talk to Demyan.” Medved shrugged. “But make it clear it is not my business.”
“Unless there is a profit.”
Medved smiled.
Tolevi downed the rest of the vodka, then got up to leave.
“By the end of the month, but no more,” warned Medved. “And talking to the Americans, never a good idea.”
“I’m not so foolish,” said Tolevi.