Собещаков Юрий Михайлович : другие произведения.

The Gangster

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  "People seem good while they are oppressed,
  but they only wish to become oppressors in their turn:
  life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim."
  Bertrand Russel.
  
  I run and bustle all the time
  as if my home is the train station
  I don't live by my own life
  but the one they made me ...
  
  
  Chapter One. June 30, 1996, Kehl, Germany.
  
   From mid-May to late August, the residents of southwestern Germany basked in the bliss of cloudless skies. In this region, winter brought only a fleeting appearance of snow that lasted for a day or two. Unlike the neighboring countries of Switzerland or Austria, there were no bustling ski resorts around. However, that didn't stop the Black Forest mountains from attracting thousands of mountain bike enthusiasts from Baden-Württemberg every weekend, their slopes adorned with winding trails.
  
   On a moonlit night, a confident young woman named Greta Laufer cruised along the wooded autobahn in her trusty blue Volkswagen Golf. Perched atop the roof of her five-year-old hatchback were two mountain bikes, securely fastened for the journey. Greta, a graduate of the Strasbourg School of Public Administration, took pride in her accomplishment as her sixteen-year-old boyfriend dozed off in the passenger seat. He had fallen asleep thirty minutes earlier, after successfully figuring out how to attach the bikes to the car's frame. Greta's thoughts turned to her boyfriend, and a smile played upon her lips.
  
   "For three years, this problem haunted me before every mountain trip," she reminisced with a smile. "I struggled desperately to secure the bicycle on my Golf's roof, strapping it to the frame, only to end up scratching the roof in a few places. Then I tried fastening it to the pedals, but the bike slipped and fell twice on the highway. Some Frenchmen suggested attaching it to the fork, but that took me an hour and a half to remove and put back the front wheel. Yet this kid managed it in just five minutes. He simply flipped both bicycles over, taped their handlebars and seats to the crossbars of the trunk frame. The Russians, I tell you, they have a knack for finding simple and cost-effective solutions. And to think, Alex had a roll of black PVC tape in his pocket. I'm six years older, but he's smarter than me and my former partner, Hans, who's forty. And those hands of his, oh my God, they're so skillful."
  
   Interrupted by the bright headlights of an approaching car, a groggy teenager asked, "Where are we?"
   "Just passed Offenburg. We'll be home in twenty minutes," Greta responded.
   "When we reach Kehl, drop me off at the tram stop on Strasburger Strasse," the teenager requested.
  
   Greta pondered over the phrasing, wondering if it was a request or an order. "Did he deliberately or unintentionally omit the respectful word 'Bitte'?" she thought. Instinctively, she treated Alex like a pet or her own child, finding no answers to her questions.
  
   "After a day of biking adventures, perhaps we've had enough excitement for one day? It's half past midnight outside," Greta sighed, her fatigue evident. She had no desire to entertain Alex's whims any longer.
   "And what about in the car?" Alex sarcastically quipped.
   "What do you mean by 'in the car'?" Greta failed to grasp Alex's teasing tone.
   "Isn't it twelve-thirty in your car?" Alex continued his playful banter.
   "Don't confuse me. English is foreign to both of us. Why do you need a tram stop?" Greta nervously inquired.
   "I'd like to buy some cigarettes. There's a vending machine right across from the tram stop," Alex replied, disregarding Greta's irritation.
  
   "Don't buy goods on the street. They're overpriced. The vending machine's packs of Marlboros always come up one cigarette short. Wait until morning and get them from a kiosk. It'll be cheaper," Greta advised, even though she still pulled over the car.
  
   Alex glanced skeptically at his girlfriend before shaking his head in disapproval and stepping out of the car. Crossing the cobblestone driveway of the main street, he paused near a large iron box with a glass display case. The words "Four Deutschmarks per pack" caught his attention, and he read them aloud in German, reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants to retrieve a coin.
  
   "Frustrating," Alex muttered to himself. "I only have three Deutschmarks, and these greedy Germans want one more for a decent brand."
  
   Disappointed, he trudged towards the Rhine, memories of his first girlfriend Tatyana flooding his mind as he softly sang a melancholic American song:
  
   "Sylvia's mother says Sylvia is busy,
   Too busy to answer the phone.
   Sylvia's mother says Sylvia is happy,
   So why don't you leave her alone?"
  
   "The song reflects my situation," Alex thought. "Just like in the song, the girl left her boyfriend and the city, and I left my girlfriend and the country."
  
   As Alex walked, two slender figures approached him on the sidewalk. They appeared to be in their early twenties, speaking loudly and occasionally taking sips from their beer bottles. After a few sips, they shared a passionate kiss before continuing on their way.
  
   "Two guys in love," Alex commented on their display of affection, then looked up at the individuals standing by the cigarette vending machine.
  
   The couple stopped at the vending machine, and Alex observed them thoughtfully as they selected their desired pack of cigarettes.
  
   "Why don't I take their cigarettes?" A crazy thought crossed his mind. "If I do it, I'll be hunted by every policeman in town tomorrow for just four Deutschmarks."
  
   Suddenly, a look of surprise appeared on Alex's face, followed by an unpleasant smirk. To an onlooker, it would seem as if he had just come up with a brilliant idea. Excitement flickered in his eyes as he swiftly turned around and rushed into the nearest courtyard.
  
  
  
   "Why are you so worked up?" Greta asked, emerging from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.
   Alex responded curtly, "I have an idea," and headed into the closet without bothering to remove his sneakers.
   "Can you at least tell me what it is?" Greta stood in the doorway, her legs spread apart and her hands on her hips, blocking Alex's path.
   "Maybe I'll tell you if I succeed in executing my plan," Alex retorted, continuing to rummage through the canvas bag filled with tools.
   "What are you looking for?" Greta asked, her tone filled with agitation. "I know exactly where everything is."
   "I need a backsaw," Alex replied, dismissing Greta's discontent. "You know, the one with fine teeth and a wooden handle. I saw it here somewhere."
   "Here it is!" Alex exclaimed, standing up triumphantly, holding the saw in his hand.
  
   Emerging from the closet, Alex gently moved Greta aside, her naked form momentarily forgotten, and instructed her, "Go to bed. I'll be back in a few minutes."
  
   The teenager hurriedly made his way back to the vending machine, casting a cautious glance around before retrieving the backsaw from beneath his leather jacket. At the entrance of the Bundespolizei branch, exactly halfway between Alex and the river, several service Mercedes stood parked. Across the Rhine, the silhouettes of the Strasbourg Cathedral and St. Paul's Church were visible in the moonlight.
  
   "These German cops are probably busy watching the Olympic broadcast from Atlanta. Nothing else to do in this quiet, prosperous village," Alex maliciously grinned. "I'll give them a surprise and ruin their crime statistics."
  
   His smirk gradually faded as he carefully inserted the narrow saw blade into the gap between the cigarette box and the payment terminal, gently pulling down on the backsaw handle. With no resistance encountered, the blade glided a third of the way before resting against a metal rod.
  
   "The first obstacle," Alex surmised. "There should be at least two."
  
   Gripping the backsaw firmly and employing long, practiced strokes, reminiscent of the techniques taught to him by the Lithuanian burglar, Algis, for cutting barn locks, Alex sawed through the steel bar within five minutes. He anticipated spending just five or seven more minutes to remove the first, but certainly not the last, payment terminal.
   Imagining a significant jackpot, Alex thought, "I'll cut through the lower pin, and voila, the spoils will be revealed."
  
   Growing impatient, he increased his sawing speed, eager to sever the lower pin and gain access to the payment terminal.
  
   Unbeknownst to him, a tangled bundle of wires, secured with plastic clamps, connected the cigarette box and payment terminal. These wires ran along the middle of the upper and lower anchorage rods, providing power to the terminal's push-button dialer and transmitting the buyer's selection back to the shelves. Had Alex taken the time to examine the terminal beforehand, he might have considered the existence of the wiring. However, his impulsive nature drove him forward, and as the metal teeth of the backsaw tore through the wires, an electrical surge coursed through, causing a small explosion within the machine.
  
   Startled, Alex pulled back, his eyes wide as he gaped at the wooden handle and blade stub of the backsaw. The vending machine plunged into darkness, and he quickly glanced back at the Rhine. The lights of Strasbourg still shimmered in the distance, while the police vehicles remained undisturbed in their parked positions. As the shock wore off, Alex hurriedly made his way back to Greta's apartment.
  
   Rummaging through his girlfriend's tool bag, the fair-haired young man replaced the saw blade, his mind still reeling from the failed attempt. Meanwhile, an indifferent cat sauntered over to the vending machine. Unconcerned by cigarettes or the lack of light inside the showcase, the feline was solely focused on the new scent emanating from the iron box. Seeking to restore the familiar scent balance, the cat raised its tail, stomped its hind legs in place, and marked the vending machine with a nonchalant air. A sarcastically apathetic expression crossed its face, as if it declared, "This is my territory, and I won't relinquish it."
  
   With the status quo restored by the feline's intervention, the cat vanished into the darkness just moments before Alex returned to resume his task. The partially dismantled payment terminal lay on Greta's beige carpet in her spacious studio apartment. Its side was opened like a tin can, revealing lock pins and an iron box filled with cash. Alex settled next to it with a drill, backsaw, metal scissors, screwdriver, hammer, and pliers scattered around his feet, meticulously examining the intricate locking mechanism.
  
   Greta occupied a modern armchair in the corner of the room, a circular lampshade casting a gentle glow over her head. A king-size bed dominated one wall, adorned with a reproduction of a Renaissance painting. A wine cabinet stood by the kitchen doorway, while a dining table with four chairs sat under a window offering a view of the Rhine. The TV set was mounted on a sectional furniture wall, with a blue sofa positioned in front of it. The sofa bore the impressions of Greta's changing parade of boyfriends.
  
   Engaged in filing her nails with a manicure file, Greta balanced a fashion magazine on her lap. A fine stream of nail dust fell upon the slender models adorning the pages, showcasing outfits by Calvin Klein and Prada. Occasionally, Greta would turn the glossy pages, her eyes lingering with desire on the bikini-clad models. Once she finished filing her left hand, she placed the haute couture catalog on a short table, carefully setting a deep saucer of warm water on top of it before dipping her right hand's fingers into the soothing liquid.
  
   Examining her left hand's newly manicured nails, Greta looked over at Alex and asked, "What are you doing, Alex?"
   Without pausing his work, Alex responded, "I'm trying to provide a comfortable life for you and me."
  
   Greta regarded her boyfriend with a mixture of contemptuous amusement, her lips curled in smirking smiles, as she probed further, "And how do you plan to achieve that? By stealing payment terminals from every vending machine in the city? Kehl alone has twenty, and across the river in Strasbourg, there are eighty more. Which terminal will be the starting point for both the French and German police in their search for you?"
  
   The young lady made a sarcastic remark, while Alex inserted a set of wires with different lengths into the key slot and gave it a gentle nudge. The wires exerted pressure on the lock, causing the latch on the lid to shift.
  
   "No, Greta, this was the first and last payment terminal I sawed down. I know what the key to such a box should look like. Once I find a metal plate with the right thickness, I can fashion a key in just thirty minutes and unlock similar payment terminals. You mentioned there are approximately a hundred vending machines in Strasbourg and its suburbs. We'll gather funds from them the day before cashiers get to them. My dear Greta, I'm absolutely certain that the Deutschemarks will come pouring in like a river," Alex confidently and calmly declared.
  
   "It's an interesting combination - simplicity and stubbornness. Is this trait common among all Russians or just this boy? Although, why limit it to Russians? History is filled with instances of tenacious minds meeting the needs of others despite their mediocrity. Alex reminds me of Arminius. Always brimming with confidence, just like the ancient German leader. This guy doesn't use the subordinate conjunction 'if.' Everyone else would say, 'if I make the key, then...' but he's unwavering in his self-assurance. Alex's entire speech is filled with phrases like 'I can...' 'I will...' 'soon we will...' His unwavering faith in himself will take him far," Greta pondered, observing Alex.
  
   With the tip of his tongue sticking out, the boy expertly inserted a bundle of wires into the depths of the payment terminal.
  
   "If all goes according to plan, we'll be spending more time together than I initially anticipated," Greta commented, wiping her hands. She admired her nails and added, "And that's a good reason to have a drink."
  
   Greta retrieved two glasses and a bottle of Riesling wine from the bar's corner. She opened the bottle and poured the white wine while Alex finished his work and stared at the reproduction above their bed.
   "Since we met, I've been so busy making love to you that I forgot to ask about the painting. It looks like an old masterpiece. An expensive canvas. Did you inherit it?" Alex asked.
   "This is a cheap reproduction in a pfennig frame," Greta laughed, handing Alex a glass.
   "It looks real. Who painted it? Rembrandt? Raphael?"
   "You know those names. I'm surprised. Do you like art?" Greta asked.
   "Yes, I do, especially paintings. I've been to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg and twice to Moscow's Tretyakov"s Gallery. I really enjoyed it," Alex answered.
   "I don't know much about the Moscow museum, but I've heard a lot about the Hermitage in Berlin," Greta began hesitantly. "Have you been to the capital?"
   "I've been there, of course. I got off the Moscow-Berlin train and got on the Berlin-Strasbourg bus at the Hauptbahnhof, where we sat side-by-side for seven hours," Alex said, stressing the importance of the event.
   "That's funny. A Russian joke. Your grandfather also captured the Reichstag and placed a red banner over it. Okay, ignore that. As the French neighbors say, 'Revenons à nos moutons,'" Greta said, collecting her thoughts. "So Museum Island is in the center of Berlin on the Spree. It contains four of Germany's most important museums: the Bode, the National Gallery, Pergamon, and Old, and in each one, the electronic audio guide mentions either the Hermitage or the Pushkin museum."
   "Why?" Alex asked, surprised by the interest in Russian museums from German critics.
   "Because there are no originals left in any museum in Germany. Only copies of paintings, sculptures, and gold jewelry are exhibited in them. Russia took everything of value out after World War II and sent it to the USSR," Greta said, gulping down a glass of Riesling wine.
   "The Hermitage displays only a quarter of what they keep in storage rooms, and I don't know what they store in their basements," Alex said, recalling the Amber Room he had heard about during an excursion with his father at the Catherine Palace. He stopped himself from mentioning it, knowing that arguing with a university graduate would be futile.
   Getting back to his original topic of conversation, he asked, "Tell me about the painting."
  
   Alex, living in a German woman's apartment, understood the risk of defending the war winners' right to compensation. Although he probably didn't know these words, his natural intelligence made up for his lack of education. He always tried to avoid disputes and conflicts if he saw no material benefit, which he inherited genetically from his parents. His father, an accountant, had a calculating mind and navigated his whole life between the letter of the law and a desire for enrichment, while his mother, a teacher, had patience and taught unwilling teens.
  
   Greta's edifying voice reminded Alex of his father's way of communicating. "I repeat once again; this is not a picture. This is a cheap replica of the painting 'Melancholy' by the German Renaissance artist Lucas Cranach," she said.
   "Why did you choose it for your room?" Alex asked.
   "The painting represents the state that often overtakes me," Greta explained. "In the right corner, a woman with wings appears to be looking at the children, yet she doesn't see them. Her eyes are blank as she planes the stick. The children try to roll the ball through the hoop, but she is not interested. A similar state of mind overtakes me whenever I lose a boyfriend or girlfriend. I wonder why it happened. I keep doing something, but I can't focus on it. In any case, it isn't the worst thing that has ever happened to me. My depression is always worse when my partner bores me. While I should tell the person who confided in me, I"m afraid of offending him or her. So, I wait for just the right moment and become depressed."
   "Don't be afraid to offend me. Let me know as soon as I'm causing you discomfort," Alex said without emotion. "I don't want you to suffer because of me."
   "Alright, my dear boy, I'll do it when the time comes. However, for now, I'm very comfortable in your company, and I won't leave you. My only concern is the unknown of your past. We've lived together for almost a month now, and you still haven't told me anything about yourself," Greta said, pouring herself a glass of wine.
   "Would you please tell the woman you sleep with where you are from, what you did at home, and why I ran away from Russia?" she continued.
   "The story is sad, Greta. I don't think you'll like it," Alex replied, not wanting to talk about his past.
   "Don't dodge. I insist," Greta said firmly.
   After a night of robbing a vending machine, Greta wanted to be certain that she was not hosting an inveterate thief in her studio. As she sat comfortably in the armchair, crossing her legs and resting her hands on the armrests, she awaited the melodramatic tale of a young Russian man's first unhappy love.
   Alex sat in the center of the room, positioned next to the open terminal, while he stuffed his tools into a vintage carpetbag. As he considered the repercussions of revealing the truth to his girlfriend, he thought to himself, "If I tell her about my life, the chances of continuing our relationship will be slim. But if I refuse to answer, then the chances will be zero."
  
   He locked the old briefcase, looked thoughtfully at his girlfriend, and began his story:
  
   "I grew up in Reutov, just over the highway east of Moscow. My parents owned a grocery store, and I attended school, trained at a boxing club, and worked with a tutor to improve my English. Sometimes I fought on the streets against boys from other suburbs to defend our territory. I skipped classes that I didn't enjoy and began smoking at the age of twelve. My plan was to attend Moscow Technical University, whose aerospace faculty is located two blocks from my apartment building. I still had two years left, and I didn't expect anything else to change."
  
  
  Chapter Two. July 28, 1995. City of Reutov, Moscow region.
  
   A small grocery store called Irina's occupied the first floor of a five-story apartment building. In the morning, there were three customers in it: two women of early retirement age in satin dresses and an elderly man with war decorations sticking from his jacket. Two hours ago, a dozen people stood in line in this three-room apartment converted into a shop. When neighbors in adjacent apartment buildings dug out their pepperoni, the store became nearly empty.
  
   Irina Zafiros, the co-owner, and only shop assistant, wore a red uniform coat and a blue hat. She picked up food for the customer from the shelf. Irina hurried through the small space between industrial refrigerators and display cases to collect the order for the elderly woman watching over the counter. The shop assistant placed the food and scales on the counter. A second woman complained about her small pension to the older man as she stood half-turned to him. As a sign of understanding, the man nodded to her but did not complain back. Irina received the payment and handed the bags of groceries to the client as the store's door opened wide and two young men entered.
  
   The first man had served in the Afghan war and was nicknamed Afghan. He was of average height. His broad shoulders were tightly wrapped in a leather jacket, and a white scar covered his short-cropped head. The scar could have been mistaken for a parting in the hair, but the hair was too short for that. The retired infantry officer's gray eyes were heavy. With a frown on his face, he looked at those around him from under his brow. The second man appeared more intimidating. The two-meter tall Elephant weighed one hundred and fifty kilograms and was the USSR vice-champion at super-heavyweight weightlifting. A few years ago, he exchanged the leotards of the sports team "Spartacus" for a leather jacket of a gang of regional gangsters, and he hasn't regretted it since.
  
   Intruders headed toward the back rooms. The elder man stood in their way. Two racketeers approached him, but he didn't see them. He continued to listen to the woman's complaints. Suddenly, the lady backed away until she ran into the display case. Elephant roughly pushed the veteran away, and the greybeard fell to the ground. Taking groceries in her hands, the second woman trotted to the exit. A thin youngster with a pimpled face stood in front of the store's glass doors. He scoffed at the customer approaching the entrance. The woman tried to open the door, but the narrow-shouldered teen held the knob of the lock on the backside.
  
   "Let me out now!" screamed the old lady hysterically.
  
   Seeing the frightened squeal, Afghan ordered: "Den, let her out! And you two! Get out of here!"
  
   The elderly man got up from the floor and ran after the woman.
   "Afghan, no one is here. My husband left for the tax office an hour ago. He will be back only in the evening." Irina said piteously as she stood in the way.
   "Let's check it together," Elephant said, took Irina by the face with his left wrist, bent down to her head, and breathed:
   "Bitch, shut your mouth for now."
  
   Thug's right hand was in his jacket pocket. Brass knuckles were on Elephant's fist when he bared it. The trembling Irina watched as a racketeer brought this barbaric weapon to her face.
  
   A brass knuckle was chiseled out of a large water faucet. On the outer side of the three rings intended for fingers, there were two rows of sharp spikes.
  
   As Elephant ran the brass knuckles over Irina's cheek, the tiny peas of blood grew into two scarlet lines. A giant grunted in satisfaction and licked the clotting blood. She tried to dodge his wet tongue in disgust but failed. Racketeer saliva mixed with his victim's blood, forming a pink streak from the cheekbone to the ear.
  
   Elephant was morally and physically intimidating the co-owner of the store, while Afghan hid in the back room behind the door. When Irina entered the room, she moved backwards behind Afghan. The giant led her forwards as he squeezed her face with thick fingers.
  
   Shelf after shelf of canned food, gingerbread, bagels, and sweets lined the tiny office. George, Irina's forty-year-old husband, sat behind a cheap desk with his back to the window. Next to him stood an old safe.
  
   As he hung over the owner of the small business like an eagle over a prey, Afghan spoke quietly to George:
   "We agreed you would pay us a thousand dollars on the third Thursday of each month, right? Why didn't you prepare the money? Did you really expect me to forget about our agreement?"
  
   The insolvent George kept his eyes on Elephant and Irina, looking for words to justify his situation.
  
   "I cannot afford to pay that much this month. I have four inspections to get through this month," George said, opening his hand and unfolding his fingers: "Tax, labor, sanitary, and fire. Inspectors are greedy. Everyone wants a piece. Yesterday, I paid for the fire inspector. He wasn't impressed with the smoke detectors. The sanitary inspector arrived after him and found cockroaches behind the refrigerator. I also remunerated him. The district police officer showed up three days ago and also squeezed out his share. By the way, he promised to protect me from your gang."
   "Don't burden me with this shit," Afghan scoffed. "I don't care who you paid or how much. Since you do business in my area, you have to pay me first. Got it?"
  
   George replied, "I don't have any money now. The safe is empty. Take a look."
  
   Afghan turned around at the edge of the table and told Elephant: "Strip her off. Since his safe is empty, we'll have fun with his wife."
  
   "That's right," the giant chuckled. "Instead of looking into an empty safe, let's see what's beneath the lady's uniform robe."
   "This is monstrous," George shouted as he tried to get up from his chair.
  
   In response, Afghan lightly struck George on the forehead with his palm and the business owner returned to his position. Elephant went for the lapels of Irina's robe, and a pair of top buttons flew across the office floor.
  
   "You're wrong," Elephant objected. "It's not monstrous, it's a petty criminal. Think of it as an interest on your debt. We'll fuck your wife right now, and we'll come back for the bucks in the evening."
  
   Elephant's accomplice continued, "You see, sucker. It's exciting to screw someone else's wife, but it's even more thrilling to do it right in front of her husband."
  
   George jumped up from his chair. Afghanistan anticipated such a reaction and punched the shopkeeper hard in the groin. Zafiros gasped, grabbed the bruised area with both hands, curled up in pain, and collapsed on the chair.
  
   "Remember my words," Afghan said, twisting Zafiros' nose with his fingers. "If you don't prepare the money for the store closing, we'll bring your kid to the store tomorrow and fuck your wife in front of both of you."
  
   Elephant tugged Irina's uniform robe from her shoulders with one hand, but the woman squirmed and did not allow him to do it. The giant gently punched the woman in the solar plexus. Her knees bent and she fell to the ground. Elephant picked Irina up, tilted her body back towards him, and lifted her skirts.
  
   "Let her go," George pleaded, holding both hands in the crotch area. "I don't keep that amount in the store, anyway. Return at quarter to eight. I'll find you a thousand dollars by then. Finally, I'll borrow it from someone."
  
   "Now that's another story," Afghan said. "However, if you don't have money in the evening, we will take your wife and your offspring to our use."
   "First, we will fuck both of them," said Elephant mockingly, waving Irina's robe lower edge. "And then we'll bury them alive in one coffin in the nearest forest, and until you pay us off, they'll remain in there."
   "Great idea, partner," Afghan glanced at the woman lustfully. "If her husband delays payment, we'll leave them there. Let her go, she won't vanish."
  
   Elephant released the woman to the ground, walked over to the table, and said to George: "You said you paid the precinct. Don't worry about it. The cop can't protect you, your wife, or your bastard from us. Starting next month, you will add his share to ours."
  
   "I got it," Zafiros replied glumly.
   Afghan responded, "See you tonight," and both racketeers walked out.
  
  
  Chapter Three.. The same day, Reutov
  
   Alex Zafiros, fifteen, was practicing blows on a black boxing bag in the corner of the hall. A thirty kilogram leather carcass reluctantly swayed on steel chains under direct blows, hooks, and uppercuts from the young man.
   Across the room, two men sparred in a ring. A trainer stood on the edge of the stage hunching over the ropes and commented on their technique: "Sergey, one blow alone won't cut it. It is essential to throw the bodyweight forward into the direction of your opponent when you hit with the right hand in the head, and to lean forward sharply when you hit with the left in the body."
  
   The trainer looked at the boxers and, without hiding his disappointment, repeated like a mantra: "Valera, where is the speed? When you are hitting something or someone, it has to be like a whip. Your hips and shoulders need to move evenly; even for a moment, you must be ahead of the movement of the fist. I have been telling you this for the third year in a row. Don't forget about the distance. You both must close the distance. Come on; the speed kills, you guys know that!"
  
   The specialist was disappointed with the sparring, and he mumbled: "It"s waste of time."
  
   The mentor, having lost hope that his men would understand what he was asking, yelled from a corner of the room: "Alex! Come here!"
  
   The fit young man ran across the hall, slid between the ropes, and jumped into the ring quickly.
  
   "Valeriy, stand next to me," the mentor told one of his guys.
  
   Alex put a mouthguard in his mouth and partnered up with his older boxing partner without warming up. He demonstrated an excellent technique. He gracefully dodged his sparring partner's blows several times in a row before striking him in the liver with a left fist. Sergey grabbed the bruised area with one hand and raised the other hand.
   "That's enough," he told Alex.
  
   The wall clock struck once, and the trainer struck the gong.
  
   A trainer instructed all boxers to perform fifty push-ups from the floor with claps and one hundred jumps on the ropes. He then asked Sergey, "Do you know why Alex's liver punch hurt so much?"
  
   "He hits hard," replied the boxer.
   "It's not that. Rethink; why is someone a year younger than you and ten kilograms lighter hitting harder than you?" he said.
  
   They knew each other from kindergarten, so it was no surprise when Sergey said, "It's because he's swift."
  
   "Yes, and he also uses his legs correctly. While he hit you from the left, he carried the weight of his body on the right leg, opening up the left side of his body for the powerful blow to your liver. He didn't just hit you by the fist, but he added at least twenty kilograms of his body weight multiplied by the square of the fist's speed. Without a glove, he would have torn your liver. Go, do your push-ups," the trainer said.
  
   As Sergey joined the group of one-clubbers, the trainer turned to Alex:
   "Listen carefully now, sonny, next month, Moscow region championships among juniors will take place at Dynamo Stadium rings. I have listed your name among competitors who were born in nineteen seventy-eight."
  
   Alex objected, "Trainer, I was born two years later."
  
   "I know, but you do not have any worthy rivals in our region. You already won a gold medal last year. Now you should set tough goals for yourself. A gold medal among boys of your birth year is not worth as much as a bronze medal among guys from the next age group. Your goal should be to qualify for the semi-finals. Do you understand?" the trainer asked.
  
   "It's clear," Alex replied, jumped between the ropes, and walked into the locker room.
   "Alex," Victor called him again. "I asked you to quit smoking the last time. It will ruin you."
  
   The teen smiled and joked, "I don't inhale smoke."
   "If you don't listen to my advice," the trainer's tone insisted. "The older boys will beat the snot out of you on Dynamo. Just wait."
   "I'll stop smoking," Alex said when he understood that he had crossed the line and added: "Today."
  
   Sergey asked his friend in the locker room: "What did the trainer want from you?"
   "He told me to quit smoking," Alex replied.
   "And you?" Sergey asked.
  
   Alex pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his backpack, showed it to his friend, and said:
   "I promised to stop smoking after I finished this pack."
   "So, you gave up right away?" Sergey teased his friend.
   "Not usually," Alex replied. "But he put me in the Moscow Region championships at your age. I could beat any of your peers in a quarterfinal, but not a semifinal. I know I'll die in the ring holding a bronze medal if I keep smoking."
   "Is that what the trainer told you?" Sergey asked.
   "I know it without him," Alex replied and left the locker room.
  
  
   Alex's family resided in a modest two-room apartment located within a five-story building. Merely ten minutes after his conversation with Sergei, he arrived back home, slipped off his shoes in the corridor, and quietly entered his room.
  
   The multifunctional living room served as both a study and a bedroom for the teen. It was carpeted and well-organized. A sofa bed occupied one side of the room, facing a comprehensive sectional furniture set that stretched across an entire wall. Adjacent to the sofa, near the full-length window leading to the balcony, stood a desk and chair for studying.
   A Romanian-made sectional furniture wall incorporated a wardrobe for outerwear, a mirrored cupboard, a bookcase, and a closet bar. Behind the glass doors of the cabinet, one could find neatly arranged coffee and dinner sets, delicate crystal glassware, and vases for salads.
   On the upper shelf of the bookcase, collections of classic literature and volumes from the series "The Life of Famous People" were proudly displayed. The middle shelf housed rare publications acquired through exchanges or accidental purchases during sales. The lower shelf served as a storage space for Alex's English textbooks and three well-earned boxing trophies.
  
  
  
  
   Entering the living room, Alex casually tossed his backpack onto the table, retrieved a pack of cigarettes and matches, and stepped out onto the balcony. Leaning against the blue-backed railing, he took in the scenery of the yard while indulging in the pleasure of smoking. Lost in thoughts about an upcoming competition, the teenager absentmindedly flicked off cigarette ashes. As he observed another spent tobacco stick soaring through the air, his attention was drawn to the neighbor's cat. Hiding amidst the aged lilacs near the first-floor balcony, the feline intently watched a group of pigeons.
  
   A vibrant male pigeon was deeply interested in a subdued gray female. As the persistent suitor pursued the elusive female, a cunning cat patiently awaited the opportune moment to pounce on both birds. Witnessing this imminent threat, Alex couldn't help but express his disgust by spitting at the cat.
  
   "Shit, I missed," he muttered, realizing he needed to account for the wind and disrupt the cat's hunting strategy. Determined to intervene, Alex repeated his act multiple times, finding solace in his ability to disrupt the feline's plans. However, engrossed in the children's prank, he failed to notice his family's arrival in front of the building.
  
   With a forceful slam of the car door, George quickly ushered his son away from his mischievous pursuit. Irina hurriedly followed her husband to the entrance, her own door slamming shut behind her.
  
   Spotting his parents, Alex swiftly took a seat, concealing himself from their view as he audibly grumbled, "Oh, fuck! Why did they have to come home early from work?"
  
   The boy was left with no time to finish his smoking. As his parents disappeared into the building, Alex flicked the cigarette butt over the railing with a snap of his fingers.
  
   Unbeknownst to him, the smoldering cigarette butt landed on the burgundy velvet tablecloth, resting atop an aging bedside table on the balcony below. Oblivious to the consequences, Alex was preoccupied with the lingering taste in his mouth.
  
   On his way to the sports complex, he purchased a paper bag of roasted sunflower seeds from the elderly woman who always sold them at the bus stop. Even while smoking, his mouth craved something to chew on. Initially, he had no intention of consuming the seeds before practice, as it would be detrimental to his young boxing career. However, now it seemed only logical to mask the smell of Bond Street cigarette smoke by munching on a handful of seeds, shells and all. It was the best way he could think of to conceal the scent.
  
   The teenager sat on the balcony, casually chewing on sunflower seeds, while his parents made their way through the hallway and into the bedroom. The sight of them retreating to their room in the middle of a working day puzzled him. A whimsical idea crossed his mind, wondering why they didn't choose to express their intimacy during their lunch break or in a secluded area at their workplace.
  
   Although Alex had no intention of belittling his parents' private lives, their sudden appearance and unexpected behavior left him perplexed. He continued chewing the seeds, pondering the situation until he heard his father's footsteps approaching.
  
   George swiftly entered the living room, throwing his plastic attaché case onto the sofa. In a determined manner, he pulled out the bottom drawer from a piece of furniture attached to the wall. Its contents scattered onto the carpet as George retrieved two passports, the marriage certificate, and their son's birth certificate. Placing the crucial documents into the attaché case, George noticed Alex's backpack on the table and turned his gaze towards the balcony, addressing his son.
  
   "Come here quickly," he ordered.
   "I'm coming!" Alex yelled back, Alex yelled back, spraying a gray mass of cake onto the flower bed.
  
   He missed his aim again; however, neither the father nor the cat seemed to notice Alex's mishap.
  
   If the boy didn't have any complaints about the oblivious feline, he certainly had a few questions for his father.
  
   "Why does he always prioritize his own interests over being a father?" the young man often wondered. "Why do the rare moments he spends with me only consist of lectures and moralizing? He constantly berates me for my school performance, street fights, torn pants, and smoking. Yet, he expects me to be a model citizen while he himself is neither law-abiding, a good father, nor a faithful husband. It's fucking unjust!"
  
   As George impatiently waited for his son, he hurriedly made preparations. He picked up four books with identical black bindings from the shelf and arranged them meticulously on the desk. Meanwhile, Alex remained on the balcony, observing his father's actions. With each Conan Doyle volume opened, George extracted bundles of American dollars from the cleverly cut slots in the pages.
  
   "Why are you just standing there like a statue? We need to leave. Pack your things quickly," George growled, peering at Alex through the double-glazed window frame.
  
   The son acknowledged his father's order with a nod, retrieved a pack of cigarettes and matches from his pocket, and thew them away after the chew cake.
  
   Alex entered the living room, pulled out his backpack, and began packing essentials like underwear, shorts, t-shirts, and jeans. His gaze fell upon the scattered pile of papers on the carpet, remnants left behind by his father. Among his sports achievement diplomas, he noticed two folders containing documents that proved the family owned both an apartment and a grocery store. It became evident to Alex that if his father had emptied the hidden stash and left valuable possessions behind, then an extraordinary event must have compelled them to flee.
  
   Regret washed over him as he looked at the dozen medals hanging from his desk and the three cups adorning its surface. He mentally bid farewell to the upcoming Moscow championship and his prospects of joining Russia's youth national team. Alex swung his backpack onto his back and made his way towards the hallway, with his father trailing behind.
  
   George urged Irina to leave her winter clothes in the hallway as he observed her packing her down jacket into a large bag.
  
   "Take only summer clothes with you. I can only fit two suitcases in the trunk," he instructed.
   Irina pleaded desperately, "Can't we put the bag in the back seat?"
   George snapped back, "Only Alex will ride there. Otherwise, the police will stop us at every checkpoint."
  
   Reutov faded into the distance as a blaze erupted on the balcony below their apartment, and George steered their Lada sedan onto the Moscow Ring Road. Irina gazed back wistfully, uttering,
  
   "Leaving is truly disheartening. Can we return someday?"
   George replied, "If we can, it won't be anytime soon. We have Elephant and Afghan on our tails."
   Concerned about her mother, Irina asked with sadness, "What about my mom? We traded our Odessa apartment for a local one, thinking it would benefit her."
   "We have no other choice but to escape," George declared in clipped sentences. "Once we settle in Odessa, we'll bring your mom to live with us. We'll spend a couple of years there before emigrating to the United States via Greece."
  
   Realizing the truth, Alex exclaimed in his mind,
   "So that's why they insisted on teaching me English for the past four years. My parents planned to move to the U.S. after the Soviet Union's collapse, but they never told me. They must have feared I'd reveal their plan. If we didn't have to flee, they would've kept me in the dark"
  
   George changed lanes and merged into the southbound traffic on the Moscow Ring Road, as Reutov gradually disappeared from their sight amidst the chaos of the balcony fire one floor below their apartment.
  
  Chapter Four. Evening of The Same Day. Reutov
  
   At quarter to eight in the evening, a black Mercedes stopped a few meters from Irina's store. Elephant was behind the wheel.
  
   Several hoboes were running out of the grocery store, as the door was wide open. The marginalized carried food and alcohol in nets, hands, and pockets, and the boys carried chocolate bars and sweet soda bottles. Several tramps and youths were still inside the store. Afghan pulled out a Glock-Nineteen from the car's passenger seat and pointed it at the homeless man.
  
   "Stay where you are, bum," he said.
  
   The unshaven man of indeterminate age clung tightly to the trophies, his hands shaking as he held them against his chest.
  
   Lowering his pistol, the racketeer inquired, "Was this store open when you arrived here?"
   "I didn't open it," replied the frightened bum.
   "Was the saleswoman present? How about the owner, a man around forty?" the racketeer pressed further.
  
   The gangster's calm voice reassured the homeless man, and upon realizing he was not in danger, the man said,
  
   "There was no one there. The doors were open, the merchandise was on the shelves, but the cash register was empty. It's a pity. But I can assure you, none of us took anything. At least, not to my knowledge."
  
   Afghan returned to the vehicle and settled into the front seat. He stared at the neon sign above the shop window without squinting for a few minutes.
  
   "These retailers fooled us like fools. We should have screwed over the saleswoman from the start. It wouldn't be so damn infuriating now," he said angrily, slamming the car door.
   "What about going to the store and getting some vodka?" Elephant suggested.
   "Do you want to drink counterfeit vodka? Let's have some real alcohol instead. Come to my place," Afghan replied glumly.
  
   Half an hour later, the racketeers gathered for dinner at Afghan's bachelor pad. Before them stood a table adorned with sausages, fried potatoes, and Absolut Vodka. The kitchen was so small that it only housed a sink, a gas stove, a refrigerator, and a table with two stools. With no space to accommodate a portable TV or telephone, the former sat atop the refrigerator, while the latter hung from a nail above the kitchen table. A wall clock ticked above the gas stove. Sviridov's suite "Time, forward!" played on the TV, as the news anchor informed viewers of the evening's highlights:
  
   "On today's program: Boris Yeltsin's participation in the G-Seven leaders' meeting in Halifax, Canada, the return of Soyuz-eighteen with cosmonauts Afanasyev and Usachev, and the collapse of the MMM financial pyramid based on the Ponzi Scheme."
  
   "Turn on Reutov TV," Afghan demanded irritably. "Yeltsin's nonsense sickens me. No more of that."
  
   Without rising from his stool and continuing to chew, Elephant raised his mighty hand and switched the local TV channel.
  
   From the small screen, a young man dressed in gray with a white and red tie announced,
   "I am pleased to announce that today, our town celebrates its fifty-fifth anniversary since gaining town status. Reutov now boasts a population of over sixty-eight thousand people. The festival 'The Bell of Our Life' took place at five different locations around the city. At the Peace and Culture House, the Research and Production Association Machine-Building showcased samples of rockets and space technology for the first time in its forty-year history. Separate exhibitions highlighted the company's contributions to the development of Reutov and Balashikha."
  
   As the wall-mounted phone rang, Afghan swiftly picked it up, while Elephant lowered the volume of the TV by twenty percent.
  
   "Hello," Afghan responded dryly.
   "Anton, I've been trying to reach you since lunchtime. Where have you been?" a whiny female voice asked.
   "I was busy, Olga. What do you want?" Afghan replied.
   "I wanted to spend the city holiday with you. The artists performed at all concert venues, in the North and South districts. The city administration said it would become a tradition," Olga explained.
   "That's great; let's go next year," Anton promised.
   "I miss you. Come to my me please," Olga pleaded.
   "I can't make any promises. I'm currently in Moscow, but if I have any business in your area, I'll drop by unannounced. Don't wait for me, but be ready," Afghan concluded and hung up the phone.
  
   Chewing on another sausage, Elephant asked, "What's with the girl?"
   "A nurse from Reutov hospital," Anton replied, and in one gulp down half a glass of vodka.
   "How old is she?" Elephant asked nonchalantly, unaware of Anton's preferences regarding age.
   "About forty," Anton answered.
   The giant looked surprised when asked, "Why do you need so old cow?"
  
   Afghan didn't respond immediately, and Elephant continued, "If I were you, I'd find an eighteen-year-old chick for some fun."
   "Bringing a teenage girl here would expose my hideout, and having sex with her in my Mercedes would mean constantly cleaning the backseat with detergent. It's a lose-lose situation for me. Plus, let's not forget about the girl's father, who I'd have to hide from until we broke up. I don't need that, Pavel. I prefer spending the night with a mature woman, around forty, when we finish our business in Reutov or when I know our boss might need me urgently. I'll never bring her here. Turn up the TV volume, and let Olga stay with me."
  
   "Now, onto the city's news," announced a local TV host. "A fire broke out today on the second-floor balcony of a five-story building on Forty-five Peace Avenue. Firefighters arrived ten minutes after an eyewitness reported the fire. The residents of the building were safely evacuated, but the tenants above the affected apartment did not open their door. Their whereabouts are currently unknown. If you have any information about the Zafiros family, please contact the police at Two-One-One."
  
   "Wow! Here's the address of our fugitives," Elephant exclaimed. "Their hideout is on the floor above the burnt one. Got it?"
  
   Afghan didn't respond. Instead, he picked up the wall-mounted phone handset and called the number he remembered.
  
   "Hey, pig! Are you awake?" the racketeer asked, displaying complete disrespect for the person on the other end.
  
   The handset responded with a stream of curses.
  
   Anton smiled evilly as he listened to the cop's indignation, and the Elephant saw that his friend was enjoying every minute of it.
  
   "Okay, fine, don't get all worked up! I'm on business. Have you heard about the fire on Peace Avenue?" he said when the flow of dirty words flying from the mouth of the district policeman dried up.
  
   A silence filled the kitchen as the police officer shared his knowledge of the incident.
  
   "I don't want to be bothered with details. I don't care about the fire. I'm interested in the Zafiros family. They lived above the victims," Afghan stated.
  
   "Why do you need them?" inquired the district cop.
   "They're our clients, just as they are yours. Do you get it?" Afghan retorted.
   "Why do you think they're my clients?" came the response from the receiver.
   "Don't fuck with my brain. Zafiros told me he paid you for protection," Afghan interrupted, abruptly ending the conversation. "The shopkeeper deceived us and fled the city with his wife and son, their destination unknown."
   "Sorry for your loss, my friend," the policeman replied, offering condolences.
   "I don't need your useless condolences. Go to their apartment building right now. I'll open their lair and see what's inside," Afghan instructed the police officer, hanging up the phone. He then turned to Elephant and said, "Eat up quickly or drop it. Sausages won't run away like Irina Zafiros."
  
  
   The trio, comprising the police officer and the two criminals, congregated outside the fugitives' apartment. Eager to break in, Elephant anxiously inquired,
   "Should we forcefully enter?"
  
   The officer told him to slow down, stating, "I need to let the neighbors know we are entering the missing family's apartment."
   "Why should we warn them about our plans? You are in uniform. That should be enough for civilians," Elephant said.
   "In your company, the neighbors might mistake me for an imposter and alert my colleagues. In such a case, an emergency response team with assault rifales would apprehend us before we could search the apartment. To ensure our safety, if someone questions your identity, you must assert, 'We are detectives with the Criminal Investigation Department.""
   "Let it be your way, but keep in mind that I'm disgusted by pretending to be a policeman," objected Elephant.
   "Damn it," replied the officer, "if you don't want to play the role of a detective, then you'll tell the neighbors that you're a locksmith."
  
   The police officer knocked on the neighbors' doors, and the sound of footsteps could be heard behind two out of the three doors. "Police, open the door!" he exclaimed loudly and authoritatively.
  
   The first door barely opened and a frightened face of a middle-aged woman appeared in a narrow crack.
  
   The second door opened wide, and an elderly gray-haired man emerged onto the threshold.
   "Good evening, Petrovich," the man addressed the police officer by his patronymic.
  
   "I'm your district police officer," the cop presented his identification card to the woman and turned to the old man. "Good evening Gregory. We are searching for your missing neighbors. No one has seen them since the fire."
   "They left, just before the fire started," the old man clarified, adding quietly, "I saw them through the peephole as they went downstairs with two suitcases."
   "Alright, thank you for the information. We have opened an administrative case regarding the fire and their disappearance. I will enter their apartment with an investigator and a locksmith," the officer explained.
   "Do you need witnesses for the search?" the old neighbor inquired.
   "Technically, yes, but since the case is not criminal, we will have the locksmith act as the sole witness. So, no need to worry," the cop reassured him.
   "If you need anything, just give us a call," the old man said before disappearing back inside his apartment.
  
   Ten minutes later, Elephant opened the door. Once the criminals and the district cop entered the apartment, they discovered it in complete disarray. It was evident even to Elephant that the owners had hastily left. Afghan approached Alex's desk and opened each of the four books about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.
  
   "Petrovich, come here," Afghan called out to the police officer.
   The officer responded, "I'm searching the bedroom."
   "Come here, I said. I found something," Afghan insisted.
  
   The police officer entered the living room and asked, "Well, what did you find?"
  
   Afghan pointed to the books by the famous detective story author, opened the nearest one, and revealed a simple hiding spot.
  
   "Each book contained three bundles of cash. Do you think they kept Russian rubles here?" the racketeer posed a rhetorical question.
   "I believe they're in US dollars," the police officer replied. "And I think it's not just tens or twenties, but likely hundreds."
   "I agree. George probably kept hundreds here," Afghan called to his partner by name and asked, "Pavel, how many American dollars are in a bundle with Franklin on the obverse of banknotes?"
   "What's the obverse?" he asked, unfamiliar with the term as he searched the upper shelves of the furniture wall.
   "Disregard that," Afghan interjected, already aware of the answer to his question. "Let me inform you of the next development. George had stashed away a substantial sum of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in these books and absconded with them."
   "And where should we begin our search for him?" the imposing figure inquired.
  
   Afghan placed his hand on the shoulder of the policeman, gently gripping the captain's epaulet, and responded, " We won't search for them, but Petrivich will contact his boss, Comrade Nosov, the head of our town's police department, and ask that the Zafiros family be included on the list of wanted individuals."
   "What grounds do we have to put them on the wanted list?" the precinct officer asked nonchalantly.
  
   Afghan withdrew his hand from the police officer's shoulder and, meeting his gaze, spoke calmly yet assertively,
   "Leave it to your superior to establish the grounds. I have no doubt that you regularly share with him bribes you receive from businessmen in your district. However, if you let greed cloud your judgment, the responsibility will fall squarely on your shoulders. I'm indifferent to who carries it out. Bring the Zafiros spouses here so that we can extract the money from them."
   "We won't allow him to elude us again," Elephant declared.
  
   Afghan concluded, "Lastly, remember that if you fail to handle this task competently, I'll promptly replace you."
   "I get it," the policeman replied.
  
  
   Chapter Five. July 2, 1995, Odessa, Ukraine
  
   The Lada sedan carrying the Zafiros family drove into Odessa along the Kiev highway. Approaching the Jewish cemetery, located on the northern outskirts of the city, George stopped at a red traffic light at the intersection with Chemical Street.
  
   "We need to refuel," he declared, making a few shoulder movements.
   "Is your neck numb?" Irina asked sympathetically, starting to massage her husband's shoulders and neck.
   "I feel as stiff as a plank. It was a tough challenge for our old car and me to cover four hundred kilometers from Kiev to here without stopping," George gently tapped the steering wheel of the Lada.
   Irina suggested, "Let's go to the first gas station," as her husband had advised. "We can grab a coffee, use the restroom, and think about where we want to stay."
  
   "Dad, the light is already green," Alex's voice came from the back seat.
   "I see," George replied, drove forward a hundred meters, and turned into a gas station.
  
   While Alex refueled the gas tank, his mom walked to the convenience store. Soon she returned with a bottle of lemonade and a bag of potato chips.
  
   The son inquired, "Mom, where did you get those?"
   "There are two vending machines inside the store. One has chocolate bars and chips, while the other offers drinks."
  
   As mother and son consumed their fast food, George stood near the operator's office and engaged in conversation with the gas station operator. Family head inquired about renting a condo for long term. A square window, framed by an iron corner, barely accommodated the face of the blond woman.
  
   "Do you think it's possible to rent an apartment in Odessa during the summer vacation season? It is obvious that inhaling exhaust fumes while driving for an extended period of time negatively impacts your mental health. How can you think clearly?" sarcastically asked a forty-plus-years-old local woman. She added, "It would be more cost-effective for you to board the Fyodor Dostoevsky cruise ship at the port and sail to Australia indefinitely. Then, you can rent a house in Sydney or Melbourne. If my husband didn't lie to me-and he never lies about trivial matters-then it's winter in Australia in June, so prices there are much lower than ours."
   "Yet, I want to try, especially since we're looking for an apartment for at least six months," George said.
   "Why are you fucking my brain? I already have an idiot at home who does this regularly. I should have been warned about it from the beginning. I thought you are here on vacation. This is a newspaper advertising long-term housing rentals," - the woman stretched her hand somewhere to the side. After a few seconds, a one-page edition from an underground printing house appeared in the window.
  
   George tried to take the newspaper, but his fingers only slipped off, leaving a trail of smeared ink.
  
   "Not so fast, sweetheart," the operator said flirtatiously. "The fee is twenty-thousand Ukrainian karbovanets."
   "How much does it cost in Russian rubles? We don't have local currency yet," - George said.
   "Five, zero-zero," the operator said and demonstrated George an open hand and folded his thumb and pointer-finger twice to show him two zeros. "And remember to pay for gas at the meter."
  
   George didn't understand what she exactly meant, so he asked:
   "Five hundred rubles for a newspaper?"
   "Certainly not five hundred dollars?" replied the woman from Odessa.
  
   Zafiros counted out the money, then returned to the car.
  
   While his wife and son ate chips from a paper bag and drank from a Cream-Soda bottle, George studied the proposals. He was a native of Odessa and therefore wouldn't consult with his wife when deciding where they should anchor.
  
   Without lifting his gaze from the newspaper, the father uttered, "Alex, retrieve the pen from the glove compartment."
  
   Responding dutifully like a fresh recruit obeying the command of a platoon leader, Alex carried out the order and once again took up the chips. George reviewed the offers once more, encircled three with blue ink, handed the pen to his son, and made his way back to the gas station office.
  
   From the window of the gas station attendant, the singer's intoxicated voice could be heard, remarking, "You cherish each of your five hundred rubles. I, on the other hand, hold the American Express card in high esteem."
  
   George inquired, "Where is the payphone?"
  
   The blonde reduced the volume on Sonny's two-cassette recorder and replied, "It's affixed to the wall around the corner. However, without tokens, it's useless. If you'd like, I can sell you five for half a thousand rubles."
  
   "I only need three," George responded.
  
   In a calm tone, the attendant stated, "Honey, five is the minimum purchase," and then raised the volume of the tape recorder.
  
   George bought the tokens and proceeded around the corner to the phone.
  
   The blonde, wearing a lascivious smile, followed him to his car, while a song streamed through the window, "Oh my, your shoulders, arms, legs, and that smile of yours! Throughout my life, I've encountered numerous handsome men, but George, you were crafted by..."
  
   A brief keyboard melody ensued, followed by a series of concluding chords, and then the singer exhaled, "a divine sculptor."
  
   As George merged onto the highway from the gas station in his Lada, Alex asked, "Dad, where are we headed?"
  
   "First straight, then along Big Arnaut street to Admirals Avenue," George replied.
   Disappointed, the son uttered, "It means nothing to me."
   "Same here," Mom chimed in, supporting her child.
   "If you're unfamiliar with the city streets, what's the point to ask?" George queried.
  
  
   A middle-aged man stood outside the apartment building, patiently awaiting the arrival of the Zafiros family. With thinning brown hair and deep-set brown eyes, he clutched a man's purse under his arm while a pager hung from his trouser belt. As the Lada pulled up and George stepped out of the car, the man approached, extending his hand.
  
   "Allow me to introduce myself, Nikolay Pometkin," he said. "I'll be negotiating the rental terms on behalf of the owners."
   "George," came the simple reply.
   "I'm offering you a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. This here," the landlord gestured toward the nearest glass frame, "will be your future balcony. Let's go take a look at the flat."
  
   The tenants, accompanied by the agent, ascended to the second floor and explored the apartment. To their surprise, it had the exact same layout as their previous one in Reutovo. Irina inspected the kitchen, meticulously examining the cupboards, handles, and even sniffing the air inside the refrigerator to ensure it was odorless. She proceeded to test the hot and cold water taps and light the gas water heater at the sink.
  
   Meanwhile, George meticulously inspected the bathroom. He checked for any signs of leaks beneath the tub, flushed the toilet, and verified the functioning of the tank.
  
   Meeting in the hallway, the couple entered the living room. While scrutinizing the worn-out furniture and doors adorning the walls, the father called out to his son standing on the balcony, "Alex, everything okay out there?"
  
   "Yeah, everything's fine," the young man replied, his gaze fixed on his peers playing soccer on a makeshift court.
  
   "On the phone, you mentioned we would discuss the price during the meeting," George stated, standing in the middle of the living room. He added, "It's time to reveal your price."
  
   Pometkin promptly responded, "Three hundred dollars a month," and without allowing the clients time to ponder, he continued, "And that's an excellent price. The apartment is conveniently located near the renowned intersection of Fifth Station Street and Big Fountain Avenue. The golden beaches of the Black Sea are just ten minutes away. Moreover, I only require a six-month advance payment, unlike my competitors who demand a full year upfront."
  
   In a distinct South Ukrainian accent, George retorted, "Don't feed me nonsense. I was born in Odessa, and I grew up in the Greek quarter on Bunin Street. I know this place and its value. It takes not ten but at least forty minutes on foot to reach the sea from here. I'm offering you two hundred and fifty, paid monthly. Anything else, and we're walking away."
  
   Pometkin rolled his eyes and exclaimed, "Come on now. At that price, you wouldn't even find a rental in the village of Bugaevka, which is twenty kilometres away. Here's what you'll get: a glazed balcony on the second floor, with chestnut trees as your backdrop. Beneath the bedroom, there's a travel agency called Amadeus. They operate from nine to five, creating a serene atmosphere. What more could you want?"
  
   George couldn't hide his sarcastic tone as he responded, "Did you say 'serene atmosphere'? You must be joking. The windows in this room overlook the bustling Admiral Avenue, and trams rumble behind the neighboring high-rise building. The iron clamor persists until two in the morning."
  
   Protesting, Pometkin argued, "I won't be making any profit if I give you a discount of more than ten dollars. My final offer is two hundred and ninety."
  
   "I agree with the price, but on the following conditions," George responded. "I"ll pay your price for six months in advance, and we go to the notary to certify the lease agreement. I saw his office as I turned into the yard."
  
   Nikolay was well aware that legalizing the lease agreement would compel him to pay rent tax and eliminate any opportunity for deception. Thus, he did everything in his power to avoid it. With a wide grin, he responded, "You are such pleasant people. I'll accept seventeen hundred dollars and provide you with a receipt for the six months in advance."
   "Two hundred eighty-three dollars per month?" George quickly divided the total amount by the duration of their stay. "I have an aversion to uneven numbers, so I'll offer you one thousand six hundred and fifty."
   "It's clear you were born and raised here. You're quite a tough negotiator," Pometkin remarked, requesting, "May I see your passports?"
  
   In exchange for the keys and receipt, George handed over their passports and the agreed sum of money to the agent. Pometkin carefully transcribed their passport information into his notebook and departed.
  
   "This cockroach saw you counting banknotes from a pack and now he knows that we have a large amount of cash with us. Given that he still has spare keys to the apartment, we can"t keep money here, "Irina remarked.
   "You're right; we urgently need to open foreign currency accounts in different banks," George concurred, understanding his wife's concerns. "Alex, we're heading to the banks while they're still open. After that, we'll buy groceries and be back in three hours. Please, do not open the door for anyone. Is that clear?"
   "As you said," the son replied obediently.
  
   As Pometkin turned the corner, he discreetly removed his pager and sent a message: "Rodion, we need to chat asap. Are you available?"
  
   The pager vibrated briefly, displaying the word "Yes."
  
   Speaking softly into the payphone receiver, Pometkin began, "Rodion, it's Nikolay. I have tenants here from Moscow." He glanced around before continuing, "The family rented the apartment six months in advance with minimal negotiation. I couldn't help but wonder if they're hiding from someone. Could you check the Moscow wanted list? Perhaps your colleagues are searching for them."
   The excited cop on the other end asked, "Are they from Moscow?"
  
   Pometkin could hear laughter, loud music, and voices in the background. He replied, "Not exactly, but they're from Moscow's outskirts."
   "Can you provide their address?" the policeman inquired.
   "Yes, of course. Reutov, Peace Avenue forty-five, flat twenty-four. George and Irina Zafiros," Pometkin promptly responded.
   The police officer assured him, "I'll submit a request tomorrow when our Russian counterparts respond, and I'll keep you informed."
  
   Pometkin had one more question to ask. "Rodion, please, if you remember I paid you for assistance in changing my last name. Has my request been fulfilled?"
   "Nikolay, rein in your desires. You dreamt of changing from Pomyotkin to Potemkin? That's simply not possible. The name of the man who annexed Crimea and a significant part of southern Ukraine from the Ottoman Empire in the eighteenth century is revered by all Russians and cannot be bestowed upon just anyone like you," the voices on the other end erupted in laughter.
  
   Feeling insulted by the alteration of a single letter in his name, knowing full well that Pometkin means marking everything with dirt while Pomyotkin refers to bird droppings, Nikolay swallowed his pride and pleaded, "What about the five hundred dollars I gave you?"
  
   "Are you a complete idiot? I never received anything from you, so choose your words carefully from now on and don't bother me until I send you a message," the interlocutor responded angrily.
   "M-my apologies, Rodion," Nikolay mumbled, hanging up.
  
   Pometkin had long yearned to befriend Rodion. Enchanted by the allure of a lavish cop's lifestyle, he held onto the impossible dream to be hired as a detective.
  
   "The police will never hire snitches," declared the cop shattering the cherished aspirations of a paid informant. "This rule applies not just to us, but to all special services, including intelligence and counterintelligence."
   "Why?" Pometkin asked, bewildered.
   "Because," came the reply, "those who betray their friends or acquaintances for money will just as easily betray their newfound companions. We aren't angels ourselves, but people like you pose a danger to us."
  
   The following morning, George and Irina set out for their business, while Alex ventured to the neighborhood to mingle with the locals. Just fifty yards away from their apartment building, a group of boys engaged in an intense soccer match on a dusty basketball court. Their game bore a striking resemblance to a pack of nine jackals relentlessly pursuing a lion carrying its precious prey through the vast expanse of the African savannah.
  
   Alex approached the boys with a greeting, "Hey, guys."
   "Hi," one of them responded, his focus still fixated on chasing the ball carrier.
   "Mind if I join you?" Alex asked.
   A voice called out, "Sure, as long as you haven't been training at a fancy soccer club."
  
   Alex ran alongside his newfound comrades for another half hour. Soon, all the players were perspiring profusely, their bodies caked in dust. Seeking respite from the scorching midday sun, they headed toward the nearest water pump. Quenching their thirst with the cold water, they washed their faces and necks before retreating to smoke behind the garages.
  
   The local ringleader inquired, "What's your name?"
   "Alex."
   "Where are you from?" the boys chimed in from all sides.
   "Russia," Alex replied.
   "Are you on summer vacation from school?"
   "No, I was born in Odessa, but I've been living in Moscow for the past ten years."
   Curiosity piqued, the boys queried, "Why did you come back?"
   "My father always yearned for his homeland, and doing business in Russia proved to be challenging."
   "He's a businessman, huh?" scoffed one of the older kids.
   Alex gestured with his fingers, indicating a minuscule amount, and quipped, "A tiny businessman. His entire enterprise was a struggling grocery store."
   "Do you smoke?" the older kid asked.
   "Since I was twelve," Alex replied.
   The leader of the courtyard gang proclaimed, "He's one of ours."
   "Indeed, he's one of us," echoed the others, accepting Alex as part of their crew.
  
   The teenage girl and the Odessa College of Civil Navigation student emerged from around the corner near the garages. The young man held his girlfriend's waist, his disappointment evident as he cast a disapproving glance at the group of boys smoking nearby.
  
   "Tanya, this spot is crowded. Let's find another place," he suggested, leaning closer to her ear and raising his voice. He pointed at the boys and asked, "Or force them out of here?"
   Alex interjected loudly, "Are you sure you won't end up running away yourself?"
   The older boy whispered in Alex's ear, "See the three stripes on his navy top? He's a junior at the local marine college, four years older than you."
   "Even if he graduated from the Higher Military College for paratroopers and seals," Alex responded calmly, taking a deep inhale. "but will dares to attack me," the teenager continued, blowing smoke rings out of his mouth, "he won't even remember how to find his way back to our yard. This fool will sprint away faster than the World champion sprinter Michael Johnson and jump over fences higher than Sergey Bubka, the Olympic pole vault champion."
  
   The cadet removed his hand from Tanya's waist and remarked, "Look at this audacious pelican."
  
   "Leave them be, Boris. Let's go somewhere else," Tanya implored, pressing herself against his chest.
   "Did you hear that? Turns out he's Boris, just like the 'alconaut' Yeltsin," Alex chuckled, playfully blending together the words 'alcoholic' and 'astronaut'.
   "Tanya, wait a minute while I knock the teeth out of this boy, and then we'll find another spot," the student declared, taking the girl's hand and striding purposefully toward Alex.
  
   The lads took a step back, maintaining their composure. Alex rose to his feet, fixing his gaze on Boris, and nonchalantly flicked a cigarette butt in his direction.
  
   "Oh, you little troublemaker," the future sea captain charged at the boy, consumed by fury.
  
   Meanwhile, Alex remained poised, observing as Boris unfurled his right shoulder and raised his arm. Just as Boris's hand lunged towards Alex's face, the teenager swiftly leaned under the opponent's arm and sharply delivered a sharp blow in the solar plexus.
  
   Boris's eyes widened, his breath suspended, and he convulsed, his mouth twitching involuntarily.
  
   "Try some squats, Boris. It might do you good," Alex remarked, giving the bent-over guy a pat on the back. Then, turning his attention to the girl, he added, "And as for you, Tanya, in the future, avoid bringing such imbeciles to our hangout spot. You should join our crew."
  
   Tanya's disappointment ran deep. She lost the rest of her Friday and the ensuing night. For a moment, she stood there, witnessing the silent tears trickling down Boris's face. Before heading home, she uttered, "You're too young to be involved in my secretive rendezvous behind the garage. Your reckless conduct spoiled my evening."
  
   The dudes were clowning on the poor guy, but once the maritime college student came to his senses and split, they headed to the yard. Alex gave a nod towards Tanya, asked the best soccer player on the field, "Who's she?"
  
   "Yo, guys, he's sprung," the leader of the local crew laughed, but then brought up the incident behind the garages, saying, "You already know this chick's name. She lives in the fourth building, second floor. Just graduated high school this year. She ain't workin' or goin' to college. Every Friday and Saturday, she rolls with older dudes. Only military vets or senior uni students."
  
   Alex questioned, "Why she only gettin' legs apart on Fridays and Saturdays?"
  
   "Her parentals own a seaside bungalow, and they spend the whole damn weekend there. They dip on Friday night and be back Sunday afternoon. When she was in school, they used to always go together, but once she graduated, she got total freedom," the leader explained.
  
   "How you know all this?" Alex asked, surprised.
  
   "One late night, we posted up under Tanya's apartment window and overheard her goin' at it with her pops about her future. Dude wanted her to go to med school and be a doctor like him, but she ain't wanna spend ten years studyin' and then workin' for peanuts in a hospital. Her pops told her, 'Ain't lettin' you get knocked up 'til you finish high school. After that, you on your own. We'll keep you fed and not kick you to the curb, but if you get pregnant, you livin' with the baby daddy,'" the leader recounted.
   "Tough," Alex replied, contemplating before adding, "but fair."
   "Al, where you learn to punch dummies like that?" one of the boys asked.
   "I've spent more time in the ring than in school these past five years," Alex responded.
   "Well done, man. You laid Boris out proper," came the reply.
  
  
   Tanya and Alex chilled under the acacia trees by the forth entrance, chopping it up about life. It had been three days since they linked up behind the garages.
  
   "Tanya, people ain't just good or bad, righteous or scoundrels," Alex responded to a story about Tanya's friends. "They say most folks are somewhere in between, they are neither white nor black, they like shades of gray. I've seen it time and time again. Same people do good and bad things. They proud of their good deeds, but don't regret their bad ones. Let me break it down for you. I would bite off anybody's nose for a friend, and fell good, but I could wreck a stranger over some small threat to me, and fell nothing."
  
   Tanya scrutinized the young man intently and inquired, "And who do you reckon you are?" Alex took a moment before responding, and sensing the need for further clarity, the girl refined her question, "What's your moral compass like, though?"
   "I ain't got no compass. I ride the current, sailin' in the same vessel as my ancestors, goin' wherever the river of life carries us and don't have time to think about moral."
   "Forget about the fancy words and compass talk. Let me break it down plain and simple: Do you see yourself as a good dude or a bad one?" the girl asked.
   Alex said, "Neither one nor the other. I live by the principles that I have established for myself. I won't betray my friends, I'll never forgive enemies, and I believe I'm doing the right thing."
  
   The young woman asked the teenager, "Who are your friends and enemies?"
  
   As he continued to surprise her, she decided to get to know him better.
   "This is a really tough question for me. I haven't formed a circle of either yet, but I want you to be my friend," the guy said, referring to the girl.
   "I'm confused," Tanya laughed. "Do you want me, or are you trying to be my friend?"
  
   Alex felt a surge of embarrassment wash over him in response to Tanya's question. He couldn't help but sense Tanya's deliberate omission of the second part of his statement, making it appear as though he had openly expressed his desire for her. After contemplating for a moment, he was on the verge of revealing the truth, the deep longing he held in his heart to be intimately connected with her, when he noticed his family's car driving past.
  "My parents are back. I hope they didn't see me. I wanted to spend more time with you," Alex said.
  
   Irina and George didn't see their son. They also ignored a couple of men sitting at the third entrance, as well as four muscular guys smoking at the corner of their apartment building.
  
   "Here's their car," Pometkin told his neighbor sitting on the bench at the third entrance.
   Radion commanded over the radio, "Pay attention to the capture group."
  
   The four undercover officers quickly surrounded the car with the couple, pulled George and Irina out, and forced them onto the asphalt.
  
   Alex was terrified witnessing his parents being arrested. The young man remained composed as tough men in jackets twisted his mother and father's arms behind their backs and handcuffed them. Trying to absorb every detail, he noticed a man handing an envelope to another person at the third entrance.
  
   "Sir, I forgot to mention that this couple has a teenage son," Pometkin said to Rodion.
   The police officer asked sarcastically, shaking an envelope in front of Nikolay's face. "What do you expect me to do with these five hundred dollars? Should I put the kid in jail or kill him for nothing?"
   Pometkin replied, "Find him and send him to Moscow with his parents."
   "On what grounds should I search for him? He's not mentioned in the arrest warrant. Should I give a hundred bucks to each of my detectives and send them without photos to search the streets? Maybe you suggest I find him in a city of a million people based on a sketch I drew from your words?" the head of the Malinovsky District Criminal Investigation Department said, looking deeply into Pometkin's eyes. "Do you really need the boy?"
   As Rodion rose from the bench and walked to his vehicle, he said, "Find him yourself."
  
   The police placed Zafiros' spouses in a police Jeep and drove them away from the yard, while the detectives and their chief entered the apartment building.
  
   Nikolay Pometkin remained on the bench.
  
   Tanya whispered in dismay, "Your parents have been arrested. What for?"
   "I don't know," Alex responded. "The cops took over our rented apartment, so I became a bum."
   "This is terrible," Tanya exclaimed.
   As Alex locked his unwavering gaze on the man by the third entrance, he responded, "I agree, but the true extent of it all will only become clear once I uncover who's responsible for their arrest."
   "And how do you plan on doing that?" wondered Tanya.
   Alex pointed towards the bench and stated, "First, I need to find out who that man is."
   "But how will that help you?" she inquired.
   "It seems like that man handed the money to the cop right after my parents were thrown onto the street. If I can identify him, it'll shed light on why the cops treated my parents so harshly. I suggest we keep quiet," the young man proposed. "I need time to think it through."
   The girl asked, "Should I leave?"
   Alex replied, "No, please stay. Without you, I'll look suspicious."
  
   An oppressive silence hung over them for half an hour. Finally, a door creaked open, and five undercover policemen emerged from the building. They struggled to fit inside the car, a Lada, which crept slowly towards the third entrance. It halted near Pometkin. The front-seat passenger tossed a bunch of keys to Nikolay and said clearly, "The apartment is yours."
   "Thank you, Sir. Did you find anything valuable there?" Pometkin asked, hoping for an extra reward.
   The police officer retorted, "That's none of your business," and the Lada continued its journey towards the exit.
  
   Pometkin watched as the vehicle vanished around the corner and disappeared into the building. An hour later, he exited the entrance with two suitcases belonging to the Zafiros family.
  
   "We rented the apartment from him," Alex revealed. "I recognized him. He slandered my parents, and now he's stealing our belongings."
  
   Fuelled by anger, Alex lunged towards Pometkin, but Tanya quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him back with force. The frustrated young man collapsed onto the bench, staring at Tanya in astonishment, while the seventeen-year-old beauty embraced him tenderly and kissed him passionately on the lips.
  
   The bewildered young man looked at Tanya and asked, "Why did you do that?"
   "I didn't want him to recognize you," she replied, adjusting her hair. "If he spotted you, the cops would have thrown you in jail alongside your parents."
   "Thank you for looking out for me," Alex slowly regained composure, easing the overwhelming emotions and worries that had engulfed him.
  
   Sympathy blossomed in Tanya's heart, and she said, "Don't mention it. Now tell me, why would he do such a thing?"
   "Greed. I can't think of any other reason. We paid six months' rent upfront. If Pometkin returned and swiped our stuff, he's probably convinced that my folks ain't coming back. It appears they were either going to be charged here or extradited to Russia. Pometkin could then re-rent the apartment and pocket a profit of at least fifteen hundred dollars," Alex reasoned, struggling to fully comprehend why such misfortune had befallen him.
   "That motherfucker did it for one and a half grand," Tanya exclaimed, her voice laced with contempt. "For that kind of money, the scum would sell his own daughter. But what do the cops gain from all this?"
   "Well, this is just a guess," Alex responded uncertainly. "I believe the cops assumed our family was well-off and saw an opportunity to squeeze money out of unsuspecting newcomers," Alex explained.
   Tanya's surprise was palpable as she asked, "Is there actually something valuable worth stealing? Wealthy people don't typically rent apartments in neighborhoods like this."
   "Oh, yeah, there's something we possess, but I'm not sure if they can get their hands on it," Alex groaned. "My father would rather die than give it up."
   "Damn it, listen," Tanya cursed aloud, quickly covering her mouth in terror. "That scoundrel surely informed the police that there were three of you. I just realized they'll be searching for you too."
   Remaining calm, Alex replied, "That won't do them any good. They have no clue what I look like."
   "But they searched the house and could have found your photographs," Tanya expressed her concern about Alex potentially getting arrested.
   "There were no pictures in the apartment," Alex reassured her. "The cops could only confiscate my birth certificate, and there's no place to put a photograph in it."
   "Now, what's your plan?" she inquired.
  
   The young man pondered thoughtfully, "I'll search for a job in the city. I'm confident I'll find employment and a place to stay. I'll stay here while it's warm, and by October, I'll return to the Moscow region where my grandmother used to live."
  
   Tanya kissed Alex on the cheek and wished him, "Good luck, Alex."
  
   "I'll see you soon," he shyly replied.
  
   As Tanya headed for the building entrance, Alex continued to sit on the bench. After her slender figure vanished behind the weighty door, he dipped his hand into his pocket and uncovered the apartment keys.
  
   "Amidst all this chaos, I completely forgot about the keys," Alex mused silently. "Pometkin confiscated our belongings, and the police concluded their search. None of them will be back at the apartment today. Guess I can spend the night there.
  
   Lighting a cigarette, Alex slowly made his way into the rented apartment that his family had paid for.
  
   Detectives and looter Pometkin left the place in a worse state than when the family hastily fled their apartment in Russia. Furniture drawers were left open, and bed linens and towels were scattered across two armchairs and a sofa. Alex's backpack was in the living room, along with his belongings. The young man entered his parents' room, sat amidst their underwear, gritted his teeth, and let out a howl:
   "I'll exact revenge on that bastard!"
  
   After sitting on the bed and shedding tears for a quarter of an hour, Alex gradually calmed down. He lay on his back, deep in thought.
  
   "I'll deal with that jerk later. He's not going anywhere. Right now, the most important thing is to earn money and return to Reutov."
  
   Gradually, sleep overcame Alex.
  
  
  Chapter Six. July 3, 1995, Odessa, Ukraine
  
   Alex stirred at the break of dawn, roused by the melodious chirping of birds outside his window.
   "Quick, to drink or not to drink?" inquired a young goldfinch-or at least that's what it sounded like to Alex..
   "Zin-is-ver, zin-zin," replied the male titmouse.
   His female companion disagreed, persistently whistling, "Fi-fi, fi-fi."
  
   Unaware of the significance of the avian conversation, Alex grumbled irritably, "Shut up, you damn singers," and made his way to the bathroom.
  
   "This jerk not only emptied the fridge and pantry, but also stole the toothpaste," Alex uttered with disdain as he rinsed his toothbrush under the running water
  
   After washing his face, he grabbed a worn-out hand towel, wrapped it tightly around his fist, and delivered a powerful blow to his own reflection in the mirror. The mirror door of the vanity cabinet bowed inward, the thin plastic shattering and littering the dirty sink with shards of glass and plastic.
  
   Alex couldn't help but think, "Why not take revenge on Pometkin by wrecking the apartment? The key is to do it as discreetly as possible so the neighbors don't call the police."
  
   The idea of causing maximum destruction to the apartment appealed to him, and he began to put his plan into action.
  
   By eight o'clock in the morning, every piece of furniture and every functional kitchen appliance lay in ruins. He yanked the power cords from the back of the refrigerator and freezer, cutting off their source of electricity. With a knife in hand, he slashed through the linoleum flooring, as well as anything else he could find in the apartment: curtains, upholstery, mattresses, leaving black graffiti scrawls on the wallpaper and doors.
  
   There were a couple of things the boy had the capability to do but chose to dismiss.
  
   He knew it could be too noisy to break the windows and dangerous for neighbors to fill the apartment with natural gas. Before leaving the apartment, Alex clogged up the drain holes in the bathroom sink and tub with a rag and turned on the hot and cold water taps. He then did the same in the kitchen with the faucet and the sink.
   "Our dollars you will spend to compensate the travel agency Amadeus for the damage caused by the leaky apartment. But for the suffering of my parents, you will suffer physical pain," Alex mentally promised Pometkin as he left the apartment."
  
   The poor teen was hungry and didn"t have a penny. The tram took him to the Central Market where he entered the stinking pavilion of Old Fish Row. A short-haired boy with a backpack on his back dressed in the latest fashions in Moscow did not arouse the suspicion of local merchants. He managed to taste salty delicacies without scandal or claims in several retail outlets. Nevertheless, for the young man who missed yesterday's dinner and breakfast, this was too little.
  
   Alex left Fish Rows for a meat and vegetable market. After several hours of leisurely strolling through the market, he no longer felt hungry, but satiety did not bring him closer to his goal.
  
   Behind the vegetable rows, where they sold brooms, flowers, and funeral wreaths, and near to the gate overlooking Catherine the Second Street, he noticed a group of squatting men. Three young men surrounded the cardboard box with three thimbles on it, and they were in turn surrounded by a dozen middle-aged men.
   It looked as if the spectators were cousins. Their clothing styles were similar, but their colors were different. Shorts below the knee, colorful Hawaiian shirts, and sandals without socks completed their Hawaiian look. Among them could be Kiev or Kharkov residents, Russians, or Belarusians, but not Odessans.
  
   Taking off his backpack, Alex placed it on the ground next to him and squatted behind the vacationers. When the homeless youth tried to examine the scam through the hairy men's legs, he became the target of the hunt.
  
   Two local guys approached him from behind, and one of them touched his left shoulder with his knee.
   "My apologies," he said. "I did not mean to."
   Alex smiled and replied, "No problem. That's fine."
  
   After that, he felt like someone ripped his backpack from his right hand. Trying to jump up on his feet, Alex was punched in the face by the first guy, who then ran in the opposite direction from his accomplice.
   The stolen backpack held nothing valuable, and Alex didn't see the thief's face, so he decided to chase the guy who hit him. The young man did not know the territory around the Central Market, so the chase took longer than Alex had anticipated.
   As the agile raider zigzagged along the aisles between the counters, he threw trays of berries and vegetables into the paths of the pursuer, turned over stacks of wicker baskets and hangers with beach slippers, and grabbed customers by their hands, causing them to fall and putting them in Alex's path.
   Within five minutes of the incident, a guy with a stolen backpack entered the Somov brothers"office.
  
   Former captains of the Odessa Maritime District Police Department, the brothers Somov served for more than ten years after graduation from the College of Economics and Law. They became so bold during this time that they stopped hiding the traces of their corruption. As a result, the head of city police branded them as "werewolves in uniform" and kicked them out into the street.
   So their bosses at the headquarters reported to the public, and in fact, the brothers found a job immediately. According to the Central market documents, Oleg was appointed deputy director of the Central food market for financial planning, and Igor was named deputy director for construction.
   In reality, Oleg and Igor were racketeers who controlled market fraudsters and protected pickpockets.
  
   The brothers" office was located on the second floor of the dairy pavilion. Large windows in the room looked out on the meat pavilion and the wide passage leading to the vegetable rows.
  
   As Igor Somov observed the chase from the window, his brother Oleg flipped through a thick ledger, meticulously jotting down numbers in a small notebook. Raising his gaze from the book, Oleg inquired of the thief holding Alex's backpack, "What do you want?"
  
   The thief responded, "Slippery and I snatched a backpack. We were supposed to meet at the Fish Pavilion in a few minutes, but he never showed up."
  
   "I see both of them," Igor interjected. "The tourist is faster than Slippery and will soon catch up with our guy."
  
   Retrieving a pager from the desk drawer, Oleg sent a message to someone. "Three guys are on their way to assist Slippery," he announced.
   "Given the persistence of our visitor, that might not be enough," mused Igor as he watched the chase unfold through the window.
   Taking a step away from his desk, Oleg declared, "Let's intervene, then."
  
   The robbery victim managed to overtake the thief at the market gates on New Splinter Street. The thief darted between rows of used bicycles, skillfully evading passers-by. With the thief just an arm's length away, Alex delivered a sharp blow to his ear with a hook. Knocked off balance, the thief careened past shovels, rakes, watering cans, and folding chairs before collapsing at the entrance of a kiosk secured with locks and electric stoves.
  
   Aware that several individuals were in hot pursuit, Alex swiftly turned around and incapacitated the first pursuer. The remaining two slowed their pace, strategizing on how to surround their target. While one of them sprinted along the tram rails, hoping to approach the "tourist" from behind, Alex managed to knock down the remaining pursuer. Three assailants had been defeated, and Alex was ready to deal with the last one, but time was running short.
  
   Two imposing figures emerged from the market gates with remarkable speed. They appeared almost identical, as if cast from the same mold. The first twin, Oleg, shouted, "Calm down, newbie. Nobody will hurt you."
  
   "And you," commanded Igor, addressing the fourth pursuer, "disperse."
  
   The thief retraced his steps back into the market, while Oleg turned his attention back to Alex. "Come with us, fighter," he invited.
  
   Several minutes later, Alex stood before the Somov brothers. Igor and Oleg occupied plush leather chairs, with the boy's backpack resting on the floor between them. The thief lingered near the door.
  
   Igor directed his question to the newcomer, asking, "Where are you from?"
   Alex responded, "I'm from a suburb of Moscow."
   Curious, Oleg followed up, "What would a Russian tourist be doing alone in the market, and where are your parents?"
   "I'm not a tourist. My family relocated to Odessa permanently a week ago. I was alone in the market because my parents were arrested yesterday. I was hungry and had no money. I couldn't steal food from the store, but at the market, I managed to taste some," Alex explained.
   "If you didn't have any money, why did you sit next to the scammers?" Oleg inquired.
   "I was searching for a job. Foolishly, I thought I might be of use to the scammers," Alex admitted.
  
  
   The brothers exchanged meaningful glances before directing their questions at Alex.
  
   "Where did you learn to fight?" Oleg inquired.
   "I was the Moscow youth boxing champion," Alex responded.
   "That's evident," remarked Igor, before asking, "Where do you live?"
   "I've been homeless since yesterday," Alex confessed.
   "Are you wanted by the police?" Igor inquired.
   "No, as far as I know," Alex replied.
   "Why did you almost kill three of my men? What treasures did you keep in your backpack?" Igor questioned.
   "There was nothing valuable in it. Just three pairs of underwear, two T-shirts, jeans, and a toothbrush. I didn't chase after him," Alex clarified, pointing at the thief. "I pursued the second guy who struck me in the face."
   "I understand now," said Oleg thoughtfully. "You couldn't forgive him for hitting your cheekbone, and that's why he's undergoing maxillofacial surgery at the oral and facial surgery center. Both of you, step outside for a moment; we need to discuss something."
  
   Alex and the thief exited the room and settled on opposite sides of the corridor.
   "If they leave you here, we'll finish you off at the first opportunity. Maybe not immediately, but you won't survive the winter," the local boy threatened through clenched teeth.
   "You're so small. If it was you who hit me near the scammers, the morgue attendants would have already washed your body," Alex retorted. "But don't worry, I'll give you a chilling experience at the morgue before you perish."
  
   The office door swung open, and Igor emerged into the corridor, holding Alex's backpack. He handed the strap to Alex, saying, "Take it and follow me."
  
   The teenager hastily followed the man, throwing the backpack over his shoulder. Within minutes, they were cruising through Odessa in a new beige Hyundai Elantra.
  
   "My brother and I have decided that you'll work for us, but not in the city," Igor declared. "We're going to employ you at the mega-clothing market next to the airport. You'll live and eat there."
  
   Alex silently accepted their decision, and twenty minutes later, Somov's sedan halted in a vast dirt parking lot filled with hundreds of cars sporting license plates from across Ukraine.
  
   "What is this?" Alex asked in astonishment as he surveyed the container city.
   "It's the land of opportunities," Igor responded as they headed toward his local office. "It used to be a flea market, but it grew to become the largest industrial goods market in the Commonwealth of Independent States. It's called 'The Seventh Kilometer' and employs thousands of people, including sellers, security guards, cleaners, and loaders. Some of the outlet owners are former engineers, teachers, and doctors. Left unclaimed by the new authorities, they decided to try their luck in business. Not a bad place for it, by the way."
  
   The last phrase from Igor was in English.
  
   Immediately, Alex replied in English, "Steak knife card shark Con job boot cut."
  
   Igor was surprised by Alex's response. Having very limited English skills, he looked at Alex curiously and asked: "What do you mean?"
   "It is the lyrics of an American song," Alex clarified.
   "Where did that come from?" Igor inquired.
   "It just popped into my head," the boy honestly replied.
   "Never mind. I'll introduce you to my deputy. He'll give you a badge that you must wear at all times. Every employee of my brother and myself wears one. With the badge, you'll be untouchable, and you can eat at any café in this market," Igor explained.
   "Are there any general rules?" Alex asked.
  
   Continuing his instructions, Igor explained to Alex, "My deputy will give you all the details about your immediate responsibilities. But generally speaking, female sellers are like cash cows, and male traders are like rams with valuable wool. Don't steal from either of them. Business is sacred. We handle the female sellers with care, milking them for profits, and occasionally we take advantage of the male traders' resources. If the collector tells you to handle a negligent cow or deal with a stubborn ram, you must prove your abilities."
   Alex responded firmly, "I'm not going to lay a hand on women."
   Igor assured the teenager, "That won't be necessary. You'll take care of their husbands."
  
   After Somov introduced Alex to his representative at the Seventh Kilometer, he left the office.
  
   The man in his thirties, walking alongside Alex, revealed, "There are four gangs of shell gamers in the market, and you'll be part of one of them. You'll be the bull, according to the boss. He praised your speed in catching the fraudster, which is a great compliment coming from a former cop. He wants you to 'get away with the money' during the raids."
   Confused, Alex asked, "What money and where should I go?"
   "The cashier will instruct you on what to do in case of a raid, including where to take the money," the man replied.
   Curious, Alex inquired, "Where's the police station in the market?"
   Suspicious, the criminal boss asked, "Why are you asking about the cops?"
   "My parents are under arrest, and if the police put me on the wanted list, I want to be the first to see my name on the bulletin board 'The police are looking for them,'" Alex explained.
   "We don't have a full-fledged police department here, but we have their 'strong point' with three friendly officers. However, the sergeant and the other two officers don't pay much attention to us. They're mainly here to prevent fights among customers and handle victim statements," the man clarified.
   "And what about police raids?" Alex pressed.
   "The local police don't conduct raids on swindlers and pickpockets. It's the central police department that handles those operations. They never inform the local police about their actions. So as long as you keep a low profile, no one will bother you here. Come with me, and I'll introduce you to the guys in your crew. With them, you'll be working Tuesday through Sunday, plowing through the field of unsuspecting idiots from 6 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon," the man explained.
  
   Alex thought sarcastically, "It's a Wonderful Life."
  
   Over the next two weeks, Alex underwent training as a typical fraudster. He mastered the art of diverting victims' attention from the disappearing pea by playing the naive role and winning small amounts of money. On a few occasions, after losing a significant sum to a victim, he transformed into a player with "miracle luck" and won back all the money previously earned by the operator. The game operators didn't trust Alex enough to let him shuffle the shells, just as he didn't have a chance to flee with the money during police raids.
  
   On a Sunday afternoon, Alex sat on a metal bed in his new temporary hiding place-a shipping container-and contemplated his plans for the next day and a half. The container had corrugated walls and bunk beds, with a small table and folding chairs between each pair. Twelve men were inside the container, enduring the heat despite the open doors on both sides.
  
   A criminal supervisor of the infamous 'Seventh Kilometer' market entered the container, weaving between the beds and distributing envelopes to everyone inside. Alex opened his envelope and counted the contents. He held three hundred thousand karbovans in his hands. Just as he was trying to make sense of the "multicolored candy wrappers" and determine the value, Somov's deputy approached him from behind and took away a third of the money. Alex turned with a puzzled expression, looking to his boss for an explanation.
  
   "This is your cut from the criminal fund and payment for food," the deputy clarified before leaving.
  
   "So, I've earned fifteen dollars in two weeks? They're clearly taking me for an idiot," Alex thought as he dined in a container filled with bunk beds, the temporary shelter for a homeless thief. "My father taught me to 'earn money with knowledge and protect yourself with physical strength.' Well, I can't make money here. It's time to explore other options."
  
   As thoughts of his father lingered, Alex couldn't help but feel a wave of sadness. Trying to push those memories aside, he shifted his focus to Tanya. "Who is she with now? Maybe a student or a tourist? Why not an international traveler? I could help her connect with foreigners, or better yet, with foreign merchant sailors. What a fool I've been. At the grocery market, I could hear the honking of sea tugs, the clanking of metal, and the chatter of loading terminal dispatchers. Why didn't I think of the Odessa sea trade ports back then? I need to see Tanya. It's been weeks since we last spoke. I hope she'll be thrilled to see me."
  
  
  Chapter Seven. July 19, Odessa, Ukraine
  
   On that very evening, Alex rang the doorbell of Tanya's apartment. The girl opened the door, wearing an expression of obvious displeasure.
  
   "Oh, it's you," she smiled. "I thought my folks came back from the cabin before I finished tidying up the place. Head to the kitchen. I'll be done soon."
  
   He took a seat at the table.
  
   "You hungry?" Tanya called out from the bathroom.
   "I already had dinner at work."
   "Wow," Tanya exclaimed as she emerged from the bathroom, holding a wet brush.
   "Tanya, the soap is dripping on the floor."
   "No biggie; I was planning on mopping the hallway anyway. So, tell me what you're up to and where you've been."
   "I'm part of a crew of con artists at the 'Seventh Kilometer' Market," he replied.
   "You've settled in nicely," the girl genuinely delighted.
   "No complaints. The bosses provide food and housing, but the pay is peanuts. Thirty bucks a month won't get you far. There's no future there. Best you can hope for is to become a 'operator' in a few years."
   Tanya asked, "What does an 'operator' do?"
   "He manipulates the cups under which the shells or bottles are shuffled with a small rubber ball."
   "Got it," the girl responded, proceeding to clean the floor.
  
   With a rag in her hands, Tanya crawled along the hallway on her knees, and Alex couldn't help but stare at her bare legs and hips, barely concealed by a short robe.
  
   "I suspect you didn't just drop by," the girl remarked, taking a seat at the kitchen table beside him.
   "Should I skip the part where I really wanted to see you?" he asked.
   "We don't have much time; my parents could come back any minute," the girl said. "Let's skip the sentimental stuff and talk business."
   "I've figured out a way for us to make way more than what I can pull in at the market," the young man revealed.
   Tanya was surprised. "You have a plan?" she asked.
   "I wouldn't have shown up if I didn't have one."
  
   Seeing Tanya's incredulous expression, Alex pressed on, "I've thought about you every damn night. I've seen the guys you've been with, and I've been jealous, but I know I can't replace them. Then it hit me: we should start a business together. We've got something special that most others don't. I speak fluent English, and you're a top-notch model."
  
   "Stop with the compliments," Tanya interjected, feigning embarrassment, unaware of the adventure her guest was about to propose.
  
   "Let's put compliments aside," he said softly, gathering himself before laying out his plan. "I'll meet foreign tourists and sailors at the seaport on Fridays and Saturdays, then I'll bring them to your place in a taxi, and you'll serve them. We'll split the profits right down the middle."
  
   A bright blush spread across the girl's face. Tanya swung her hand, aiming to slap him on the cheek. But Alex caught her hand before it reached his face, placing it gently on the table. He continued, undeterred, "It's not a joke. Don't mess with me like that. I may look like a nice guy, but I can stand up for myself. I'm the Moscow boxing champion in the under sixty-four kilograms category. Think about it. Instead of spending your weekends with broke students and soldiers for fun, you could be making a hundred bucks a day. Over the weekend, you could rake in two or three hundred. By the end of the summer, you could even buy an apartment on the outskirts of Odessa."
  
   Disappointment twisted her face, and tears welled up in her eyes. "So, if I change partners often, I'm a whore and should be out on the street by a nightclub?" she said.
  
   "I didn't mean that. I admire you," Alex muttered, trying to squirm out of the uncomfortable situation.
  
   He attempted to stop her tears and change her perception of his proposal. "I thought your body was ready for sex, but your soul wasn't ready for true love. I'm sorry if I offended you. I love you, but I know you don't see me as your boyfriend. That's why I decided to help you break free from your parents and earn money for my flight to Russia at the same time."
   "Is that true?" Tanya asked, trying to calm herself down.
   "I swear on my life, I'm not lying," Alex replied sincerely.
  
   Just then, the sound of a key turning in the lock filled the room, and Tanya's father walked in, carrying two shopping bags-one filled with plums, the other with grapes.
  
   Placing the bags on the floor, her father said, "Sweetie, ask your boyfriend to grab the bags of veggies from the car trunk."
  
   Alex wasted no time. He sprinted back and forth, fetching boxes of potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, and eggplants.
  
   After Alex brought in all the vegetables, Tanya and he stepped outside.
  
   "I'll think about your suggestions. Maybe it's time for me to make a change," the girl said before bidding her friend farewell.
  
   Her words filled Alex with delight, and he added a few more arguments to support his proposal, "Besides keeping the apartment clean before your parents return from the cabin, owning your own place will give you more freedom. You can decide whether to clean the floors today or tomorrow. Look at me-I lost my parents, and I missed them like crazy, but I gained my independence. Today, I work for the Somovs, but tomorrow, I'll work for myself. We all need that psychological boost to become self-aware and pursue our own goals. By accepting my offer, you'll become the person you want, because you will be free from your parents' patronage."
  
   "Are you working tomorrow?" Tanya asked.
   "No," Alex replied.
   "Come over at ten in the morning, and we'll spend the day together, maybe even reach an agreement," she suggested.
   "Sounds great," Alex said, planting a kiss on Tanya's cheek.
  
   Tatyana's mother busily stored the perishable vegetables in the refrigerator, while her husband carried empty boxes out to the balcony. Grumbling to himself as he returned to the kitchen, he muttered, "She's got herself another new boyfriend. And this time, it's just a kid. She doesn't even bother being choosy anymore; she's willing to sleep with anyone."
  
   His wife continued preparing the vegetables, responding, "It's your fault. You've always suppressed your emotions when it comes to our only child. She doesn't realize that you have a soft heart and that your strict upbringing is just your way of protecting her. That's why she's constantly seeking male attention, easily falling for guys, and not being selective about her relationships. It's unfortunate that her only way of seeking attention is by jumping into bed with a man. I'm sure that the boy we saw today must have complimented her or said a few nice words, and I have no doubt he'll soon find himself in her bed. Can you tell me why?"
  
   The man remained silent.
  
   "No need to answer; I'll tell you myself," Tatyana's mother said, breaking the silence after a long pause. "It's because she's never heard those words from you. It's a shame, but what's even more shocking is that you never hesitate to compliment your nurses."
  
   On Mondays, taxis didn't serve the 'Seventh Kilometer' market, so Alex had to rely on the city bus and tram to reach Admiralsky Prospect. Despite his best efforts, he arrived a little late for their date. Tanya was waiting for him on a bench near the entrance as he approached.
  
   "Chivalrous men shouldn't keep their dates waiting," the girl teased.
   "We're business partners. I can't even fathom being your chivalrous suitor," the young man replied.
   "The future will reveal itself, but for now, let's get back to your plan," the girl responded.
   "What time do your parents usually leave for the cottage?" Alex asked.
   "They usually leave around six o'clock. They finish work around five, take thirty minutes to prepare, and then they're off," she explained.
   "For your safety, I'll bring your first client around seven and the second one by eleven. How does that schedule sound to you? Can you handle it?" Alex inquired.
   "I'm not sure. I've had sex with young guys four to five times a day, but I haven't been with older partners yet. In my opinion, a forty-year-old can't go at it more than twice in an hour, so I think two clients a day should be doable. I'm curious about how much we'll charge them," she pondered.
   "A hundred bucks an hour. I'll take half of it. If we're lucky, each of us can earn two hundred a week," Alex suggested.
   "Half for you? You must be joking. I'll be the one carrying most of the burden, both literally and figuratively," Tanya replied, unexpectedly revealing a commercial streak. "Sixty-forty, and starting from Friday, we're in business," she spat into her hand and extended it to shake Alex's hand.
   "Haggling isn't appropriate in this situation," Alex said, never having seen such a ritual before. However, he mimicked Tanya's action and they sealed the deal.
  
   Filled with excitement and emboldened by his success, Alex proposed to his new business partner, "Let's go to the city park, ride the Ferris wheel, catch a show at the dolphinarium, grab some ice cream at one of the cafes, and take a swim in the Black Sea."
  
   "Ferris wheel, ice cream, the beach, park strolls. You're such a strong guy physically, with a calculating mind, yet still a little boy at heart," Tanya responded, looking at Alex affectionately. "Let's head to my place, and I'll show you how I'll earn dollars for both of us."
  
   Grabbing Alex's hand, Tanya dragged him into the apartment building without waiting for his consent.
  
  
   "I started to worry about your safety," Alex confessed, lying on his back and gazing at the ceiling. "During these intimate encounters, you're so vulnerable that I would be afraid to leave you alone with a stranger."
  
   Naked, Tanya lay beside Alex, tracing her fingers along his chest while her bent leg rested on his lower belly.
  
   "I agree, there are certain things to consider," Tanya leaned back and pondered for a moment. "Some men are into rough sex. Though I haven't personally encountered any followers of Marquis de Sade, I've heard about them from friends. It would be better if you stayed in the kitchen while I worked in the bedroom."
  
   Alex hugged Tanya tightly and said thoughtfully, "At first, I wasn't sure if I could accept what I was proposing, and after these two hours, I have even less confidence. Sitting in the kitchen may not make me feel any better, but I won't let the clients disrespect you, and I won't let them leave without paying."
  
   Tanya cheerfully got up and exclaimed, "Now, get your strong ass up and take your girl to the park! Let's ride the carousel, have a meal at the restaurant, watch the dolphins, and go for a swim in the sea. As the women in our city say, 'Whoever sleeps with a girl makes her happy.'"
  
  
  Chapter Eight. July 25, 1995, Reutov
  
   About a hundred yards away from the intersection of Fifth Line and Transport Street, on the outskirts where the Industrial Zone met the residential area, a family of Russian refugees from war-torn Chechnya set up a BBQ café and a 24-hour grocery store. A solitary black Volga sedan stood in the parking lot in front of the entrance.
  
   Alongside the BBQ joint and the grocery store, there was a car wash and a large corrugated metal building. Further in the distance stood Nikolas' Baths.
  
   In the morning, two gangsters known as Afghan and Elephant sat across from each other at the table in the café. A tray of mutton kebabs rested between them, while a basket nearby was piled high with pierogies. Middle-aged spouses diligently served pancakes, grilled chicken, shawarma, and drinks from the kitchen.
  
   Elephant slowly chewed on a piece of pork, while Afghan held a pager, engrossed in reading and responding to messages.
  
   After savoring another delicious bite of fatty meat, the hulking Elephant asked, "What's the deal?"
   "Zafiros' spouses will be released from custody today with orders not to leave the city," Afghan replied.
   "When?" Elephant inquired, using a rag to wipe the grease off his chin.
   "The precinct officer just mentioned they would be released today," the war veteran murmured thoughtfully.
  
   "Why so soon? The Ukrainian police deported them from Odessa just three days ago," Elephant remarked, inspecting the shawarma on the table. Sprinkling it with greens and finely chopped vegetables, he took a big bite.
   "So soon because the prosecutors don't have a reason to keep them in custody," Afghan retorted. "Under Article 168 of the Russian Federation Criminal Code, they're only liable for a fine due to property damage caused by negligence. If they compensate their neighbors for the damages, no fine applies. The firefighters didn't classify the fire as deliberate arson, so there's no justification to keep them locked up. Their release actually works in our favor."
   "What's our move now?" Elephant finished his shawarma and grabbed a chicken leg.
   "We wait," Afghan replied.
   "Sounds like a good day by the sea," Elephant said, eyeing the golden skin on the chicken leg.
   "No, it's a signal from our informant. I instructed the cop to message me as soon as our 'clients' left the police building. It takes us ten minutes by car to reach their apartment building from here, and it'll take them fifteen minutes on foot from the city police headquarters," the retired officer explained his plan to his former weightlifter partner.
   Elephant's restlessness persisted as he asked, "So, we'll kidnap them, and then what?"
   "We'll bring them here and make them pay for fooling us like suckers," Afghan responded.
   "But where is 'here'?" Elephant inquired. "This café? It'll be packed by lunchtime, with dozens of witnesses."
  
   Elephant narrowed his eyes and stared intently at his accomplice.
  
   Unfazed, Afghan glared back coldly and warned, "Don't make me angry, Pavel." He then added, "You know I have the keys to the bathhouse, and not just the front entrance that anyone can use, but the back entrance to the VIP sauna."
   Elephant asked, casting a sideways glance, "Let me get this straight. You're the one calling the shots here, running the show with this café, food store, car wash, and bathhouse, all without our boss's knowledge, am I right?"
   "Where"s this suspicion coming from?" Afghan asked calmly.
   "Just observing the way the owners are acting around us," the accomplice replied, nodding towards the kitchen. "Seems like they're familiar with you."
   Afghan spoke in a sarcastic tone, "These are refugees from Grozny in Chechnya. They react this way because they recognize the darkness within you. They think that you're a monster," he said, glancing at Elephant. "And they know me because I frequent this place for lunch, collecting the patronage fee from the car wash."
  
   At eleven o'clock in the morning, a police corporal escorted George and Irina Zafiros to the investigator's office in the district attorney's building. Seated at the desk, the investigator sifted through the case materials, a mere ten sheets in a thin cardboard folder. The captain displayed no interest in this seemingly straightforward case. He skimmed over the arrest report and the fire inspectors' opinion, confirming the accidental nature of the fire. Instead, the captain focused on the protocol detailing the suspects' detention. Puzzled, he couldn't comprehend why these unfortunate spouses had been marked as wanted throughout the entire Union of Independent States, recently known as USSR.
  
   The investigator pondered aloud, "Who could possibly compel their neighbors to write to the police, demanding compensation for a burnt velour tablecloth from the prehistoric era and a cracked plywood bedside table? And, more importantly, why?"
  
   Frustrated by the lack of answers in front of him, the captain raised his head and studied the couple before him with careful scrutiny.
  
   "Remove their handcuffs, they can go," the investigator instructed the escort.
  
  The corporal complied, taking off the handcuffs before stepping away.
  
   "Please have a seat," the captain said to the Zafiros. "I have a few questions for you."
  
   Timidly, Irina and George sat down on the chairs facing the table.
  
   "Tell me honestly, what prompted you to abruptly leave the city, cross the border, and settle in Odessa, leaving behind your home and business?" the captain inquired.
   "We have no idea what you're talking about, officer," George responded, subtly signaling his wife to be cautious. "We simply went to my hometown for a vacation. We take full responsibility for the fire and are prepared to compensate the victims threefold for the damages."
   "I'm not a police officer; I'm a district attorney investigator assigned to your case, and I intend to continue questioning. Your answers did not satisfy my curiosity. However, you have the right to remain silent. But it would be in your best interest to answer my next question. Where is your son?" the investigator asked, maintaining a stern gaze on George.
   "We don't know," Irina replied, tears welling up in her eyes. "We haven't had any information about him since the moment we were detained in Odessa."
  
   George attempted to comfort his wife by drawing her closer.
  
   Raising his voice slightly, the investigator stated, "Your teenage son is a Russian citizen, and his name will be added to the list of missing children, even without your cooperation or request."
   George's demeanor shifted, and he gave the investigator a disdainful look. "Do you honestly believe that we are indifferent to the fate of our only heir?" he retorted.
   "I'll take your word for it. Since you have no knowledge of Alex's whereabouts, law enforcement officers will search for him without your assistance," the district attorney's office representative declared, pulling out two sheets of paper from the folder and sliding them to the edge of the table. "Now both of you must sign a recognizance not to leave the city, and until I receive feedback from the victims regarding restitution, you must remain within Reutov."
  
   Irina and George signed the papers, remaining standing before the captain of justice while the investigator placed the recognizance not to leave back into the folder.
  
   "Will we need to come back?" George inquired.
   "I will notify you in writing regarding the closure of your case," the captain assured. "You may leave."
  
  Irina had already crossed the threshold when George suddenly remembered his car. He turned sharply to the investigator and asked, "What happened to our car?"
   "What car are you referring to?" the captain asked in surprise.
   "We have a Lada that we used to travel to Odessa," George explained.
  
   Once again, the assistant prosecutor skimmed through the thin stack of pages in the binder, studying the cardboard case file with a somber expression. He then responded, "According to your arrest inventory, it appears that you only had two watches, your wallet, and your wife's jewelry in your possession. The car wasn"t mentioned in the criminal case. I believe your statement, but unfortunately, I can"t assist you further."
  
   Irina, without directing her question to anyone in particular, asked, "Should we go back to Odessa to search for the car?"
   "In my opinion, that might not be a wise decision. Ukraine, particularly Odessa, is plagued by the same issues we faced: crime, extortion, and corruption. You won't find the truth about your arrest or the fate of your Lada there," the assistant prosecutor remarked, closing his office door behind the Zafiros.
  
   Leaving the police station, the couple walked down Yuri Gagarin Street towards their five-story building. As they passed their boarded-up grocery store on Prospect Mira, Irina looked at the windows and doors with a sad expression and turned to George, asking, "What do we do now?"
  
   "First, we need to withdraw our savings from the local bank. Second, we'll compensate our neighbors for the damage. After that, we'll go with them to the investigator to get a document closing the case... And in the end, we'll return to Odessa to find our son," the husband replied.
   Irina burst into tears again. "Where can you find a homeless teenager in a city of a million?" she asked.
   "He made friends in the apartment building courtyard. Let's start by asking them; if they don't know where to find him, we can contact the police," George replied.
   "Do you really want to reach out to the same police department that arrested us? Those devils would rather kill us than help us," Irina said.
   "We still have a lot of money in in accounts in Odessa banks. We can either bribe the corrupt cops in another department or find a retired cop to pay off. Don't cry; I'll find our son," George assured his wife as best he could.
  
   The married couple turned off the street and entered the courtyard of their five-story apartment building while continuing their conversation. During their time in custody and in Odessa, nothing had changed. It was just as it was before - cars parked near the building entrances, kids playing on the playground under the shade of trees, and neighbors' laundry hanging on lines between metal poles over cracked asphalt.
  
   Both George and Irina approached the entrance and looked up at the second-floor balcony. The neighbors' apartment windows were intact. There was no sign of old furniture on the balcony. Only the black soot absorbed into the white sand-lime brick and plaster of the Zafiros' balcony reminded them of the incident.
  
   Irina took a deep breath, and George shook his head angrily and firmly opened the door. As Irina disappeared from view, Afghan emerged from the nearby Volga car and quickly followed the Zafiros couple. In the dimly lit lobby of the entrance, George pulled the handle on the inner door. As soon as he opened it, he received a powerful blow to the forehead.
  
   Elephant, who was hiding behind the door, struck George with his fist like a sledgehammer. Zafiros was thrown back towards his wife, who was following him. Irina tried to help her husband, but Afghan, who entered right behind her, grabbed her neck with his forearm and applied slight pressure. Her vision darkened.
  
   The thugs carried both spouses, paying no attention to the children watching from the playground, and forcefully shoved them into Afghan's car trunk.
  
   Fifteen minutes later, the black Volga returned to Fifth Line. This time, Afghan didn't park at the cafe entrance. Instead, he turned off the street onto a dead-end road and drove the Volga along a fence separating a grocery store, a tire shop, and a bathhouse from a dense grove with a small river.
  
   Afghan knew very well that no one stopped at this dead end, except for a few businessmen, local officials, prostitutes, and criminals. At the iron-studded door, he unlocked the lock and nodded to Elephant, saying, "Take them to the sauna while I turn on the heating elements so that the stones warm up properly."
  
   As Afghan entered the building, Elephant popped open the trunk and forcefully pulled George out. Zafiros, though conscious, felt disoriented, struggling to comprehend what was happening. After securing Irina in the trunk, the imposing Elephant led George to the sauna before returning.
  
   "Miss me, you piece of garbage?" Elephant sneered, gripping Irina's arms tightly. "You're gonna pay dearly."
  
   Irina cried out for help, but her pleas fell on deaf ears, except for the chirping birds in the nearby grove. The sounds of bustling factories in the city's Industrial Park drowned out her cries.
  
   Afghan settled into a luxurious leather chair near the minibar, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace. The couple's passports lay on the coffee table within easy reach of his right hand. George lay sprawled on the expensive carpet, with Afghan's shoes pressing down on his back. A billiard table stood behind Afghan, illuminated by a hanging lamp.
  
   "Strip the dame and toss her clothes into the fire. She won't be needing them anymore," Afghan commanded his accomplice, who held Irina captive.
   "Please, let me go," Irina pleaded desperately.
   "Ugh," groaned George.
   "Pavel, ignore their groans and pleas. They've already duped us once. We won't give them another chance to deceive us," Afghan advised, slashing open George's pants with a knife, flipping him onto his back, and asking, "You wanna undress yourself, or should I do it for you?"
   George whispered, "I'll do it."
   "Afghan, you planning to have your way with George? Didn't know you swung that way," Elephant chuckled, removing Irina's underwear.
   "Nah, neither of us is gonna touch him or her. I've got something else in mind for them," Afghan said, gripping George's hair to lift him off the ground. "Take her to the sauna. It's already heated up."
  
  The thugs forcefully ushered the naked couple into the scorching room.
  
   "Scream louder when you're ready to spill the beans on where you hid the money," Afghan taunted, closing the glass door behind them.
   "Why didn't you let me have a go at her?" Elephant asked, peering at the naked Irina through the thick glass.
   "What do we need their screams for?" Afghan questioned his partner. "We've got three eighteen-year-old girls for us and a sixteen-year-old boy for a friendly cop coming in an hour."
   "Sure we can handle it in an hour? When I used to cut weight before a weightlifting competition, I'd sit in a sauna for ages at a hundred and ten degrees Celsius. But look at her, not an ounce of fat on her body, and she ain't even breaking a sweat," Elephant observed.
   "Because of the low humidity inside the sauna, she's not sweating much. Just wait and see," Afghan explained, turning the lever embedded in the sauna wall.
  
   In an instant, the Zafiros' demeanor changed. They had been relatively calm until then, but now they grew restless. George groaned while Irina let out pained howls. Both of them frantically rubbed their naked bodies with their palms.
  
   "What's happening?" the former weightlifter inquired, watching the husband and wife.
   "Ever heard of the Finnish sport called Hoyrley?" Afghan asked.
   "Like our vodka-sauna-girl game? Who can down the most shots in the steam room and then srew the most hores?" the giant burst into laughter at his own crude joke.
   "Almost there, but not quite," Afghan raised his index finger to emphasize his point. "In those competitions, the Finns cool the stones with water periodically. So I poured half a liter of water on the scorching rocks. The temperature dropped by twenty degrees, but the humidity skyrocketed."
  
  Leaning against the glass, Elephant chimed in, "That's why they're panting like fish, gasping for air. Their lungs must be on fire."
   "Exactly. That's why they're covering their faces and rubbing themselves to get rid of the sweat. The sweat feels like boiling water on their skin now. Keep an eye on them, don't let them escape, and when they settle down, turn the lever for five seconds. Clear?" Afghan instructed.
  
   Elephant chuckled and twisted the lever, replying, "Of course, I'm not an idiot. Watch them squirm like they've been stung by bees."
  
   As Afghan left to make a call, Elephant remained by the glass, savoring the sadistic spectacle. Seizing the opportunity, he cranked the temperature adjuster to the maximum. The thermometer on the sauna door quickly soared past the extreme mark of 120 degrees Celsius, hitting the limit.
  
   Half a minute later, George rushed to the door, banging his fists against the smiling face of Elephant behind the glass.
  
   "Let me out! I'll spill everything!" George yelled desperately.
  
   Elephant opened the door, yanking George out of the sauna by his neck. Irina attempted to follow, but was blocked by the slamming door. The giant turned to face George and ordered, "Talk."
   "I can't bear this pain anymore, and I won't live if my wife sees me as a worthless piece of trash. If you kill her instantly, I'll give you every damn detail," George pleaded.
   "No problem," Elephant responded. "Stay put, I'll be right back."
  
   Leaving George, barely standing on his trembling legs, Elephant squeezed himself through the narrow and low door of the sauna. A minute later, he emerged, carrying the lifeless body of a woman in his arms.
  
   "She didn't suffer, just like you wanted," Elephant said, gently placing Irina's body on the floor.
  
   On his knees, George kissed his wife's cold forehead and whispered, "Forgive me, my love. I'll join you soon."
  
   Elephant tightened his grip around George's neck, hoisting him back to his feet. Locking eyes, he growled, "Where's your money, you slippery bastard?"
   George spat in Elephant's face and defiantly said, "Fuck you."
   Enraged, Elephant snarled, "You son of a bitch!"
  
   With a low, guttural growl, Elephant squeezed George's throat tightly in his powerful palm, lifting him off the ground and forcefully smashing his head against the sauna wall.
  
   "What caused you to roar like an injured bull?" Afghan's voice echoed from the open door to the sauna manager's office, followed by his hurried footsteps.
  
   Anton stepped into the sauna's dressing room and sat next to the lifeless bodies of Irina and George. He checked their pulses and cursed under his breath. "Damn it! Why did you have to kill them?"
   "He asked me to kill his wife, and when I did, he spat in my face. I would kill even you for that," Elephant seethed, spitting on the dead body before storming off to the break room.
  
   Soon, Afghan dragged Irina's lifeless body by the hands into the manager's office through the break room. From the billiard table, Elephant watched him with indifference, continuing to chase the white balls on the vibrant green cloth.
  
   Approaching Elephant, Afghan spoke, "Pavel, bring George's body into the office and lock the door. Three hookers and the local cop will be showing up real soon. Once the party's wrapped up and they're long gone, we'll take care of the bodies in the nearby grove.
   "Okay," Elephant replied.
  
   Anton hesitated for a moment, then added, "And one more thing. Don't inform the boss that the Zafiros died in the sauna. The boss doesn't need to know that I have full control here, and I'll take responsibility for their demise."
   "I see," Elephant nodded. "What should I say if he asks about the spouses?"
   "Tell him we strangled them and burned their bodies in Saltykovsky Forest Park," Anton responded, adding, "We used plastic bags for the strangulation."
   "Since you're calling the shots for the boss, I'll relay exactly what you said," Elephant agreed.
  
  *****
  
   On a delightful summer evening, with the sun not yet fully set but casting a reddish hue, a tall, muscular brunette in his mid-thirties enjoyed a cigar on the balcony of his two-story mansion. The owner of the country estate gazed upon his thirteen-year-old daughter as she swam with elegance, her movements creating gentle ripples on the serene surface of the pond. His eyes were filled with affection and pride at her graceful display.
  
   A German shepherd playfully romped along the lush green grass of the spacious lawn, eager to join the girl in the water but holding back, awaiting permission.
  
   The man standing on the balcony was Vladimir Mamonov, known in the criminal underworld as Mommy, a respected criminal lord. He had earned his nickname for his strict adherence to thieves' traditions and his paternalistic attitude towards his trusted associates. While some of the other criminals could have referred to him as Mammoth, Mamonov felt it would create confusion as one of his henchmen was already known as Elephant.
  
   During the ceremony crowning him as a 'thief-in-law,' Mamonov made a proclamation, stating, "Mammoth and Elephant will ensure that we have all the provisions we need for our enjoyment." Only a few of the gang members were aware of Mamonov's deviation from the fundamental laws of the criminal world. Defying the traditional code that crime lords should avoid attachments to a single woman and refrain from having legitimate children, Mamonov stood apart. He had a cherished ex-wife and a daughter, with whom he maintained a strong bond despite their divorce years ago.
  
   Mamonov's coronation as a thief-in-law had been preceded by a gathering of respected crime bosses at a restaurant in Lyubertsy. Among the various topics discussed was Mamonov's personal life and his relationships with women. Some attendees of the assembly opposed his candidacy for the honorary title due to his previous marriage. However, the influential criminal Anton Izmailovsky, who had nominated Mamonov, argued that the candidate had been divorced for many years and that his nine years in jail and his armed entourage outweighed any concerns about his personal life.
  
   The presence of several dozen fighters from Reutov did not sway the mafia godfathers. It was widely known that ten times more former athletes and ex-convicts in the neighboring region of Izmailovo would sacrifice their lives for Anton Izmailovsky. Similar loyalty was seen in other cities of the Moscow region, such as Solntsevo and Lyubertsy. Yet, Anton's persuasive words about the arsenal of weapons hidden in Mamonov's secret warehouses, including machine guns, grenade launchers, and anti-personnel mines, effectively silenced any objections to Vladimir's coronation.
  
   "Svetlana!" Vladimir called out to his daughter. "Get out of the water and come inside!"
   "Dad, just a little longer," Svetlana's voice echoed from the pond.
  
   Rather than replying, Mamonov let out a sharp whistle. The German shepherd immediately stopped in its tracks, turned, and dashed back towards its owner on the balcony. Svetlana was in the process of drying herself with a towel, getting dressed, and washing her feet in the pond. She watched as her dog settled on one of the balcony's supporting columns, fixated on Mamonov.
  
   Silently, the imposing figure of Elephant emerged from behind the leader of the local gang.
  
   "Boss, Afghan is waiting in the hall," the loyal bodyguard informed Mamonov.
   "Tell him to come up here," Vladimir instructed, his eyes following his daughter's graceful stride across the lawn.
  
   Svetlana affectionately patted the shepherd behind the ear and then headed into the house accompanied by the dog. Soon after, Afghan stepped out onto the balcony, greeting his boss.
  
   "Good evening, Vladimir," Afghan said.
  
   Mamonov did not acknowledge the greeting but instead inquired, "Have you completed the transfer of the 'At Irina' store to my brother-in-law?"
   "Two days ago, I signed the sale and purchase agreement on behalf of George and Irina Zafiros. Since yesterday, I have officially transferred ownership of their store to Potap, as well as their apartment on Peace Street," Afghan replied.
   "Have you encountered any difficulties?" Mamonov asked, his tone laced with expectation.
   "I stumbled upon a couple who bore an uncanny resemblance to Zafiros' spouses as indicated in their passports. Elephant and I escorted them to the notary's office, where they signed a deed of sale, transferring ownership of the apartment to your brother-in-law. As the notary scrutinized their faces and compared them to the passport photos, Elephant discreetly revealed the firearm tucked behind his belt. Instantly, the notary proceeded to certify all the necessary documents without further ado," came the response.
   "But what about the owners?" the boss inquired.
   "They were being transported from Odessa to our police temporary detention facility. The following day, the judge granted them bail, albeit a small one, on the condition that they wouldn't leave the city pending trial. Our informant tipped me off about this. Elephant and I met the spouses at the entrance of their former apartment building."
  
   Afghan paused for words to explain the reason for the murder of the spouses
  
   "What happened next?" Vladimir impatiently interjected.
  
   Since Afghan didn't want to reveal to the boss that he was overseeing operations at the Nikolsky baths, he fabricated details of the execution on the spot.
  
   "We took them to the nearest forest to wrench information about the whereabouts of their money. Based on my estimates, they had around a hundred thousand dollars."
   "And?" the criminal lord was tough, resolute, and detested it when narrators dilly-dallied.
  
   The boss's irritation grew, and he snapped, "Tell me how it ended. Don't beat around the bush."
  
   Afghan spoke quickly and said, "Initially, George claimed he had given everything to the Odessa cops. We didn't buy it, so we pressed his wife. Elephant stripped Irina and lay on top of her in front of George, but that sly Greek made a fool out of us once again. He admitted to giving ten thousand to the Odessa cops and depositing the rest in multiple Ukrainian banks. He said that if we killed his wife without torturing her, he would reveal the names of the banks and the account numbers. However, if we rape, he would die with his wife, keeping his silence."
   "Well," Mamonov said, growing impatient.
   "Elephant strangled her," Afghan recalled the murder with an unsettling feeling. "And then, for three more hours, we tried to extract the money information from George. Believe me, it was like squeezing blood from a stone. He died with a plastic bag over his head, refusing to utter a single word."
   Mamonov pondered and said, "They had a son."
   "Yes, they did, but none of our people saw him, and neither the Odessa police nor we could find a picture of him."
   "What did you do with the bodies?" the disgruntled boss inquired.
   "I doused them with gasoline and set them on fire," replied Afghan.
   "Did you bury them?" Vladimir asked.
   "No. We didn't have shovels, so we left their corpses under a tree."
   Mamonov questioned, "Where are their passports?"
   "At my place," Afghan answered.
   "Bring them here," Mamonov ordered.
   "I will," the 'foreman' of the fighters assured.
  
   Vladimir held Afghan's contribution in high regard when it came to bolstering the combat prowess of their organized criminal group within their city. Through his connections with former servicemen, Anton arranged for the delivery of weapons for the Reutov lads. However, the criminal lord understood that his assistant lacked the cunning of a seasoned criminal.
  
   "Did you know George's nationality?" Mamonov asked
   Afghan replied, "Greek."
   "Yes, he was Greek. You're a sharp guy. Have you ever read Leskov's treatise 'A Jew in Russia'?" Mamonov asked.
   "I haven't read it, but what does it have to do with Jews?" Afghan was perplexed.
   "You'll find out soon enough," the kingpin remarked.
  
  
   Mamonov had spent a quarter of his life behind bars. He never cooperated with prison administration, nor worked in either workshops or kitchens. Throughout his time in prison, he settled conflicts among inmates and immersed himself in books from prison libraries.
  
  Quoting a Russian writer from the nineteenth century, Vladimir stated, "In Russia, it has been ingrained since ancient times that a Gypsy can deceive a Russian, a Jew can deceive a Gypsy, an Armenian can deceive a Jew, a Greek can deceive an Armenian, and only a devil can deceive a Greek, if God allows it," and asked in a didactic tone, "Do you understand?"
  
  Afghan remained silent. He felt irked being lectured by a career criminal who preferred vices like alcohol, drugs, and gambling over knowledge.
  
  "Anyway, what's the latest with Svyat?" Mamonov changed the topic.
  
  "We're gradually squeezing out parts for foreign car his outlets and storing them in your 'BMW-Service' car repair shop," Afghan responded.
  
  "Excellent," the boss expressed his satisfaction and strolled from the balcony into his spacious office.
  
  "Close the door behind you," Mamonov commanded without bothering to face Afghan, who obediently trailed behind and shut the door. Criminal lord settled into the chair, propped his feet up on the desk, and took a sip of whiskey from a crystal glass. As he steered the conversation towards the pressing matters at hand, Vladimir decided to ascertain whether Afghan had any combat experience, "Now, let's cut to the chase. Prior to my last incarceration, Svyat praised your abilities and mentioned your military background. Can you confirm if you indeed have military education and participated in bloody battles ?"
  
  "Seven years ago, I graduated from the Moscow Higher Command Infantry Military College and after that I served in Afghanistan?" a shot caller affirmed.
  
  "Did you earn your nickname from fighting against the Mujahideen?" Mamonov inquired.
  
  "I commanded a motorized rifle platoon near Kandahar for six months, until Gorbachev withdrew our forces from there," Afghan explained.
  
  "That makes you a veteran. Do you have any medals? Perhaps even orders?" Mamonov pressed.
  
  Afghan remained silent, offering no response.
  
   Unfazed by the fact that his loyal associate didn't respond to the question, Mamonov pressed on, undeterred, "I'm looking to recruit new fighters and reorganize our structure in a more strategic manner, anticipating the inevitable war with Svyat's gang. Can you propose any measures to minimize the risk of losing our members in case of arrest or betrayal?"
   "Yes, I have some ideas to strengthen our organization. With your authorization, I can build a force that will make Svyat and the neighboring gangs green with envy. And if they don't strangle themselves, we'll hang them over," Afghan confidently replied.
  
   Mamonov reflected on the matter at hand, recognizing the differences in the war against Svyat compared to the other gangs.
   "God forbid we wage war against the Solntsevo and Izmailovo gangs. It's a different story with Svyat. He hadn't been officially crowned as a criminal lord; he was merely a prominent figure, a shot caller, much like you are.
  The godfathers know that Svyat led my gang during my time behind bars. They won't take any action against me for going after him. But if we attack the crowned criminal lords, they'll bury our heads in concrete, leaving us like ostriches in the sand. Let's focus on the task," Mamonov declared, picking up a sharp knife from the table and deftly rotating it between his fingers.
   "I suggest we break our group into smaller teams of five. Each fighter should only know the other members of their team. The team leaders will have direct access to the area overesser. Responsibilities will be assigned within each team of five. The smartest person will assume command, accompanied by a physically imposing individual who exerts psychological influence, and two skilled boxers or wrestlers. The fifth member will serve as a scout and also act as a courier, transporting weapons to and from the operation site. My suggestion is to recruit boys from sports clubs. It serves a double purpose. Firstly, if a boy gets arrested, the sentence will be relatively short due to his underage. Secondly, the sooner he realizes that there's no turning back to a normal life, the sooner he'll come back to us as a seasoned thief, having served time in a juvenile detention center. Boys are fearless when they're single-minded. I remember it from my own teenage years, without a shred of doubt or pity," Afghan explained.
   Mamonov remarked, "You're still ruthless."
   "Today, being ruthless is a conscious decision, not a result of youthful recklessness," Afghan replied.
  
   "Well done, Anton!" Mamonov praised him using his name, recognizing his military approach to business. "I appreciate your innovative thinking, such as embracing mobile phones, pagers, and computers. However, I must remember that I'm the kingpin. Therefore, I'll appoint group leaders exclusively from those who have served prison terms. By the way, who is the first deputy commander in the army?"
   "The Chief of Staff," Afghan answered.
   Mamonov chuckled, "Excellent! From now on, you'll run my headquarters. Prepare a list of squads, determine the required number of pagers, mobile phones, and vehicles. Present your plan to me when you're ready."
  
  
  Chapter Nine. October 7, 1995, Odessa - Reutov.
  
   On the early evening of the first Monday in October, Alex stepped out of a taxi on the Kiev highway, across from the Daewoo car dealership. Uninterested in the models of Korean sedans, he swiftly passed by the car shop. Just a hundred meters away from the glass-fronted building of the Far Eastern car dealership stood the local logistic center of the Post of Ukraine. Each day, numerous trucks loaded with parcels and letters departed from the logistic center, destined for cities across the country and neighboring nations.
  
   Approaching the gates of the state enterprise, Alex observed how the armed security guards diligently checked the documents of drivers exiting the warehouse area and returning from long trips. They also verified the identification of employees who parked their cars in the lot outside the postal facility.
  
   As he contemplated his next move, Alex thought, "I can't enter the truck stop through the main entrance. But I could either explore the entire warehouse territory for a hole in the fence or memorize a trucker's entry and wait for them... No, that would take too long, and I can't be sure if the trucker I remember will be going where I want."
  
   Approaching the guard, Alex inquired, "Excuse me, I'm waiting for my father to return from a business trip. He was supposed to be here an hour ago, but he hasn't arrived yet. What time does the center close? Should I wait for him today or come back tomorrow?"
   "We're open 24/7. Drivers come and go at all hours. It's up to you to decide what's best," replied the guard.
   "Thank you," the teen responded and made his way towards the highway that linked the coastal gem of Odessa to the capital city of Kiev.
  
   Stepping onto the highway shoulder, he quickened his pace towards the flow of cars and, after an hour, ended up at on the rear side of the terminal. As he suspected, there was no fence where a twenty-meter stretch of forest separated the railroad gravel embankment from the corner of the warehouses.
  
   "I was right about the gap. I'm sure it's marked on the topography drawing and mentioned in the builders' report. But the contractors didn't bother to dig the foundation. And," Alex thought, wiping the soles of his sneakers on the grass to remove excrement, "the drivers seem to be pleased about it. It's much easier to sneak around the corner of the warehouse and squat in the grove to 'contemplate the meaning of life' while shitting than to walk two hundred meters to the stinky restroom."
  
   He approached the first semi-trailer from the corner of the warehouse, leaned his backpack against the wheel, and sat down underneath it. Observing the terminal's territory from the bottom of the trailer became monotonous. As the day drew to a close, activity in the area slowed down, and Alex didn't realize how quickly he was dozing off.
  
   The sound of a diesel engine brought him back to consciousness. In the dim pre-dawn light, he saw a truck approaching the semi-trailer beneath which he was sitting. Alex rose and walked around the corner. Soon after, a kingpin was inserted into the truck's saddle, and the driver hopped out of the cab, connecting the brake hoses and electrical lines of the vehicle.
  
   A warehouse door creaked open, and someone descended the iron stairs. Peering around the corner, Alex saw a clerk hand a folder of documents to the driver, who then disappeared behind the tractor. Alex was ready to leave his hiding spot and ask the driver to let him accompany him, but instead of getting into the cab, the driver placed the papers on the seat, closed the door, and headed toward the grove.
  
   Moving away from the corner, Alex pondered, "He's gonna take a leak before hitting the long road. I gotta wait 'til he's done. If I interrupt, he'll either wet his damn pants or get pissed at me."
  
   The driver relieved himself on the grass by the roadside and sang out:
  
   "I always take a piss before I go,
   Makes me feel better, don't you know?"
  
   Alex struggled to contain his laughter upon hearing the driver's unexpected serenade.
  
   "Take it slow, trucker, don't speed away,
   Stay awake on the highway, that's all I say."
  
   "Excuse me, sir," Alex called out as the driver finished up and turned toward the truck. "Could you give me a lift?"
   The driver jerked in surprise, turned to face Alex, and asked, "Does it matter where I'm headed?"
   "Well, I do have a preference. I need to get to Moscow, but I figured you might be heading north toward Kiev or east toward Donetsk. Either way, it would bring me closer to Russia than where I am now," the teen explained.
   "Why don't you take the train? Don't you have any money?" the driver asked, impressed by the boy's straightforwardness and discretion.
   "I do have money and can pay for the ride, but I don't have any documents. I ran away from home last summer and initially planned to visit Sochi on the Black Sea. However, I changed my mind, thinking the Russian authorities might track me down there as they requested it from my parents. I believed they wouldn't search for me in Odessa, and it turns out I was right. I've been surviving here for four months with just a backpack," Alex shared.
   "So, you want me to help you cross the border without any papers?"
   "Exactly. What's the problem? I found myself in the same situation. Your colleague took me across the Russian-Ukrainian border for a hundred dollars."
   "How did he manage that?" the driver asked, incredulous.
   "He was transporting a dozen sedans from Moscow to Kiev on an open platform, and he stashed me in the trunk of one of them. The journey went smoothly," Alex revealed.
   "I see. So, are you a local or a Russian?" the driver inquired.
   "I'm a Greek from Odessa," Alex replied.
   "Now I understand. But here's the thing-I'm not just an ordinary trucker. I'm a civil servant responsible for carrying the mail, and I'm not authorized to take passengers. I'm sorry, but I can't give you a ride," the driver explained, opening the cab door.
   "What if I offer you two hundred dollars?" Alex raised his bid.
   "Damn it, you're killing me. That's my monthly salary," the driver contemplated for a moment before making up his mind. "To hell with it, get in the sleeping compartment."
  
  
   The driver took his place behind the wheel and smoothly made his way toward the gate. Once he reached the barrier, he turned to the passenger and asked, "What's your name?"
   "Alex," the youth replied.
   "Sit quietly behind the curtain until I call for you," the trucker instructed.
   "I will," Alex nodded.
  
   A security guard meticulously checked the driver's license, waybill, awning seal, and cargo documents before finally opening the barrier.
  
   "Alex, come out," he called out as the truck accelerated on the Kiev highway.
   "Sorry, but I never got your name, and where exactly are we heading?" Alex inquired, settling into the passenger seat on the right.
   "Call me Michael," the middle-aged man replied. "And we're headed to Bryansk. First, we'll unload a portion of Kiev's cargo and pick up parcels and letters from Russia. Take off your shoes; no need for your feet to suffer in those sneakers."
   "Are we going to spend the night in Kiev?" Alex asked, slipping off his shoes.
   "No, while the truck is being unloaded and reloaded, you and I will grab some lunch and continue on," Michael explained.
   "Have you always worked for the post office?" Alex inquired, eager to learn more about the driver's career.
   "No, I've been with them for two years now. Before that, I spent a good twenty-five years behind the wheel, driving all over Ukraine and the Soviet Union," Michael revealed.
   "Why did you switch jobs?"
   "It's a bit calmer here," the driver replied. "The label on the truck reads 'The Post of Ukraine,' which means the cargo value is next to nothing. Letters and parcels."
   "How many times have you been robbed on the road?" Alex inquired, curious about the trucker's adventures.
   "A few times, but each one left a lasting impression," the trucker responded. "I'm grateful the robbers spared my life and only took the cargo. I was tied up for a few hours," he reminisced, as if reliving those unpleasant moments. "Soiled pants and a lot of hassle. That's the extent of my losses, but some of my colleagues haven't been as fortunate. Some have vanished without a trace. In one instance, I didn't even notice when the bandits emptied my truck."
   "How did that happen?" Alex asked, surprised, sensing that the driver anticipated his question.
   "I was transporting a load on my way back from Siberia," Michael launched into his story, "On my trip from Omsk to Tyumen, hauling those delectable meat delicacies, I decided to call it a night about an hour outside of Ishim. I grabbed a bite to eat on the side of the road and drifted off to sleep. But when I woke up in the morning, ready to relieve myself, I was hit with a shock-my truck's doors were flung wide open. Typically, I have the tendency to sleep lightly, especially with the weight of the cargo on my shoulders. But on that particular occasion, I was out like a light. Thankfully, I hadn't budged the truck from its spot. I managed to flag down another driver who called the police for me. After a thorough investigation, the forensic experts in Ishim discovered traces of ether in the truck's air system. Those sneaky thieves had pumped it in to knock me out cold. It turned out to be a stroke of luck, sparing me from crippling debt and even a stint behind bars. The insurance company acknowledged it as a covered incident."
   "You're lucky; not everyone would have been able to get out of such a situation," said Alex.
   "I haven't always been so fortunate," the driver continued after a long pause. "Three years ago, I was tasked with transporting a segment of the Antonov-Seventy aircraft's wing from the Kiev Antonov design bureau to the Tashkent aircraft building plant. The route spanned two thousand kilometers through Kazakhstan. I had to pay off bandits five times on the way there and another five times on the return journey. Despite the fact that nobody needed the wing, and I had no cargo on the way back. If it were a commercial shipment, the load owner would have compensated me for the expenses. But since it was state property, I ended up covering five thousand kilometers for nothing. The earnings from the trip barely covered the ransom I had to pay."
   Alex asked, "Couldn't you have defended yourself against the extortionists? Perhaps with a baseball bat, an iron bar, or pepper spray?"
   "Defending the cargo through force would have been costlier," the driver explained. "Those who aim to steal a truck, or worse, take both the shipment and the vehicle, don't back down easily. They block the highway and attack from all directions. And those who extort tolls never show guns. They plant drugs in the trucks of drivers who refuse to pay and then call the corrupt police."
   "I see. Have you ever thought about working within the Odessa region? It might allow you to spend more time at home," Alex suggested, trying to understand what keeps the driver behind the wheel for weeks on end.
   Michael agreed, saying, "Truck driving is undoubtedly crazy and incredibly unhealthy. But after a few days of rest at home, I feel drawn back to the road, like a sailor to the sea or a pilot to the sky."
  
   As they continued their journey, Michael shared more about his life, and time seemed to fly by for both of them.
  
   "Alex, grab the thermos of coffee and snacks from my backpack," Michael instructed, as they approached a traffic jam.
  
   Michael and Alex enjoyed sandwiches while Alex shared a condensed version of his own story: "When I was five years old, my maternal grandfather passed away in the village of Kosino near Moscow. After that, my grandmother was left alone, and my mother persuaded my father to exchange our two-room apartment in Odessa for one in Reutov. In Odessa, my father worked as a chief accountant at a cannery, but he couldn't find a comparable position in Reutov. He went through several jobs and eventually started his own business. My mother, who was a teacher, gave up her thankless job to become a salesperson at the family grocery store. That's how we've been living."
  
   "Why didn't you stay with your ancestors? Why did you rush out of the house?" Michael asked, surprised.
   "I wanted freedom," Alex lied. "I have a thirst for adventure."
  
   The young man had vivid memories of Kiev, particularly the new buildings on the outskirts and the Moscow bridge. As they made their way towards the state border, the driver entertained both Alex and himself with humorous anecdotes from his life as a trucker.
  
  
   "There was also an incident in Siberia," Michael recalled, passing the village of Bobrik. "Once, I was following a log truck with a trailer full of round timber. One of the logs hung to the side and knocked down road signs before colliding with the rear bumper of a parked car. The log tore off the car's trunk and roof, sending it into a ditch. As luck would have it, the driver of the parked sedan happened to be relieving himself in a roadside ditch, assuming a rather peculiar pose resembling that of an eagle. Can you imagine the sheer fright that overcame him as his mangled car whizzed by?"
   "He probably squeezed out more than he bargained for," Alex laughed until tears streamed down his face.
   "Indeed," Michael chimed in, sharing a hearty laugh with the young man, brightening the mood.
  
   As twilight descended, the truck left Krolevets and entered a dense forest. After a few kilometers, the driver veered off the road, came to a stop, and said, "Alex, get out; it's time to hide. The state border is forty kilometers away, and there are open plains beyond this forest."
  
   Michael dropped his belongings on the floor and shifted the gearbox to neutral before jumping out of the truck. Alex observed attentively as the driver raised the grate beneath the cab's glass and turned the lock with a handle. He then began operating the hydraulic pump for the lift with a lever. Ten minutes later, the cab was hanged over the roadside.
  
   Anxiously, Alex asked, "What do we do now?"
   The driver replied, "Can you see the rope holding the awning in place?"
   "Yes, it runs all around the trailer," Alex responded.
   "Exactly, and its ends are concealed in a sealed lock. If you cut it carefully, without breaking the seals, you can raise the awning and access the cargo compartment," Michael explained.
  
   Curious to learn the intricate details of how truckers could steal the cargo they were transporting while avoiding suspicion, Alex asked, "How do you reattach the cable?"
   Michael, squatting beside the driver's seat, gestured for Alex to join him. "I'll show you now," he said, climbing under the cab. "Climb up here and bring your backpack."
  
   Alex climbed onto the frame under the cab and crouched next to Michael.
  
   "Do you see how the cable passes under the spare tire and emerges on the other side?" Michael illuminated the area with a pocket flashlight, revealing the thin Polyvinyl chloride tube attached to the transparent cable sheath. "That's the wire, cut and reconnected, with a PVC tube to prevent it from breaking."
   "It seems like a fragile setup. How long can it hold?" Alex wondered.
   "There's no tension on the cable at all. You see those metal rings at the edges of the cover? They're placed on cones, and the cable threads through those cones, only preventing the rings from falling off," the driver explained.
  
   Removing the scotch tape from one side of the tube, Michael detached the metal string from the cable. Looking outside the cabin, he lifted the awning and instructed Alex, "Go inside and sit quietly. I'll let you out on the Russian side."
   Alex slipped between the awning and the trailer, and Michael restored the cable, lowered the truck's cab, and continued rolling towards the border.
  
   Two hours later, the driver stopped the truck, and Michael let Alex out of the trailer. A beaming Alex handed over the money to the driver and said, "Here are two hundred bucks for you. Thank you so much. Not only did you fulfill your part of the deal, but you also opened my eyes to an entirely new industry. I feel like a savvy specialist in this field now."
   Michael, slightly taken aback by the young man's gratitude, responded with a touch of embarrassment, "We haven't quite reached Bryansk yet, so it may be a bit premature to express your gratitude."
   "I understand, but the fact that I'm already in Russia makes me incredibly happy," Alex replied with a contented smile.
  
  
  Chapter Ten. October 10, 1995. Reutov
  
   Towards the end of the autumn evening, Alex hopped off the bus at the Kosino children's sea club, strolled a few hundred meters towards the three temples near the White Lake, and unlatched a gate in a low wooden fence.
  
   His grandmother, Daria Mikheeva, resided in a log house on a brick foundation, boasting four windows overlooking Big Kosino Street. However, two of those windows were boarded up with white-painted plywood sheets.
  
   Through the tulle curtains adorning the surviving windows, faint light emanated from a floor lamp and the flickering glow of a TV in operation.
  
   Alex shut the gate behind him and ascended the steps to the front door, his heart pounding rapidly. Uncertain of his mother's fate, he was unsure how to break the news to his grandmother about her daughter.
  
   He pressed the doorbell, and after a minute, a woman emerged from inside, shuffling her feet.
  
   "Who's there at such a late hour?" Daria asked, her displeasure evident from behind the door.
   "Babushka Daria, it's me, Alex," the grandson replied.
   "Oh, my dear Alex has arrived!" the grandmother exclaimed joyfully, swinging the door open and scanning the yard beyond Alex's back. "And where are Mom and Dad?"
   "Let's go inside; I'll fill you in on everything," the grandson said sadly, embracing his grandmother and leading her to the upstairs room.
  
   Seated at a round dining table with her grandson, Daria's face displayed profound concern. Alex had just finished his dinner and recounted the events of the past three months. His grandmother carefully considered what she had heard.
  
   After a lengthy pause, she asked, "What do you plan to do?"
   The young man replied, "I'll return to our apartment. I don't have the key, but the locksmith from the housing office recognizes me; he can unlock the door. Then I'll purchase new locks. I have the money, so I'll settle there and get back to school."
   "You can't go back to your apartment or school," the older woman objected with a sigh. She added, "You'll live with me."
   "Granny, you think I won't be able to handle the household chores or pay the bills. But why can't I go to school?" Alex was taken aback. "I only have one more year left."
   "Because the people who unjustly imprisoned your parents are now on the hunt for you. If they arrested Irina and George on flimsy grounds, the person who ordered their arrest will likely do the same to you. Therefore, my dear grandson, abandon the notion that you are a Zafiros forever. From this evening onward, consider yourself Mikheev, the son of my eldest son Michael, and not Irina," Daria's eyes welled up with tears. Draping a corner of her shawl over her shoulders, the old woman brushed them away and added, "So, inform anyone who inquires."
   "Can I go back to the boxing club?" Alex asked.
   "If you trust your coach and he can place you in a group where you're unknown. You see, nobody should know that Alex Zafiros has returned to the city. To everyone who knew you, you vanished, or else you will truly disappear. The same individuals who chased George from Reutovo and captured him fifteen hundred kilometers away will pulverize you. Do you grasp the danger you're facing?" the grandma inquired.
   Alex furrowed his brow, the weight of anxiety for his own life adding to his concern for his parents. He responded, "Alright, granny. I understand."
   He then reached into his pocket, pulling out a few hundred dollars and placing them on the table. "That's all I managed to save in Odessa."
   "You can keep it for yourself. I have my pension and a veteran's allowance. It's enough for both of us," Daria insisted.
   "Your pension won't cover all our expenses. I'll convert the dollars to rubles and give them to you. Since I won't be able to go back to school, I'll have plenty of free time to figure out how to make money for our living arrangements," Alex objected.
   "My dear grandson will find a way to make money," the grandmother said affectionately, stroking his blond hair with her palm. "Go rest in the kids' room. Your mother's bed is still there. No one has slept on it since Irina got married. When I realized she was going to be with George forever, I asked my neighbor to cover the windows with plywood to keep the room warm. Please remove the plywood in the morning, and I'll give you curtains to hang on the rods. Then you'll have your cozy home again."
  
   As Alex made his way to the next room, his grandmother washed the dishes in the kitchen, sat at the small kitchen table, and began to cry softly.
  
  
  
   A week after his return from the Moscow suburbs, Alex pushed open the door of the boxing club. His trainer greeted him with a mix of emotions. Victor breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Alex standing before him, alive and well. However, the experienced trainer couldn't help but notice that the spark of fighting spirit that had once set Alex apart from his peers was now dimmed.
  
   Welcome back, Alex," Victor said, his voice tinged with a mixture of relief and determination. "We've missed you here at the club. Let's get back to work, shall we? Together, we'll bring back that fighting spirit that made you stand out from the rest."
  
   Greeting Alex with a mix of emotions, Victor masked his concern and offered a faint smile. Deep down, he knew that rebuilding that fighting spirit would be no easy task. But he was determined to help Alex find his way back, to reignite the fire that had once burned so brightly within him.
  
   It was evident in the way Alex moved, the fire in his eyes subdued. The energy and determination that had fuelled his punches seemed to have waned. Victor's heart sank as he realized that the trials and tribulations of the past few months had taken their toll on his young protégé.
  
   The trainer was taken aback by a series of requests from Alex. First, Alex asked his trainer not to consider him a promising boxer anymore, requesting less individual attention. Second, he informed the trainer that he had a new surname and requested that he not be called by his old last name. Additionally, Alex asked to train with the younger group early in the morning.
  
   Told man was surprised by this and made a counter-offer, saying, "I assume you don't want to train with your peers. Wouldn't it be more convenient for you to join the senior group? They start at ten in the morning and finish before lunchtime."
   "That works for me," Alex replied, handing the trainer fifty dollars. "Here's your pay for August, September, and three months in advance."
   "You don't need to pay for the months you've been away," the coach objected, returning the twenty dollars to Alex.
   "I owe you much more than money, coach. Just trust me," the young man assured him.
   As Alex held onto the crumpled twenty-dollar bill, refusing to let it slip from his grasp, the trainer couldn't help but feel a sense of intrigue. In the quiet solitude of the gym, Alex's words carried a weight that resonated deep within the seasoned mentor. This was no longer the same boy who had been admonished for his smoking habit; this was someone entirely transformed.
  
   The trainer had a myriad of questions swirling in his mind. He wanted to know Alex's new address, phone number, and whether he had plans to continue his education. Yet, instead of delving into those inquiries, he chose a different path.
  
   "I have to warn you," the trainer spoke, his tone laced with caution. "Sergey will be turning eighteen in January, and I've already moved him up to the senior group for this school year. So, whether you like it or not, you'll still have a chance to see one of your old friends."
   "Sergey was my best friend, and I hope he remains as such," the teenager replied, his words tinged with a mix of nostalgia and determination.
   "Now, go change your clothes, and we'll focus on perfecting your swings and crosses," the trainer instructed.
  
   Inside the ring, Alex felt a sense of familiarity and belonging that he hadn't experienced while lounging on the couch at his grandmother's countryside abode. He practiced tirelessly, delivering side blows with precision and unleashing powerful punches that found their mark on the trainer's boxing pads. Victor deftly evaded the young man's strikes, offering simulated counterattacks in response.
  
   Gradually, the gym began to fill with junior boxers, their energy and enthusiasm permeating the space. As everyone settled in for practice, the trainer introduced the newcomer by name and requested a discount for his young age.
  
   Sergey greeted Alex with a friendly smile and was about to mention to the group that some of them could use a discount too. However, a quick look from the coach, his fist discreetly pointing at Sergey, stopped the words from escaping Sergey's lips.
  
   As practice neared its end, a figure entered through the doorway, emanating a strong presence. Elephant, accompanied by Mamonov and Anton, stood at the entrance, surveying the scene with an intense gaze.
  
   Anton sported vibrant lemon-colored trousers paired with a brown leather belt. His well-built torso remained concealed beneath a pale yellow shirt, left unbuttoned, and topped with a burgundy jacket. A purple scarf was wrapped around his neck. Afghan purposefully kept his hands tucked in his pants pockets, allowing all the boys to catch glimpses of the black pistol grip, the outline of his shoulder holster, and the clip within it.
  
   A massive gold ring, embedded with glistening diamonds, adorned his finger, shining brightly like the sun. A thick gold chain, dripping with excess, effortlessly hung around his neck, its purpose solely to make an impact on the aspiring athletes. These accessories complemented his stylish outfit and acted as a lure for unsuspecting youth.
  
   Anton's indulgence in such lavish jewelry was a strategic move, a deliberate effort to create an aura of attraction and power. By displaying these symbols of wealth and status, he aimed to entice the young athletes into his world, painting a picture of luxury and influence that would be hard to resist.
  
   The mob boss was dressed in a dark gray suit, a long white scarf, and a leather coat. A massive gold ring with diamonds sparkled on his finger, and a thick gold chain hung around his neck, resting on a silk shirt.
  
   Normally, Vladimir avoided individuals who showed off their wealth. The fancy Italian shoes Mamonov wore that evening disgusted him, especially the long-pointed toes that forced Mamonov to be cautious with his every step.
   When he saw a classmate wearing similar shoes, who held a high position in the city government, Mamonov had told him, "Maxim, you look like a clown when you walk like that." In response, a regional bureaucrat had said, "You've made everyone fear you, and people respect you even when you're dressed in tracksuits and worn-out sneakers. The upper class only respects those who dress in the latest fashion, drive expensive cars, and own big houses."
   Mamonov grasped the meaning behind his classmate's words. For a high-profile crime lord who frequently indulged the lads in lavish government house gatherings, it was all meaningless. It was crystal clear to him that the thief in law's reputation was built upon his actions. Wise words, grand intentions, or flaunting material possessions like expensive cars and arm candy didn't hold any weight.
  
   Although the kingpin typically favoured an air of modesty and demanded the same from his inner circle, today deviated from the norm. Donning their extravagant attire, Reutov's mafia boss and his closest associates showcased the luxurious side of gangster life to the young boys.
  
   Elephant's attire contrasted with that of the boss and Afghan. The weightlifter's imposing physique was clad in a navy blue Adidas tracksuit and a cropped leather jacket. Black Puma sneakers adorned his feet.
  
  
   Mamonov came to a halt just a couple of steps away from the door, with Elephant standing behind him, his imposing figure completely blocking the doorway. Meanwhile, Anton headed towards the boxing ring. Engaged in sparring with Sergey, Alex caught a glimpse of the unwelcome guests from the corner of his eye and promptly alerted the trainer, "We have some uninvited visitors."
  
   Removing his boxing gloves, the trainer slipped under the ropes, ready to confront Afghan. "Hey, buddy," he said, "outdoor shoes aren't allowed in the gym."
   "I couldn't care less about what's forbidden in here," the bandit retorted calmly. "Are you the boss around here? Follow me; that gentleman wants to talk to you," Afghan said.
  
   It didn't faze the trainer. He approached the pair of men who stared him down, displaying a calm demeanor.
  
   The kingpin posed a question to Mamonov as he approached, "Trainer, do you know who I am?"
   The old man responded, "You're Vladimir Mamonov."
   "Good," he replied. "Do you know why I'm here?"
   "I can guess," the trainer retorted, not bothering to conceal his dislike. "You want my guys to join your ranks."
   "Can you assist us?" Afghan inquired, his hope for approval dwindling.
   "No, that's not my concern. I train athletes, and if they choose to become criminals, it's not my responsibility," Victor firmly replied.
   "Thank you for being straightforward," Mamonov acknowledged.
   Afghan shot back, "Go back to your boxers."
  
   As the trainer climbed into the ring, Vladimir turned to Afghan and spoke up:
   "Anton, make it clear to these young folks that your boss has a deep passion for martial arts and grew up in humble gyms. Explain to them that I understand the struggle to find funds for training, equipment, and competitions. Assure them that those in need of sponsorship will receive it."
  
   Bypassing the table adorned with a gong, Afghan struck the brass circle several times with a hammer, capturing the attention of the boxers who paused their training and turned towards him.
   Climbing into the ring, the gangster reiterated the boss's words. Afghan added, "If any of you require sponsorship, approach me and fill out a form to receive financial assistance."
  
   The trainer declared, "Practice is now concluded."
  
   Anton took a seat at the trainer's desk. Five individuals, including Alex and Sergey, diligently completed the questionnaires, providing their names, surnames, and addresses. Alex opted to register under his mother's surname and assumed the identity of Alexander Mikheev in the eyes of the local gangsters.
  
   Afghan tucked the filled-out questionnaires into the pockets of his jacket and summoned Sergey and Alex to him. He pointed a finger directly at their chests and stated, "Your teammates informed me that you two are the most talented individuals here. I'll meet you in the parking lot in front of McDonald's on Nikolskaya Street tomorrow at one o"clock."
  
  
  
   The young recruits stood in awe as the iron gates slowly slid along the hanging rail, revealing a magnificent two-story mansion. Anton's sleek Mercedes glided smoothly over the circular square asphalt, pausing in front of an unfinished guest house after circumnavigating a meticulously landscaped flower bed.
  
   Adjacent to the construction site, a Ford Transit minivan stood with its side door open. Two burly contractors in their fifties, sporting rugged appearances and unshaven faces, busied themselves inside the single-story building. Their conversations were filled with an unfamiliar language that left Alex puzzled about its origins. Clad in work coveralls, heavy boots, and adorned with tool-laden harnesses, they diligently wielded hammers, screwdrivers, angles, and chisels. Sergey and Alex found themselves captivated by the scene, waiting for Anton who had entered the main mansion.
  
   Within the mansion's premises, a gray-haired old man meticulously laid brick pipes between the sloping beams of the yet-uncovered roof. A trough of mortar and a stack of vibrant red bricks adorned the table next to the skilled craftsman. With each completed row, the master meticulously leveled and ensured their flawless alignment.
  
   Mamonov emerged from the mansion accompanied by Afghan, a young girl, and a majestic German shepherd. Alex's attention was momentarily drawn to the boss's hand, which held a peculiar plastic spoon with a long handle and a small ladle. Before he could ponder its purpose, Anton introduced the boys to Mamonov, saying, "Vladimir, meet Alex and Sergey, two talented young lads from yesterday's recruitment."
  
   "How are you guys?" Mamonov greeted the boys with a warm smile, shaking their hands like a true gentleman. He remarked, "Strong fellows, both with a firm grip. Alright, let's put them to the test. Assign one to assist the Lithuanians and the other to the mason."
  
   Mamonov, accompanied by his daughter and the faithful canine companion, made their way to the pond. Alex observed in amazement as the villa owner deftly flicked the spoon, causing a tennis ball to gracefully descend from its tip. "Fetch!" the girl exclaimed, and the spirited dog darted after the bouncing ball, ears flapping with excitement.
  
   "Enough daydreaming," Anton interjected from the doorway, adding, "Time to get down to business."
  
   The guest house buzzed with activity as several individuals worked diligently. A tiler meticulously laid tiles on the kitchen walls, plumbers attended to the bathroom fixtures, and two formidable men, with an air of mystery surrounding them, expertly panelled the walls of the spacious hall with fine wood.
  
   "Algis, take on an assistant," Anton instructed one of the enigmatic men. "He may not be a carpenter, but I'm confident you can teach him the ropes."
  
   "Afghan, how long will he be with us?" Aligis inquired.
  Afghan, with his customary air of authority, considered the query for a moment before responding. "It depends on how well he performs," he replied with a measured tone. "If he proves himself, he'll become a permanent part of our team. But if he can't handle the tasks and responsibilities, then he won't last long. This is a test for him, and we'll see if he has what it takes."
  
   As soon as Alex heard the nickname for the kingpin's confidant, he was momentarily stunned. A surge of anger coursed through his veins, and his eyes scanned the room, seeking something weighty like a mallet or metal pipe. The young man was consumed by an overwhelming desire to unleash his fury upon the man who had shattered his family's future.
  
   Anton mocked him, saying, "Why are you glancing around like that? Is this your first encounter with a decent house? Do you reside in Reutov?"
  
   Struggling to suppress his anger, Alex replied, "I live in Kosino village. I've never been to such grand estates before."
  
   Afghan's eyes narrowed, assessing the young recruit before him. "Good," he said, a hint of approval in his voice. "Remember, loyalty and hard work will open doors for you in this organization. Show us what you're made of, and we'll take care of you. Hold on tight to Mamonov, kid, and you'll have it all too."
   "And who is he?" Alex inquired.
  
   "I forgot you don't know. Vladimir Mamonov goes by the nickname 'Mommy.' If he deems you worthy, he'll treat you like his own son. Boys are his weakness. He longed for a son, but a daughter was born instead. Got it? You'll do whatever these two say," Afghan nodded towards the two Lithuanians. "In the evening, go home and gather what you need for the week, then come back. You'll eat and sleep here. Construction is a test for you. If you work without complaining for two weeks, we'll involve you in real business. If not, you'll get a rude awakening instead of sponsorship money. See you tomorrow."
  
   "Goodbye," Alex and Sergey replied.
  
  
  Chapter Eleven. October, 1995. Moscow Region
  
   For the first three days, Alex worked as an assistant to the two carpenters. Every task he performed followed a simple rule: get it done and make a positive contribution. At the end of the third day, Algis and his cousin Mantas informed the construction supervisor that they needed a portable table saw. They then took Alex in their minibus and headed home.
  
   The Lithuanian carpenters resided in the village of Khovrino, north of Moscow. They were renowned as the finest craftsmen in the entire region.
  
   Upon arriving at their home, the cousins celebrated their newfound freedom with great joy. After enduring a two-week stint under the watchful eye of their supervisor, with a strict ban on consuming strong alcohol, the free-spirited Baltic men were thoroughly exhausted. The chilled Lithuanian vodka 'Stumbras with a spikelet' flowed like a river, and within an hour of the festivities beginning, Alex mentally immersed in their melancholic folk songs.
  
   Though Alex couldn't comprehend the exact meaning of the robust carpenters' singing, to him, it seemed like they were singing about the somber forests and frozen lakes of their homeland, evoking a sense of leaden clouds perpetually shrouding the blue sky and the haunting howls of the northern wind. As the heartfelt melodies resonated through the room, Alex's imagination carried him away to the rugged landscapes of Lithuania. He envisioned towering trees casting long shadows over hidden paths, their branches swaying in harmony with the melancholic breeze. The frozen lakes stood as mirrors, reflecting the desolate beauty of the surroundings, while the leaden clouds loomed overhead, enveloping the land in a perpetual cloak of gloom.
  
   In his mind's eye, Alex could almost feel the chill of the northern wind on his face, its mournful wails echoing through the dense forests. It was as if the song carried the essence of their homeland, a bittersweet reminder of the untamed nature and untold stories that lay within its borders.
  
   Lost in the depths of the music, Alex couldn't help but feel a profound connection to the Lithuanian culture unfolding before him. Despite not understanding the precise meaning of the lyrics, the power of the melody transcended language barriers, evoking a range of emotions that resonated deep within his soul. It was a fleeting glimpse into a world he had yet to fully comprehend, but one that left an indelible mark on his journey of self-discovery.
  
   As the cousins continued their folklore concert, with hands on each other's shoulders, Alex decided to retire for the night, not waiting for its conclusion. As he lay in bed, the distant echoes of the cousins singing an old knight's song reached his ears:
  
   Lithuanians ride atop mountain brick walls,
   They ride, they ride!
   Carrying, carrying a crown of flowers,
   A rue crown, a rue crown.
  
  
   Mantas and Algis shuffled into the kitchen, their footsteps barely audible. By that time, Alex had already whipped up an omelet, toasted some bread, and put a pot of water on the stove.
  
   Instead of a typical morning greeting, the young lad posed a question, "So, are we going for some Maxwell House instant coffee or some Indian tea?"
  
   Mantas replied with a simple "Water," his voice strained and his face etched with the unmistakable signs of a severe hangover. His bloodshot eyes squinted against the light, and he gingerly held his throbbing head with one hand, as if trying to keep it from splitting open. The mere act of speaking seemed to take an immense effort, his words punctuated by occasional groans and winces. It was evident that the previous night's indulgences had left him in a state of discomfort and regret.
  
   Algis fully shared his cousin's miserable state, his parched lips barely able to produce a sound as he whispered, "The same... and then coffee."
  
   The words escaped his mouth with a hoarse rasp, a testament to the throbbing headache and dehydration that plagued him. His eyes, struggled to focus on the simple task of deciding what to drink. Every movement seemed to require a herculean effort, as if even speaking was a monumental task.
  
   Amidst the quiet, punctuated only by the sound of the Lithuanians stirring their beverages, the trio finished their breakfast. Soon after, the carpenters ushered Alex to a sprawling barn that doubled as their workshop.
  
   "Hey, kid, come take a look," Algis beckoned.
  
   Next to one of the barn wall resting on the earthen floor, lay a wooden ladder cleverly folded in a unique five-fold pattern. It was a ladder unlike anything the boy had ever seen before. Its impressive size and unique design set it apart from ordinary ladders.
  
   On the wall above the ladder, tools hung neatly on pegboards, each finding its designated place. Saws of various sizes, chisels, planes, and hammers adorned the walls, showcasing the carpenters' expertise and the diverse range of projects they undertook within this workshop.
  
   Approaching the ladder, the cousins positioned themselves on either side of it. Mantas walked alongside Algis, their movements precise and deliberate as they meticulously closed the safety locks. With synchronized efficiency, they swiftly flipped the ladder over, repeating the process on the opposite side. In a matter of minutes, before the astonished boy's eyes, the ladder transformed from its folded state into an extended, ten-meter straight line. Its sturdy construction and secure safety locks instilled a sense of confidence.
  
   Once the ladder was prepared, the cousins lifted it and leaned it against the barn wall. With the wall standing at approximately four meters high, the ladder's angle of installation was carefully considered, ensuring optimal stability and usability. The sight was a testament to the carpenters' skill and attention to detail.
  
  
   "You," Algis instructed Alex, pointing upwards, "Get under the roof."
  
   With agility, the young teenager scampered up the ladder's slender rungs until he reached the top, then turned back to await further directions from the Lithuanians.
  
   Mantas boasted in Lithuanian, "I told you before that this ladder is capable of supporting considerable weight, even with a slight incline. It has proven its strength once again, and when positioned against a four-story building, the angle becomes even more pronounced. Consequently, the boy can descend safely while carrying a load of up to fifty pounds.
   "We'll put it to the test during next week," Algis responded, switching to Russian as he addressed Alex. "Come on down."
  
   Alex was dining alone in the hall of the guest house, a week after he visited the carpenters' residence. As he neared the end of his meal, Algis entered the kitchen and placed an old double window frame on the dining table before Alex. The young boy sat there, savoring his cup of tea. Algis observed him closely, mentally calculating when he would finish his drink. He then reached into his tool bag and retrieved a glass cutter, a suction cup, and a small paraffin candle, preparing for what lay ahead.
   The Lithuanian said, "Once you're done with your tea, I'll show you how to use the glass cutter. Here's a practice exercise: place the suction cup on the glass, encircle it with the candle, then use the glass cutter to score along the frame's edge."
  
   Alex set his mug aside, pressed the suction cup against the window, and attempted to create a circular line around it.
  
   "Do you see the scratch?" Algis asked.
   "Not all over," the young man replied, carefully examining the glass.
   "Keep trying until the line becomes clear," Algis instructed. "Once you achieve that, gently tap the cutter on the line. Score the glass all the way around, then use the suction cup to break off the cut piece. Repeat the same process with the inner glass, but it'll be more challenging. You'll need a smaller suction cup for that. It's in the bag."
   Algis checked his watch. "It's seven now. You have five hours to master this."
   "May I ask why I need to learn this?" Alex looked up at Algis.
   "Yes, you may, but you'll only receive an answer once you've completed the task," replied the carpenter.
  
   Shortly after midnight Mantas gently shook Alex's shoulder to wake him up. The boy opened his eyes and stared at the man.
  
   Mantas whispered, "Get dressed and come outside."
  
  
   A minibus stood in front of Momonov's gated property. The security guard and Algis were engaged in a heated but quiet discussion near the open cargo door of the Ford vehicle. As Alex approached the gate, he overheard snippets of their conversation:
  
   "Don't worry. We'll be back by morning and explain everything to the boss," Algis said.
   "I can't let you go," the guard protested. "Mamonov will have my head if I disobey his orders."
   "If we strike gold, we'll gladly give him his fair share, and he'll be grateful. Your cooperation will also be highly valued. However, in the unfortunate event that we come back empty-handed, there will be no need for further discussion."
   Mantas remarked. "We won't inform him, sparing you any inconvenience with trivial matters."
   The guard grumbled, "Damn you, go ahead, and don't forget a little something for me."
  
  
   Forty minutes later, Mantas parked his minivan behind a three-story building in Mytishchi, which is located in the suburbs of Moscow.
  
   "Listen, son," Algis said to Alex, who occupied the back seat behind the driver. "We need you to gain access to the apartment on the fourth floor. You'll do this by climbing through the kitchen window and unlocking two doors from the inside: one constructed from wood and the other crafted from iron. The current occupants of the flat, a humble dental technician and his wife, are presently visiting their son in St. Petersburg. Once you're out of sight, we'll fold the ladder and position ourselves on the landing in front of the apartment door. We'll enter when we're prepared. Your task is to unlock the doors, not open them. Clear?"
   "Yes, it is," Alex replied calmly.
   "Now, put on gloves and a balaclava, and go," Algis instructed.
  
  
   Draped in a luxurious purple terry dressing gown, Mamonov positioned himself beside his bedroom window, cradling a mug of steaming coffee in his hands. As he peered outside, his gaze fixed upon the tranquil scene before him. The sky was adorned with graceful stratus clouds, gliding lazily across the expanse. Majestic flocks of birds traversed the horizon, their synchronized flight captivating his attention. However, Vladimir's lack of expertise in ornithology prevented him from discerning the exact species of these winged creatures. Nonetheless, he found solace in this quiet observation, a moment of tranquility amidst the world of organized crime that he presided over.
  
   "Honey, care to join me in bed?" interrupted Vladimir's contemplation of nature, a sweet voice of a charming young woman filling the room.
   "No," the man replied, his back still turned towards her. "Get dressed and vanish. My bodyguard will handle the payment."
   "Will you call me again?" the young beauty asked, hastily dressing herself.
   "Perhaps I will. Remind me of your first and last names," Vladimir responded.
   "Sleepless Snowflake," came the reply from the bed.
  
   Mamonov chuckled, saying, "Snowflake? So you're as exquisite and unique as a snowflake? Elusive and cold, but willing to melt in loving hands?"
  
   Vladimir pondered for a moment, reflecting silently, "And once melted, the unique snowflake ceases to exist, becoming like any other drop of water."
  
   But then he added, "Did you come up with that last name for advertising purposes? Something like 'able to be pleasured all night long'?"
   "No, honey. I inherited my last name from my parents. Elena is the name my folks saddled me with. I changed my first name when I entered the business," the night butterfly replied.
   Vladimir instructed, "Leave your phone number with Elephant."
  
   Snowflake sat on the edge of the bed, slipping on her high-heeled boots. The tops of her long boots nearly reached her miniskirt.
  
   Vladimir glanced at her, complimenting her attire, and grinned. He then added, "The way you dress reminds me of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Only things missing are a long-strapped purse and a red coat."
   "Who is she?" Snowflake inquired.
  
   Mamonov stood in silence, his eyes unwaveringly fixed on the ancient icon of the Mother of God in the corner of his bedroom. The image portrayed a sorrowful Madonna, her neck bearing a fresh wound from a knife.
  
   Contemplating the injury, Vladimir whispered to himself, his fingers gently grazing the bleeding gash, "I can't help but wonder, my dear, who would dare to pierce your neck with a knife? And more importantly, why?"
  
   The face of God's Mother, framed in gold, appeared sorrowful as she attempted to convey a message, "An icon alone cannot save you, neither before nor after death. You will find peace and solace by seeking forgiveness from your creator and making a promise to refrain from sinning again."
  
   Amidst the early morning stillness, the bedroom door creaked open. Mamonov glanced over his shoulder and watched as the harlot strolled away.
  
   Afghan peered through the open doorway and spoke up, saying, "Boss, when I arrived here, the gatekeeper informed me that the Lithuanians had departed during the night. What should I do about them?"
   "I'm aware of their unauthorized departure. While I was with that whore, I happened to overhear the commotion at the gate. Let's hold off until lunchtime. If they aren't idiots and return a quarter of the loot to the thieves' common fund,, and another quarter to me for disregarding my orders, then I may consider granting them forgiveness. But if they fail to meet these terms, bury them alive as a lesson to the others," the kingpin responded.
  
   Once Afghan had departed, Mamonov retired to his bed, sinking into a deep slumber.
  
   Anton realized that the naive carpenters from Khovrino had no understanding of the dangerous game they were playing, making it highly unlikely that they would share the spoils. However, Afghan hesitated to commit double murder without absolute necessity, leading him to decide to warn the Lithuanians.
  
   Afghan made his way to the grand hall of the mansion, where he sent a message to the gatekeeper.
   The pager on the guard's belt emitted a beep, displaying the inscription: "Come to the front door of the house."
  
   As the guard approached, Anton queried, "Did the Lithuanians make any promises about sharing their valuables with you when they come back?"
   Slightly embarrassed, the guard replied, "Yes."
   "Have they followed through on their promise?" Anton inquired.
   Shaking his head, the guard responded, "No."
   "Then go to them and claim your share without delay," Afghan advised.
   Determined, the gate security affirmed, "I'm on my way," and set off toward the guest house.
  
  
   Vladimir scheduled a renovation inspection for eleven in the morning. As he approached the guest house's doorstep, the foreman, the stove maker, the plumber, the tile maker, and Algis were waiting for him.
   "How is work going?" Mamonov asked the foreman.
   "Ninety percent finished at eighty percent of the cost," responded the professional builder.
   Vladimir looked the foreman in the eye. "I remember that I promised you a bonus for saving, and I'll give it to you, but only on the condition of excellent quality. Better to overspend, but don't mess up."
   "Everything will be up to our highest standards," the foreman assured the owner.
   "What's up with your chimney?" the Boss asked the stove maker.
   "The chimney is in good shape, but my assistant has a problem. While we were working on the level ceiling, I was happy with him. However, as soon as the roofers covered the roof with metal tiles, and we were working on an inclined surface, he changed," the elderly man replied.
   "Has he become cowardly since then?" Mamonov guessed.
   "Yes," replied the old man. "Even a safety rope doesn't help him to calm the tremors in his legs."
   "How's your boy?" Mamonov asked the Lithuanian, turning to him.
   "Master, can I report tête-à-tête after your inspection?" Algis asked.
   "Wow, what smart words, you know," Mamonov chuckled. "Well, if you have something to say personally, then I'll listen to you."
  
   The mansion owner was pleased with the progress and quality of work on the mansion. After leaving the guest house, accompanied by both Lithuanians, he asked: "So, what would you like to tell me?"
   "At night we broke into the dental technician's apartment in Mytishchi, and this is half the golden sand we got from there," said Mantas as he pulled out a heavy bag from his inner jacket pocket. "Here's a pound for you."
   "A good result," Mamonov said after taking the gold. "How about a boy?" he added.
   "Alex was way above and beyond expectations. He climbed up the wooden stairs to the third floor, cut holes in the window leaf, sneaked through the window, and opened the door from inside for us," Algis said enthusiastically about Alex's nighttime adventure.
   Mantas agreed with Algis: "The boy likes this sand. The highest standard."
   "Send Alex to the stove-maker until the construction is complete. Let him carry bricks on the roof, and take his friend, Sergey, to assist you. Don"t involve him in burglaries. Don't commit crimes without my permission in the future." Mamonov walked toward the house and said, "It will cost you fifteen percent less."
  
   As Mamonov inspected the construction site and consulted with the foreman, Afghan and Elephant discussed the prostitute's visit in the foyer.
   "How long have you known the whore who spent the night with our boss?" Anton asked.
   "For several months, but why?" Replied the boss' bodyguard.
   "In his praying corner, he has a priceless icon from the fourteenth century. Our entire brigade will be ground to powder if this girl tells someone about the Andronik icon. Understood?" Afghan said.
   "I have no clue how valuable it is. The boss forked over five grand to the Lithuanians when they brought him the icon. And who are you worried about? The cops? Snezhana won't utter a word to those pigs. She is fully cognizant that if she strikes a deal with them, it will mark the final day of her life," Elephant reassured Afghan.
   "I have no doubt in my mind that she'll spill the beans to the cops about the historical treasure. I'm afraid she might blab about the icon to someone within our circle. Do you realize we're not the toughest gang in the country?" Anton asked.
  
   Elephant nodded toward the front door, signaling the boss's imminent arrival. "The boss is on his way," he said as he turned and headed towards the stairs. "We'll discuss the icon later."
  
   Mamonov encountered Afghan in the foyer while making his way to the office. He said to him, "Anton, keep a close watch on Alex in the upcoming days. I believe he's ready to collaborate with this shady Lithuanian pair."
   "Isn't it a bit too soon?" Afghan doubted the boss's decision.
   "I could have waited, but the other day Kirill, the warehouse manager at "Electronics" company, gave me some good news. He informed me that the company sold ten of the latest 'Apple Macintosh Centrist' computers to the Moscow refinery, each priced at five grand. According to my source, "Electronics" hardware engineers have installed the new equipment in the accounting department on the third floor of the administration building. Carry out reconnaissance in the area and have the Balts return computers to Kirill"s warehouse," Vladimir replied.
   "I just don't get it. Why are you falling for Kirill's trap?" Afghan expressed his surprise. "The cops will nab him soon, and he won't stay quiet for long. And when that happens, they'll come after us. I hope your reasons for this are better than robbing a state-owned plant."
   "You're right, there is a possibility. However, Kirill shared more than just that with me," It was highly unlikely that Mamonov would bother explaining any operational details to the loyal but not-so-bright Elephant. He would simply issue orders to the hulking figure, expecting obedience. However, Afghan stood apart from the rest. With each passing day, he garnered more and more respect from the kingpin, and as a result, Vladimir shared with him every piece of information he possessed. "The thing is, the Moscow oil refinery is on the brink of bankruptcy and closure. The management knows this, and they've decided to use public funds to purchase new computers that they can later write off and embezzle."
   "But how will they cover up the theft? The auditors will conduct an inventory before they shut down the plant, and they'll surely discover the discrepancy," Afghan pointed out.
   "They'll present the old computers in the report. The head of the accounting department made sure the new equipment isn't connected to the local network," the boss revealed.
  
   Merely two days later, Afghan delivered the findings of his reconnaissance to Mamonov. "The plant is guarded by two old farts, both way past their expiration date. There's one stationed at the main gate, which leads to Peace Boulevard, and another at the gate overlooking the inconspicuous Pilot Babushkin Street. The building has three floors, but no guards inside."
   "Let the Lithuanians know about this," the boss ordered.
   "I'll inform them today," Afghan replied.
  
  
  Chapter Twelve. October, 1995. Kosino village. Moscow Region
  
   Alex burst into the living room of Grandma's house without warning. It had been a whole week since she last laid eyes on her grandson. She hadn't bothered locking the door with the key anxiously anticipating his arrival at any given moment.
  
   As soon as she heard and recognized grandson's footsteps approaching from behind, the old woman grumbled, "Finally."
  
   Embracing Alex tightly, she peered into his eyes and questioned, "Where have you been?"
   "Granny, I already told you I got hired by some rich guy," Alex replied. "No need to worry, I might disappear for a few days here and there, but I promise everything will be fine."
   "What kind of work is it? Is it dangerous?" Daria asked as she headed to the kitchen to whip up dinner for Alex.
   "Well, the job itself isn't as risky as the folks who hired me. I'm constructing a guest house on the property of a villa owned by one of the regional mafia bosses," he reluctantly confessed.
  
   Daria emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates with food, scrutinizing Alex intently.
   "Tell me, who are these bosses of yours?" she inquired, placing the plates on the table.
   "When I told you about our getaway and our time in Odessa, I didn't delve into all the details," Alex began.
   "What kind of details?" Grandma asked, squinting her eyes.
   "Well, who said what, for instance, since I didn't consider those conversations particularly important. On my very first day at the new job, I met a man Dad mentioned in a conversation with Mom. He warned that this person and his partner wouldn't let us live here in peace."
   Grandma probed, "So, what did you do?"
   "Nothing," Alex replied. "I wanted to bash his skull in, but I couldn't find the right tool for the job. And then the opportunity slipped away."
   "Is the villa heavily guarded?" Grandma inquired.
  
   Alex nodded, realizing where his grandmother was headed with her line of questioning.
  
   "You're lucky you didn't stumble upon a pipe or a brick at the time," she remarked.
   "Why's that?"
   "Because you were willing to risk your life by bashing a man's head in, without even knowing if he was responsible for your parents' disappearance," Grandma explained.
   "Why assume he's innocent? He drove us out of here. And what do you mean by risking my life? I would've whacked him on the back of his head with a metal bar and made a run for it," Alex innocently retorted.
   "How would you escape from a heavily guarded villa? Where would you run off to? This village? How long would you hide here while all the thugs from the Moscow region were hunting you down?"
  
   Grandma said it, realizing that her son-in-law had failed to give his son the attention he needed during the most challenging phase of adolescence. Now she had to teach him the fundamental survival skills required in such a hostile environment.
  
   "You can't put your life at risk for the sake of revenge unless you're certain of two things," Grandma Daria explained, her voice steady and resolute. "First, the revenge must be justified-you must be seeking justice against the one who truly deserves it. And second, you must have a chance to save yourself."
  
   "I understand," Alex replied, taking a seat at the table. He couldn't help but reflect on how his grandmother had transformed in her eighth decade, facing the danger that surrounded him. Her voice no longer trembled, and her eyes glimmered with an unfamiliar spark.
   "Granny, when you talk about serious matters, you become like Bruce Willis in 'Die Hard'," Alex remarked.
   "I'm not familiar with Bruce Willis, but I had my fair share of travels in a jeep named Willis during the latter half of the Great Patriotic War," Daria replied.
   "Mum mentioned that you served during the war, but you never spoke about it. Could you please tell me about your service?" Alex asked, genuinely curious.
   "The memories don't bring me much joy, but one day, I'll share my past with you. Can you hear the kettle whistling in the kitchen?" Grandma Daria replied, excusing herself as she headed into the kitchen.
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen. October 30, 1995
  
   During one of his lunch breaks, Alex grabbed some snacks from the kitchen and decided to take a leisurely stroll through the backyard of Mamonov's villa. Leaving the guest house behind, he made his way across the lush, evergreen grass toward the nearby lake. Roughly thirty meters away, he spotted a utility building, its wide entry doors revealing a barbecue and a lawnmower. As he strolled leisurely towards the miniature beach, his thoughts were inevitably drawn to his parents. The relationship had never been smooth, particularly with his demanding father, who never seemed to view him as a friend or confidant. His mother, on the other hand, had predominantly fulfilled the role of a wife, relegating her maternal duties to a mere fraction of her attention. With a mix of longing and frustration, he pondered their whereabouts. "Where could they be now? What are they up to? Will they ever come back for me, or have they become entangled in some unknown web of their own making?" He stared at the meat brazier and a lawnmower with a devastated look and did not see them. Lost in contemplation, his foot suddenly sank into something soft and bouncy, snapping him out of his reverie with a start. The second step on the pliable surface snapped the young man out of his reverie.
  
   "It's a trampoline!" Alex exclaimed, stepping back in surprise. Kicking off his sneakers, he positioned himself at the center of the trampoline and leaped into the air. His knees rose to his chest, arms extended upward, freezing for a brief moment at the pinnacle of each jump before landing with power and bounding across the clearing once more.
  
   The trampoline became his escape, a haven of carefree delight. For a while, the worries about his parents took a backseat as he reveled in the simple pleasures of the moment. The trampoline became his temporary refuge, a sanctuary where he could briefly escape the burden of his unanswered questions.
  
   "No wonder I didn't notice it," he rejoiced, lying on his back. "Well done, Mr. Mamonov, for setting the trampoline level with the grass and digging a deep hole underneath it."
  
   For the next fifteen minutes, Alex bounced forward and backward, landing on his feet, hands, stomach, and back, fully absorbed in the joy of the trampoline. Unbeknownst to him, lunchtime had long passed, and three pairs of eyes observed his playful antics.
  
  
   Afghan and Mamonov settled comfortably into their wicker chairs, positioned beneath the sheltering balcony. Nestled between them, a low table crafted from artificial rattan held their attention. Resting upon its surface, an uncorked bottle of fine French cognac, its label proudly proclaiming 'Napoleon,' beckoned. The air carried a faint aroma of aged spirits, promising indulgence and camaraderie. Two elegant short-stemmed glasses stood poised, patiently waiting to be filled again and savored. It was a tableau of relaxed sophistication, a scene set for meaningful conversation and shared moments of respite.
   The owner of the third pair of eyes watching Alex was Svetlana. The girl stood in the villa's hallway, separated from her father and his 'right hand' by a glass door.
  
   "Let's take a walk. We've been sitting for too long," Vladimir suggested, rising from his chair.
   "I brought Zafiros' spouses' passports as you ordered," Afghan said, pulling a couple of documents from his jacket pocket.
   "Leave them on the table. I'll pick up the passports on our way back," Mamonov instructed, adjusting the lapels of his purple terry dressing gown and pulling the hood over his head as he made his way toward the trampoline.
  
   Afghan placed the documents on the table and followed his boss.
  
   "A spirited young lad," Mamonov remarked as he approached the trampoline.
   "Yes, the boy's got courage," Afghan agreed.
   "Alex, finish up your acrobatics and head to the construction site. A brick chimney is waiting for you," Mamonov called out.
  
   With one final backward flip on the trampoline, the boy somersaulted off and gracefully landed on the grass and ran to the guest house.
  
   Svetlana had left the threshold as soon as Mamonov told the guy to return to work. She did not want the young man to notice how she was watching him.
  
   Alex hoped to meet Svetlana, but she hid in her room, took out a personal diary for secrets, and made a note in it: "On October twelfth, nineteen ninety-five, around noon, I think I'm falling in love with the young man. I don't know his name yet, but he looks about sixteen years old."
  
   Through the glass of the door, Alex inspected the banquet hall to make sure that the boss' daughter was not there. The moment he was nearly back at the guest house, he spotted passports stacked carelessly on top of each other. In the reflection of the glass door, he saw that Mamonov and Afghan were still strolling toward the pond, but just in case, he glanced around before picking up the documents. Both the boss and his henchman were already far away.
  
   The anxiety in Alex's heart rose when he carefully opened the top passport's first page, and tears filled his eyes. In calligraphic handwriting, his mother's surname, name, and patronymic were displayed.
  
   There was no point in opening the second passport for Alex. The young man understood perfectly well that not long ago, the document belonged to his father. It was painfully clear to Alex that the presence of his parents' passports in the gang's hideout meant only one thing - his parents had met a gruesome death at the hands of the very criminals he was now working for.
  
   Dazed and overcome with grief, Alex stumbled towards the guest house. Unbearable sorrow tore at his innocent heart when he realized that his pareтts already dead. From within, he felt an intense anguish that seemed indelible. The young man harbored no grand plans for revenge, nor did he dream of escaping to faraway lands. Instead, he immersed himself in his work, toiling from dawn till dusk without pause for lunch. The following day, he remained silent, his eyes vacant, his hands obedient to the instructions of the stove-maker. It was only on the third day that he regained his composure. Alex knew he would never forgive those responsible for executing his parents. However, he was acutely aware that the slightest misstep could lead to his own demise, whether in a nearby grove or at the murky depths of a local reservoir.
  
   "Revenge is a dish best served cold," he recollected the words of an unknown author, finding a modicum of temporary solace in that thought.
  
   The seasoned stove-maker knelt before the unfinished chimney, meticulously removing excess mortar from the brickwork. To protect the costly metal tiles from scratches, he had preemptively fashioned plastic cups from knee pads. After half an hour, his knees throbbed with the intense pain of overexertion and strain.
  
   "Alex," the stove-maker called out to the young man who was leisurely strolling along the rooftop. "Take over for me. I'll rest for a while."
   Alex crouched by the chimney and responded, "I'd be glad to."
  
  
   Over the past three days, Alex has learned a lot from his mentor, who was a brick layer. The ambitious guy quickly picked up a new skill. Words like trowel, jointing, ordering, plumb line, and level now held meaning for him. He learned how to use these tools in under forty hours and successfully laid bricks in both the spoon row and the butt row.
  
   The mason wearily inspected Alex's brickwork, having given him the chance to work independently for nearly two hours.
   He sighed and said, "There's not much left. I'd love to let you finish the job, but we still need to cast the chimney crown with concrete. Since I haven't taught you that part yet, you won't be able to handle it on your own. We'll have to wrap it up tomorrow."
  
   After they crowned the chimney Alex and the elderly mason went downstairs. Sergey and one of the plumbers were having dinner with the two Lithuanians. The table was brimmed with plates of fried potatoes, boiled sausages, and mugs of beer. In the middle of the table sat a half-empty case of beer.
  
   While the old stove-maker went to the washroom, Alex washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then sat down at the dining table. The cook followed him out of the kitchen carrying two plates. Looking around the living room, Alex asked, "Where is the old man?"
  
   Taking one of the plates from the chef, Alex replied, "He's in the washroom."
  
   The teenager almost started eating his meal when Algis leaned toward him and whispered, "When you finish dinner, go straight to bed."
  
   Alex nodded without asking any questions. Although the whisper was barely audible, Sergey overheard the conversation and timidly asked, "And I?"
  
   "Jerk off on the sly," Mantas said and burst into laughter. Sergey's expression showed his annoyance at Mantas's crude joke.
   Algis tried to rectify the situation and explained, "We didn't receive any specific instructions about you. You'll go with us only when Mamonov allows you to work at night."
  
  
   Four hours later Mantas turned off the diesel engine of the Ford Transit behind the back wall of the Oil Refinery's office building. Still inside the minivan, Algis said, "Alex, go around the building and make sure we're the only ones here."
  
   Without uttering a word, Alex disappeared into the darkness of the night, and the big man turned to Mantas and said, "Let's go outside. It's time to install the ladder."
   "Shouldn't we wait for the kid?" Mantas asked.
   "No, we can't delay. We need to install the ladder at the window before he returns," replied the big man.
   "Kirill informed Mamonov that the accounting window is on the top floor," Mantas assessed the staircase against the wall and relied on his memory. "Fifth window from the left corner."
   "Yeah, I remember," sighed Algis.
  
   The Lithuanians secured the folding brace locks and leaned the ladder against the building. Mantas grumbled, "I hope we haven't drunk ourselves into insanity and that we're sending the kid to the right office."
   "Otherwise, Mamonov will knock our brains out," Algis reassured him.
  
   Soon Alex returned and reported to the Lithuanians, "No one around. Not even any dogs."
  
   "That's great," Algis replied, giving Alex the following instruction, "Hang two ropes over your shoulder and secure another rope to the opposite side. As soon as you step inside, make sure to tie that rope to the hot water radiators. Take a thorough look around the place. You should find ten computers in there. First off, pack the system blocks into those handy string bags, one block per bag. Then, carefully lower the monitors, keyboards, and mice."
  
   Alex fidgeted anxiously, shifting from foot to foot, unable to maintain steady eye contact with Algis. There was a restlessness about him, an eagerness that seemed to emanate from deep within, as if his veins coursed with adrenaline. If you were to inquire with his trainer, someone who had witnessed Alex's demeanor prior to a significant boxing match, they would attest that this was his way of attaining a heightened state of focus during critical moments.
  
   "I got it. Can I head upstairs now?" the young man asked, his eyes fixed on Algis.
  
   The Lithuanians were taken aback by his determination. They exchanged bewildered glances, and Algis responded calmly, "Sure thing. You've got two hours. Just be careful."
  
   Alex shot a sideways glance at the Balts, fighting the urge to throw back a sarcastic retort like, "Be careful? Seriously? That's the lamest advice I've ever heard." He understood that his sense of humor wouldn't resonate with the Lithuanians, whom he perceived as lacking in understanding or appreciation. So, instead of mocking Algis and Mantas, he climbed the stairs and disappeared through the accounting office window within five minutes.
  
   Over the next ninety minutes, Alex efficiently lowered all ten computers down and heard Mantas' muffled voice calling from below, "Come on down."
   "Not yet," Alex replied to the Lithuanian, adding before vanishing into the back of the office, "I've still got half an hour to spare."
  
   After loading the last monitor into the minivan, Algis returned to the wooden ladder. Peering into the dark void of the open window, he inquired, "Where's Alex?"
   "He's in the accounting office," Mantas responded with nonchalance. "Said he had some time left and vanished."
  
   In the dimly lit office, Alex moved with confidence, clutching a flashlight as he methodically searched through the accountants' desks. He rifled through drawers, paying no mind to the mundane stationery like binders, hole punches, and paper clips.
  
   "Breaking into an accounting department at a state enterprise in the middle of the night for office supplies? Not my style," Alex thought to himself as he entered the chief accountant's office.
  
   At the center of the spacious room stood a massive desk flanked by two side cupboards. Alex casually rummaged through papers and dusty notebooks in the drawers on the left side, finding nothing of value. With a glimmer of excitement, he turned his attention to the right cupboard.
  
   "Well, well, what do we have here!" he exclaimed, his eyes fixed on the sturdy metal safe. "This is worth taking a risk for."
  
   Kneeling before the imposing table cupboard, Alex stared intently at the safe. His heart raced with anticipation.
  
   "If only I could crack you open right here," he mused, examining the combination lock in the middle of the door and the small keyhole on the left side.
  
   Pulling out the top drawer from the desk, Alex hurriedly sifted through a jumble of odds and ends - paper clips, a hole punch, pencils, an eraser, an electronic calculator, a spool of thread with a needle stuck in it, and other miscellaneous items typical of a bookkeeper. His desperate search was for the keys he needed to unlock the safe. Alas, all he found were a set of keys for the office door, which was conveniently left unlocked.
  
   Glancing at the keys in his hand, he turned his attention back to the safe and remarked, "Guess we'll have to crack you open at home."
  
   Kneeling before the table cabinet once more, Alex gripped the metal box tightly and addressed the safe with determination, "Let's get some fresh air, buddy."
  
   However, the novice thief quickly realized that he could not budge the heavy iron cube from its place with just his hands. He sat down on the floor, rested his feet against the table, and strained to pull the safe toward him with both hands.
  
   "Boom!" The corner of the fireproof box hit the hardwood floor with a resounding thud.
  
   "Bang!!" echoed even louder in the otherwise silent accounting department as the entire safe fell between Alex's legs, narrowly avoiding a painful mishap.
  
   Gasping for breath, he crawled backward, exclaiming, "I'm lucky. Could've lost my balls there."
  
   Determined to make off with his prize, the young thief managed to stuff the safe into a string bag and began the arduous task of dragging it toward the open window.
  
   Leaning over the windowsill, he called out to the Lithuanians, "Hey, guys! Step away from the wall. I'm lowering the chief accountant's safe."
  
   With nimble hands, Alex placed two string bags over the safe, and skillfully tied silk rope knots to the braided handles. Attempting to lift the heavy metal box to the level of the windowsill using the handles of the string bags proved futile. Even with his back fully bent, Alex could only manage to reach the middle of the radiator with the safe.
  
   "The harder the work, the harder it is to give up," Alex recalled an expression from an English textbook.
  
   "Well, I'll lift you, you bitch," he muttered to the safe, squatting deeply, gripping the box with both hands, taking deep breaths, and slowly standing up.
  
   He had performed squats with a barbell on his shoulders countless times at the gym during his rigorous boxing training.
  
   "The training paid off after all - now I'm putting it to use to steal state property," Alex chuckled to himself, his tone laced with sarcasm.
  
   As time went on, the young man had grown more cynical. The further he distanced himself from his childhood, the harder his soul became, his self-esteem sobered, and his judgments of others turned harsher.
  
   Adjusting his leather gloves on his hands, Alex focused his gaze on the safe sitting on the windowsill.
  
   "Stupid," he cursed inwardly, "I should have run the rope under the pipes connected to the radiators, or even better, wrapped it around them. The friction would have made the task easier. Like my father used to say, 'Son, you're always brilliant in hindsight.' Well, I'll give it a try as it is."
  
   Alex didn't need to untie the five knots in the silk rope. He had a knife in his pocket, recalling the story of his fellow countryman and namesake from Macedonia, who had famously slashed the Gordian knot. Unfortunately, he didn't have the time to create new knots.
  
   "I'll leave it to chance," Alex decided, flipping a bimetallic one-hundred-ruble coin from his pocket. "If it lands on the eagle, I'll lower the safe as it is, but if it lands on the hundred, I'll untie the knot, thread the rope through the steam radiator, and make the descent of the safe safer for myself." The eagle and the number 'one hundred' spun in the air several times before landing in the guy's palm, with the eagle facing upwards. "Well, I'll risk my well-being, but at least I'll stay within the allotted time."
  
   "The eagle it is then. Let's do it this way," Alex grabbed the rope with his hands and kicked the safe off the windowsill.
  
   The boxer's iron grip and the sturdy leather gloves with silk rope strands prevented the rope from sliding smoothly after the weight. The massive cube plummeted from the window, dragging Alex's body along with it. His stomach collided with the windowsill, causing him to double over in pain. The rope rubbed against the black surface of the gloves, creating small pellets that soon reached the teenager's hands. A searing pain shot through his body, and the scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. His patience lasted only three, maybe four excruciating seconds. On the verge of losing consciousness from the unbearable agony, Alex released his grip on the rope and heard the sound of iron hitting the concrete base around the building.
  
   A voice from below asked, "Are you okay up there?"
   "Not really. I just need another five minutes," the guy replied.
  
   Mantas and Algis assumed responsibility for the safe, while Alex quickly cut off the sleeves of his shirt, wrapped his hands with rags, and descended the ladder with utmost care..
  
   As the Lithuanians drove away from the plant, they discussed Alex's discovery in their native language.
  
   "Hey, Mantas, didn't Mamonov only mention the computers?" Algis asked.
   "Well," his cousin replied.
   Algis continued, "He didn't say anything about the safe."
   "He didn't mention it at all," Mantas confirmed, before turning onto the street named after the famous World War II pilot.
  
   In the darkness of the checkpoint, the guard's wide eyes glistened, reflecting the faint light from a nearby streetlamp. Two hours ago, Algis had tied the elderly security guard to a chair, and now the old man struggled to recall the details of the minivan and the driver's face.
  
   "From this point on," Algis continued in a steady tone, his words laced with the Lithuanian language, "it becomes evident that Mamonov was unaware of the existence of the safe, which means we can handle the opening ourselves."
   Mantas, unfazed and composed, interjected, "Alex won't keep quiet. Mark my words, he'll spill the beans to the boss. That kid owes his meals and shelter to the thief-in-law. Besides, I witnessed Alex teaching Svetlana how to bounce on a trampoline. The boss's daughter may be young, but it's clear as day that she holds a special affection for the boy. Mamonov means more to Alex than we do."
   Algis turned to Mantas and suggested, "We should strike a deal with him." Mantas replied, "Go ahead, but I don't think he'll go for it."
   Then, addressing Alex, Algis proposed in Russian, "Let's keep it quiet from Mamonov that we stumbled upon the safe. After all, he never tasked us with searching for it. Don't divulge anything, Alex."
   With a calm demeanor, the young man retorted, "I won't say a word."
  
   Mantas, reverting to Lithuanian, asserted, "That bastard is lying. He agreed too quickly. He'll betray us one way or another, just like that gate guard at the boss's villa."
   "I believe you're right. We'll have to hand the safe over to Mamonov. I can't risk the life of the boy for the sake of an iron box," Algis declared in Lithuanian, turning to the young man. He affectionately tousled Alex's hair with his fingers before adding, "Besides, we have no idea how much money is inside."
  
   The fear of crossing a crime lord outweighed their greed, compelling the Baltic criminals to reach a consensus. Algis concluded their discussion, stating, "If Mamonov suspects treachery or discovers the safe through Alex, he will lose faith in us and banish us from his territory, or worse, he might slaughter us like pigs."
  
   Later that same day, the Lithuanians found themselves standing in front of Mamonov in his office on the second floor of the house.
   Alex discreetly positioned himself behind one of the carpenters, carefully concealing his bandaged hands from the boss's watchful gaze.
  
   Vladimir, seated at his desk, looked contemplatively at the thieves while donning his favored hooded robe. The terry cloth revealed glimpses of silk pajamas underneath. Mamonov crossed his legs upon a meticulously crafted Iranian carpet that adorned the space between the side tables. His sheep's wool slippers observed the morning visitors from his feet. In his left hand, he held a Havana cigar, while his right hand rested near a miniature coffee cup adorned with his own portrait. A cigar and Turkish coffee were his chosen fare for breakfast. On the desk, a golden writing set and an ivory ashtray resided alongside a crucial element of Vladimir's life-an aged Finnish knife.
  
   A broad window behind the thief-in-law offered a view of Silver Pond, with a forest belt and the rooftops of high-rise buildings in the city of Reutov stretching beyond its waters.
  
   "Good morning, boss," Algis greeted, snapping Mamonov back to reality.
   "Morning to you as well. Did everything go smoothly?" Vladimir inquired.
   "Even better than anticipated. In addition to the ten computers, we also made off with the chief accountant's safe," Mantas reported.
   Curiosity glimmered in Mamonov's narrowed eyes as he asked, "Have you managed to crack the safe?"
   Mantas hurried to appease the boss. "We didn't attempt it without your consent."
   Leaning forward, Mamonov questioned further, "How did Alex perform?"
  
   Algis turned on his heel, drawing closer to the young man before him, his voice filled with a mixture of admiration and pride. "In a mere ninety minutes, he managed to descend with ten sets of electronics and took the initiative. Instead of merely pilfering and retreating, he ventured to explore the chief accountant's desk, where he stumbled upon the safe."
   "What's the matter with your hands?" Mamonov asked, rising from his seat, concern etched across his face.
   "The safe proved too burdensome. The rope scorched my palms as I lowered it down. I did my utmost, but I couldn't prevent the metal box from slipping," Alex replied, subtly concealing his injured hands behind his back.
  
   Mamonov chuckled, stepping closer to the young man and deftly removing the blood-soaked bandages with a sharp knife. "Sonny, you were born to be a thief. Resourceful, courageous, and remarkably responsible," he commended. With a commanding tone, he summoned his bodyguard, Elephant, who promptly appeared at the door. "Bring a first aid kit and wash your hands with soap along the way. Attend to the boy's wounds."
  
   As Elephant departed, Vladimir guided Alex to the balcony, his hand resting upon the young man's shoulder. The leader of the Reutov criminal organization stared intently into Alex's eyes, questioning him with purpose. "Did these two attempt to crack the safe on their own?" he inquired.
  
   With unwavering composure, Alex boldly looked the boss in the eye and delivered a falsehood. "No, boss. After the oil refinery, we drove to Mantas's house, where he bandaged my hands. We had breakfast, took a brief respite, and then returned here," Alex responded, his words filled with earnestness.
  
   Mamonov chuckled heartily, affectionately patting Alex on the shoulder. Then, he shifted his focus to the remaining Lithuanians, who stood in the center of the office. In a voice loud enough to carry through the room, he declared, "His adeptness at weaving intricate tales while exuding unwavering confidence hints at a promising future. It is evident that his vivid imagination and skillful deception will propel him to great heights in his criminal pursuits. After lunch, Elephant will give you half of what he discovered in the safe. Allocate a third to Alex. You shall receive a third from the proceeds of the computer sale once Kirill returns the money. As for the stove-maker, inform him that Alex relieved of his duties. The boy has another assignment. You may go now."
  
   As the Lithuanians made their exit, Mamonov remained alone with Alex, engaging him in further conversation. "My daughter informed me that while you were teaching her how to jump on a trampoline, you uttered something in English on two occasions. Is that true?"
   "Yes, boss, it is. Svetlana mentioned that I'm not much of a talker, so whenever I do speak, she pays close attention. In response to my quotation from Theodore Roosevelt, 'Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far,' she concluded that I am fluent in English," Alex explained.
  
   "And how would that saying go in Russian?" Mamonov inquired, his gaze fixated on Alex, genuine curiosity shining through.
   Alex met his gaze unwaveringly, offering the translation of those profound words into Russian.
   Vladimir's eyebrows arched in surprise as he asked, "Who imparted such wise advice to you?"
   "No one, boss. My English tutor provided me with a notebook to jot down unfamiliar words. Each page contained quotes from renowned Americans. It became my daily routine to peruse that notebook and diligently recite those quotes," Alex replied.
   The boss nodded approvingly. "Share with me something valuable from your notebook."
   "Leaders must strike a balance between proximity and motivation. They should be near enough to connect with others, yet distant enough to inspire them," Alex responded promptly, his words resolute.
   "Translate," Mamonov exclaimed with a mix of curiosity and impatience, eager to uncover the meaning behind Alex's enigmatic words.
   "If I were to translate literally, the essence of the statement would be lost. The true meaning is this: 'Leaders must maintain a close enough connection with their followers to be considered one of them, while also keeping a certain distance to inspire and motivate them'," Alex explained, his voice carrying a sense of certainty.
   "And who uttered these words?" Vladimir inquired, his interest piqued.
   "John Maxwell," Alex responded.
   "And who is he?" Mamonov pressed further.
   "I have no idea. The notebook had his name written under the quote. He must be someone well-known among Americans," Alex admitted honestly.
   "To hell with him, especially since I'm already following that advice," Mamonov chuckled, his amusement evident. He continued, "Starting from today, whenever Svetlana visits this house, you will teach her English. Right beneath this balcony, for at least an hour every day. I want to hear her repeating words and sentences after you. By the way, where did you learn to speak so fluently? Did you attend a special school?"
   "No, boss. I attended a regular village school," Alex replied modestly. "Although there was a period when we had a tutor who came to our house."
  
   Mamonov reached into the top drawer of his desk, retrieved an envelope filled with two hundred dollars, and handed it to Alex. "You will receive your share from the burglary with the Lithuanians, and this is my personal bonus to you. You were wise not to disclose the true intentions of the carpenters. I have great respect for silent and loyal criminals. Now, go home and visit your grandmother. Tomorrow, purchase clothing, books, notebooks, and notepads for Svetlana's studies. You know what is necessary for a presentable appearance and a thorough education for my daughter."
  
  
   Alex stepped into the dimly lit hallway of his grandmother's house, his expression a mixture of confusion and sorrow. He wrestled with the weight of the tragic news he had discovered just a few days prior, unsure of how to deliver it to his beloved grandmother.
  
   Daria emerged from the kitchen, a deep plate in her hands and a long waffle towel draped over her shoulder. Sensing something amiss, she remarked, "You look peculiar, Alex."
   As he tightly embraced his grandmother, tears streamed down Alex's face as he struggled to find the words. "I have devastating news," he managed to utter between sobs.
   In a trembling voice, Daria inquired, "What has happened, Alex?" Her voice carried a hint of apprehension.
   Tears staining his cheeks, the young man shared the heart-wrenching truth. "I stumbled upon my parents' passports at my boss's villa," he revealed, his voice choked with grief.
  
   The plate slipped from Daria's trembling hands, crashing to the floor in a resounding shatter. Her complexion turned ashen, and she stared at Alex in sheer horror. Slowly, she sank to her knees, a silent manifestation of her anguish.
  
   "They have taken my daughter from me!" she wailed, the pain reverberating through her voice.
  
   Alex, too overwhelmed to remain standing, sank to the floor. Daria nestled her head against his chest, their tears intermingling in shared sorrow.
  
   Minutes passed as they wept together, finding solace in their shared grief. Finally, the grandmother spoke again, her voice laden with determination. "Your bosses deserve nothing but death."
   A flicker of resolve ignited in Alex's eyes. "Now I am certain," he replied, his voice tinged with newfound determination.
   Curious, Daria inquired, her hands wringing as she wiped away her tears, "And what shall you do?"
   Yearning for revenge, Alex confided, "I am driven to seek justice. I hope to have your support and guidance, dear grandma."
  
   Nodding with conviction, Daria led Alex to her room, carefully navigating the remnants of the shattered plate. She swung open the doors of her wardrobe, unveiling a sight that filled the room with a sense of history and sacrifice. Nestled within its depths was a meticulously preserved dark green Red Army uniform tunic, embellished with vibrant red stripes that ran across the sturdy gray shoulder straps. Placing it tenderly on her bed, she gestured for Alex to approach.
  
   Eyes widening with astonishment, Alex gazed at the tunic laid before him. Adorned with the Order of the Red Star and three medals, including one inscribed with the words "For Courage." The tunic held a story of valor and sacrifice that resonated deeply within him.
  
   The young grandson stood in awe, his voice filled with wonder, "Where did all of this come from?"
   "I served as a sniper in the Two Hundred and Forty-Sixth Rifle Division for three grueling years, fighting on multiple fronts. In the summer of 1944, I was wounded by the Germans, and the doctors deemed me unfit for further service after extensive treatment. I shared a condensed version of my military experience with you to ensure that you would heed my advice," she explained.
   Alex, taken aback, inquired, "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"
  
   His tears had subsided quickly. The news of his parents' recent demise had left a profound impact on the young boy, making his conversation with his grandmother all the more poignant.
  
   Daria could have provided an honest answer about the reason for her silence, but she chose not to cast a shadow on her deceased son-in-law's memory, who had requested that she refrain from revealing her combat past to her grandson until Alex reached adulthood.
  
   "I eliminated over fifty fascist enemies during those three years of battle, but your father didn't want you to know that side of me. He wished for you to remember me as a kind and gentle grandmother," Daria revealed.
   "He is gone, just like Mom," Alex sighed, his voice heavy with sorrow.
   "Now that you know who is to blame, you must exercise utmost caution. Every word uttered or even a hint of defiance can have grave consequences," the grandmother cautioned, her words chosen with care. "I don't mean to frighten you, but as long as they remain unaware of your true surname, you are safe. Over fifty years ago, I often crawled deep into enemy lines, concealing myself amidst the fallen soldiers' corpses in neutral territory. I would lie in wait for hours, until the head of an enemy officer emerged from the trenches of the second line of defense. Patience is the hunter's most vital virtue. In the winter of 1942, I tracked down a German sniper who was firing from the heart of their defenses. During that pursuit, I remained motionless in the snow before dawn, right at the very edge of enemy trenches. I even soiled myself. Any movement on my part would alter the shape of the snowdrift above me, exposing my position and spelling certain death or capture. For a nineteen-year-old girl during that war, captivity was worse than death. I suggest that you immerse yourself in the criminal environment surrounding you and await the opportune moment for vengeance."
   "I appreciate your guidance, but how will I know when the time is right to act?" Alex queried.
   "Do you recall the song from the TV series 'Seventeen Moments of Spring' about decisive moments?" Daria asked rhetorically. "It proclaims, 'The time will come, and you will understand it.' You mustn't rush, but instead, seek revenge if possible through the hands of another. When you were merely three, I read you the fairy tale 'Cock-the-Roach.' Do you remember it?"
   Alex replied with a hint of nostalgia, "Where 'Bears went to the hike, A-riding on a bike.'"
   "Exactly, and within that whimsical tale, the esteemed author Korney Chukovsky penned these profound lines: 'Wolves eat wolves on sight, Poor uncle Crock, Gulp a frog in shock,'" the grandmother recited. "It is perfect for you because it ensures you won't stain your hands with blood, yet your parents will find solace in vengeance."
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen. November 10, 1995. Reutov-Moscow
  
   Afghan and Mamonov sat at the oval dining table in the guest house, their attention fixed on the map of Moscow spread out before them.
  
   "Our target train is on Track Five at the Moscow marshaling yard in the Basmanny District," Vladimir pointed to the precise location on the map with the tip of his knife. "Once you exit the Entuziastov highway, take a right onto Aviamotornaya Street. Our informant will be waiting for you near the 'Capitals wardrobe' second-hand store. When he spots you, he'll blink a flashlight three times. He will guide you to the fifth track. Take him with you during the robbery. If there's an ambush, take him out first. And if you don't find anything, bring him back here. I'll handle the interrogation."
  
   Afghan nodded in understanding, marking a red circle on the marshaling yard and a cross on the rag shop.
  
   "The tipster informed us that there are three armed guards in the railcar," Mamonov continued. "Don't kill them, just restrain them and confiscate their weapons. If they put up a fight, subdue them without causing too much harm. They are protecting smuggled caviar, so the cargo owners won't make a fuss if the guards remain alive. The only potential response to the robbery might be sending a 'problem solver' our way, but I doubt they'll take that risk. Do you have the masks?"
   "Yes, we do," Afghan confirmed, seeking clarification. "But how do we determine which railcar holds the caviar? There could be sixty or even eighty cars in a freight train."
   "Anton," Vladimir shook his head with a hint of condescension. "Don't disappoint me. The security guards in the freight car are traveling between Kazakhstan and Ukraine, and by the end of November, both Russia and Kazakhstan have sub-freezing temperatures. They'll need a way to keep warm, won't they?"
   "I see," Afghan nodded, his understanding evident. "There should be a wood or coal-burning stove with a chimney in the railcar. Since the railcar itself doesn't have a chimney, it should be visible through the ventilation hatch."
   "Good. Now, how do you plan to neutralize the guards?" Vladimir inquired.
   Afghan replied confidently, revealing that his right hand held a well-thought-out plan. "We'll smoke them out."
   "With a smoke grenade?" Mamonov expressed doubt.
   "No," Afghan responded assuredly, making it clear that he had a more rational approach. "Using a smoke grenade would give away our raid, and the guards would come out ready to fight, armed to the teeth. Firing shots in the marshalling yard isn't in our best interest. Instead, we'll utilize the smoke from their stove. I'll plug the chimney with a rag."
   "Not bad, Anton," Vladimir said with a thoughtful smile. "In fact, it's an excellent plan. We've covered all the details. It's time to go."
  
   The small triangular parking lot nestled between the gates, the mansion, and the guest house housed a minivan and a pickup truck. Four armed fighters leaned against the tinted windows of the passenger van. Two of them carried short-barrelled AK-47, while the other two concealed holstered pistols beneath their unfastened jackets. Outside the guest house, a cargo van awaited its purpose. Sergey and Alex diligently loaded stretchers onto the ridged floor of the minivan.
  
   One of the armed gangsters announced, "Boss, we're all set," just as Sergey lowered the cargo van's canopy and Alex secured the tarp rings onto the hooks of the trailer.
   Sergey mumbled quietly to himself, "Yeah, as the fly said, 'We plowed, the tractor and I'."
   Alex offered his friend some advice, "Quit complaining. Be glad you're part of your first heist."
  
   Mamonov extended his well-wishes to the gangsters before their departure, saying, "May God be with you, guys."
  
   Afghan responded, "God isn't fooled; He won't tolerate any disrespect towards His people," then turned to his soldiers, instructing them, "Get into the vans."
  
  
   Near the outskirts of the marshalling yard, a cargo and passenger minivan carrying Afghan's small brigade came to a stop in a dimly lit alley. A dog lazily barked twice from behind a wooden fence surrounding a private residence. The dog's alert was acknowledged, and it soon fell silent. The gangsters didn't wait for any potential response from the homeowners; this neighborhood had never been quiet since the steam trains first arrived in the late 1800s.
  
   Afghan singled out one of the older boys, saying, "Den, you stay here and keep an eye on the situation. If anything happens, send me a message on the pager." Addressing the others, he instructed, "Vlas, Dimon, Tolyan, and Sergey, grab the stretchers and stay close to the guide. Alex and I will bring up the rear," then turning to the source, he asked, "By the way, what's your name?"
   "Among my closed circle of friends, I'm known as Owl," the informant replied as he approached the tracks.
  
   The named individuals grabbed three stretchers and hurried after the guide, with Alex following closely behind.
   Afghan positioned himself at the back, overseeing the entire team.
  
   Seven robbers, wearing black ski knitting hats, stealthily crawled under the railway cars, patiently waiting for the sorting of trains. Once the desired path was clear, they proceeded along with the cars. Owl, one of the robbers, pointed to a particular rail car and said, "See the chimney smoking? That one is our target."
  
   Afghan nodded and instructed everyone, "Unfold your tuques into masks and maintain silence as we approach the carriage." Taking the lead, he gestured for the rest of the group to follow him. As Anton reached the edge of the carriage with the smoking chimney, he raised his fist over his shoulder, signaling the others to freeze.
  
   "Vlas, Dimon, Tolyan, and Owl, you guys handle the guards on the other side of the train," Anton said quietly. "If they confront you, subdue them, cover their mouths with rags, and tie their hands behind their backs. I'll handle the ones on my side."
  
   Silently, the group made their way to the other side of the train and positioned themselves beneath the door. Afghan, Sergey, and Alex stopped near the carriage door.
  
   "Alex, climb up the carriage wall and plug the chimney with this rag," Afghan ordered, handing him the sleeve of a padded jacket.
  
   With the agility of an experienced rock climber scaling a vertical wall, the young boy began ascending the wooden wall of the car, gripping the metal fasteners with his fingers. Just within arm's reach of the open hatch, Alex pulled out the piece of quilted jacket sleeve and stuffed it into the chimney, then jumped back down to the ground.
  
   The sound of the carriage doors locking and unlocking reverberated like the automatic clutch of carriages. The creaking doors echoed like the wheels of a miner's cart, while the guards' curses resembled drunks plunging into ice water straight out of a sauna door.
  
   Two guards leaped from the train car and landed near Afghan. Both guards were in their forties. One of them cursed the stove, rubbing his eyes with fists, attempting to regain his bearings while employing every Russian swear word he knew. Anton swiftly kicked the guard in the groin, causing the man to double over in pain and collapse beside the rails. The second guard drew a revolver from his holster and aimed it at Afghan's back.
  
   Anton, confident that the smoke had also impaired the second guard's vision, ignored him. Unaware of the cocked gun pointed at his back, Anton remained fixated on the sight unfolding before him.
  
   The train cars, released from the marshaling yard, descended with a cacophony of screeching brakes and grinding metal. Each car seemed to carry a weighty secret within its confines, destined for a journey unknown to Anton. As the massive iron beasts rumbled down the tracks, their momentum building, Anton's attention was consumed by the mesmerizing sight. The sound of the descending cars reverberated through the night, filling the air with a symphony of mechanical motion.
  
   Lost in the spectacle, Anton failed to register the imminent danger lurking behind him. The guard, his gun still trained on Afghan's back, had seized the opportunity afforded by Anton's distraction. With the click of a cocked gun and a finger poised on the trigger, the guard prepared to unleash a potentially fatal blow.
  
   In a matter of seconds, a loud thud echoed behind Anton. Turning to look, Afghan's face contorted with surprise. Alex stood over the unconscious guard, having swiftly incapacitated him.
  
  
   Sergey stood frozen in astonishment, his mouth agape, just two steps away from the unfolding scene. As the initial shock subsided, he couldn't contain himself and exclaimed with palpable excitement, "He took him down with just one blow to the ear."
  
   Alex carefully retrieved the revolver from the guard's limp grasp and handed it over to Anton. The weapon exchanged hands, as a symbol of trust and gratitude in the midst of chaos.
  
   As Afghan released the revolver's cylinder opening lever, the reel fell to its side, as a tangible reminder of the violent encounter.
   Anton, his brows furrowed in concentration, raised his hand, pointing the gun barrel upwards, causing the cartridges to tumble out of the revolver cylinder and land on the gravel below. His actions was a silent acknowledgement of the debt he owed to Alex. "You saved my life, kid," he murmured.
  
   "It's too early for you to die yet," Alex responded, a glimmer of determination in his eyes. He paused for a moment, contemplating the words he was about to add, 'Your time will come, and I'll take care of it', but wisely decided against such foolish self-exposure."
  
   With the revolver secured at his lower back, Anton placed a hand on Alex's shoulder, conveying his gratitude through the simple gesture. He spoke with resolve, "You're right, I'll live on. Tie his hands."
  
   Afghan maintained control of the situation. Two men, their baggy uniforms emblazoned with Kazakh inscriptions, lay prone on the ground. The first guard had been tied up by Afghan himself, while Sergey and Alex secured the second guard. Anton, positioned beneath the carriage, observed his comrades on the opposite side of the railroad.
  
   A third guard emerged from the car, crying and coughing uncontrollably. Weakened by his landing, he proved to be unfortunate in his misfortune. The four men swiftly converged upon him, twisting his arms behind his back and securing them with a leather belt.
  
   Observing the unfolding events, Afghan rose to his feet and issued a command. "Alex, leave him be and remove the gag from the chimney."
  
  
   As Alex ascended the car, making his way towards the ventilation window, he caught a snippet of the words he had longed to utter to Afghan only moments ago. "You will live, for now," he silently vowed, "until the day I capture Mamonov, Elephant, and all of you in one place. I will personally send you all to the depths of the underworld."
  
   Reaching under the car's roof, Alex retrieved a rag from the stovepipe, his actions a tangible reflection of the growing intensity of their mission.
  
   The crackling fire in the stove cast flickering shadows on the glowing coals, while tendrils of white smoke curled into the frigid, starlit sky. Gentle breezes wafted through the wide-open carriage doors, swiftly transforming the once cold and barren space into a cozy refuge for both its rightful occupants and the uninvited intruders. With a calculated push, the seven raiders shoved the disarmed guards inside, arranging three sturdy stretchers on the floor before clambering in themselves and sealing the door shut behind them.
  
   Mamanov's men carefully assessed their surroundings, their eyes scanning the interior of the carriage. The shipping company had efficiently filled a third of the space with robust blue iron barrels, neatly arranged side by side. It was evident that the barrels held valuable cargo, as the guards had taken the initiative to place wide air mattresses on top of them, offering a semblance of comfort for moments of rest during the arduous journey.
   A small table occupied the space between the doors, adorned with a vintage Primus pressure stove, a kettle, a couple of pots, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and a scattering of open cans.
   A zinc bucket with a wooden lid stood nearby, serving its purpose as a chamber pot. The pungent odor emanating from it left no doubt about its function, causing everyone in the carriage to be keenly aware of its purpose. While it was likely empty at the moment, its presence served as a reminder of the necessities of long journeys and the realities of confined spaces.
   Dark green barrels filled the remaining space in the carriage, their quantity roughly matching that of the blue barrels.
  
   "Where's the caviar?" Afghan inquired, his voice laced with a hint of menace as he pressed the cold barrel of his pistol against the guard's forehead.
   The man's eyes darted fearfully between the gangsters, then sought solace in the gaze of a fellow guard, who exclaimed with a hint of exasperation, "We've been tasked with guarding these barrels of olives in the carriage, and as for the caviar, we're in the dark about it."
  
   Afghan's gaze hardened, his grip tightening on the AK-47 that he wrested from Dimon's hands.
  
   The gangster in charge placed the weapon menacingly against the second guard's forehead, and said with a tone that left no doubt about his intention to fulfill the promise, "We'll find it ourselves, it's just a matter of time. But it would be in your best interest to assist us in locating this precious cargo. If you cooperate and divulge the whereabouts of the valuable stash, we'll retrieve it swiftly and be on our way. However, if you choose to remain silent, I will derive great pleasure in torturing you while my soldiers hunt down the sturgeon caviar."
  
   "We genuinely have no knowledge of any caviar," uttered the guard, his forehead feeling the chilling touch of the shortened barrel. "Even if our superiors concealed it within these barrels, they wouldn't have shared such information with us. Consider this: here we have forty barrels, each with a capacity of three hundred pounds. If we assume that olives account for third of the cargo, then this railcar is transporting a mind-boggling eight thousand pounds of caviar. At a conservative estimate of three hundred dollars per pound, this damned railcar holds a staggering two point four million dollars' worth of caviar. It's insane!"
   "Believe us, if we knew about such a precious load, we wouldn't have wasted our time with vodka; we would have vanished halfway to Moscow," chimed in the first guard.
   "Now, we find ourselves trapped, unable to move forward or return to our homeland," the third guard lamented, a melancholic tone coloring his voice. "Whether in Ukraine or Kazakhstan, the owner of this shipment will surely deliver a swift and merciless death upon us."
  
  
  
  
   Six men forcefully removed the staple locks from the iron barrel lids. Sergey dipped his hand into the dark liquid and scooped up a handful of olives. The brine trickled down his fingers, staining his sleeve. He sniffed the dark blue fruit and took a bite.
  
   "Damn, it's sour," he spat out a piece of olive into the barrel and scattered the rest onto the ground.
  On the opposite side of the carriage, Alex carefully lifted the lid of a barrel, placing it on an adjacent one, and plunged his hand deep into its contents.
  
   "Boss," he called out to Afghan. As Afghan turned to face him, Alex stretched his lips into a smile and exclaimed happily, "We've got caviar."
  
   The others watched in awe as Alex slowly withdrew his hand from the barrel, brine dripping down his leather jacket sleeve. In his hand was a blue tin can with a picture of a sturgeon and the words 'Caviar' and 'Products of the Soviet Union' on the lid.
  
   "Get to work, boys," Afghan said, turning to the guards. "You're lucky. Pray for the boy's well-being."
  
   Over the next two hours, the six men stacked one thousand five hundred two-pound cans near the sliding carriage door. Their tired bodies barely moved, their wet clothes and shoes permeated with the scent of vinegar. The salt in the brine was eating away at their hands' skin.
  
   Afghan's determined gaze noticed the decline in his team's productivity. Anton glanced at his wristwatch, mentally calculating the weight of the load and the time remaining until dawn.
  
   "That's enough. It's time to get them out of here," he declared.
  
   Everyone, except Afghan, jumped out of the train carriage, gripping the handles of the stretchers, and vanished into the night with their precious cargo of cans. Afghan closed the door behind them and remained with the guards.
  
   "Don't wet your pants, gentlemen. If you aren't complete imbeciles, no harm will come to you," Anton reassured, taking a seat at the table. "Even if my men make five trips back and forth, they'll only manage to haul away roughly twenty-five hundred pounds, give or take. You'll be left with at least five thousand pounds of caviar. Think twice about whether it's wiser to vanish with the caviar at the next stop."
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen. December 31, 1995, Reutov
  
   Mamonov's mansion boasted a grand hall, adorned with three long rectangular tables positioned at its center. Resting gracefully upon each table were three alluring nyotaimoris, captivating in their slender beauty. Their hair was elegantly styled, gathered at the nape of their necks and adorned with a delicate touch of coconut milk.
  
   The first girl reclined upon the middle table, her body adorned with a lavish array of seafood delicacies. Her lustrous white skin became a canvas for salmon and sturgeon sandwiches, while delicate coriander leaves playfully adorned her nipples. A pathway of lettuce leaves traced a tantalizing trail from her neck to her intimate regions, crowned by a magnificent ridge of glistening caviar. Only the artfully arranged sushi rolls encircling her navel interrupted the smooth trajectory. Nestled within the navel itself lay a deep aluminum bowl, cradling six shots of vodka. Each glass bore the twisting inscription 'Made in the USSR,' a symbol of the recently vanished country. The crystal ensemble, meticulously designed by an artist, showcased the iconic red flag, pioneer badges, the state emblem in shimmering gold, and even a map representing one-sixth of the Earth. Completing the tableau, swordfish adorned the living plate's legs, while delicate river eels encircled her wrists.
  
   The chef of a Japanese restaurant in Moscow prepared a non-standard second nyotaimori. Following Mamonov's instructions, the chef expertly crafted an exquisite selection of juicy smoked meats that tantalize the senses with their rich aroma and delicate texture. Tender slices of smoked prosciutto, savory pastrami, and velvety smoked salmon were neatly arranged on the second nyotaimori, creating a mosaic of savory pleasures.
  
   In addition to the delicious meats, the chef added a variety of premium cheeses, each boasting its own unique flavor. The creamy wedge of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano, with its sharp and nutty notes, could captivate the palate of any gourmet. A wheel of velvety Brie, with its decadent creaminess, was paired with crumbly blue cheese, known for its bold and edgy nature that lingers on the taste buds of the guests at the crime lord's villa. These exquisite cheeses crowned the culinary masterpiece and, adding a touch of sophistication, created a delightful contrast with the smoked meats.
  
   The body of the third nyotaimori transformed into a vibrant tapestry of luscious fruits. Slices of succulent orange, tangy tangerine, juicy grapefruit, crisp apple, sweet pear, and velvety peach adorned her figure, intertwining to create a captivating mosaic of blooming flowers. Plump strawberries graced her lips, their vibrant red hues enticing the senses. Delicate lemon wedges delicately veiled her nipples, adding a tantalizing touch to the tableau. Concealed beneath an abundant cluster of black grapes, her crotch evoked a playful allure, infusing the scene with an air of mystery and intrigue.
  
   Orchid flower arrangements, accompanied by elegantly folded chopsticks in pristine paper napkins, and silver spoons resting on delicate porcelain saucers, adorned the vicinity of the nyotaimoris.
  
   The two slanted tabletops, laden with a splendid array of culinary delights and libations, extended from the side tables towards the central table. When viewed from above, this arrangement resembled a majestic "M," paying homage to Mamonov, as envisioned by the ingenious Japanese chef.
  
   Having previously served esteemed Yakuza bosses in his hometown, including Yoshinori Watanabe, the leader of the formidable Yamaguchi-Gumi clan. Only a true native of the Land of the Rising Sun possessed the expertise to fulfill the vanity of the Russian criminal lord by crafting tables in the form of the capital letter of his last name.
  
   The New Year's Eve gathering boasted a global selection of libations, with an assortment of drinks representing different corners of the world. Russian, Finnish, and Swedish vodkas tantalized the taste buds, while French, Moldovan, and Georgian wines delighted discerning palates. Champagne bottles, carefully crafted by renowned French winemakers, added a touch of elegance to the celebration. Meanwhile, ten crates of beer stood ready on the floor, showcasing the global appeal of this festive occasion.
  
   Near the expansive window, offering a picturesque view of the tranquil pond, stood a microphone stand, poised for an eminent performer. Adjacent to it, a solitary chair cradled an electric guitar, eagerly awaiting the skilled hands of the bard. Two strategically placed loudspeakers enhanced the acoustics of the space.
  
   In the morning, Svetlana and Elephant adorned a grand Christmas tree in the corner of the hall with an array of playful toys, shimmering garlands, and delicate paper serpentine.
  
   Nestled beneath the majestic tree, over fifty gift boxes, each adorned in vibrant wrapping paper, were meticulously arranged by the diligent bodyguard. Standing proudly in the center, a three-foot Santa Claus figurine assumed the role of guardian, overseeing the festive treasures with a watchful eye.
  
  
   Mamonov, Afghan, Elephant, and a formidable group of fifty men, ranging in age from twenty to forty, made their entrance into the hall promptly at eleven-thirty in the evening. Amidst Mamonov's ruthless and burly associates, Alex and Sergey stood out with their youthful faces, creating a noticeable contrast.
  
   As the guests gathered around the lavish tables, all eyes turned to Mamonov as he approached the microphone stand. The boss commanded the attention of the four dozen onlookers, while two young boys struggled to tear their gaze away from the captivating presence of the naked women.
   Alex's heart raced with a mix of emotions. He had encountered nude women before, but the sight of their smooth curves and the intricate display of the "sushi trays" conceived by perverted minds evoked memories of his first love.
   Observing the gangsters reveling in the New Year festivities, Alex caught himself reflecting on the events of the past year. Among the highs and lows, he recalled the loss of his parents and the bittersweet experience of first love, the feeling of hopelessness contrasted with the solace he found in Tanya's capable hands, and the profound sorrow intertwined with moments of intense jealousy. Thoughts of what could have been different filled his mind- the father's decision to rent apartment from wrong guy in attempt to save family members' lives, Tanya reciprocating his feelings instead of simple engaging in a commercial endeavor, and the regrets that came with the "what ifs."
  
   With a tinge of self-blame, Alex acknowledged his own responsibility for the shattered relationship with Tanya. He had drawn her into a world of prostitution, tearing at his own heartstrings with jealousy, ultimately leading to the destruction of everything they had shared. In that moment of introspection, he couldn't help but recall Carnegie's wise words: 'If you want honey, don't kick the hive.' He realized that he had indeed kicked the hive, and the consequences had reverberated throughout his life.
  
   "Brothers," Mamonov's voice resonated through the speakers, instantly filling the hall with a profound silence. "I have gathered you here tonight to celebrate a milestone in our lives. Our successful train heist showcased our ability to execute complex, coordinated action. Today, I can proudly say that we have evolved from scattered groups of petty thieves into a unified force with significant influence over the eastern district of Moscow and its surrounding areas. Each one of you has proven yourselves to be true wolves, not meek sheep. And as I look upon your courageous faces, I see the unwavering determination to abide by the laws of our trade. I am willing to embark on the most perilous ventures alongside any of you, including our young fifteen-year-old wolf, Alex. Even though he may not be listening to me now, captivated by the presence of a naked woman, I know in my heart that he shares our blood... A Happy New Year to all of you. My home is your home, so savor the blessings bestowed upon you by the divine."
  
   The gang moved together in synchronized motion towards the live trays, and once again, Vladimir took hold of the microphone. "Hold on, boys. I almost forgot to introduce you to our esteemed chef from Niyama's restaurant, Watanabe Katashi, who has prepared this exquisite feast for us. I am pleased to inform you that Mr. Watanabe is a personal friend of one of our esteemed guests, Anton Izmailovsky."
  
   The entire gang erupted in applause, with some of the younger members even whistling, expressing their respect for the gang leader of the Izmailovskiy micro-district.
  
   "Now, as Mr. Watanabe has enlightened me," Mamonov continued, "these types of food displays are highly favored by the Yakuza. Adhering to their stringent moral principles, the geishas' bodies, adorning the celebratory tables, were considered sacred and off-limits to direct contact. The traditional etiquette dictated that only sushi chopsticks and food spoons were permitted to interact with the delicate figures. However, in a lighthearted exception, I granted Alex and Sergey the unique privilege of satisfying their curiosity, allowing them to indulge in a playful exploration using their tongues in lieu of ice cream."
  
   The unexpected permission sparked raucous laughter among the attendees, its infectious sound reverberating throughout the hall and adding to the already jubilant atmosphere. As Mamonov joined forces with the neighboring criminal lord, the energy in the gallery reached a crescendo, propelling the celebration into full swing. Laughter, cheers, and the clinking of glasses filled the air, creating a vibrant and electrifying ambiance that encapsulated the spirit of the moment. Alcohol flowed abundantly, and the gangsters eagerly savored the delicacies adorning the women's bodies. Asian waiters with distinctive features hurried between the tables, swiftly clearing dirty dishes and replenishing the platters with fresh treats.
  
   Meanwhile, a chanson performer sang passionately over the heads of the thugs:
  
   "My old friend - Yura,
   Once told me: 'Shura,
   Don't be consumed by needless sorrow.
   For we both stand here alive today,
   Unfettered by the chains of prison's narrow,
   Fortunate to be free in every way.'"
  
   "Why are you so sad, Alex?" Afghan's voice startled the boy, as he hadn't expected a hardened man like Afghan to approach him from behind.
   Alex replied, "I've been out of the action for a while now. It's becoming dull. I train at a boxing gym and give English classes to Svetlana. It's time to spice things up."
   "Mamonov keeps an eye on you. He hasn't given you a weapon or assigned you to any robberies. He seems fond of you," Anton remarked.
   Alex continued, "I can't say for certain what the boss thinks, but one thing is clear: it's time for me to take action, and I have an idea."
   Afghan looked intrigued. "Well, if you have an idea, spill it."
   "On the Gorky Highway, about twenty kilometers from the Moscow Ring Road, there's a large truck parking lot," the young man began. "Back in November, some unknown businessmen tried to set up a construction site there. They cleared a significant area of the forest and even built a gas station and a construction equipment area. But something went wrong, and the equipment was abandoned, leaving behind an empty space. Initially, truckers started stopping there spontaneously, and eventually, someone placed trailers and toilets for them. Soon enough, a pizzeria, a shawarma stand, and a small grocery store opened up nearby, and life began to thrive..."
   Afghan interrupted, "And what's your idea in all this?"
   "The Ukrainian migrant workers pushed the truckers out. These crafty individuals use their dump trucks to deliver gravel, black soil, and construction materials to private households in the Eastern region, accepting cash payments only. Every two weeks, they hand over half of their earnings to their 'office,' and once a month, the self-proclaimed business owners collect their share," Alex explained.
   "So, you're suggesting that we rob their 'office'?" Afghan inquired with interest.
   Alex responded, "There isn't an actual office per se. The owners of this illegal business took over a piece of land and set up a trailer in the center, where they store the money."
   Afghan asked again, "Is the trailer guarded?"
   "The owners believed that having three dozen drivers would deter any potential robbers," Alex said, taking a sip of beer from a bottle. "Anton, there are no guards, no phone booths, and no paging networks towers around. The nearest police station is twenty kilometers away."
   "Are you certain that there's something worth taking?" Afghan remained skeptical.
   "Absolutely certain. I have an insider there," Alex replied, then continued, "One of the workers from that parking lot happens to be intimately involved with my aunt in Novaya Kupavna village. He spills the beans regularly."
   Afghan questioned, "So, you heard about the parking lot from him?
   "Not directly," Alex responded. "The aunt told her mother, my grandmother. She complained to me about the married Ukrainian driver who's having an affair with her youngest daughter. He takes advantage of her, indulging in sex, drinking, and eating in her house without contributing a single dime. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have plenty of money himself."
   Afghan remained doubtful. "I'm not convinced it's worth diverting our boys from their regular business for this. It seems like you just want to seek revenge on a group of migrant workers because one of them is sleeping with your relative for free."
   Alex dismissed the personal aspect. "I couldn't care less about my aunt's pussy. There's no need to distract anyone from more important matters. I'll conduct reconnaissance and plan everything carefully. I need thirty young lads, who are currently training in gyms and clubs funded by Mamonov, but have yet to prove themselves in our line of work. This operation will serve as a test to see which ones are truly loyal to the boss and which ones are simply taking advantage."
   Afghan agreed, saying, "Alright, I'll talk to Mamonov. Ultimately, the decision lies with him."
   Alex then asked, using criminal slang, "Will you vouch for me?"
  
   Afghan's anger ignited, and he confronted Alex fiercely, "You haven't even been in a real firefight yet, you fool. You think committing a couple of crimes makes you a tough thief. I don't want to hear that thug language from you. You belong to a group of men who would rather die in a gun battle than eat prison stew with common thieves. I will shape you and the others I've recruited in the gyms into my type of men. For now, wait for Mamonov's response regarding the parking lot raid. And in the meantime, learn the three golden rules of a mature man. First, learn proper etiquette at the dinner table to avoid becoming a laughingstock, as you were today. Second, in the next two or three years, strive to find your own apartment. You can't live off others while engaging in criminal activities. Third, manage your money wisely. Even if it falls into your lap, spend it prudently. If you draw attention to yourself with extravagant spending, you'll only bring trouble upon yourself and your accomplices. Got it?"
  
  
   The weight of their conversation settled heavily upon them, its gravity echoing the somber melody of the bard's song from the dark days of Stalin's Gulag. The haunting tune served as a poignant reminder of the harsh realities they faced and the risks they were willing to take in their criminal pursuits.
  
   The singer croaked softly, his raspy and weathered voice was amplified by two speakers,
  
   "The rain poured down on us,
   And on the revolvers' muzzles."
  
   The drunken revelers enthusiastically joined in, their voices blending with the chanson performer:
  
   "The marshals surrounded us,
   "Hands up!" they yelled into the darkness."
  
  
  Chapter Sixteen. January, 1996. Reutov-Balashikha, Moscow Region
  
   As the evening of January 1 descended upon the guest house, Elephant made his way into the elegant dining hall. His eyes scanned the grandeur of the room until they settled upon the sight of Alex, the boy's fair-haired head peeking mischievously from behind a luxurious leather chair. Lounging by the crackling fireplace, Alex nonchalantly propped his feet up on the ottoman, enjoying the warmth emanating from the roaring flames that consumed a third of the living room.
  
   With a thuggish demeanor, Elephant approached the fireplace, catching a glimpse over the youth's shoulder. There, he discovered Alex engrossed in a weighty tome written in the English language. Unable to contain his curiosity, the thug gruffly inquired, "What are you reading?"
  
   Without missing a beat, Alex, having glanced at the book's title, responded, "Emotional intelligence. Why it's more important than IQ."
   A growl escaped Elephant's lips as he retorted, "Did I ask you a question in some strange language?" Quickly translating, Alex replied the book's title in Russian.
   Slightly irritated, Elephant probed further, asking, "Did you even comprehend what you just said?"
   With a hint of exasperation, the youth replied, "I'm trying to understand."
   Pressing on, Elephant questioned, "Where did you come across that book?"
   Nonchalantly, Alex answered, "I found it at a bus stop near Novokosinsky market."
   Determined to grasp what had captivated the teenager's interest, Elephant persisted, "Well, at least tell me what it's about."
   Eager to enlighten him, Alex began listing the essential skills of emotional intelligence, "The five most important skills of emotional intelligence are self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation..." However, before he could finish his enumeration, Elephant interrupted him abruptly. The towering figure began nonchalantly making his way toward the exit, commanding in a firm tone, "Enough. Get up and let's go. Mamonov is calling you."
  
   Alex reluctantly closed the book and stood up from the chair, following Elephant out of the dining hall.
  
   Vladimir sat at his office desk, a bottle of beer in his hand, as the winter sun cast its glow through the window in Moscow. The Kingpin reclined in his chair, indulging in his beer and attempting to recuperate while gazing out towards the pond. The aftermath of a raucous night with his comrades had left him feeling sluggish, and there was a clear reason for it. His morning had taken an unexpected turn as he woke up to the effects of a generous dose of cocaine, finding himself entangled in bed with three nyotaimori until eleven.
  
   Meanwhile, Mamonov found solace in sipping his beer, observing his daughter as she frolicked with their dog. The German shepherd left intricate tracks in the untouched snow of the backyard glade, while Svetlana's winter boots created parallel lines that intersected with the zigzags, loops, and circles imprinted by their loyal canine companion.
  
   Observing his daughter's actions, Vladimir contemplated with a sense of pride, acknowledging his daughter's growing maturity. "She had taken a stroll to the nearby beach, savoring the surroundings for a while before responsibly tending to the task of cleaning up after their dog. Then made her way back home, faithfully heeding her father's advice by refraining from venturing onto the potentially hazardous ice."
  
   A knock on the door interrupted Mamonov's contemplation of nature, and Elephant and Alex entered the office. The boss swiveled his chair around, placing his beer bottle on the table, and commanded, "Elephant, leave us."
  
   The bodyguard exited the room, leaving Vladimir alone with Alex. The boss opened the top drawer of his desk, retrieving a flat box wrapped in colored paper.
  
   "You were one of the first to leave yesterday's banquet and missed out on the gift presentation," Mamonov stated.
   "I didn't realize I had to stay until the end of the party," Alex replied.
   "Firstly, never interrupt me," Mamonov retorted, his gaze piercing from beneath furrowed eyebrows. "Secondly, I don't blame you for leaving early. You left, so be it. However, I wouldn't have given you a present in front of the others anyway. Come and see what I've prepared for you."
  
   Alex approached the desk, taking the box from Vladimir's hands.
  
   The boss encouraged him, saying, "Open it up."
  
   Placing the box on the desk, Alex meticulously untied the pink ribbon and peeled away the red wrapping paper. His fingers were drawn to the touch of the black velvet box, gliding along its surface.
  
   "Did Svetlana wrap this?" Alex asked, noticing the paper and tape.
   "And who else?" Mamonov chuckled. "Do you think Elephant or I could wrap it so neatly?"
   "Does she know what's inside?" Alex inquired.
   "No, and do you?" Mamonov grinned.
   "I'll find out," Alex replied, unlocking the miniature lock and lifting the lid.
  
   Resting on a bed of gray silk lay a silver Walther PPK pistol. Next to it, an empty magazine rested flush against the inner surface of the box.
  
   "Boss, thank you so much for this gift. May I take it?" Alex extended his hand, ready to grasp the gun.
   "Of course. It's yours. I'm not particularly fond of firearms myself; I prefer the weapons of old-time thieves, like knives," Mamonov responded.
  
   Alex took the pistol, inserted the magazine into the grip, and contemplated his next move, "It'll be easier to get my revenge now. If the three of you meet without witnesses, I'll finish you all. The last time I saw Mamonov face-to-face with Afghan was when I was jumping on a trampoline. Elephant was inside the house. Even if I had used the Walther back then, I wouldn't have survived."
  
   "This is a late 1930s model of the German police gun, modified by the French. It was designed for concealed carry and close combat," Mamonov explained, unwittingly interrupting Alex's thoughts. "The French made it to accommodate a nine-millimeter cartridge, but its stopping power isn't particularly strong. I'm giving it to you solely for self-defense, so don't use it in shootouts with gangsters. Here are sixteen cartridges for it."
  
   From the same drawer, Mamonov pulled out a small cardboard box, revealing the cartridges inside. He added, "Keep in mind that these cartridges are one millimeter shorter than those for the Makarov pistol. So, if you don't want to shave off a millimeter from each Soviet bullet, use them sparingly. Have you had any shooting experience?"
   "No," Alex replied.
   "I'll have Afghan give you a couple of shooting lessons," Vladimir said. "Since I brought him up, I'll move on to your topic."
   Alex inquired, "About the parking lot raid?"
   Mamonov nodded and provided the boy with a detailed response: "Those lands belong to the Balashikha organized criminal group. You may not know this, but even this house is administratively located within their territory. The Balashikha criminal group controls the automotive industry and all private housing construction in Great Balashikha. When I acquired this land and Boomer-Service, an auto service shop next to it, they immediately tried to intimidate me. They forgot that I also have an interest in auto parts, and my Reutov location is five times closer than their Balashikha. For a couple of years, we were able to peacefully resolve our issues during meetings, and everything was fine, albeit tense. But three years ago, those scumbags shot my deputies: Paramon, Shishka, and Korova. Their Kingpin, Frol, was responsible for the assassination. So, I ordered my henchman, Soloma, to eliminate Frol as well."
   "How did it turn out?" Alex was astonished by what he heard. He stood before Mamonov with his mouth agape.
   "At a New Year's Eve banquet two years ago, Soloma shot Frol in the face during one-on-one conversation in a private room of the restaurant," Vladimir replied.
  
   Alex suspected that Soloma was either dead or in prison, as he had never encountered a gangster with such a nickname.
  
   Mamonov continued, "Neither he nor his two accomplices survived. They couldn't escape the crime scene, and Soloma's associates beat them to death. Ever since then, a simmering power struggle has engulfed the Balashikha gang, vying for leadership for nearly two years. And while they are busy fighting each other for leadership, I have approved the raid."
   "Will Afghan take part in it?" Alex asked.
   "He will, but indirectly. Anton is a prominent figure in our world, and he is always present at all the gatherings of thieves. If accidental witnesses were to identify him during the robbery, it could cause problems. You will lead the boys, and he will oversee the raid from his car," Mamonov answered.
   "Thank you for your generosity and trust, boss," Alex said.
  
  
   The six years of boxing training proved to be invaluable for Alex, as his physical prowess and fitness reached impressive levels. However, it wasn't just his physicality that benefited from the training; the young man also acquired invaluable life lessons along the way. Before engaging in training sessions with young athletes, Alex's trainer, Viktor, would often impart theoretical knowledge.
  
   Viktor would stress to the beginners that while endurance, speed, and strength are fundamental qualities of a skilled boxer, they do not guarantee victory on their own. "Sometimes, your opponent may surpass you in any of these aspects and come out victorious. To prevent that from happening, you must develop a well-thought-out tournament strategy and tactical approach in advance. The combination of high-quality theory and practical application will pave the way to triumph," Viktor would explain. "But first, let's talk about reconnaissance. Understanding your opponent's style, skill level, and fighting techniques is crucial for a boxer's success. Effective combat tactics form another crucial quarter of your path to triumph. The outcome of your next fight will depend on how well you absorb your trainer's instructions and utilize the knowledge you've gained about your opponent," he emphasized.
  
   During the last two years of his training, Alex took charge of his fight preparations. He diligently studied amateur video recordings of his prospective opponents' matches, meticulously taking notes in his workbook, and formulating strategies for his upcoming bouts, which he would then present to Viktor for approval. However, a twist of fate abruptly halted the promising trajectory of the young athlete's boxing career, leading him down a treacherous path that his country had been descending for the past five years.
  
   Little did he know a year ago that he would be applying his coach's wise advice not in the boxing ring, fighting for trophies and medals, but within the realm of a local gang comprised of thieves, robbers, and racketeers-a perilous struggle for survival.
  
   Alex sat at the roadside pizzeria Celentano on January fifteenth, and examined a surprisingly varied menu. The booklet contained eight types of pizza, two dozen types of meat, cheese, fish topics, five fresh salads, four soups, the same number of pasta dishes, and three pages of appetizers, side dishes, desserts, and drinks. A tall glass of Fanta sat on the table in front of Alex, along with a table knife, a fork, and a photograph of a drunken Ukrainian driver embracing Alex"s aunt. Alex leafed through the laminated menu, studied pictures of the dishes, and periodically scanned the eyes of customers.
  
   While Alex was engrossed in the menu, the waiter approached and inquired, "Have you made your selection?"
   Yes," Alex promptly responded, listing his choices: "Prosciutto pizza adorned with salmon, olives, and basil. Baked spaghetti with a delectable blend of four cheeses. And a bottle of Ukrainian vodka-'Gorilka with pepper.""
  
   The mention of pepper vodka did not elicit any surprise from the waiter, who made no inquiries about the young man's age. Instead, he simply remarked, "Will the honey and pepper tincture from Nemirovsky suffice?"
  
  "Certainly," Alex replied with a nod, confirming his acceptance of the substitute.
  
   The waiter politely inquired, "May I kindly ask you to pre-pay for your order? You see, we are located near a busy highway, and this is a rule we follow for unfamiliar customers."
  
   "I understand," Alex responded. "Would a hundred thousand rubles be sufficient?"
   "Yes," the waiter replied, picking up two bills adorned with the Peter and Paul Fortress of Sankt Peterburg from the table.
   "Hey, bro, did you notice this guy?" Alex pointed to the picture of the guest worker.
   "He's been coming here almost every evening for the past few months. So why do you need him?" the waiter asked cautiously.
   "This scoundrel is sleeping with my mother. I wanted to talk to him, you know? Like, either move in with us for good or leave her alone," Alex lied with such selflessness that tears welled up in his eyes. "You see, she's only thirty-six; she can still find a man for a long-term relationship."
   "I understand. I'll let him know you want to see him," the waiter replied and walked off to the kitchen.
  
   Alex enjoyed his spaghetti and pizza, sipping on sweet soda, and delved into a dozen pages of an American bestseller over the course of two hours. As the clock approached nine, a group of men in quilted jackets entered the pizzeria, leaving traces of snow on the linoleum as they sat at three different tables, conversing in a blend of Ukrainian and Russian.
  
   Two waiters seemingly materialized beside them. The young man who had previously attended to Alex took the newcomers' orders, then leaned over and whispered something to one of them. The Ukrainian driver made his way toward Alex.
  
   "Hey, kid, what's up?" the guest worker asked in a gruff voice.
   "Miron, I want to treat you to lunch. Come, have a seat. Would you like some pepper vodka?" Alex offered to the driver.
   "Of course," the guest worker responded, taken aback that the boy knew his name. However, the allure of a free meal overcame his apprehension, and his greed triumphed. The middle-aged man heavily settled into the seat opposite the young man.
   "Then instruct your waiter to bring your order here," Alex calmly stated. "I'll cover the cost."
  
   Closing his bestseller, Alex placed the photograph of his aunt with the driver between its pages. He wasn't surprised to witness a change in the driver's expression upon seeing his own picture nestled within the book.
   The driver held out his hand to retrieve the book, "Where did you get my picture from?"
  
   Understanding the man's intentions, Alex placed his left hand on the book while his right hand, clenched into a fist with brass knuckles, rested on the other side of the bottle of peppered vodka.
  
   "Don't do anything foolish, Miron," the young man hissed. "I want to talk to you. If I wanted to harm you, I would have buried your corpse in the forest long ago. Do you follow me?"
   Curiosity mingled with surprise in Miron's mind as he asked, "Who are you, anyway?" attempting to show that he wasn't intimidated.
   "I'm the nephew of your temporary wife, and I know who you are and where you come from. So relax and let me explain. Today, you ate and drank for free, just like you usually do with my aunt Natalia. Show your friends that we're almost family. Later, you can tell them that I'm your bastard," Alex said, using the Ukrainian equivalent of the last word.
   Miron's eyes reflected a blend of surprise and interest as he inquired, "How do you know that word in my language?"
   "I was born in Odessa, and I know a lot. But not everything," Alex replied.
  
   A waiter approached and served Miron's order. Alex paid for the driver's meal, leaving a tip, and continued, "I don't know how much you value your job and your life in general. I don't know if this will be your last visit or if you plan on returning. But I'm certain that you will tell me everything about yourself and your work."
  
   Miron tightly gripped the fork in his hand.
  
   "Eat, enjoy your meal, and don't make any sudden moves," Alex placed his hand with brass knuckles into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew it, revealing a gleaming Walter pistol. "It will remain hidden while we talk. I don't appreciate your sweating, tension, and aggressive demeanor. Are you planning to attack me?"
   "I still don't understand what you want. I suppose you want me to marry your aunt," the guest worker said, downing half a glass of pepper vodka.
   "Forget it. I couldn't care less if she exists or not, and the same goes for you. I want to see your wretched camp. Let me see where you sleep and hear about your work here and who you work for. Are you finished with your meal? If so, take the leftover vodka, and we'll go. Almost forgot to warn you: Remember, if you make any sudden moves," Alex placed his hand with the pistol into the side pocket of his jacket and stated, "I will not hesitate to shoot eight of your colleagues within ten seconds, and you will be the first."
  
   Miron and Alex made their way toward the exit. When the driver reached the door, he turned to his fellow countrymen and announced, "Guys, I've found my bastard here. I'll take him to the bus stop."
   "We'll be here until closing time," one of the drivers responded.
  
  
   The driver escorted Alex to his trailer, feeling a sense of dread as he realized his life held little value in the hands of this dangerous young man.
  
   "This guy wouldn't hesitate to shoot me and leave my body in the dark, deserted area before any of my buddies stumbled upon it," Miron thought, fully aware that his fellow countrymen wouldn't bother leaving the comfort of their warm trailers on such a chilly night. "Even if gunfire erupted right outside, they'd stay put."
  "My goodness," the visitor bemoaned his unfortunate circumstances in his mind. "How tragic it is to realize that our national motto, 'It's not my problem,' could turn against me. I'd rather not freeze to death with a bullet in my back a thousand kilometers away from home and family."
  
   "We work from eight in the morning until eight in the evening every day, except Sundays," Miron stumbled, doing his best to be as helpful as possible. "That's when we have dinner. Everyone is usually at 'Celentano'. After midnight, the pizzeria closes, and the guys disperse to their respective trailers to sleep. We sleep in groups of three, but not everyone returns to the base. Five or six drivers are always absent. They spend the night at clients' houses if they're closer to a quarry or cement factory, for example. That trailer over there," Miron pointed to the trailer with bars in the middle of the camp, "is our office. There's a guard who sits in there at night. He's not concerned with our safety, though. His only job is to watch the parking lot, which has more than thirty trucks. He makes his rounds once every hour, starting at midnight and ending at six in the morning."
   "When do you usually visit my aunt?" Alex inquired.
   Miron responded, "Wednesdays and Saturdays."
   "Don't miss those visit days, so you won't regret it," the young man advised.
   "I won't harm her," the driver assured.
  
   The drivers' small cabins contained three beds, three nightstands with chairs, a table, a wardrobe, and a hanger with three hooks.
  
   Alex opened the closet doors and rummaged through the residents' belongings.
  
   "Make sure to fold everything back as it was when I'm gone," he told Miron, who was observing him from the bed.
  
   Alex ensured there was nothing valuable among the pants, T-shirts, and towels. Then he inspected the contents of the bedside tables and thoroughly searched the room for concealed items. Finally, he checked under each bed. When he spotted the drivers' suitcases with padlocks, Alex thought to himself, "I had a feeling about this. They must be hiding money in those suitcases."
  
   "Don't see me off," the youth said, putting on his gloves, "and come visit my aunt on Wednesdays and Saturdays. She'll be thrilled."
  
  
   The following day, Alex reported the results of the reconnaissance to Afghan in the main hall of the guest house.
  
   "How did it go?" Anton asked, taking a seat by the fireplace.
   "Everything went well. The Ukrainian driver Miron was a bit stubborn and tried to bully me, but as soon as he saw my nine-millimeter Walther, he immediately calmed down and cooperated, paying attention to every detail," Alex replied.
   "Are you certain we won't encounter any surprises, like the drivers having pistols in their hands?" Afghan tested the guy's wit.
   "I'm sure," Alex responded cheerfully. "Miron was so scared that if he sensed any strength behind him, he would have called for help, and they would have buried me in the foundation of one of the nearby cottages under construction."
   "When do you plan to carry out the raid?" Afghan inquired.
   "I prefer to execute it at the end of the week. The drivers work until lunchtime on Saturdays, then they head to Nikolsky Baths to wash up, and after that, they spend the entire evening at a pizzeria drinking," Alex explained.
   "Today is Tuesday, January sixteenth," Anton noted. "You mentioned we should pay them a visit on Saturday, so we have enough time to prepare. The transportation will be ready by Saturday, and we'll gather all the fighters."
   Alex proposed, "I suggest we postpone the raid for a week and strike on the twenty-seventh. By the end of the month, both the drivers and the common fund will have more money."
   "That's a reasonable justification," Afghan agreed, making his decision. "Let's organize the raid for the twenty-seventh."
  
  
   The night was serene and frigid, with the moon shining brightly in the sky, surrounded by a halo. The crunch of snow under their feet echoed as the young men disembarked from the Volga and two cargo vans on the parking lot next to the Factory Pond on the evening of January twenty-seventh. The location was concealed from prying eyes by the trees of the deserted park and the buildings of the Scientific and Production Association 'Mechanical Engineering.'
  
   Under a solitary streetlight, Alex stood at the center, encircled by a gang of three dozen young boys. The teenager provided instructions for the upcoming raid, and the gangsters listened attentively to his words.
   "This is what the truck parking lot and drivers' quarters look like," Alex sketched a plan on the snow using a stick. "There are usually ten trailers, accommodating around thirty men in their forties. Their office is located in the middle. A guard is stationed there from midnight until early morning. Here we have 'At Celentano,' the pizzeria. The drivers dine and drink there until midnight. Their houses are left unlocked until they return from the pizzeria. Here's my plan: We'll launch three attack groups. The first group, consisting of around five to eight fighters, will swiftly seize control of 'At Celentano.' The element of surprise will be our advantage. The second group, comprised of three people, will deal with the guard and the office. The remaining gangsters will rob the drivers. Use firearms as a last resort, preferably for intimidation purposes only. If the victims resist, beat them without mercy. Please remember who was in each vehicle. We mustn't leave anyone behind. Now, let's go into more detail about who is responsible for what."
  
   Alex divided the squad into three groups and provided a thorough explanation of their respective tasks for the next forty minutes.
  
   "Any questions?" he asked when he concluded.
   "Yes, I have one," replied the leader of the first group. "I didn't understand how many people are coming with me to Celentano. Is it four or seven?"
   "Initially, four will accompany you," Alex clarified once more. "However, if there are more than ten drivers at the pizzeria, use a flashlight signal, and three additional guys from the third group will come to your aid."
   "I see," the group leader acknowledged.
  
   At the end of the briefing, Alex turned to Afghan.
  
   "Afghan, do you have anything else to add?" he inquired.
  
   Anton spoke up, cautioning the young gangsters in a hushed tone. "Alex mentioned that the amount of money in the safe matches the amount of money in the drivers' hands. Perhaps the guest workers have ten percent less than the common fund. They need to sustain themselves. If I suspect any of you pocketed extra cash, I will personally search each and every one of you. Trust me, I detest wasting young lives due to a lack of trust."
  
   Alex, Sergey, and another lad climbed into Afghan's car, preparing for their mission.
  
   From the front passenger seat, Alex spoke to the guy seated behind him, assigning him the call sign "the Third." Sergey would be referred to as "the Second," while Alex himself would be known as "the First. Clear?"
  
   The instructions were clear, ensuring everyone knew their designated roles.
  
   As Alex glanced out of the corner of his eye to the rear view mirrow and he couldn't quite decipher the expression on Afghan's face. The smirk that played across Anton's lips left Alex uncertain whether it was a sneer, hinting at disapproval, or a smile of approval. The ambiguity in Anton's reaction added a layer of intrigue and mystery to the moment, leaving Alex pondering the true meaning behind that enigmatic smile.
  
   Afghan continued to smile to himself as he watched a dozen guys and the driver settle into the passenger minivan, while ten fighters climbed into the cargo compartment of the minivan Gazelle.
  
   Lowering the awning behind them, the guys vanished from the sight of any criminal authority. They laid down on the cold, thick mattresses, covering their heads with wadded blankets. The three remaining fighters on the parking lot took their seats in the cabin of the truck.
  
   A quarter to eleven, a cavalcade of three vehicles turned off Gorky Highway and proceeded along an inconspicuous street of Nevskaya Street. Driving about a hundred meters towards the Balashikha cemetery, Anton made a turn onto Novgorodskaya Street and stopped the Volga in front of the funeral company "The Parity. Ltd."
  
   The headlights of his car illuminated the fence and dozens of tombstones, slabs, and grave fences behind it.
  
   "Sergey," Afghan spoke up. "Take some rags from the trunk, wrap the licence plates with them."
  
   Having retrieved the required materials from the trunk, Sergey completed his assigned task and then joined a group of fighters who had leapt out of nearby Gazelles. The young men formed a line alongside the fence of 'The Parity Ltd.' tombstone factory. As they discreetly relieved themselves on the black marble obelisks and cast iron grave benches, the minivan drivers demonstrated their expertise by skillfully camouflaging the license plates with snow, thus bolstering the overall security measures.
  
  
   Anton rolled down his window and called out to the drivers. As they approached his Volga, Afghan displayed his road atlas and addressed them, saying:
  
   "From the highway exit, the Pizzeria is just two hundred meters away on the left. I'll lead the way, and you will follow. I won't drive up to the pizzeria directly; instead, I'll park at the beginning of the parking lot, ten meters from the boom gate. But you," he pointed at the second driver, "should stop a few meters to my left, opposite Celentano. Then, everything will proceed according to Alex's plan."
  
   Ten minutes later, five rugged lads dressed in tracksuits and short jackets entered the pizzeria and took seats at two tables near the window. The place was already bustling with a group of drunk Ukrainian drivers, engaged in lively conversation with a couple of road hookers. Additionally, there was a young couple and a semi-trailer driver, whose truck was parked parallel to the parking lot.
  Soon after Mamonov's soldiers arrived, a waiter approached to them.
  
   "At this late hour, our pizzeria can't provide you with the full menu. We only have one cook in the kitchen, so soups and fresh salads are unavailable. However, we do offer pizza with various toppings and pasta with a variety of sauces. The cook could add mushrooms, cheese, and grilled minced meat to both dishes," the waiter informed them.
   "Bring both dishes to everyone and a bottle of 'Stolichnaya' vodka," the leader of the group responded.
  
   The waiter departed, and the group leader discreetly signaled towards the minivan with a flashlight, shielding his actions with his body. Shortly after, the waiter returned with the order and collected a hundred-dollar deposit from the table. He rubbed the bill between his fingers and inspected it.
  
   "Who's celebrating?" the gang leader asked him.
   "Ukrainian drivers. They're our regular customers," the waiter replied.
   "Bring them two bottles of vodka from us. Here's an additional twenty dollars for you," the gang's foreman instructed.
   "I will," the waiter acknowledged and left.
  
   The group enjoyed their dinner and raised their glasses in response to toasts from the guest workers, expressing gratitude for the gift. One waiter wiped down empty tables with a cloth, while the other swept the floor.
  
   At a quarter to twelve, the cook bid farewell to the waitstaff and informed them that he had locked the service exit from outside the front door. Minutes after his departure, the foreman twisted a fork over his head, prompting four of his men to rise and draw the blackout curtains across the pizzeria's windows.
  
   Within seconds, three of Alex's fighters entered the establishment, brandishing pistols. Two of them swiftly subdued the waiters, while the third hurried to the kitchen to bring out the Tajik dishwasher. Meanwhile, five of the gang members who had been dining moved toward the table of the Ukrainian drivers.
  
   The foreman shouted, "Get on the floor, you bastards! Keep your faces down! Put your hands behind your heads and close your eyes! If you stay still, you won't get hurt. This is a pizzeria robbery!"
  
   The drivers complied, lying on the floor and covering their heads with their hands. In a matter of minutes, the raiders secured their hands with nylon ropes.
  
   Getting up from the back of one of the drivers, the foreman directed his comrades, saying, "Tie them up one-by-one and place chairs over each of them."
  
   One of the gang members, who had been searching the waiters, placed banknotes on the counter and stated, "Here's the key to the cash register and the money from the waiters' pockets."
  
  
   It was a quarter to twelve when the parking lot in front of the pizzeria went dark.
  
   "The curtains have been closed," Alex said excitedly. "That means more than a dozen Ukrainian drivers are inside. Three of our guys ran inside to help."
   Afghan snapped back, "Don't be a football commentator. We can see everything ourselves. Better look to the right."
  
   A green sedan pulled off the highway and stopped in front of the boom gate.
  
   Alex instructed Sergey, "When he gets out of the car, hide to the right side of the vehicle. I'll meet him on his way back."
  
   The guard, wearing quilted trousers and a bright Chinese down jacket, stepped out of his auto. He had an army hat with ear flaps on his head, but there was no cockade, only a dent in the fur where the cockade used to be, serving as a reminder of its previous presence. His legs were covered in felt boots. The man unlocked a padlock on the boom gate, which slowly rose with the help of a counterweight. The watchman hung the lock on the locking ring and returned to his car. As soon as he touched the car's nickel-plated door handle, he felt the barrel of a gun pressing against his neck. The cold metal burned the skin between the collar of his woolen sweater and the hat, just under his right ear.
  
   "Grandpa, sit in the back seat," a firm voice behind him said, along with a hand pressing the cold metal against the watchman's carotid artery.
  
   The retired warrant officer, with thirty years of service in the Internal Troops division named after Felix Dzerzhinskiy, the influential figure who stood behind the predecessor of the Soviet KGB creation, quickly assessed the situation. He realized that everything was working against him: the cumbersome warm clothes, the young and reckless thug ready to shoot him without thinking about the consequences, the black Volga with tinted windows and the engine running, the two Gazelles in the parking lot that he initially ignored, and these two guys now getting into his cherished car. The watchman obediently sat down behind the driver's seat.
  
   As Sergey showed the guard a knife, he said, "You need to remain calm and not show your personality."
   The veteran of the Internal Troops replied, "I understand the situation."
  
   Alex slowly drove the guard's car towards the office trailer, followed by the rumbling Gazelles entering the migrant workers' camp. Alex made sure his guys quickly scattered towards the trailers and then asked the security guard, "Hand me the key to the office trailer."
   The old man responded, "It hangs on a ring under the ignition, along with my apartment and garage keys. It's the biggest one."
   In the dim light, Alex found the key he needed and said, "Let's go."
  
   The four passengers exited the car and entered the office a minute later.
  
   "Draw the curtains," Sergey requested to the watchman, turning on the light.
  
   Alex scanned the room, specifically looking for a phone due to his earlier observation of the overhead telephone line during his reconnaissance visit. His focus was on finding a connection within the office. Noticing a meter-tall iron box positioned between the bed and the desk, he spotted the phone resting on top of the safe.
  
   "Number Three, cut the cord at both ends, coil it up, and keep it in your pocket," Alex instructed one of his team members. "Number Two, go find our minivan drivers. Tell the driver of the cargo minivan to move it backward towards the office trailer, and bring the other driver here."
  
   Sergey quickly exited the room and returned shortly with assistance.
  
   "Together, we'll carefully lower the safe onto its side and grab hold of it with three people on each side," Alex directed his fighters. Turning to the security guard, he questioned, "And why were you just standing there, sir? Stand in front of me and take one of the corners."
  
   Working in unison, the team and the security guard successfully carried the safe out of the trailer and placed it onto the floor of the cargo van.
  
   "You guys hop in the minivans," Alex commanded the drivers, then turning to his comrades, he added, "And as for you, deal with those stubborn guest workers."
  
   While the others hurried to carry out his orders, Alex was left alone with the guard. He leaned in, whispering, "You and I are going back to the office, pal. Don't worry, I won't take your car. I'll leave the keys to your apartment in an ignition lock."
  
   The young man swiftly bound the guard's hands inside the trailer. The guard offered no resistance; he knew it was wiser to lose his job than his life. Throughout his years of guarding inmates in the Internal Troops, the old man had acquired a simple truth: those who appeared harmless were often the most dangerous.
  
   Alex secured the guard's legs to the chair legs with duct tape, all the while engaging in a heartfelt conversation with his captive. "I won't gag you, so you can breathe. Just please, refrain from screaming until we're gone. No help will arrive in time. Before we leave, I'll crank up the heater so you don't freeze."
  
   The elderly guard couldn't help but ask, "Aren't you afraid I'll remember your face?"
  
   "No, that wouldn't make any sense at all," the young man replied dismissively. "Even if you were an artist who drew my portrait, your bosses wouldn't be able to track me down. They wouldn't dare involve the police."
   "And why's that?" the guard jeered.
   "Because they're just as much bandits as we are, and they won't seek cooperation or assistance from any government agency," the young man explained. "They might have protectors in power, but I don't give a damn about them, so make sure to pass it on to your bosses. Instead of trying to memorize my face, focus on concocting a story for your superiors. If it were me, I'd deny any involvement. I wouldn't recall anyone, refuse to hand over the office keys or carry the safe. I'd say the robbers ambushed me at the gate, while they ransacked both the drivers and the office. I'd claim I was sitting in my car the whole time, and then they brought me here."
   The veteran guard silently pondered, thinking, "The young pup wants to teach me a lesson," but he kept his thoughts to himself.
  
   Meanwhile, Alex was already inside the office when his men entered the seven trailers. They swiftly bound the drivers and thoroughly searched the premises. The occupants of three more cabins had secured themselves behind iron doors with internal latches. As the raid unfolded, these tenants were already fast asleep, and when prompted to open up, they responded with a resounding "go fuck yourselves."
  
   During the briefing, Alex cautioned his comrades about the possibility of encountering resistance and offered some advice: "If they refuse to open the door, smash the windows and smoke them out."
  
   However, implementing this plan proved to be more challenging in reality.
  
   There weren't enough smoke grenades for each soldier, and those who took them from the minivans had no use for them initially. Alex hadn't intended to get involved in the mission beyond stealing the shared funds from the office. However, he found it difficult to stand idly by, watching the overzealous gym enthusiasts act foolishly through the window. He turned on the heater and swiftly exited the office.
  
   Alex sprinted from one trailer to another, shouting, "Who's got the smoke bombs?"
  
   Once he had three smoke grenades in his possession, he rushed towards one of the locked trailers and yelled through the shattered window,
   "Hey, you imbeciles! Take a good look at what I've got here! These are smoke grenades! In thirty seconds, I'm lighting one up, and it'll fill your cabin with smoke. Not all of you may make it out. Look at me."
  
   Nine pairs of eyes peered through the empty window frames as Alex tucked two cylinders into his jacket pockets and removed the safety caps from the third.
  
   "On the count of three, I'm tossing a smoke grenade into the nearest window," the young man declared, initiating the countdown. "One!"
  
   The grater on the reverse side of the safety cardboard grazed against the white pin of the grenade fuse.
  
   Three seconds later, he exclaimed, "Two!"
  
   Like striking a match, the young man ignited the fuse with the grater, producing a distinct click from inside the cylinder. Two white streams of smoke sprayed out in opposite directions. Alex was on the verge of following through with his threat when the sound of iron bars clanging reached his ears.
  
   In a commanding voice, he yelled, "Three!" and tossed the grenade into the woods.
  
   Thick white smoke billowed out from the ends of the cardboard tube, carried away by a gentle, frosty breeze, dissolving into the evergreen canopies of pine and fir trees. The last trailer was robbed half an hour later.
  
   As soon as the migrant workers were bound, Alex rounded up his fighters from the pizzeria, counted his entire brigade, and hopped into the Volga.
  
   "It's done," Alex reported to Afghan. "No injuries among ours."
   "And among the guest-workers?" Afghan inquired.
   "We roughed up a few," the youth replied nonchalantly.
  
  
   Afghan gave Alex, Sergey, and Dan a ride to Mamonov's guest house, where they learned from the guard that the boss would be expecting them with a report on the raid by eight in the morning. Given the time constraints and the distance to Anton's bachelor flat in the Izmailovo district, it didn't make sense to make the trip to his den. Even without encountering rush-hour traffic, it would take at least an hour and a half to get there, and the same amount of time to return to Reutovo. With only three hours left in the night, Anton considered an alternative plan.
  
   "Why not pay Olga a visit?" Anton pondered. "I could also take the opportunity to see if anyone else has shared her bed during the time I was occupied with watching over Alex and his young companions."
  
   The following morning, the bare-chested Afghan lay face down on the bed. A light blanket covered his legs and thighs. Next to him, Olga, his forty-year-old lover, leaned against the pillows. Her highlighted hair cascaded over her shoulders, while her voluptuous breasts strained against her nightgown. With gentle strokes, Olga traced her finger along the scars on Afghan's back, her eyes filled with curiosity.
  
   "I've always been intrigued by these scars," she remarked, counting the marks with her finger. There were six of them.
   Anton replied, "Why specifically those? I have several other scars on my body."
   "I've been a nurse for twenty years," Olga explained, "and I've seen bullet wounds and knife injuries before, but nothing quite like these."
   "I've got them seven years ago during our invasion of Afghanistan. Near Kandahar, one of my subordinates stepped on a landmine right behind me," Afghan recounted. "The explosion tore him apart. Two soldiers who were walking between us were wounded, and I ended up with shrapnel in my back. The surgeon removed a few fragments from my shoulder."
   "Do the scars bother you?" Olga inquired.
   "No, the scars themselves don't," Anton replied. "But sometimes my shoulder blade gives me trouble. I used to resort to opium in Afghanistan, but I don't want to get involved with drug dealers here."
   "I have access to morphine," the nurse revealed. "If you use it solely for medical purposes, not for selling, I can alleviate your suffering."
   Afghan rolled onto his back, embraced Olga, and pulled her closer, saying, "Please, relieve my pain right now."
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen. February-April, 1996. Moscow and Region
  
   The Second Section of the Department of Economic Security of Russia was responsible for overseeing banks, insurance companies, two mints, and several banknote printing factories.
  
   Colonel Yevgeny Baranov, a hereditary counterintelligence officer, served as the head of this section. His father had faithfully served the cause of Lenin and Stalin, guarding the Communist Party's top officials in Leningrad until Khrushchev's thaw.
  
   Baranov Sr. advised his son to enroll in the Faculty of Economics at Leningrad State University for a better future. Furthermore, he encouraged him to apply to the local KGB office after graduating.
  
   Yevgeny never disputed his father's advice, never disregarded it, and never regretted it. He served with relative honesty, occasionally accepting gifts from grateful bank executives, but never caught accepting substantial bribes. As a result, he enjoyed a good standing within the chain of command.
  
   Section heads were entitled to a service car with a personal driver. For the past five years, KGB warrant officer Semyon Karpov had served as Colonel Baranov's driver.
  
   Fifteen years ago, Karpov served two years of his compulsory military service as a border guard on the Soviet-Chinese border. He started as a dog handler and worked his way up to the rank of sergeant.
  
   Having joined the KGB as a non-commissioned officer many years ago, he was concise and precise in his duties. In addition to driving the Volga, he secretly ensured the safety of his passenger.
  
   When the forty-two-year-old Lieutenant Colonel Baranov assumed his position, the head of the KGB Central Garage assigned the driver a special task:
   "Semyon," the major said, "Although Baranov is a hereditary counterintelligence officer, he is still a 'jacket.' Yevgeny doesn"t have the same training as the graduates of the KGB Higher College, but he is a genius in the financial and economic fields. Take care of his security."
  
   In the five years since that conversation, Karpov never doubted his loyalty to his immediate superior. As a result, his daily passengers treated him not as a servant but as a modest man, refraining from unnecessary questions.
  
   Only once did Baranov inquire about Karpov's past, specifically about his former comrades in the border detachment in the Far East.
  
  
   "We gather annually on Border Guard Day, which falls at the end of May," the warrant officer said. "Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, even the guys from our outpost came from Kazakhstan and Ukraine." In recent years, I've only seen Muscovites and men from the Moscow region."
  
   "And how did they settle down after their service? How many of your former comrades became federal or police officers?" the Colonel asked.
   The warrant officer replied reluctantly, "There are only four of my co-servicemen in the entire Moscow region, and Dmitriy Zatorkin is the only sergeant at the Railway-town Police Department."
   Baranov responded, "I understand," and didn't delve further into the topic of discharged servicemen.
  
   Karpov knew that his passenger was part of the delegation that recently signed a multimillion-dollar contract between the Moscow Mint and a renowned Swiss watch company at the Swiss Embassy. He was also aware that the Russians had agreed to produce ten thousand red gold watch cases and straps, fitted with Swiss-made watches. He knew a lot, but Semyon couldn't connect the information he had received a month ago with Baranov's question.
  
  
   The Railway-town organized crime group celebrated Soviet Army and Navy Day on February 23rd in the Small Hall of the Autograph restaurant. The men conducted themselves like proud veterans of the Armed Forces. On that festive evening on the outskirts of the city, neither former criminals nor athletes were among the members of the criminal organization in attendance.
  
   Retired after over thirty years of military service, Lieutenant Colonel Krylov had founded the first-ever organized criminal group of its kind, bringing together former officers, ensigns, and sergeants. As the former head of the motorized regiment's logistics, he meticulously selected each fighter, team leader, and lieutenant within his organization. Within a year, Krylov's gang had eliminated all competitors in Railway-town, including ethnic gangs and criminal mobs. A crucial role in gaining control over the town played four Zatorkin brothers, who had served as sergeants and patrolmen in the local police. Unfortunately, seizing control of the city did not come without bloodshed. One of the Zatorkin brothers died in a shootout with Caucasians. The day after the funeral of his closest relative, the youngest of the four siblings decided to leave the Moscow region with his family.
  
   "I'm indebted to Dmitry and Yegor Zatorkin," Krylov pondered during a lengthy toast by one of the gangsters. "It was I who convinced the Zatorkin quartet to leave the thankless Ministry of Internal Affairs and join me. No matter how much I pay them or what gifts I give them, I'm certain they will never forgive me for their brother Gennady's death, just as I will never forgive myself."
  
   Krylov interrupted a lengthy toast by one of his gangsters and proclaimed, "Third toast. Let us drink without clinking glasses in memory of our friends who fell in battles against our enemies."
  
   The dinner carried on, and during the course of the meal, Dmitry Zatorkin excused himself to use the restroom. The former police sergeant paid no attention to the other restaurant patrons, as they posed no threat and were indifferent to his presence.
  
   Nevertheless, he didn't miss the moment when a man in his mid-forties rose from behind a table in the Main Hall and began following him.
  
   The restroom was adorned with light brown marble and, despite its intended capacity for four people, it had a twist lock on the door handle.
  
   As the man from the Main Hall entered the restroom and locked the door behind him, Dmitry washed his hands with soap. Pretending to observe himself in the mirror, Zatorkin discreetly reached for his pistol in the underarm leather holster.
  
   The guest raised both hands to his chest and said, The guest raised both hands to his chest and said, "Dmitry, you won't need that. I'm not here in an official capacity; this is a personal matter."
  
   The mysterious stranger then produced a blue identification card from his breast pocket, displaying the imprint 'The Main Directorate of the Federal Security Service.' He also showed Dmitry his photograph and the department's seal, and said, "We have little time, so let me explain the essence of my proposal."
  
   After saying that, Yevgeny disclosed the Mint's contract with the Swiss to Zatorkin and proposed robbing the transportation en route to the airport. Baranov knew how absurd his proposition sounded, but he persisted, saying, "I understand that what you've heard may seem unrealistic, but you and your brother, Krylov, have time to verify my claims. The Factory is currently hiring workers for reconstruction. Send your people there to investigate. If I'm a fraud and deceiving you, you won't invest a single ruble in preparing for the robbery. You'll think I'm either a psychopath or that our conversation was just a drunken dream. If you reject my offer, I won't seek other avenues, but if you're willing to take the risk, I'll come for my share. You won't have to look for me."
  
   As Baranov unlocked the door, Dmitry posed a question, "Why us?"
  
   The FSB Colonel replied, "Because your gangster organization is unique, consisting solely of former military and ex-police officers."
  
   When Zatorkin returned to the Small Hall, he discovered that his interlocutor had already departed from the restaurant. Maneuvering through the dining tables and dancing couples, ex-cop pondered what he had heard, contemplating whether to inform Krylov about the meeting with the senior counterintelligence officer or if he and his brother could carry out the operation independently.
  
   "We won't be able to handle it," Dmitry concluded for himself. "To rob three minibuses in Moscow, we'll need twenty 'soldiers' and many days of preparation. It can't be done behind the boss's back. I don't even need to discuss it with Yegor."
  
   "Boss," Dmitry said as he sat at the table. "I need to tell you something important, but I'm afraid to broach this topic here. It's so serious that I hesitate to say anything."
   Surprised, Krylov inquired, "Why did you mention it if you weren't going to share it here?"
   "You are the boss, so I felt it was my duty to inform you about the high stakes as soon as possible so as not to be suspected of trying to pull it off behind your back," Zatorkin replied.
   "You can tell me about it in the car on our way home," Krylov suggested.
   "It would be better to discuss it outside," Dmitry insisted. "This is a monumental undertaking, and I'd rather not discuss it in the presence of your driver."
  
   Walking along the snow-covered pedestrian sidewalk next to Krylov's estate, Dmitry shared the FSB colonel's proposal with the boss.
  
   "In the course of your story, I have a few questions," the veteran of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany responded to Dmitry's detailed explanation. "Firstly, do you believe him? This plan is sheer suicide. Customs Street starts at the Moscow Mint and ends at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Just one block away from the Printing Factory on Podolsk Road, you'll find the motorized rifle brigade's barracks. This brigade guards the Ministry of Defense. There are no fewer than eight battalions stationed there, each consisting of five hundred men."
  
   Dmitry confidently replied, "So what? None of them will even have time to react when we seize the shipment and disappear. It may sound incredible, but let's consider this: If we assume that the feds want to set us up, why would the FSB headquarters create so many obstacles for themselves? They could have leaked the information through one of the Moscow kingpins who is under their control. Therefore, my answer to your first question is yes, I do believe him."
  
   Krylov pondered thoughtfully and asked, "Let's say you're right and this FSB colonel, who you claim is just under fifty, wants to secure funds for himself and future generations before retiring. But why is the operation taking place at the Printing Factory and not at the Mint? The Printing Factory is responsible for producing paper money, not casting gold items or minting coins."
  
   "I asked him the same question," Dmitry replied. "He explained that the packaging for the watches will be done at the New Dawn perfume factory, which is adjacent to the Printing Factory with a shared fence and gate. These two facilities occupy the same block, and there is no road or street between them. Once the watches are fully prepared for sale, they will be transported to the Printing Factory for manual packaging before being sent to an airport."
   "Alright, come to me tomorrow for dinner with Yegor, and we'll discuss the plan," said Krylov, extending his hand to bid Dmitry farewell, as they stood in front of the imposing iron gates that guarded his property.
  
  
   On February 25th, Mamonov, Elephant, and Afghan gathered for lunch at a beer garden located on the outskirts of Reutovo. In the midst of their feast, Afghan's pager beeped, hanging from his waist belt. He heard the familiar beep and glanced at the tiny screen.
  
   "We are waiting for you tomorrow at the Church of the Transfiguration of the Lord at 9 am, Zatorkins."
  
   The sender's number was unknown, but Anton was familiar with the brothers who held control over the neighboring town. Both of his companions also heard the distinct sound of the beeping pager.
  
   Mamonov placed a glass of light beer on the table and looked at Afghan. "Who sent you the message?"
   "The Zatorkins," Anton replied.
   "Are you buddies with the ex-cops?" Elephant mocked.
   "I never even considered it. An army veteran and a former cop can't be friends. Frankly, I'm surprised they know my pager number," Afghan admitted.
   "I'm not surprised," Vladimir interjected. "This gang of rat brothers only survives because they have former colleagues covering for them. For the police, finding your pager number is as easy as taking a leak. What did they really want?"
   "They want to meet with me tomorrow at the Church of the Transfiguration of Our Lord in Railway-town," Anton explained, taking the pager off his belt and handing it to Mamonov.
  
   Vladimir glanced at the screen of the small black device, typed "I will be there," and pressed the send button.
  
   Anton wasn't completely truthful with his boss. He was aware of who had given the Zatorkins his pager number, and it certainly weren't the brothers themselves. The sender of the message was none other than the kingpin of Railroad-town, Krylov himself. Only he had the authority to summon Anton for a meeting.
  
   Krylov held significant influence as a major illegal weapons supplier for criminals in the Eastern District of Moscow. Afghan, being well-connected to Krylov, supplied Mamonov's gang with an arsenal of pistols, grenades, and assault rifles from Krylov's secret armory. This ensured that his boss had the necessary firepower to carry out their operations effectively. With the successful campaign against the Caucasian mafia in the eastern region of Moscow, Krylov's stature and influence among gangsters surpassed that of Mamonov. That is why Afghan received an invitation from one of Krylov's lieutenants instead of directly from himself.
  
   After retrieving the pager, Anton checked to see if Mamonov had given him the "green light."
  
   He wasn't surprised by the neighboring town's interest in him. He understood his role as a mediator in the negotiations between bosses, and the matter at hand didn't necessitate a personal meeting between them.
  
   Mamonov sent his trusted henchman to Railway-town for the meeting but provided no specific instructions. He knew Anton wouldn't agree to any of Krylov's proposals without discussing them first.
  
   "Boss, should I accompany Afghan?" Elephant inquired.
  
   Mamonov grinned and replied, "No, Pavel. It's not necessary. I have full confidence that Anton will be safe. By inviting Afghan to the meeting at the church, Krylov is giving us a guarantee that Anton will return unharmed."
  
   Afghan arrived at the church five minutes before the Sunday morning liturgy began. He parked his Mercedes in a spacious area in front of the blue gates and entered through the narrow doorway as soon as the bell rang.
  
   Only a few parishioners were present in the church on that chilly February morning. Despite never having met the Zatorkin brothers before, Anton immediately recognized them. Instead of approaching them directly, he stood near the right iconostasis, bowing his head in reverence. Softly, he whispered, "My Lord, may the souls of my soldiers who tragically perished in vain on Afghan soil find eternal peace."
  
   The young man didn't have much faith in God, but when he stood in front of the lavishly gilded porcelain iconostasis, he couldn't help but be captivated by its beauty and grandeur. The ornate artwork seemed to speak to something deep within him.
  
   "Hello, Afghan," Anton heard the familiar voice of Krylov and responded with a nod. "Good to see you," he said, acknowledging the presence of his acquaintance.
   "I heard Mamonov's villa got a complete renovation about six months ago. Is that true?" Krylov inquired, his curiosity piqued.
   "Yeah, it's true. It took a team of eight skilled craftsmen and two helpers three whole months to get it done," Afghan replied. He couldn't help but wonder if Krylov was also looking to upgrade his own mansion. "Do you need any work done on your place? I know some fantastic handymen."
   Krylov dismissed the idea of lavish renovations, focusing instead on his immediate need. "I'm not looking for golden hands. What I really need are two or three reliable and strong men with construction experience, like bricklayers or carpenters. They'll be doing some heavy manual work. And I could use a smart apprentice too."
   Curiosity getting the better of him, Afghan asked, "What's all this for?"
   "I have an opportunity to make several million bucks, and I'm willing to share the wealth if you lend me a hand. I just want to know if you have anyone in mind for the job. If so, I'll set up a meeting with Mamonov to discuss it further. If not, I'll have to look elsewhere," Krylov explained, his eyes reflecting the potential for a lucrative venture.
   Afghan pondered for a moment before responding, "I know two skilled carpenters who are as strong as they come. And there's a brilliant young apprentice who works alongside them. All three of them are part of our crew."
   "Perfect," Krylov nodded, pointing towards the Zatorkins. "Tell Vladimir to set up a meeting in a three-by-three format. I'll be there with those guys."
   Afghan couldn't help but wonder about the potential risks involved. "So, let me get this straight. We're talking about a job under police scrutiny?"
   Krylov, being fifteen years older and a retired Lieutenant Colonel, held authority over Afghan. He responded firmly, reminding him of their shared past and experiences. "Don't forget, neither of us were hardened in prison. So, don't underestimate the importance of our connections with the police. We need to keep them on our side."
   "I'll relay all the details to Mamonov, and as soon as he makes a decision, I'll let you know," Afghan assured him, acknowledging Krylov's position.
  
  
   On the eve of International Women's Day, March 7, gang leaders from two neighboring cities convened at the exclusive Ararat Valley restaurant. This hidden gem was conveniently situated between Mamonov's opulent residence and Krylov's sprawling mansion. The restaurant had been reserved for private service, ensuring utmost discretion for their gathering.
  
   Inside the elegantly adorned dining room, the atmosphere was both relaxed and tense as the six individuals engaged in a crucial conversation. They intermittently paused their meal to delve into the matter at hand, fully aware of the significance and gravity of their discussions.
  
   The world outside the restaurant was oblivious to the crucial discussions taking place within its walls. The gang leaders knew they had to tread carefully, for the shadows of law enforcement and rival factions loomed ominously. Yet, in the privacy of this exclusive haven, they were free to immerse themselves in the realm of intrigue, power, and high-stakes operations.
  
   Mamonov, with a thoughtful expression, addressed Krylov, "So, if I understand correctly, you're saying that you don't have enough people for the Mint heist?"
   Krylov responded with a calculated tone, "Not exactly. I have enough fighters to intercept three minibuses carrying valuable cargo on the streets of Moscow. What I really need are insiders at the Printing Factory who can provide us with information on the exact shipping date. And these people should be independent of our spheres of influence."
  
   Yegor Zatorkin chimed in, shedding light on the operation's intricacies. "The Mint will be producing the golden cases and bracelets for the watches in the same place where they stamp medals and orders. The internal mechanisms will be shipped from Switzerland and inserted into the solid gold castings there. Despite the substantial order, the finished products will be packed in such small boxes that the entire batch will be shipped at once. The weight of each watch doesn't exceed half a pound, so the entire load would be less than two and a half tons, roughly equivalent to two cargo Gazelles. If we manage to have our own people inside the factory, we can intercept the entire shipment."
  
   Dmitry, perceiving that Mamonov grasped the significance of the confidential information, leaned forward, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. With a calculated tone, he unveiled the captivating details. "You see, the timing of the order aligns perfectly with the onset of the Printing Factory's extensive reconstruction. They're about to embark on a major overhaul, tearing down internal brick walls as part of the renovation process. Once the demolition is complete, a separate company will step in to install state-of-the-art bullet-proof glass units in their stead."
  
   Mamonov realized that an unknown source had leaked this classified information to Dmitry, the eldest brother.
   "Now the factory is hiring low-skilled workers to demolish those three-meter-wide brick walls, Dmitry revealed, highlighting the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the facility."
  
   Those words hung in the air, carrying an air of secrecy and opportunity. Mamonov's mind raced, comprehending the weight of the revelation. The planned renovation became a vital piece in the intricate puzzle they were assembling, a puzzle that held the promise of fortune and risk.
   But the question still lingered in Mamonov's mind and he enquired, "How could two seemingly ordinary carpenters contribute to the audacious heist of the valuable shipment?"
  
   Yegor explained the hidden value of the carpenters, their true significance in the grand scheme of the operation.
   "These carpenters may not possess the specialized skills of our fighters or the knowledge of stealing and smuggling, but their role lies in deception and access. They have the unique advantage of blending in seamlessly within the chaos of the factory's reconstruction. Disguised as regular workers involved in demolishing internal brick walls, they can move unnoticed within the facility, discreetly gathering vital information without arousing suspicion."
  
   The notion seemed perplexing and out of place within the grand scale of their operation. Doubt tugged at Mamonov's thoughts, threatening to overshadow their meticulously devised plan.
  
   Slowly, understanding dawned upon Mamonov's face. The puzzle pieces began to align, revealing a clearer picture of the carpenters' purpose. Their seemingly ordinary presence would grant them the ability to traverse the factory unnoticed, gathering intelligence crucial to the success of their operation. The carpenters, in their unassuming guise, would provide the gang with the invaluable advantage of insider knowledge and unfettered access.
  
   Mamonov felt no remorse in placing the Lithuanian carpenters at risk. Regardless of the challenges they might face within the confines of the factory, their fate held little interest for him. Their involvement was a means to an end, merely a pawn in the grand scheme of the operation. Their lives were inconsequential in the face of the potential rewards.
  
   The thought of the carpenters flickered briefly and quickly faded away. It was replaced by a thought of Alex, pushing everything else aside.
  
   Alex was a different matter entirely. Over the course of their six-month acquaintance, the young man had grown dear to Mamonov, akin to a son of his own. Mamonov's heart held a special place for Alex, a deep sense of care and concern that extended beyond the realm of their illicit activities. The risks and dangers that loomed ahead, although formidable, took on a new weight when it came to Alex. Mamonov's paternal instincts kicked in, prompting him to consider every move with caution and care, plus the father of a teen daughter was sure, that Svetlana wouldn't come to his villa from Reutov on weekends if Alex wasn't there.
  
   "Why on earth do carpenters require an apprentice for such simple and hard labor?" Mamonov inquired.
   "Every single unskilled laborer must remain within the Factory premises until their tasks are completed. Otherwise, those damn guards will have to scrutinize an extra fifty workaholics each day. However, the apprentices will have the freedom to come and go as they please," Krylov clarified.
   Elephant pondered, "So, the workers are actually going to live right there at the Mint where they print the money?"
   Dmitry gave him a disdainful look, as if he were dealing with a complete idiot. "No, the workers will reside in trailers situated between the factory building and a metal fence along Customs Street."
   Yegor noticed his brother's contemptuous expression and patiently explained, "The fence will seamlessly blend into an angled roof that will rest against the brick wall of the three-story factory building, directly above the windows on the second floor. That way, the guards won't need to leave the building in order to keep an eye on the workers. They can simply observe the trailers as they walk around the premises, through the second-floor windows."
   Vladimir directed his question to Krylov, "What's the purpose of the assistant boy? Will he also live in the shed behind the fence?"
   "For a period of three weeks, he will provide his team with food, cigarettes, alcohol, and various household items like toothpaste, soap, and extra clothes," Krylov responded.
   "So, he'll sleep at home?" Mamonov concluded.
   "Yes, and during the day, he'll be our ears and eyes." Krylov finally explained why he suggested Mamonov's gang participate in the robbery, breaking his silence for the first time during the entire meeting.
   Dmitry proceeded to clarify the value of the apprentice, saying, "As per the contract, the assistant will be granted access to the fenced area and the interior premises. He must arrive at the Factory no later than ten in the morning, prepare lunch for the workers, deliver it to their workplace, collect and wash the dishes, prepare dinner, and collect their worn clothing and bedding for laundry. The workers will handle breakfast themselves."
  
   As the conversation progressed, Mamonov eagerly absorbed every detail, envisioning the collaboration and seamless coordination of their team. The true value of the carpenters became apparent, strengthening the plan and instilling confidence that their unique contribution could tip the scales in their favor.
  
   "That certainly makes sense to me. The apprentice will essentially be a freelancer, granted the freedom to move in and out of the factory during working hours. We can provide him with a pager so he can discreetly notify us when the watches are ready for shipment," Mamonov stated, turning to Krylov. "All three of them will be at my villa by lunchtime tomorrow. Dmitry, you're welcome to join us and provide instructions. However, if we delve into details now, we won't have sufficient time to negotiate our fair share."
   Krylov proposed a change in strategy, saying, "Let's switch things up. While Dmitry briefs Afghan on the task assigned to your people, we can discuss the financial aspects separately. In this way, we'll remain inconspicuous to the workers, allowing them to perceive this as solely your operation."
   "I agree, it's a logical approach," Mamonov replied.
  
   Dinner proceeded in silence. Afghan and Elephant couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse, knowing that they would not have a direct role in the heist. As Vladimir's mind circled around the share he anticipated from the Moscow Mint robbery, he carefully calculated the amount he should demand for his contribution.
  
   While Mamonov dreamed about the profit from an as-yet-uncommitted robbery, and his two henchmen regretted the missed opportunity to experience an adrenaline rush, Krylov and his two lieutenants relished their meal.
   They were prepared in advance to say 'Yes" to any financial demands from Mamonov, as they had previously agreed not to give a dime to the gang from the neighboring city once the robbery was complete.
  
  
   For quite some time, the leaders of the Railway-Town criminal network had been on the brink of conflict with their neighboring gang. According to their mutual consensus, Mamonov's gangsters had displayed impolite behavior and frequently encroached upon the borders of Krylov's gang-controlled territory. Mamonov's interpretation of the "spheres of activity" encroached upon Krylov's interests, resulting in heated discussions with the local criminal authorities on multiple occasions.
  
   Vladimir, Afghan, and Elephant firmly believed they held dominion over the entire auto parts market in Moscow's Eastern District. However, Krylov's faction considered the native Railway-Town area as their own domain and made efforts to prevent tribute collection within their territory.
  
   On several occasions, while overseeing the Railway-Town small business, the Zatorkin brothers had encountered Elephant and his pugilists at the flea market, where local motorists sold worn-out car parts from dilapidated Ladas.
  
   The former policemen attempted to reason with Elephant in a peaceful manner, explaining that it was inhumane to take worn-out carburetors and starters from the dilapidated sedans of people who had lost their jobs.
   However, the weightlifter remained obstinate, perceiving dialogue as a sign of weakness.
  
   Fortunately, a violent showdown between the neighboring factions had been averted for two reasons. Firstly, the Zatorkin brothers had already lost one of their own in the battle for control against the Caucasian diaspora, and engaging in open warfare with their neighbors could lead to further casualties. Secondly, Krylov instructed the Zatorkins to be patient and wait for the right moment for a fatal blow.
  
  
   After Gorbachev's decision to withdraw Soviet troops from East Germany in the early 1990s, three million tons of weapons and seven hundred thousand tons of ammunition were returned to Russia. Thousands of train cars were utilized for the transportation of tanks, artillery guns, missile launchers, and other military assets. The hastily made political decision caught the Ministry of Defense off guard, often leading to the storage of weapons and ammunition in ill-prepared locations.
   The implementation of this rush decision resulted in widespread looting of firearms and ammunition, and retired Lieutenant Colonel Krylov was one of the pillagers. In order to unite his organized criminal group, Krylov needed startup capital, which he earned by supplying Mamonov's gang with weapons through Afghan. Fully aware that he had inadvertently created a dangerous competitor in the neighboring town, Krylov patiently awaited the right moment to deliver a deadly blow to the gangsters from Reutov.
  
  
   The decision to eliminate the Reutov gang's leaders arose during a discussion with Dmitry and Yegor concerning the preliminary plan for the Mint heist. When the possibility of hiring outside help was raised, Zatorkin Jr. unexpectedly proposed, "Let's involve Mamonov and his goons in our operation. We'll exploit their usefulness to the maximum, then eliminate them all."
   "How do you suggest we do that?" inquired Krylov.
   "I know a Chinese fella who works as a wushu instructor at the Saltykovsky fitness club. He's not only a gifted instructor, but also a skilled ninja assassin. I've heard he's highly proficient in contract killings. Let's pay him; he can slice up Mamonov with a katana at his villa near the pond," Yegor responded.
   "That won't work," Krylov objected. "Firstly, Afghan and Elephant will remain alive, and they won't pass up the opportunity to exploit the war against us to bolster their authority. And secondly, once we eliminate the criminal lord, we'll have to take care of the assassin, which will be troublesome. He could safeguard himself by leaving behind evidence that links us to the slaughter of Mamonov. It'd be easier if you and Dmitry take care of all three of them during a meeting at one of our restaurants right after completing the operation."
  
  
   "So, what's the deal with our cut?" Mamonov asked, puffing on a Havana cigar on the restaurant balcony.
   "I'll bring you fully up to speed so there won't be any misunderstandings between us," Krylov sighed deeply. "Our Mint and the Swiss watchmakers have come to an agreement on equal shares. The Russian government will rake in two hundred million dollars for ten thousand cases and bracelets."
   "Wow! Can you give me more details?" exclaimed Mamonov.
   "In today's market, a 'Rolex Yacht-Master' watch goes for about forty thousand dollars. The entire order adds up to roughly four hundred million 'bucks.' The market price for standard red gold used in a single watch is seven and a half grand. The production of cases and bracelets took an additional two and a half. In total, Mother Russia will make the same profit as the production cost, which amounts to a hundred million. It's the same for the Swiss. The movement costs ten grand plus a hundred percent markup. I'm not sure if we'll be able to steal the entire order, and I doubt we'll fetch more than a quarter of the face value when we sell the watches. Even if we sell half of the lot for a quarter of its cost, we'll still turn a profit."
   "Hold on, let me do the math," Vladimir interjected. "These numbers are making my head spin."
   "I've already crunched the numbers. A quarter of half is fifty million dollars, and I'll give you a quarter of that," Krylov negotiated.
   Mamonov haggled, "One third."
   "Thirty percent," Krylov replied, simulating negotiation as agreed with the Zatorkin brothers the night before, and the gangs' leaders sealed with a handshake
  
  
  
  
   Algis, Mantas, and Alex stood in a line along with several dozen somber men, each holding a suitcase, a few meters away from the imposing double oak door of the Printing Factory building on Customs Street, on the first of April. The line progressed slowly, with one worker disappearing behind the massive door every five minutes.
  
   Around noon, Alex made his way into the inspection area, stepping into the spacious locker room. At that moment, Mantas had already undergone the security check, and he stood there wearing his completed coverall, zipping it up. The guard was just finishing up inspecting Mantas' suitcase and closing it after the search.
  
   "Take off your clothes," a gray-haired man said to Alex after snapping a picture of the young man.
  
   Alex removed his jacket and sweater.
  
   In a defiant tone, the inspector pushed the camera aside and barked, "Take it all off!"
   "And my underwear?" Alex inquired.
   "I told you to strip down completely, including your underwear. Put your clothes in an empty locker," the man replied, pointing to several narrow lockers designated for clothing. "Leave your pants in the locker and take a coverall from there. Once your body inspection is complete, you'll wear it. When you return here after work, change back into your pants, shirt, and jacket." Just so you know, this will be the routine every morning and at the end of each workday. You'll still have to bend over, spread your ass cheeks, and cough. Understood?"
   "Yeah, I get it," the boy replied with a hint of desolation in his voice.
  
   After a quick inspection, Alex got dressed and joined two Lithuanians outside the check room. As they walked down the long corridor of the Printing Factory, Alex couldn't help but notice the diverse ethnic makeup of the workers. Most of the men were immigrants from the former Asian republics of the Soviet Union, around a dozen came from the Caucasus, and there were only five to seven with European features.
  
   "This is quite a peculiar mix," Alex thought to himself, turning to Mantas and asking, "What's the deal here? Why did the Mint hire mountain sheepherders from the Caucasus and Asian cotton pickers?"
   Mantas replied, "The Mint bosses did it for security reasons. They don't trust Russians, and they know that Slavs tend to drink on the job. They hired us because we're Lithuanians. I wouldn't be surprised if those four handsome guys over there are also Balts or Moldavians," the carpenter explained.
   "But I'm not Lithuanian, and you guys drink vodka just as much as Russians," the young man objected.
   "You're nobody, you understand? They believe that you don't pose a threat. As for my cousin and me, we have a fondness for Russian-made vodka, just like anyone else within the boundaries of the former Soviet Union. However, you're the only one privy to this information," Mantas replied, grinning mischievously. "By the way, you look great in that coverall with a zipper and no pockets."
   "You're right, I'm not a danger to the Mint, that's for sure," Alex laughed. "But even though I'm dressed so ridiculous, I still have to endure the routine of stripping down, turning my back to the inspector, bending over, spreading my buttocks apart, and coughing twice a day."
   "Don't worry, you're not the only one," Algis chimed in. "Are you sure the Chechen apprentices and workers will appreciate this? This procedure is more offensive to Highlanders than anyone else."
   After a tour of the workshop and seeing the brick walls the workers would have to demolish, they exited the building through a side door into an arched passage and stopped at an iron gate.
  
   "Your residential camp is beyond these gates," the foreman said, pointing to the side of the building they had just left. "You'll go through these gates to work and return for a short break every day. Your young assistants will deliver your meals through them. During the contract, you can't leave the premises and won't be subject to security checks. Only those leaving the Printing Factory through Customs Street will be inspected. Leave your things in the trailers and start working in thirty minutes."
  
   The factory guards attached sheets of paper with the workers' names to the trailers' iron doors, and Alex quickly located temporary housing for the Lithuanians.
   As the cousins zipped up their coveralls and prepared to leave, Alex remarked, "Mantas, you look like a chubby kid."
   Turning around at the threshold, Algis asked, "What about me?"
   "You look like a polar bear, especially with that hood on your head," the youth replied.
  
   As the carpenters departed, Alex unloaded his backpack of perishable food into the refrigerator, stocked the shelves with boxes of noodles, rice, and pasta, put bread in the bread bin, checked for cutlery, plates, and glasses, and set out to explore the area.
  
   Soon enough, he realized that he couldn't gather much information while walking between workshops. The factory didn't have open passages; turnstiles with motorized rotors were everywhere, and a semicircular roof made it impossible to bypass them. Despite the obstacles, Alex remained optimistic and undeterred.
  
   "I'll figure out a way to observe the courtyard of the finished products' warehouse in the coming days or weeks," he thought to himself.
  
   When Alex left the company, he had to go through an embarrassing procedure, but he didn't let it bother him. He had resigned himself to the inevitable and focused on carrying out the mission that Afghan had entrusted to him.
  
   "Find a place to stash the pager," Anton instructed him on his first day of work.
  
  
   Following Afghan's orders, Alex spent the next three hours meandering through the residential areas and government buildings surrounding the plant, exploring within a radius of five hundred meters. Eventually, he discovered a suitable hiding spot behind a garage near the State Employees' Pension Fund.
  
   A few days into his job, Alex struck up a friendly rapport with several dump truck drivers who were responsible for hauling away broken bricks. Taking the initiative, he established a connection with one of them. When the boy informed Afghan of his intention to involve the driver as a point of contact in case of an emergency, Anton inquired about the necessity of involving someone who was relatively unknown.
  
   He said, "Convince me of this necessity."
   "I have to be at the factory from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon," Alex explained. "If the minivans come for the golden watches before my shift begins, I'll have time to warn you. Then, I can still go to work without arousing suspicion from security. However, if the vehicles arrive while I'm on the premises, I may need to make a swift exit, which could attract attention. Do we want that?"
  
   Afghan contemplated the situation and replied, "You're right; we don't need any extra attention drawn to you. Plus, you might not be permitted to leave the factory until the watches are shipped. Now, what kind of driver do you have in mind?"
   He's just an average guy, in great shape, around thirty years old. Goes by the name Yuri. The type of guy I'm drawn to is always cracking jokes, making me laugh. His sense of humor? It's like a breath of fresh air, so unique and original," Alexey confided. "Would you mind if I passed him your pager number?"
   "Yes, but not the one we're currently using. I'll create a new one today, and you can pass it along to him," Anton replied. "Although, you know what? Share his best anecdote with me; perhaps I'll appreciate it too."
   "No problem," Alex responded.
  
   After a brief pause, he recounted Yuri's joke to Afghan:
   "There was a mother who had three daughters. They were all married and living in different parts of the world with their respective husbands."
  
   Anton interjected at the beginning of the anecdote, saying, "Sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale."
  
   "I thought the same way initially, but then the joke completely floored me," the young man remarked, continuing his tale. "Before parting ways, the mother requested her daughters to send her coded messages about their married lives. Soon, the eldest daughter sent a telegram with the phrase,
  
   'Coffee Maxwell House'
  
   Intrigued, the mother bought a can of coffee and read the sticker at the bottom that proclaimed,
  
   'Good to the last drop"
  
   She concluded, 'My oldest in good hands." After a while, the middle daughter sent her message, saying
  
   'Rothmans Cigarettes'
  
   Mom purchased a pack and read the manufacturer's advertising slogan,
  
   'Life size - The King's size'
  
   A smile played on the mother's lips as she pondered. However, the third daughter remained silent, and the mother grew concerned about her fate. Just as she was about to call her youngest child, a peculiar message arrived:
   'The British Airways'
  
   "The mother couldn't decipher the meaning of this encryption until she saw a news segment on TV showing a supersonic Concorde taking off from London Heathrow Airport, with a scrolling line below the video that read,
   'Twice a day, seven days a week, both ways'"
  
   Anton's response to the parable caught Alex off guard. Afghan's expression revealed a deep understanding of the risqué joke, yet rather than bursting into laughter or cracking a smile, the seasoned warrior's face hardened into a mask of contemplation, reflecting the trials endured in the unforgiving Hindu Kush mountains.
  
   Surprised, Alex inquired, "Didn't you find that joke amusing?"
   "I did," Afghan replied. "But it troubled me."
   Confused, the boy asked, without attempting to conceal his bewilderment, "Why does this joke trouble you?"
   "It's because this joke is foreign and translated from English," Afghan explained. "You have a much better command of the language than I do. If you were to translate it back into its original form, you would understand it for yourself. I'm concerned about the dump truck driver; he doesn't seem like an ordinary driver. His intelligence surpasses that of an average driver. If he told you a joke about a fictional neural wife, I wouldn't be on high alert, but referencing Concorde raises suspicions. A typical Russian wouldn't be able to distinguish between a Soviet-made Tupolev plane and an Antonov plane, let alone comprehend London Heathrow. No, Alex, it's best if you distance yourself from him. Don't indicate that you distrust him; just engage in casual conversations and jokes without revealing anything. Understood?"
  
   "I understand," Alex acknowledged. "Thanks for the advice, boss."
  
   The following day, after discussing the driver with Afghan, Alex inspected the reconstruction progress on the vast factory floors. By chance, he encountered the head of capital reconstruction for the Mint. Around lunchtime, once the dust from the bricks had settled and the clamor of jackhammers and profanities had dissipated through the open windows, a delegation of five individuals entered the building.
  
   Accompanying Alexey Akimovich, who was overseeing the factory renovation, was a deputy from the Ministry of Finance and their entourage. The Mint's press secretary provided an explanation:
  
   "This coming fall, we will be procuring machinery from the United States to print new banknotes for the upcoming ruble denomination."
   "Please refrain from writing down that phrase," the deputy instructed, turning towards their assistants. "The planned denomination is a state secret."
   "I apologize," the spokesperson responded. "I assumed everyone present had access to such classified information."
   The deputy reassured, "That's fine. All my personnel have the necessary authorization to access state secrets. However, note-taking is not allowed."
   "The second floor of the building will house unique American equipment," the deputy continued. "Since the combined weight of the machinery amounts to forty-five tons, we need to reduce the overall weight of the structure to prevent subsidence. To achieve that, we will replace the internal brick walls with bulletproof glass."
   "May I make a note of this?" inquired the press secretary.
   "Yes, certainly," the deputy approved.
   The secretary then inquired, "Could you please provide the thickness of the glass used in the walls?"
   "The bulletproof glass has a thickness of four inches," answered the factory's press secretary, preempting the next question. "Furthermore, the weight of a square meter of glass in this case is five hundred pounds, which is eight times lighter than the weight of a cubic meter of demolished red bricks."
  
   Alex quietly trailed behind the visitors, ensuring not to miss a single word.
  
   "Wow," his inner voice exclaimed. "Now I'm carrying a state secret. I just don't know how to put it to use. I'll share it with Mamonov at home; perhaps he'll decide what to do with such classified information. But for now, I need to vanish. If they notice me, they'll surely silence me, possibly even removing my head along with my tongue."
  
   On the same day, the young man shared the state secret with Mamonov, to which the boss responded, "I'm not a financial schemer, but a professional thief, and I can't imagine how one could profit from the upcoming currency denomination. I've heard that about thirty years ago, before Khrushchev's tenfold denomination, some clever folks bought up coins and made a fortune from it, but it's not guaranteed to work this time. I believe that paper rubles will lose two, if not three, zeroes, and the current coins will likely lose their value altogether. Nevertheless, I appreciate the information, and just to be safe, I will consult with my accountant."
  
  
   Three days after the cousins and Alex joined the factory, Krylov and Dmitry Zatorkin examined the map, studying possible routes from the factory to an airport in the city. The informant had revealed that the Swiss could collect the order either through a scheduled flight from Sheremetyevo airport to Geneva, which operated three times a week, or via a charter flight from Vnukovo airport to the same destination.
  
   "Regardless of the airport, their route will take them along Customs Street, Apakov Passage, and Leninsky Avenue. At Sheremetyevo, right here, they will turn north, and at Vnukovo, south," Krylov explained, pointing at the map. "The only bottleneck is here," he continued, indicating the passage named after the revolutionary tramcar driver, Apakov.
   Dmitry asked, "Why don't they drive southbound along Customs Street to Vnukovo?"
   Krylov responded, "Builders' trailers have occupied two lanes and the sidewalk, resulting in Customs Street becoming a one-way northbound street."
   "In that case, let's intercept them on Customs Street," Zatorkin suggested.
  
   Krylov explained, "The Mint's military guards ensure the security of the printing factory's products along the entire stretch of this street, from the Danilovsky market to the Apakov passage. During the dispatch of valuable orders, there are several armed men in civilian attire stationed at each intersection."
   Dmitry expressed surprise, "How did we obtain this information?"
   Krylov replied, "Our 'boy-scout' reported to Afghan that Customs Street was heavily guarded during the transportation of cash vans carrying new banknotes. Anton then informed me about it. Therefore, we need to prepare two cargo minivans, to arm at least twenty men, and acquire two sets of police uniforms."
   Dmitry said, "No problem, what's next?"
   Krylov continued, "Afterward, on the day X, position your people and vans near the T-junction of Shabolovka and Horses Lane, and have two men dressed as traffic policemen stationed near the tram-ring on Shabolovka. Once our scout informs us that the cargo has left the territory, you must stage an accident between the tram-ring and Leninsky Avenue and have the Mint's vans drive southbound along Shabolovka Street. I will be at the tram stop near the Church of the Life-Giving Trinity, and I will signal the approach of the motorcade. As the cargo minivans exit Horse Lane, they will completely block the traffic upon my command. Keep in mind that the intersection is unregulated; there is no traffic light. The exit from the lane is limited by a 'Give way' sign, so ensure that the tram does not collide with our trucks at full speed. Success will depend on the audacity of our team and the bravery of the Mint drivers."
  
  
   On April Tenth, Colonel Baranov dismissed his subordinates following the operational briefing of the Second Section. The officers dispersed to their offices, while the deputy head of the Section remained behind.
  
   "Comrade Colonel," Major Loboda began as he closed the door to the chief's office. "In accordance with your order, I have checked the biographies of all workers involved in the overhaul of the Printing factory, and I have found a couple of suspicious individuals. Please review these documents."
  
   Opening the folder, Major Loboda placed two thin stacks of papers on the table before the Section Head. Colonel Baranov removed a paper clip from the first stack and glanced over the contents.
  
   "It's evident," Baranov said, stacking the papers on top of each other. "Highly skilled carpenters, who are under suspicion for several burglaries, have been deliberately hired to work in the factory for three weeks of labor that does not match their expertise. Thank you for the excellent work; I will take care of it."
   Major Loboda departed, and Baranov pondered, "It is not my destiny to receive a golden parachute with my pension. Therefore, I must proceed with plan Bravo."
  
   Frustrated by this revelation, he dialed the number of the head of the Special Operations Directorate Major-General Trofimov and declared, "Comrade General, Colonel Baranov speaking, chief of the Second Section of the Economic Security Department. I will require the support of your subordinates in the upcoming days. I will need approximately thirty men. An official request will be submitted from my office to your department following the established protocol, but the situation is urgent. May I report to you directly?"
   The official address from the colonel to the general in the Federal Security Service (FSB) was obligatory, while the general had the privilege of addressing the colonel by his first name.
   "Yevgeny," Trofimov responded, "please, come over at sixteen hundred hours. My waitress at the General's buffet will bring me a light supper at that time, and I will order something for you as well. Let's discuss business while enjoying a snack."
  
   Baranov had three hours remaining before his meeting with the General, so he headed to the square in front of the FSB building. After twenty-five minutes, the Colonel found himself on the phone with a former colleague in the subway station lobby at Revolution Square.
  
   The person on the other end of the line was a retired major who had been training enthusiasts in hand-to-hand combat at the Golyanovsky microdistricts school gymnasium since leaving the presidential security service two years ago.
  
   Baranov wasted no time and asked his friend directly, "Are you busy this evening?"
   The former commando responded, "No."
   Yevgeny replied, "Then let's meet at ten at the usual spot," and ended the call.
  
   The head of the Second Section entered Major General Trofimov's office, following the waitress from the general's buffet. A middle-aged woman set a tray with snacks, sandwiches, and glasses of orange juice on the table adjacent to the general's desk before leaving.
  
   "Take a seat, Yevgeny," Trofimov instructed. "Don't hesitate; help yourself. I'll finish the final page of this document, and then I'll join you."
  
  
   While seated sideways to the general, Baranov reached for a glass of juice from the tray and took a few sips. The traffic noise from Bolshaya Lubyanka Street seeped in through the double glass window behind the colonel's back, while a portrait of Generalissimo Alexander Suvorov, the greatest military commanders in Russian history, hung on the wall in front of him. The Count of the Holly Roman Empire and the FSB colonel exchanged glances, and Suvorov's gaze seemed to speak to the head of the section:
   "The artist's brush captured the features of my face, but my inner humanity remains concealed. "I spilled rivers of blood, and the mere thought of it sends shivers down my spine. Yet, I loved those around me and I never signed a death sentence. Not even an insect perished by my hand."
  
   Baranov's gaze locked onto the portrait of the formidable conqueror, Suvorov, his thoughts brimming with a mix of admiration and criticism. With conviction, he mentally addressed the generalissimo:
   "Suvorov, it appears you grapple with a conflicting duality, seeking to justify your cruelty through a benevolent attitude towards insects. However, instead of unleashing torrents of blood in suppressing the Polish uprising against the Russian Empire at the end of the 18th century, you should have directed your wrath towards the two rebellion leaders, Kosciuszko and Madalinsky. Swiftly crushing them like cockroaches would have spared the lives of thousands of Poles and prevented the animosity they now harbor towards us Russians.
  
   Interrupting his thoughts about Suvorov, the general asked, while seated opposite Baranov, "So, what did you wish to tell me?"
   "Comrade General," the colonel began, "the Printing Factory on Customs Street is scheduled to dispatch a shipment of gold watches to Switzerland the day after tomorrow. My officers have identified two suspicious individuals involved in the factory's overhaul. There is a possibility that they are part of a gang planning to rob the Mint in the heart of the city. I need your mobile rapid response team to prevent this crime."
   Trofimov inquired, "Do we have any idea where they intend to strike the transportation?"
   "Yes, the only bottleneck on the route is Apakov's passage. Beyond that, on Leninsky Avenue, they cannot physically stop the transport as there are four lanes in each direction," Baranov replied.
   "Why don't you seek assistance from the police? They would be eager to help us. For instance, they could provide escort vehicles, reinforce patrols, and station armed traffic police officers at every intersection. By doing so, they would deter criminals from causing trouble," the general suggested.
  
   Baranov weighed the potential consequences of arranging armed patrols along the convoy route in Moscow. After a few seconds of contemplation, he realized the drawbacks. "If we station armed patrols in the city, the gangsters may still attempt to attack the shipment, leading to collateral damage among innocent civilians. Moreover, if we push them out of the city, they might resort to launching their attacks on the highway beyond the Moscow Ring Road," Baranov thought.
  
   The general remained silent in response to Baranov's considerations. After a brief pause, the colonel decided to continue, emphasizing his concerns. "I am certain that the gangsters are well aware of the shipment's value, and they will stop at nothing to obtain it. I must prevent a violent shootout and the potential loss of life among the guards or drivers. Therefore, I request that the special operation group be placed under my command this Friday. I will receive the precise time and location of the bandits' arrest approximately two hours prior to the operation. I will lead your team to the scene, and our top-notch commandos will apprehend the robbers without causing any collateral damage."
   Understanding Baranov's intentions, the general replied, "I see. You aim to capture them alive so you can uncover who leaked the confidential information about the contract."
  
   "Yes, in addition to our responsibility for the security of financial institutions, my department also handles counterintelligence," Baranov explained, a smile playing on his lips. He added, "And if there is a mole within our ranks, or even at the Mint, it is crucial that I identify them. Someone provided the criminals with details about the Swiss deal, and this is an undeniable fact."
   The general, wearing a knowing smile, responded, "Yes, yes. I understand the importance of this matter to you, especially considering the impending resignation of your immediate superior."
   "I cannot hide anything from you, Comrade General," Baranov admitted, acknowledging the general's astute observation.
  
  
   On the same evening, Yevgeny Baranov met with his former colleague, Ruslan, a veteran of the Presidential Guard who had been transferred to the Ministry of Internal Affairs' jurisdiction by Yeltsin in January 1994.
  
   The two old friends shook hands in the parking lot near Golyanovsky pond and strolled along the asphalt path beside the shimmering water. After exchanging inquiries about the well-being of their respective spouses and children, they came to the purpose of their meeting.
  
   "Yevgeny, we've known each other for twenty years now. Your word regarding the importance of the task is enough for me," said Ruslan, a strong and tall man in his forties. "Don't bother explaining why it's necessary. I will conduct reconnaissance, and if the problem is straightforward, I'll handle it myself. If it's more complex, I'll reach out to my former colleagues. We both know that out of the six hundred presidential guards, fewer than fifty joined the police. The rest were dismissed by the FSB without pensions or severance pay. But for the right cause, they can still fight, even tomorrow."
   "Ruslan, I know you have complete trust in me, but I want you to understand why I approached you with such a delicate request," Baranov told him. "At the end of January, I attended the signing of a two hundred million dollar contract between a Swiss watch giant and our Mint at the Swiss embassy."
   "Wow," Ruslan exclaimed, visibly surprised.
   "So, a week ago, I discovered that information about the contract had fallen into the hands of a criminal group, and one gang from the Moscow region has become unusually active. The gang's leader, a former police sergeant, used to serve at the same border outpost as my driver. They still maintain communication and meet regularly on Border Guards Day."
   The veteran inquired, "Do you suspect that your warrant officer leaked the contract information to this former serviceman?"
   "I don't believe in coincidences. I could refer the case to internal investigation, but there are a couple of nuances that prevent me from doing so. Firstly, my driver insists that his former comrade is a good guy and currently serves in the police. Secondly, when we apprehend the bandits in the act, the trail will lead to my driver's friend in Railway-town. The gang member will undoubtedly reveal the source. In Mironov's case, I feel sorry for him because he may have inadvertently disclosed details about the Swiss deal. Furthermore, if the iron doors of the detention center close behind my driver, I will be asked to leave my position. I will be expelled from service just a few years shy of retirement. Despite the fact that I prevented the robbery, they would dismiss me without hesitation. Do you understand?"
   The FSB veteran replied, "I've experienced it firsthand," and asked, "did you inform Mironov about your visit to the Swiss embassy?"
   "Yes, Ruslan, I did. You have to understand that the heads of the Mint, representatives from the Ministry of Finance, and some Deputy Prime Ministers accompanied me there. Mironov questioned the purpose behind the sudden visit of multiple high-ranking Russian government officials to the modest Swiss embassy, perceiving it as an "invasion" of sorts. I should have remained silent, but I couldn't contain my pride in being part of such an important event."
   "Why do you think the command will dismiss you from your position? Your driver is an FSB warrant officer. He must have access to classified information."
   "He does have access to confidential information, but at the beginning of the contract, the contract details were classified as state secrets, and I didn't have the authority to provide any hint regarding its purpose."
   "Alright, I'll track down that border guard in Railway-town," the commando said. "Give me his name."
  
  
   Baranov and all his subordinates were on duty from five in the morning on Friday, April 12th. While the colonel remained in his office, his officers, dressed in civilian attire, occupied parked cars, cafes, and salons along Shabolovka Street, from tram depot number One to Serpukhov Avenue, eagerly awaiting further instructions from him.
  
   The Colonel was aware that the Mint's paramilitary guards would initiate the operation once the transport arrived at Customs Street. Dozens of armed men and women would be positioned on the street, ready to act upon his command to ship the order.
  
   Around 5:30 a.m., twenty commandos from the special operations unit gathered at the personnel department of the perfume factory. By 6 a.m., Baranov received confirmation of their readiness to apprehend the raiders and reported it to the head of the Fourth Department. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting for Krylov and the Zatorkins to make their move.
  
   On the same day, at 7 a.m., Alex went to the courtyard of the apartment building at Fifty-two Customs Street and took a seat on a bench across from the building's driveway. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of the wide metal gates that connected the printing factory's medical center, the militarized guard building, the blank brick wall topped with barbed wire, and a small section of the street.
  
   At 7:45 a.m., three minivans arrived at the gates of the Printing Factory. The first two vehicles squeezed onto the sidewalk, while the third remained on the road. A guard emerged from the checkpoint in response to the first minivan driver's honk. After examining the paperwork and briefly inspecting the cargo compartments of the vans, the guard signaled to his partner at the checkpoint door. The massive gate slowly rolled aside on its hanging rail and disappeared behind the wall.
  
   "I wouldn't break through the gate if I were to steal a truck full of new banknotes," Alex thought to himself. "I've been observing these gates every morning for the past two weeks, but I've never seen a vehicle enter the factory this early. I should inform the boss about this and head to the grocery store to get food for the Balts."
  
   The message swiftly reached Afghan: "Transport has arrived."
  
   Anton was already awake, but he couldn't check Alex's message right away. He engaged in his morning routine of running along the forest paths of Izmailov Park from 7 to 8 a.m. As a recent war veteran, he valued his exercise time and disliked any interruptions. He only discovered the message from his agent after having breakfast.
  
  
   Except for Loboda, no one at the factory suspected the existence of Afghan, Lithuanians, Alex and Krylov. As soon as the minivans arrived at the finished product warehouse, the loaders swiftly began placing boxes of watches into the vehicles.
  
   The FSB Major stood ten steps away from the warehouse, a building dating back to the turn of the century, and observed the loaders at work. When the drivers closed and sealed the cargo vans' doors, and the security chief brought in three tough guys armed with AK-47s, Loboda gave them instructions,
   "Wait for my command," he said before entering the warehouse manager's office.
  
   As Loboda navigated through the aisles lined with large rolls of paper, he skillfully made way for the bustling diesel forklifts that darted between the shelves. On his path, he narrowly avoided a collision with Yuri, the driver, who had just emerged from the nearby washroom.
  
   "What's the latest?" Loboda inquired.
   "I haven't seen the boy I mentioned yet," Yuri replied.
   "It's too early for him to be here. He should show up by ten," the major responded. "Continue monitoring him for another week. If he doesn't disappear, we'll assume he's not a mole."
   "Yes, Comrade Major," the driver acknowledged before exiting the warehouse.
  
   Loboda entered the manager's office and asked him to leave. Alone, he made a phone call to report, "Comrade Colonel, the loading has been completed. I request your permission to proceed with shipping."
   "Stand by. Stay near the phone. I will contact you once the route has been confirmed," Baranov replied.
   "Yes, Sir. I will await your command," Loboda acknowledged.
  
   Baranov's deputy, was not privy to the exact details of his boss's plan, but he suspected that the colonel was playing a strategic game with the aim of securing a promotion and an additional five years at the Federal agency.
  
   Upon reading Alex's message at nine in the morning, Afghan swiftly responded, "Where are you?"
   "At the grocery store," Alex quickly replied.
   "Is the transport still there?"
   "I don't know."
   "Run back and keep an eye on the gate," Afghan commanded.
   "I'm on my way," Alex replied, and Afghan promptly messaged Krylov,
   "The loading has commenced."
  
  
   Meanwhile, during the second week of April, when students were on Spring break, fifteen members of Krylov's gang were residing in the dormitories of the Institute of Textile Industry on Donskoy Street. Located just five minutes away from the planned ambush site, two cargo Gazelles had already parked at the T-shaped intersection of Shabolovka Street and Horse Lane by half-past nine.
  
  
   Afghan, after exiting the Shabolovka metro station, walked along the road heading north. As he passed Horse Lane, he observed the two cargo minivans parked on the opposite side. Anton continued walking towards the city center, crossed the street, and retraced his steps back. Finally, at the corner of Shabolovka Street and Horse Lane, he entered a culinary store. After waiting in line for a few minutes, Afghan settled at a table near the window with a mug of coffee and a plate of pastries.
  
  
   Yevgeny Baranov received a call from a lieutenant while enjoying his second cup of coffee.
  
   "I'm calling from the accounting department of the State Bearing Plant. Two Gazelles with dark blue awnings just left Shabolovka Street and stopped under the Plant's windows," the lieutenant reported.
   "Continue observing; I'll be there in twenty minutes," Baranov responded before making a call to the perfume factory: "Major, we're proceeding with 'Plan Alfa.' Repeat the task."
   "I need to deploy ten commandos to the backyard of building 31 on Shabolovka Street, five to the inner yard of building 29 on the same street, and another five to the Bearing Plant's territory. The objective is to surround the intersection from all sides," the capture group commander reported.
   Baranov confirmed, "That's correct. I'll be at the accounting department of the State Bearing Plant. Once all the teams are in position, report to me there."
  
   Just as Baranov was about to hang up, he received a call on the direct line from the Head of the Department.
   "Baranov, a transport plane from Geneva landed at Vnukovo Airport about an hour ago. The aircraft has already been refueled and is waiting in the hangar for charter flights. When do you plan to ship the watches?" the general inquired.
   "I will initiate the operation in thirty minutes, Comrade Lieutenant General."
   "Don't delay and keep me informed," the Economic Security director responded curtly before ending the call.
  
  
   Alex remained seated on the same bench as he had been for the past two hours. He observed the iron gates of the printing factory, enjoying a baguette with smoked sausage and sipping on Tarkhun green soda.
   "I wonder what the Lithuanians find appealing in this green Tarragon drink," Alex pondered. "It tastes absolutely repulsive. How can they dilute Stolichnaya vodka with wormwood extract? Even if they mixed it fifty-fifty with alcohol, it still wouldn't be Absinthe."
  
   As the gates of the Printing Factory opened, a security guard armed with an assault rifle emerged onto the road, causing the already slow traffic on Customs Street to come to a halt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nearly crushing the guard's legs, three minivans painted like ambulances burst through the gate, their engines roaring as they sped off toward the city center. The gate clattered shut, its chain rattling in the aftermath.
  
  Leaving a bottle of green soda on the bench, Alex swiftly tapped out a message on the pager: "The transport is en route." He flung the plastic communication device to the ground, giving it a series of forceful kicks with the heel of his boot before making his way toward the Printing Factory.
  
  Arriving at the temporary shelter for the carpenters, Alex took charge of preparing a meal for two big man.
  At noon, Algis and Mantas arrived for their lunch break. The cabin was filled with the presence of the enormous carpenters, whose sturdy frames dominated the space. Meanwhile, Alex busied himself setting up a small table adorned with food and cutlery.
  
  "Do you have any news?" Algis inquired, settling down at the table.
  
  "My unofficial mission is complete. Now I'm at your service," replied the boy.
  
  Mantas asked, "When did the load leave the Factory?"
  
  "Two hours ago," Alex responded.
  
  Curiosity piqued, Algis asked, "How did it go?"
  
  "I don't know," Alex admitted, adding, "After reporting to Afghan about the departure of the transports, I headed to the grocery store to buy food for all of you," Alex explained. "I'll gather more information this evening, and I'll inform you about the heist tomorrow."
  "Why on earth are we coming here tomorrow?" Algis questioned.
  
  In Lithuanian, Mantas interjected, "Don't be so stupid, cousin. If we don't show up for work tomorrow, the day after that, the cops will come to our house. We'll end up toiling just as hard as we do here, but for the next ten years, behind barbed wire and without pay."
  
  "I'm not sure what you told him," Alex said to the cousins, "but Afghan instructed me to continue working with you as if nothing had happened until the end of the contract, regardless of how the raid turned out."
  
  Speeding into Apakov Passage from Donskoy Street, the beige sedan, a 'Volga Thirty-one,' barreled along at a rapid pace. Crossing three lanes of passing traffic in front of the Akademik hotel, the car seamlessly merged with the stream heading toward Leninsky Prospekt. It deftly slipped into the gap between two oncoming cars in the left lane. Making contact with the bumpers of both vehicles, the Volga struck the hood of the slowly moving Nissan in the middle lane, forcing it into the far right lane and effectively blocking the incoming traffic lanes, which consisted of four lanes moving in the opposite direction.Taking advantage of momentary pauses offered by the traffic lights at the intersection, several impatient Muscovites attempted to navigate around the accident site by venturing into oncoming lanes.
  
   The traffic cop stationed on the triangular safety island, where the entrance to the passage merged with the northbound avenue, quickly turned around upon hearing the sound of the accident. Dodging between oncoming vehicles, he made his way to the scene. As he did so, the traffic light behind him on Leninsky Avenue turned green, prompting a stream of vehicles to rush towards Apakov Passage in an effort to avoid the accident site. Witnessing the potential collision, the sergeant blew his whistle and desperately waved a metal wand fitted with a red light reflector. Fortunately, the collision was averted, but it resulted in a massive traffic jam forming on Leninsky Avenue.
  
  Meanwhile, two hundred meters east of the scene, a gangster dressed in a traffic policeman's uniform emerged from a park located within the tram ring. He walked towards the intersection of Apakov Passage and Shabolovka Street, positioning himself with his back to the avenue. With a black and white striped stick in hand, he directed traffic flow from Apakov Passage to Shabolovka Street.
  Ten minutes later, three minivans belonging to the Moscow Mint zoomed past him at a high speed. After the minivans passed, the sham cop raised his wand, turned sideways along the road, and with a gesture, allowed traffic from Leninsky Prospekt towards Customs Street, causing traffic along Shabolovka Street to the south to come to a halt.
  
  Krylov sat at a tram stop near the Church of the Life-Giving Trinity, clutching a pager in his hand. Reading the screen of his pager, he discovered that the transport had passed the tram depot. Rising from the bench, he walked to the street and peered along the tram tracks towards Apakov Passage.
  
  Across the road, opposite the tram stop, a covered pickup with the inscription 'Shish kebab' was parked. The driver, a man around thirty wearing an apron and baker's pants, observed the tram stop through the side mirror. Sitting beside him was a musclular man who appeared to be at least ten years older.
  
  "Do you see what I see?" the driver asked.
  
  "Yes, the man waited for the streetcar in the depot's way but looked in the opposite direction," the passenger replied.
  
  "And now he's fiddling with a pager," the driver noted, observing the man's behavior.
  
  "He is our client. We must apprehend him before it's too late," the passenger declared before exiting the vehicle.
  
  The driver retrieved a large bag with the inscription "Georgian shish kebabs" from the back of the pickup as his companion crossed the street, following closely behind the streetcar and coming to a stop in front of the church.
  
  As three minivans sped past the tram stop, the older man crossed himself in front of the church. The driver of the pickup navigated the tram lines and headed towards the tram stop.
  
  While sitting on the bench under the awning, Krylov typed a message on his pager: "The transport passed by the church. Proceed."
  
  Unaware of the approaching driver, Krylov failed to notice him until he was right in front of him. The moment Krylov pressed the submit button, the driver swiftly handcuffed him.
  Attempting to rise, Krylov discovered that the first man's colleague had already positioned himself behind him, firmly keeping him seated by placing his strong hands on Krylov's shoulders.
  
  "Don't move, comrade; it'll only cause you harm," the driver cautioned, locking eyes with the detainee. He then turned and hurried towards their vehicle.
  
  The pickup executed a U-turn and pulled up at the designated stop. The driver's colleague swiftly grasped Krylov by the collar, hoisting the retired lieutenant colonel up from his seat. As Krylov's legs gave way from fear, his knees buckled, but the FSB officer quickly grabbed hold of him to prevent him from falling. With a firm grip on Krylov, the officer dragged him towards the pickup truck. Swiftly, the officer opened the rear doors of the vehicle and forcefully threw his detainee under the roof of the pickup. He quickly locked the doors behind him, took a seat in the passenger seat, and without delay, the small truck accelerated and sped away toward the city center.
   During the initial moments of the ambush, the Railway-town gang experienced a stroke of luck. The southbound tram had halted a few hundred meters north of the ambush location, while the northbound tram approached the intersection merely a hundred meters away. Despite a minor collision caused by the passing Volkswagen Bag striking one of the gangsters' Gazelle's rear wheels, the plans of the twenty criminals remained undeterred. With a burst of energy, they sprinted toward the waiting vans. Surrounding the vehicles in a tight formation, the large group of gangsters brandished their Kalashnikov assault rifles, while one of them skillfully attached TNT bombs to the back door locks of the vans.
  
   Baranov and his subordinate stood by the window of the Bearing production plant's accounting department, their gaze fixed on the intersection. As soon as two Gazelles crossed onto the Shabolovka roadway, the colonel's commanding voice echoed through the radio: "To all groups, action!"
  
   In a matter of seconds, the FSB commandos swiftly closed in on the robbers, effectively surrounding them.
  
   The colonel's authoritative voice reverberated through the loudspeaker, strategically positioned in the fourth-floor window of the Bearing Plant's administrative building: "The FSB special forces are in operation. Drop your weapons. Everyone must lie facedown on the ground."
  
   The bandits glanced around with a sense of defeat, obediently bowing to Baranov's commands. Two officers from the apprehending team jumped into the Gazelle cabins and skillfully guided them back onto Horse Lane. Meanwhile, the buses, heavily laden with stolen gold watches from the Mint, continued on their route and vanished around the corner onto Academician Petrovsky Street.
  
  
   Later that evening, Afhgan, Elephant, and Mamonov sank into the comfort of a plush sofa and leather chairs within the opulent confines of the mansion's office. The atmosphere in the room weighed heavily upon them. The gang leaders from Reutovo were utterly bewildered, left grappling with a profound sense of perplexity.
  
   The failed robbery, in which they had been indirectly involved, had unfolded in a manner that caught them completely off guard. The resounding defeat suffered by the neighboring gang had transpired with such unexpected swiftness and efficiency that it left the Reutovo bandits stunned, unable to comprehend the turn of events. Their meticulously crafted plans had crumbled before their eyes, leaving them grappling with a mixture of frustration, disappointment, and a growing sense of vulnerability.
  
   Faced with an unexpected defeat, the gang leaders from Reutovo found themselves grappling with the challenging task of minimizing the repercussions stemming from the failure of the Krylov & Co. operation. The room, once infused with a sense of dominance and control, now exuded an oppressive aura of uncertainty, leaving the gang leaders mired in an agonizing question of what to do with Mantas, Algis and Alex, who they had dispatched to the Printing Factory.
  
   "I didn't expect such an outcome," Mamonov remarked.
   Anton chimed in, "My gut feeling told me that Krylov wouldn't come through. The whole operation seemed too straightforward and lucrative."
   "Do you think it was a setup?" the boss inquired.
   "I highly doubt it," Anton responded, adding, "If the FSB was after Krylov for his involvement in arms trading, they would have taken him alone and demanded the warehouse's location. In this case, I believe there was a clash of internal interests within the federal agency. You may not have known, but Alex at the factory was approached by a suspicious dump truck driver. It soon became apparent that the 'chauffeur' had ulterior motives beyond mere flirtation with the boy."
   "Is it possible that the Lithuanians are compromised?" Elephant speculated.
   "Pasha, it's hard to say for certain, but truth be told, they are one of the weaker links in our brigade. While they commit robberies in various parts of the Moscow region, they only report the ones in Balashikha to us," Anton pondered.
   "We should keep them quiet," Elephant suggested. "If the feds apprehend them, they could have them talking."
  
   Mamonov regarded Elephant with curiosity and remarked, "I appreciate people who speak their minds openly. As Mark Twain once said, and I agree, 'I like people who have courage to speak their minds, especially if they feel like I do.' The problem, Pavel, is that they can't leave the territory until the contract is completed."
   Anton took a moment to think before chiming in, "I have an idea of how to handle them."
   Mamonov looked expectantly at his trusted henchman. "Tell us what you have in mind," he urged.
   "The kid should be informed that the success of the operation has earned the Lithuanians a celebratory dinner accompanied by Lithuanian vodka. I can procure two bottles of 'Stumbras with a spikelet,' laced with morphine, and send both carpenters off to the realm of sweet dreams with Morpheus," Afghan suggested.
   "Do you have access to it, or should Elephant search among the drug dealers?" Mamonov asked.
   "I have a source," Anton replied confidently.
   "Then consider it settled," Mamonov commanded. "Use the boy only under the cover of darkness. He's too young to be implicated in a murder."
   "I'll take care of it," Anton nodded in affirmation, understanding the plan set in motion. Before leaving the office, he sought clarification, his voice laced with a tinge of concern, "And what will become of Alex himself?"
   Mamonov, with a sense of finality, responded, "Once he completes his assigned task, I will personally inform him that the carpenters abruptly decided to quit and have departed for Lithuania. From that point forward, Alex would limit his trips to Moscow.
  
   Vladimir observed Anton's departure and turned to Elephant.
  
   "Pavel, do you think Afghan has a drug addiction?" he asked his loyal bodyguard.
   "I haven't noticed anything of the sort," Elephant replied.
   "How does he get access to morphine?" Mamonov inquired with curiosity.
   A grin spread across the thug's face as he casually responded, "He fucks an elderly nurse from our city hospital. So, I'm pretty sure she's the one giving him the morphine."
   "You surprised me mentioning an 'elderly' nurse. I highly doubt that someone like Afghan, who is young, muscular, and handsome, would willingly share a bed with an older woman," the boss inquired, his curiosity piqued. "Just how old is she?"
   Elephant, taking a moment to consider the question, responded with an air of indifference, "She's around forty."
   Mamonov, amused by the response, laughed and retorted, "Well, well, Pavel, you truly are a son of a bitch. Do you think I'm an old man as well?"
  
   The exchange lightened the atmosphere momentarily, offering a fleeting reprieve from the burden of their recent failure.
  
  
   An hour before lunchtime, Alex entered the carpenters' shed, going about his tasks diligently. He changed the bed linen, tidied up the space, and started preparing dinner. As the door swung open at a quarter past twelve, the Lithuanians entered, their eyes scanning the table before them.
  
   A spread of salami sausages, canned caviar, Dutch cheese, and two bottles of 'Stumbras with a spikelet' greeted their hungry gazes.
   Mantas, eager for good news, asked, "Alex, what are we celebrating today?"
   Algis impatiently anticipating the good news, added, "Share the news with us and tell us that the robbery went according to plan and we hit a solid jackpot?"
   A radiant smile illuminated Alex's face as he replied, "Yes, guys. Everything went according to plan."
   Algis wasted no time pouring himself a shot of vodka, suggesting a toast, "Let's drink for this."
   Mantas took the bottle from his cousin hand, placed it on the table, and said: "Don't be an idiot. We have half a day left to work. We'll celebrate in the evening."
  Algis grimly agreed, "Okay, let's drink it tonight."
   "I"ve collected your things and bed linen; you have dinner in the restaurant today. It's in the fridge, and you can heat it yourself. Enjoy your meal and your drink. I'm going to the laundry. See you tomorrow," Alex said as before he left the carpenters' trailer.
   Algis replied, "Goodbye, Alex."
   "Thank you, sonny, for everything," delighted Mantas said in Alex's back.
  
  
   The following morning, Major Loboda and Senior Lieutenant Yuri occupied seats at a long table, engrossed in a serious discussion. Their voices carried the weight of the previous night's events. Meanwhile, Colonel Baranov paced back and forth behind them, his restless footsteps echoing through the room.
  Baranov's inquisitive voice cut through the air as he asked, "Have the causes of death for the carpenters been determined?"
   "Yes, sir, morphine overdose," Loboda promptly responded, reaching for the report from the file. He held up the patalogianotomist's findings, confirming the cause of death.
  
   Colonel Baranov's gaze sharpened as he focused on the report, absorbing the crucial information. The revelation of a drug overdose added a new layer of complexity to the case, raising questions about the circumstances surrounding the victims' demise.
   Baranov's curiosity piqued further as he sought more information, asking, "And the source?"
   "Yes, sir," Loboda promptly responded, taking the patalogianotomist's report from the file.
   "Both empty bottles of vodka contained traces of the drug, as well as needle tracks in the covers. In addition, three sets of fingerprints were found on the bottles. Two of them belong to Lithuanian carpenters, and the third, with a high probability, belongs to Alex Zaphiros. He brought the vodka to the shed, as confirmed by the security guard who searched the entrance to the Printing Factory building," replied the major, providing a detailed account of the evidence.
   "What do you know about him?" Baranov asked, seeking more information on Alex Zaphiros.
   "Comrade Colonel, I worked out the boy," said senior lieutenant Yury. "After the incident, I checked him against the Ministry of Internal Affairs' database. "Such a guy really lived in Reutovo, but his family moved to Ukraine last June, so the boy's traces were lost in Odessa."
   "Since you got close to him, you should have checked his biography before the crime occurred. Why haven't you done so?" Baranov asked, standing in front of the senior lieutenant, his tone stern.
   "Unfortunately, I did not have the time," Yuri said, sounding regretful. "I met a lot of people there. There were a dozen more teenagers, and they all looked suspicious."
   "Arrest Alex Zafiros' parents immediately, and ask them where their son is," ordered Baranov, taking decisive action.
   Loboda responded, "His parents disappeared without a trace nine months ago after leaving the pre-trial detention center on a recognizance not to leave the city."
   "So, we don't know who that kid was," Baranov concluded as he sat down at his desk, processing the information.
  
   Loboda opened a folder of documents and, looking at his notes, reported, "The police searched the Zafiros family intensively for the first three months; they are still on the passive wanted list. Given that they are not inveterate criminals, who possess knowledge on how to hide or change identities and have managed to evade detection thus far, it strongly suggests that they are deceased. If so, then the family's IDs could be in criminals' hands. Any kid who joined the Railway town organized crime group could have been named Alex Zafiros."
   "Work on it with the detainees we caught during the robbery attempt," ordered Baranov, showing determination. "They may not name their gang leader, but they are likely to name the kid who killed two carpenters."
  
  
   On Sunday, April Fourteenth, a flight from Tel Aviv to Moscow touched down at Sheremetyevo Airport around six in the evening. The Zatorkin brothers collected their suitcases from the luggage conveyor belt in the arrival area and smoothly passed through border and customs control by seven. At the beginning of the eighth hour, Kotelnikov, Krylov's trusted driver, was there to meet them at the terminal exit.
  
   "Why didn't the boss come to the airport? Is he reluctant to meet us face to face?" Dmitry inquired, clearly dissatisfied and eager for an explanation.
   "Nah, the feds arrested him yesterday, so he's got a lot on his plate right now," Kotelnikov reluctantly revealed the reason.
   Curious, Yegor chimed in, "What are they accusing him of?"
  
   "It's not entirely clear yet," came the response. "Though the time of his detention coincides with our attack on the Mint's cargo, as far as I know, if our guys keep quiet, they won't be able to pin anything on him."
   Dmitry let out an exasperated breath, "Damn it. We were in the dark about all of this. Tell us what exactly went down and how it all happened," conveying his frustration and urgency to comprehend the situation.
  
   Kotelnikov, a seasoned taxi driver with over thirty years of experience, had been chauffeuring Krylov for the past three years. The job of a personal driver was undoubtedly less physically demanding than his previous endeavors, but it came with an incessant undercurrent of anxiety that nagged at him. Every New Year's Eve, he made a promise to himself that the coming year would be his last on the job. Having heard stories from his boss' henchmen, Kotelnikov was all too aware that in 1995 alone, more than five thousand lives were lost in Moscow and the surrounding region, with a staggering eighty percent of those deaths stemming from brutal gang conflicts.
  
   The route from Sheremetyevo International Airport to Railway-town took them along the Leningrad highway. As they approached Khimki, a satellite city of Moscow, they passed by a monument dedicated to the defenders of the capital against the Nazis. The monument stood tall, showcasing three five-fold enlarged anti-tank hedgehogs.
  
   Taking in the sight, Kotelnikov couldn't help but voice his thoughts, "The FSB pulled an ambush on our crew and nabbed them right in front of our eyes," the driver solemnly recounted as he steered his Audi towards Moscow. "The boss and I watched this 'masks show' from different tram stops, about thirty or forty meters away. Honestly, I've got nothing much to say. Our guys executed the plan flawlessly, but the feds seemed to be a step ahead, like they knew what we were up to. Their special forces team did a remarkable job of apprehending our crew without even firing a shot. They foiled the robbery two days ago and then hit the boss' house yesterday. I was surprised by how courteous the investigators were. They didn't act aggressively at all. When searching Krylov's house, they weren't overly zealous, as if they were pretending to search rather than actively looking for anything. Where should I take you now? Back home?"
   Dmitry responded, "We shouldn't head home just yet. The feds might be waiting for us there."
   Yegor objected, "If they wanted to arrest us, they'd have done it right at the airport."
   Dmitry explained, "That's true, but they're also interested in searching our houses," and turning to Kotelnikov, he added, "Take us to the office, to Ceramic Street."
   "No problem," the driver replied.
  
   The Audi had left Khimki behind as it circled Moscow from the northeast, speeding along the big ring road on the outskirts of the city. Reutov faded into the distance as the car continued its way forward on the Novokisinskoye highway, heading straight for Zheleznodorozhny town. Passing South Kuchino, the vehicle made a turn onto an inconspicuous road that led to the Ceramic Plant, finally coming to a halt at the iron gates of the Vityaz martial arts club. As Kotelnikov unlocked and swung open the gates, Yegor turned to his brother, eager to voice his thoughts.
  
   "Why should we hide from the feds? They won't be able to pin the attempted robbery on us. We were in Israel for a whole week," Yegor protested.
   Dmitry, the older and wiser of the two, responded firmly, "You talk as if you were all alone at the airport, and I just happened to bump into you there. You're a grown man now, and you need to realize that the feds won't just scratch the surface. They'll come here, dig deep, seize documents, and turn our lives upside down. We stopped at the club to hide some documents and burn some papers."
  
   Yegor took in his brother's words, remaining silent for a moment.
  
   "No one's in the courtyard; the club's locked up tight, and the secret seal's still intact," Kotelnikov chimed in, reassuring them from behind the wheel.
   Dmitry concluded with resolve, "Alright then, let's get moving. I'm tired after that long journey."
  
   The Audi glided through the entrance of the sports club, enclosed by a tall fence. The driver stepped out of the car and headed toward the gate. But before he could take three steps, a tinted-windowed Volga with state license plates stormed in.
  
   A loud shout echoed, "Everyone freeze! FSB operation in progress!" Three officers, donning special-operation detachment emblems on their uniforms, leaped out of the Volga. The first officer swiftly took down Kotelnikov, while the other two forcefully pulled Dmitry and Yegor out of the Audi. Handcuffed and pushed into the trunk of the Volga, the brothers found themselves at the mercy of these officers. Meanwhile, the driver was forced to lie on the floor between the front and back seats.
  
   The Volga left the sports club's premises in less than a minute.
  
  
   In a dark and dense forest, five men stood just a couple of steps away from a deep hole. Kneeling on the ground, the Zatorkin brothers faced the pit with their backs turned towards it. Ruslan stood before them, flanked by his two comrades. A pile of excavated soil rested on a large sheet of black plastic nearby, while neatly cut layers of grass lay on another identical film. A couple of shovels lay beside the dug-out soil.
  
   "Guys," Ruslan addressed the Zatorkins, "I'll ask once - who leaked the Goznak contract?"
   "We have no clue what you're talking about," Dmitry replied calmly.
   "Fine. I don't need both of you. I'll flip a coin. Heads for you, smart ass," Ruslan pointed at Dmitry, "and tails for your brother. The one who loses will be beheaded."
   Yegor's anger flared, "You bastard! You'll regret this. My people will find you and your entire family and bury you alive."
   Ruslan tossed the coin into the air, caught it, and said to one of his men, "Hawk, shine some light."
  
   The special forces man directed the beam from his assault rifle's under-barrel flashlight to Ruslan's palm.
  
   "Heads it is," Ruslan declared. He then took out a medical plaster from his pocket, sealed Egor's mouth, and turned to his comrades, saying, "Guys, move about ten steps away and survey the area."
  
   The fighters dispersed into the darkness, leaving Ruslan behind Dmitry. With a swift motion, Ruslan pulled out a knife from a sheath attached to his leg and slit the man's throat.
  
   Dmitry gasped and fell to the ground. Yegor's eyes widened, and he let out a groan.
  
   Approaching Yegor, Ruslan wiped the knife on the man's shoulder and asked, "Are you ready to talk?"
   Yegor glanced at his dying brother and nodded in agreement. Ruslan removed the plaster from Yegor's mouth and clarified, "Did you understand my question?"
  
   Yegor swallowed saliva and nodded again, replying, "Dmitry was the one who met with the FSB official. I didn't see him. When we were at the restaurant's Small Hall, including Krylov, Dmitry spoke to him in the washroom. He only told me that the man was under fifty and worked for the FSB Main Directorate."
  
   Ruslan shook his head indifferently, leaned down to Yegor, and cut his throat with the sharp knife. Blood gushed from the wound, and Yegor collapsed to the ground.
  
   The former major of the FSB's special operations unit meticulously searched the pockets of the corpses, stuffing the brothers' passports and wallets into the inner pocket of his jacket. He then made a call to his former subordinates.
  
   "Hey, guys, gather 'round," Ruslan called out.
  
  The men emerged from the forest, ready to follow his instructions.
  
   "Cut off both heads and put 'em in a plastic bag," Ruslan ordered his former subordinates. "Dump the bodies in the pit, cover 'em with soil and grass. Then wrap up the rest in plastic and stash 'em, along with the heads, in the trunk of the car. I'll handle the driver. Meet me at the dead-end near Nikolo-Arkhangelsk crematorium."
  
   Ruslan headed into the forest while his comrades disposed of the decapitated bodies using shovels.
  
   The silver Audi was parked next to the black Volga on a dirt road. Ruslan came out from the forest and opened the back door of the Volga. Kotelnikov lay on the floor, unconscious. Krylov's driver showed signs of life, groaning as Ruslan dragged him out of the car by the legs.
  
   "You comin' to your senses?" Ruslan asked Kotelnikov as he lifted him and threw him onto the back seat of the Audi. He then got behind the wheel, and with a roar of the engine, he vanished into the darkness.
  
   At a dead-end of a local road near the iron gates of a cemetery, an abandoned, burned-out Toyota sat with shattered windows. Ruslan pulled over, surveying the area to ensure it was deserted. Satisfied, he left the car and opened the trunk, taking out two suitcases that belonged to the Zatorkin brothers. Kotelnikov groaned in the Audi.
  
   "Hang in there, buddy, won't be long now," Ruslan said, tossing an open suitcase on the ground near the rear bumper.
  
   As he looked around, he kicked the open suitcase under the car with his foot, then bent over and punctured the gas tank with the tip of his knife. Gasoline began to seep into the summer clothes in the suitcase. As the smell of gasoline reached Ruslan's nostrils, he acted swiftly. He yanked the suitcase from beneath the car and promptly poured its contents onto Kotelnikov. The fuel soaked the man's clothes, making the situation even more dire.
  The FSB veteran slammed the vehicle door shut, sealing Kotelnikov inside the Audi. With a flick of his hand, he skillfully tossed the burning lighter through the open window, directly into the gasoline-soaked interior of the car. In an instant, flames erupted, engulfing the Audi in a blazing inferno. Ruslan wasted no time; he turned away and disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind the burning car and the night filled with the smell of gasoline and smoke.
  
   Ruslan strolled along a forest road, putting distance between himself and the cemetery. The Audi continued to burn brightly behind him, flames illuminating the darkness as he walked away. In the distance, the approaching Volga blinked its headlights several times, signaling its presence and readiness to pick him up. The night was filled with tension, as Ruslan's mission was accomplished, but he felt the aftermath of this deadly encounter was far from over.
  
  
   Two days later, on April 16, Baranov sat in front of his TV, engrossed in the evening news about the Shatoy ambush during the First Chechen War. The reporter vividly described the scene of the attack - a mountainous region near the town of Shatoy, where Chechen insurgents, led by Ibn al-Khattab, launched a surprise assault on a large Russian Armed Forces convoy.
  
   Colonel Baranov learned about an ambush several hours ago, just before leaving his office at the end of the workday. Deputy Loboda approached him with a file marked "Confidential" and "For FSB Officers' Eyes Only." Intrigued, Baranov took the file and opened it, unaware of the explosive contents that awaited him inside.
  As he read through the secret report, his eyes widened with disbelief.
  
   According to the classified report, the losses suffered by the Russian forces were far more severe than what had been publicly disclosed. Over 150 soldiers from the 245th Motor Rifle Regiment had lost their lives, and close to 100 more were critically wounded. The scale of the tragedy was staggering, and Baranov couldn't help but feel a mix of anger and frustration.
  
   Yevgeny Baranov's phone rang, pulling him away from the evening news.
  
   "Have you heard about the ambush in Chechnya?" asked a familiar voice.
   Baranov responded, "Yeah, the military command's incompetence sometimes infuriates me."
   "Tell me about it. From what I hear, we lost twenty-six troops and about twenty troop carriers and infantry fighting vehicles, and that's just the official data," the commando said.
   "I know the real losses are worse than what's in the press, but this isn't a phone chat," Baranov replied.
   The retired major continued, "Yevgeny, I've done everything you asked me to. Want more details?"
   Baranov answered, "Yes."
   "Then come over to our place," his friend said.
   "I'll be there in thirty minutes," Baranov confirmed.
  
   The former colleagues and old like-minded men strolled along the asphalt path around the Golyanovsky pond, engaged in a hushed conversation.
  
   "We met them at Sheremetyevo and followed them to the office," the veteran reminisced about the operation on Saturday.
   Baranov interrupted, curious, "Why at the airport?"
   "Because the Zatorkin brothers had traveled to Israel ten days ago and returned just the day before yesterday in the early evening," the narrator replied.
   Baranov inquired further, "Why did they go to the Promised Land? Were they trying to create an alibi for the attempted robbery their gang committed?"
   "As far as I know, Dmitry was baptized in the Jerusalem Church of the Apostle Peter," Ruslan explained. "We tracked them to their sports club and apprehended the two brothers and Krylov's driver. After leaving the club grounds, we locked the gate, ensuring that no one would look for them there for several days."
   "Alright, you stashed them at the sports club. What happened next?" Baranov asked.
   Ruslan calmly replied, "We took the brothers out of town and eliminated them. If forensics identify the driver through circumstantial evidence, such as the VIN code of his car, the brothers will never be found. They vanished without a trace, along with their documents."
   Curious about their final moments, Baranov asked, seemingly disinterested, "Did they say anything before they died?"
   The special forces veteran responded neutrally, "I didn't ask them anything."
  
   Walking in silence for a while, Baranov finally spoke up, "I'll need your assistance again soon. It's a straightforward but sensitive matter."
  
   Ruslan simply nodded in acknowledgment, not needing to ask for details.
  
   Baranov continued, "Even though you didn't question the Zatorkins, I assume you know my operatives captured Krylov. I'll find his lawyer soon and get in touch with you. Your help in building a strong defense for him will be valuable."
   Ruslan replied concisely, "I'll do it."
   Baranov expressed his regret, saying, "I apologize for misleading you; I wasn't aware there were two Zatorkin brothers. What happened to their driver?"
   "Kotelnikov was Krylov's personal chauffeur. Unfortunately, he met a fiery fate with his Audi near the cemetery gates as collateral damage. There were four Zatorkin brothers in total," the veteran of the presidential guard added. "Three are now deceased, and the last one has been on the run for two years."
  
   After completing their walk around the pond, the men returned to Baranov's Toyota. Yevgeny opened the trunk, retrieved an attaché briefcase, and handed it to his friend, saying, "I know you did it out of friendship and would never ask for payment, but I've prepared a hundred thousand dollars for you and your comrades in arms. You truly deserve it."
   "Call me if you need anything," the veteran replied, taking the black briefcase and heading towards the new buildings of the Golyanovo micro-district.
  
  
  Chapter Eighteen. April-May, 1996. Moscow- Reutov
  
   On April 12, 1996, the weather in Moscow was calm and sunny. Outside Momonov's office window, the red line of the alcohol thermometer stopped at a comfortable seventeen degrees Celsius. On this day thirty-five years prior, Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, spent almost two hours in orbit. Despite sharing the same age as this historic event, Vladimir Mamonov didn't find it particularly significant. On that Friday, he found himself seated on the balcony of his house, savoring the smooth taste of Hennessy cognac as he relaxed in a comfortable chair. Vladimir indulged in a lemon and expensive French brandy, savoring the sweet and sour taste of the citrus as he dipped the slices in bowls of ground coffee and powdered sugar.
  
   "Tsar Nicholas II left us with good memories," Vladimir mused. "Nearly eighty years have passed since the communists executed him and his entire family, yet the combination of lemon and such seasoning still bears the name 'Nikolashka.'"
  
   Elephant stood confidently, positioned halfway between the house and the pond. Nearby, a utility block held garden tools, while a pile of firewood for the fireplace dried in the sun, with a black leather jacket resting on top.
   The bodyguard"s shirt sleeves were tightly rolled up above the elbows, emphasizing his massive biceps and it appeared as though the fabric might not withstand the strain, ready to burst at any moment, unable to contain the power of his massive biceps.
   From the balcony of Momonov's mansion, as well as from the neighboring lawns of the villas of the rich, anyone could spot an axillary holster, with the blued steel pistol grip gleaming conspicuously on Elephant.
  
   While Vladimir observed Elephant, the lush lawn, and the tranquil pond, Alex's voice drifted up from below.
  
   During the boss enjoyed brandy on the balcony and Elephant tended to the coals, Alex was teaching Svetlana English grammar on the veranda. "Past participles of transitive verbs are passive parts of speech, indicating completed actions performed on objects. Here's an example, fitting for Cosmonauts' Day: 'The space flights of Soviet people are admired throughout the world.' Do you understand?" he asked.
   "Nope," Svetlana replied, gazing admiringly into Alex's eyes.
  
   Vladimir spat in disappointment on the balcony floor, rose from his chair, and crossed the threshold of the office, muttering softly, "Fool. Just like her mother."
  
   As Elephant fanned the burning coals in the grill with a piece of cardboard, Alex pondered how to explain the rules for forming past participles in English to Svetlana, who had no idea what a passive participle was in Russian. "Imagine a broken window," Alex suggested.
   Svetlana closed her eyes and said, "Yes, I can see it."
   "In the past, someone broke that window, and now the broken window is an example of a past participle," Alex explained. He believed he was a gifted teacher and aimed to solidify his success: "Someone broke the window in the past. So, the word 'broken' in this case is the passive participle."
   "I get it," Svetlana exclaimed, delighted. "Some idiot smashed the window, so the window suffered, it can't be active anymore, and it became passive."
   Alex felt a cold shower of disappointment wash over him. He desperately searched for other words to explain the material, but Mamonov emerged from under the balcony, disrupting the lesson.
  
   The tails of the villa owner's housecoat swayed in sync with his steps. The formidable man strode confidently toward his loyal guard, while Alex hurriedly ran to catch up with him.
  
   "Boss, may I share an idea with you?" Alex called out from behind the boss.
   Mamonov turned to Alex, a smile on his face. "Sure, go ahead," he replied.
   "Before I joined you, I traveled around the country with truckers. I witnessed their work and heard harrowing stories, especially about ambushes on the roads. I propose setting up traps on the Eastern highway and robbing trucks carrying spare parts from the Volga region to Moscow. Autoparts would be a profitable venture for us," Alex suggested.
   "It's intriguing, but we'll be stepping on the toes of many respected criminals who also profit from the parts trade in Russia and Moscow. They'll quickly realize our interference in their business and attempt to eliminate us. That's the first concern," the Boss initially dismissed the idea. But after a moment's thought, he added, "And the second, how will you handle the traffic on a four-lane highway?"
   "To avoid trouble with our neighbors, I suggest targeting only trucks from Ukraine and the Baltic states and blocking the highway near the village of Yuchmer, in the Vladimir region. There's a two-kilometer road through the forest from the village to the highway. We can conceal our truck there to reload the stolen parts," the teenager explained.
   "An ambush in the Vladimir region? Did someone advise you to rob trucks in a neighboring region, or did you come up with the idea yourself?" Mamonov inquired, his eyes narrowing with a smile.
   "I didn't think about regional boundaries, boss," Alex admitted honestly. "It just seemed like a nice and quiet place."
   Mamonov chuckled, "I see you know the highway to Gorky as well as my own backyard."
   "Once, I traveled with a driver from Odessa. He took a batch of auto parts from the Gorky auto plant, and on the way back, he dropped me off at the entrance to Balashikha," Alex lied, although he was familiar with the Gorky highway from his trips to Vladimir and Gorky for boxing competitions.
   "I remember. Your aunt lives nearby," Mamonov recalled.
   "She used to live in Novaya Kupavna. The Ukrainian driver took her to Ukraine back in February, a couple of weeks after our raid," Alex replied.
  
   Mamonov seemed uncertain about the feasibility of attacking trucks with auto parts. "Okay, I'll think about it.
   "On one hand, the number of Ukrainian and Baltic trucks on our roads is not significant," he pondered. "On the other hand, he risk of retaliation from the victims was negligible."
  
   "Make reconnaissance among the truckers and find an informant. Then discuss with Afghan the composition of the brigade, the vehicle fleet, and the arsenal of weapons. Afghan will report to me when you're ready. He will also be in charge of the raids. You'll be the coordinator," Mamonov instructed Alex.
   Alex responded enthusiastically, "I can handle it, Boss. Thanks for trusting me."
  
   As Vladimir continued to stroll toward Elephant, Alex returned to Svetlana under the balcony. He resumed teaching her, while Afghan emerged from the banquet hall into the backyard, carrying a pan of pickled lamb.
  
   As Alex glanced at Afghan's back, he cursed in English, "Fuck!"
   Svetlana asked, "What happened?"
   Alex replied, "Nothing," but in his thoughts, he weighed the situation.
   "Three murderers are gathered, and my gun is in the guest house. If I went to the bathroom, I could retrieve the pistol and deal with them swiftly. I could also take out the guard when he comes out of the gate to the sound of the shots. But what should I do about Svetlana?" Alex considered, "I can't harm this innocent child, nor can I kill her father right in front of her."
  
   "Am I late?" Afghan asked as he handed the container to Elephant.
   "No," Mamonov replied, then asked, "What's new?"
  
   Elephant expertly threaded pieces of meat onto skewers, while Mamonov and Afghan strolled down to the pond.
  
   "Svyat is unhappy with our activity on 'his' territory," Anton spoke in the language of thieves, carefully selecting each word. "This audacious guy sent a written complaint about you to the thieves' brotherhood. He's been spreading his grievances everywhere, claiming that we're stripping him bare. He keeps saying he should've killed you as soon as you got out of prison."
  
   A finger ran down the edge of Vladimir's throat as he said, "I've had enough of him. He refused to return my business after I was released, and now he's turned the thieves against me."
   "Everyone knows that while you were eating prison stew, he took over some of your shops. Let's scare him good so he holds his tongue," Afghan proposed.
   "What do you suggest?" Vladimir inquired.
   "To set fire to Svyat's head office and a store in Izmailovsky district," Afghan replied.
   "And should we act like juvenile thugs and throw a Molotov cocktail at his office?" The Boss chuckled.
   "This is too cliché. He might not grasp our warning," Afghan replied. "I propose planting a field mine with five gallons of gasoline to blow up the two-story store and his headquarters on the Enthusiasts highway."
   "Together with the sellers and buyers?" Mamonov expressed doubt.
   "Employees and customers shouldn't suffer. We are planning to detonate the store amidst the Victory Day fireworks on May 9th," Afghan assured the boss that he would execute it without collateral damage.
   "Do you have someone in mind who can prepare the charge?" The Boss asked.
   "I'll find a sapper," Afghan promised.
  
   "Wait. My wife's brother has long sought the position of a bomber in our gang," Mamonov explained.
   "Potap?" Afghan asked, surprised. "Vladimir, do you really want such a delicate matter in the hands of a tailor?"
   "He told me he served in the engineering troops and studied sapper's business twenty years ago," Mamonov shrugged. "Marina confirmed that her brother served as a Sergeant in a combat engineer unit."
   "I think he won't cope. More than twenty years have passed since he was released from the Army," Afghan continued. "During this time, new mines have been designed, and he could have lost his skills."
   "When were your mines made?" Mamonov asked.
   "MON-50 was developed in the sixties, but the fuses we used in Afghanistan were released in the eighties," Anton explained.
   "As the military proverb says, a sapper makes one mistake," Vladimir smiled. "Now, if his skills have rusted, he'll blow himself up. Let's assume that he asked for it."
  
   Despite being certain that Mamonov was mistaken, Afghan didn't argue because he understood the boss' feelings for his ex-wife.
  
   "We squeezed out his new accommodation with blood," the boss said thoughtfully. "Let him pay us for his one-bedroom apartment."
   "Bloodless," Afghan interjected.
   "What's bloodless?" Mamonov asked, confused.
   Afghan replied, "I'm saying. Elephant and I took care of Zafiros' spouses with plastic bags. Not spilling a drop of their blood."
  
   Vladimir said nothing and looked askance at his assistant, then went back to Elephant. Afghan followed him.
  
   Svetlana stood next to the barbecue with her father's bodyguard. She held a skewer with five large pieces of lamb on it.
  
   The girl bit off a few pieces of juicy lamb and complimented her cook, "Pavel, you are doing a great job; the meat is neither raw nor overcooked. My father can't grill nearly as well."
   "Your father can do a lot more," Elephant replied.
   Svetlana asked, "For instance?"
   "To think for us all," the giant replied. "Not everyone can run such an organization. The city administration, the police, and the bosses of the neighboring districts respect him."
  
   Mamonov and Afghan came closer, and Vladimir overheard a fragment of their conversation.
  
   He asked his daughter, "What are you talking about?"
   Svetlana replied, "Pavel told me you are a good leader."
   Mamonov laughed and responded, "You shouldn't trust him; he's just a sycophant."
  
   Afghan and Elephant also laughed, but Svetlana couldn't tell if the joke was funny or if her father's henchmen were bootlickers.
  
   As the men enjoyed their shish kebabs, Afghan asked Mamonov, "Boss, would you mind having a drink with us?"
   The boss answered, "First, I have to finish something, then Elephant will take Svetlana to her mother, and later we'll get drunk. Pavel, wrap a few kebabs for Marina, and then come to the garage in half an hour."
  
   Elephant nodded in response, and the criminal lord headed to his mansion.
  
   Thirty minutes after Mamonov descended the mansion's stairs to the spacious hall, while Svetlana played with the dog in the front yard. The shepherd dog chased the girl around the flower bed instead of trying to push through the rose, hyacinth, and adonis bushes.
  
   The boss soon exited the building, and his daughter stopped in front of him. Placing a food bag in front of her, Vladimir asked, "Svetlana, do you remember what I told you about safety measures?"
  
   "Yes, dad," she answered quickly. But as she looked up at him, she realized he was expecting a more detailed response. So she continued, "No stops on the way home, no bathroom breaks, no ice cream. Keep my eyes on the bag. Sit in the back seat without getting out of the car, even if Elephant gets out."
   "That's right," Vladimir said as he bent down to kiss his daughter. "Be a good girl. Behave as you always have. Can you remind me what's in the bag?"
   "Delicacies," Svetlana answered grimly.
  
   Elephant left the house, carrying a plastic bag. Holding the package forward, he said to Vladimir, "I was looking for you in the house."
  
   Mamonov placed the bag beside him.
  
   "The meat is still hot; I wrapped it in clean paper and a towel over it. It won't have time to cool down until I get there," Elephant said as he headed to the garage.
  
   Mamonov's black Mercedes rolled out of the garage. Vladimir flung open the back door. While Svetlana walked around the car and sat in the back passenger seat, her father placed two bags next to girl's legs and gave Elephant instructions.
  
   "Pavel, do everything as usual," Mamonov said, standing by the open driver's window. "Take Svetlana home. Do not stop anywhere along the way; follow her to the apartment, and as I said before..." he made a pause.
   "Hand off Svetlana to Marina," Elephant concluded.
   "That's right, Pavel," replied Mamonov. "She is my treasure, and I don't want anything to happen to her on the way back."
  
   The Mercedes slowly made its way from the courtyard to the gate. Mamonov followed it with his eyes and then entered the house. Afghan, who had been waiting around the corner of the mansion all this time, went to the guest house.
  
  
   Hundreds of thousands of Muscovites gathered on their balconies, in the streets, at parks, on rooftops, and along the riverbanks, eagerly anticipating the celebration fireworks that would occur late that evening. The entire city buzzed with excitement as people found various vantage points to witness the spectacular display of lights illuminating the night sky.
  
   Two drunken couples stood on the balcony of a twelve-story residential building in Yakimanka. Both the men and their wives were in their early forties.
  
   Boris Cherkanov and Peter Fedotov served as Lieutenant Colonels of the Anti-Terror Center's pyrotechnic branch.
  
   The women talked about trifles, such as the latest fashion trends, their favorite TV shows, funny anecdotes from their past, recent gossip in their social circle, and plans for the upcoming weekend. Their conversation was filled with laughter and warmth as they enjoyed each other's company.
  
   Meanwhile their husbands men muffledly discussed near-political issues.
  
   "My friend, Boris, why didn't the authorities cover Lenin's name on the mausoleum under rags this year as they had for four years in a row?" Fedotov asked.
   "For the same reason that the military parade was resumed after a five-year break," Cherkanov replied.
   Fedotov asked again, "Do you think Yeltsin is flirting with the electorate before the June elections?"
   "It doesn't matter what I think," Boris responded cautiously. "He will win anyway."
  
   Thousands of flashes of multicolored lights illuminated the sky above Zamosvorechye. Capital-Auto auto parts store and Svyat's central office occupied the lower floors of the fifteen-story building of the design bureau of a defense enterprise. A production building of the same enterprise was also located in this high-rise. The streets below were bustling with activity, as people prepared to watch the celebration fireworks while enjoying the festivities of the evening.
  
  
   A minivan silently pulled up in a deserted parking lot outside Svyat's office, precisely half an hour before the first artillery salute. The empty surroundings provided a sense of secrecy and anticipation as the occupants prepared for their clandestine mission.
  
   Afghan sat in the driver's seat, his focus heightened by the present danger, knowing there was a bomb next to the canister of gasoline. Potap, on the other hand, couldn't hide his fear, nervously glancing around the surroundings of the square in front of the entrance to Svyat's store, anxiously biting his right thumb's nail. Sergei, lying along the back seat of the minibus, appeared mentally distressed as he absentmindedly picked boogers from his nose and studied them with curiosity. The minibus windows were down for ventilation, but the smell of gasoline permeated the air, a constant reminder of the purpose of their risky nocturnal mission to their competitor's citadel.
  
   Anton stepped out of the minivan and circled it, coming to a halt at the passenger door, where he addressed Potap, "There is nobody around. The Muscovites are watching television, eagerly waiting for the fireworks. Are you certain the bomb will go off in time?"
   "I'm sure," replied the amateur bombmaker confidently.
   "You have to know, Potap," Anton said, carefully selecting each word. "There is almost a kilogram of TNT and more than 600 metal balls inside an anti-personnel mine. When the mine explodes, it will kill everything within a radius of fifty meters. If MON-Fifty explodes during installation, you and Sergey will be torn to shreds, our minivan will be obliterated, and I'll end up looking like a pasta colander," Anton warned sternly.
  
   The gravity of the situation hung heavily in the air as the risk of their dangerous mission weighed on everyone's minds. Tension between Afghan and Potap reached its boiling point.
  
   Potap mocked in response, "Don't shit yourself ahead of time, Afghan. It won't explode until ten o'clock. I know what I'm doing."
   "I know what you're doing too," Anton growled.
   "And what am I doing?" Potap asked sarcastically.
   "You are attempting to reduce the distance between you and Vladimir, and from a tailor in a cheap sewing studio, jump into the pants of the main demoman of the Eastern District of Moscow," Anton explained.
  
   With hatred burning in his eyes, Potap opened the door of the Gazelle and pushed Afghan with it, feigning indifference to his actions. He then turned around and coldly instructed, "Sergey, take the canister with gasoline and go tof the store's entrance."
  
   Sergey stepped out of the vehicle, holding the canister in his hand, and confidently walked towards the main entrance steps of the auto parts store. Potap followed him, maintaining a careful distance of five steps behind, carrying the zipped laundry bag containing the mine. Afghan discreetly stood around the corner in his Ford-Transit, his gaze fixed on the bomber and his assistant, ensuring their actions were closely monitored.
  
   When Sergey carefully placed the canister at the store's door, he turned to await further instructions from Potap.
   "Put the canister in the bag next to the mine," Potap directed, pulling the canvas edges apart to their full width.
   "Can I go now?" Sergey asked, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, clearly feeling the mounting pressure.
  
   Potap's response was stern, "Stay by me until I finish installing the bomb detonator." However, his hands betrayed his nervousness, trembling as he attempted to connect the fuse wires to the mine. Sweat drops from his forehead fell onto the mine and canister of gasoline, further highlighting his unease.
  
   As Sergey stood there, the thought struck his mind like a bullet: "He's afraid to die alone. This son of a bitch wants to take an extra young life with him." At just seventeen years old, Sergey was confronted with the stark reality of the dangerous path he had chosen to follow. "Damn it! I never expected things to take such a serious turn. Now I'm not just a thief; I'm becoming a terrorist."
  
  
   On the mansion's balcony, Mamonov and Elephant watched the fireworks over Moscow, cocooned in the comfort of luxurious blue-red-white checked Scottish wool throws.
  
   "Boss, Potap promised to blow up that pig's office at ten o'clock. The fireworks are winding down, and I haven't heard the explosion yet. Could the mine not go off?" Elephant asked.
   "Don't be a fool, Pavel. We wouldn't be able to see or hear the explosion from here. Svyat's den is twelve miles away, but the blast from seven hundred grams of TNT would be heard within a one-mile radius," Mamonov explained.
   Elephant groaned, "And if Potap failed, and the mine didn't explode on time?" Doubts gnawed at him. "Can Svyat's bandits disarm it?"
   "Afghan assured me not," the boss replied. "He provided Potap with an extra detonator that prevents the bomb from being disarmed. Anton told me that even local sappers trained by the Americans couldn't neutralize such detonators in Afghanistan during his service there. And American instructors have much more experience than Svyat's little rats."
  
  
   The Ford Transit was parked on the right lane of Budyonny Avenue's viaduct, built above Enthusiasts Highway, at quarter to ten in the late evening of the same day.
  
   Afghan carefully considered two important criteria while choosing the observation spot for the explosion - safety and good visibility.
  
   Drawing from his personal experience, Anton knew that the fragments from anti-personnel mines tend to travel close to the ground during an explosion. The viaduct, rising at least thirty feet above Enthusiast Highway, offered an ideal safety point. He parked the Ford Transit in the middle of the viaduct, a couple of hundred feet from the entrance to Svyat's office. From this strategic location, they had a clear view of both the bomb and the building's entrance, allowing them to closely monitor the situation.
  
   The demolition crew anxiously watched the entrance of Capital-Auto. Rare drivers, excessively annoyed by such parking, honked loudly as they passed. Anton glanced at his watch once more and said, "Well, what do you say, Potap? It's already eleven o'clock. The mine should have detonated an hour ago, but as you can see, it didn"t."
   "I must have done something wrong," the tailor replied indifferently.
   "If you made a mistake," Anton roared, starting the diesel engine, "then get ready to correct it. I'll take you to the store, and you can disconnect the fuses and bring the mine to us. You can leave the canister of gasoline there."
   "I won't go. I won't be able to disarm it," Potap murmured in terror. "I installed the fuses so that no one could disarm it."
   "I knew you shouldn't have been tasked with this mission," Afghan shouted angrily, swinging his elbow towards Potap's face. "I warned Mamonov about it, and he knew it."
   Potap trembled all over, leaned over to the window, covered his head with his hands, and whispered, "Why are you screaming? If not now, then tomorrow, it will explode. Does it matter to you whether Svyat's shop burns down now or tomorrow?"
   "Tomorrow? You're a horse's dickhead," said Afghan in disappointment as he started the engine and rushed along Budyonny Avenue. "It never occurs to your brainless head that if the bomb doesn't explode, it will fall into the hands of army engineers or, even worse, counterintelligence specialists. By its serial number, they will trace the mine to my military unit. After three days, my name will appear on the all-Russian wanted list. The military counterintelligence will take over our operations, and they will immediately raid my house. Even if I manage to escape, their special troopers will start capturing everyone who ever contacted me. They will apprehend every bandit in Reutov and Balashikha without needing any prosecutors' orders. And then, I promise you, the Feds will extract all the names and addresses of our gang members during interrogations."
  
  
   Unlike most adult Russians, Alex didn't bother himself with questions about Yeltsin's plans for the upcoming elections. That morning, he had no interest in whether tanks, artillery guns, and rockets would march past the Kremlin in parade columns. Politics was still far from his mind as he was just too young to be concerned about such trifles.
   The teenager"s mind was preoccupied with a different mission - preparing to rob a truck filled with car parts. To execute this plan, he needed to find the right target, and he already knew exactly where to look. After breakfast, he boarded a bus to Reutov's industrial zone. He was aware that several trucking companies and garages were located on the outskirts of the city, where truckers often repaired their tractors.
  
   The industrial zone began right behind the buildings of the Aero-Space Faculty at the Bauman Moscow State Technical University. Just a year ago, Alex, then a high school student, had dreamed of studying in one of those buildings. It used to be a mere five-minute walk from his former apartment on Mira Street to the institute and a ten-minute walk to Factory, Plant, Labor Union, and Transport streets in the Industrial Zone. However, that apartment on the third floor no longer belonged to his family, and he no longer had a family at all. Hence, it took Alex nearly two hours to travel from Mamonov's mansion to the outskirts of Reutovo.
  
   He spent an additional forty minutes passing by businesses that were closed for the holidays. As he walked, he hummed the American song 'Hotel California' to himself, adding his own meaningful twist to the lyrics:
  
   "On dirty Transport Street,
   Calm wind in my hair.
   The stinky smell of my feet,
   Rising up through the air."
  
  
   Alex strolled without a hint of fatigue. From the beginning to the end of Transport Street, he walked, singing and occasionally dancing to the rhythm of the music echoing in his mind.
  
   "How did I do that? I changed almost all the words in the original text and made it rhyme. Here's another version for you music lovers," Alex thought and sang:
  
   "Disheveled sheets and nights so hot,
   That's all I can recall.
   Last time, I hit the spot,
   I fled her chamber's thrall."
  
   Across the street from "Everything for Home," his eyes widened in surprise as he spotted the open gate of the Partner garage.
  
   The spacious courtyard of the garage was filled with rows of driver's cabins and repair shops. A two-story office building stood to the left of the entrance. Behind the high metal hanging gates, someone's worn-out sneakers were visible.
  
  
  
   Alex continued to improvise as he crossed the road to the cooperative:
  
   "Up ahead in the distance,
   I spotted an open gate.
   No need for assistance,
   To trick that old mate."
  
   When Alex reached the boom gate, he scanned the garage's grounds. He expected to see security at the gates, and he was right. An elderly guard sat in the shadow of the building with a selection of crosswords on his lap. A pencil stub was tucked behind the guard's right ear.
  
   "Excuse me, sir. Have the Odessa trucks been here recently?" Alex politely asked the watchman.
   "Two came last night," the man replied, looking up from his puzzle. "One of them left for Gorky this morning, while the other is still here being repaired."
   "I'm from Odessa. May I speak with my fellow countryman? I'll be quick," Alex pleaded in a sincere tone.
  
   The guard glanced at him incredulously over his glasses, narrowed his eyes, and with a grin on his lips, said, "You're from Odessa?" He pondered for a few seconds before asking, "So you grew up on the Black Sea coast. Tell me, son, the name of a small Black Sea fish."
   "Goby," Alex replied without hesitation.
  
   The guard wrote the word into the crossword puzzle with his pencil. "The goby enters here," he said, looking up at the boy. "I see you are from Odessa. Come in. The truck from your city is in box number six. The driver's name is Artem. If he's not there, ask the technician who works on the truck's engine. He will tell you where to find him."
  
   Alex ducked below the barrier and entered the garage cooperative's territory.
  
   Passing the only open box in seemingly deserted garage on a holiday proved challenging. The truck cab was visible from the gate, making it impossible for Alex to miss. After examining the license plate on the front bumper of the tractor, Alex added a chorus to the variation on the popular song:
  
   "Welcome to the trap I've already laid for you.
   What a lovely trap, not a single gap!"
  
   Two men were engrossed in inspecting the engine under the cockpit. Alex approached cautiously and inquired, "Excuse me, but who's Artem?"
   One of the men turned to face Alex and replied, "That's me. And who are you?"
   "I'm from your city," Alex said, trying to sound convincing. "I was visiting my grandmother here, but I'm eager to head back to Odessa. I'm willing to pay whatever it takes for a ride. Can you help me out?"
  Artem seemed skeptical and questioned Alex, "If you have money, why not just take a train back to Odessa?"
   "Ah, you see," Alex explained, "I need my birth certificate to buy a train ticket, and my grandma won't give it to me. So, I thought hitching a ride with truck drivers might be a reliable option. And I trust you the most."
  Despite Alex's passionate plea, Artem remained unconvinced and probed further, "Where exactly do you live in Odessa?"
   With confidence, Alex provided his address, which was etched in his mind like the stars tattooed on Mamonov's shoulders, and replied, "I live at 1B Admirals Avenue, not far from the intersection of Fontaine Road."
  Artem threw a challenge at him, "Is that near Fontaine Road Third Station?"
   With a hint of pride, Alex responded in his Odessa accent, "Actually, Fontaine Road intersects Admirals Avenue at the Fifth Station of the Fountain Road."
   After contemplating for a moment, Artem finally relented, "Alright, I'll take you with me, but not today. I need to pick up cargo in Tatarstan. I'll be back in three days, around 7 p.m. We can discuss the price of your trip to Odessa then."
  
  
  Chapter Nineteen. May 10, 1996. Moscow
  
   A lonely bum in dirty clothes leaned on a stick and walked out of the underpass to the tram tracks at sunrise on the morning of May 10. He looked around and continued along Budyonny Avenue past the Capital-Auto store. At the traffic light, the man bent over the trash can, fumbled with his hand in the garbage, and was about to proceed, but a large bag in front of the store caught his attention. A man with long greasy hair strode up the steps. The homeless man reached into the bag, parted its edges with a stick, looked indifferently at the canister, knelt down, and carefully examined its contents.
  
   The slightly bent green brick, tethered with white duct tape to a wooden block, stared at the man with the words "To the enemy." The alarm clock greeted the morning passerby with an ominous smile, its hands moving silently, counting the minutes away. Wires connected the mine, the fuse, and the clock. The homeless man jumped back in horror and fell backward onto the concrete ground. Within a few seconds, he crawled down onto the pavement in front of the store, crawled another five meters on his hands and knees, then leaped to his feet and rushed along Budyonny Avenue.
   The man spat out "A bo-o-o-omb !!!" in a heart-breaking voice.
  
   Rare passersby were surprised to see him at such an early hour. While announcing the news to the entire micro-district, the bum looked around until he saw a telephone booth. After quickly dialing the number to call the police, he murmured into a brown carbolic phone receiver:
   "The police dispatcher on duty, Anna. What is the reason of your call?" the operators voice was calm and friendly.
   "Hello, hello, the police? A bomb here," the homeless man gasped breathlessly.
   The operator replied, "Where are you?" Her voice still remain calm, but slightly more insistent.
   "Where am I?" the bum replied.
   A female voice confirmed, "Yes, where are you?"
   The man replied, "At the corner of Budyonny Avenue and Garage Street."
   "Sir, I need more details. Please describe the current situation. You"re all right?" she asked, in the way people do when they really want to hear "yes" in response.
   "Not at all. I"m scared to death. There is a huge bomb there!" not even trying to be polite the man replied.
   "Is the bomb near you?" asked the operator.
   "No, not here, dummy! I said there. The bomb is on the intersection between Budyonny Avenue and Enthusiasts Highway," answered the bum.
   The operator"s voice sound more agitated when she asked, "At a public transport stop?"
   "No, not at the tram, neither the bus stop. It is in front of the auto parts store's door," came the answer.
   "What's the name of the store?" the operator asked.
   "I don't know what it is called," the witness lost patience.
   "What's your name?" the operator asked.
   "My name?" the man was surprised. He already forgot when the last time someone has asked his name, but still answered: "It won't help you."
   "What is your address?" the operator, following the emergency procedure, read the questions from the list.
   "What is my address?" a man who recently worked as an engineer at a Moscow television production factory, then plunged to the most social bottom, replied: "I've been homeless the last three years."
   The operator replied, "That's impossible. You must have your current address, as all Russian citizens do."
   "Oh, God. She doesn't believe me," the man whispered dispiritedly to himself before barking into the phone, "Then fuck yourself," and hung up the receiver.
  
  
   Hawk's Hill micro-district was jolted as a police siren shattered the morning silence, and a yellow-blue police minibus sped into the parking lot in front of Capital-Auto.
  
   The locals called such minivans 'a loaf of bread.' Two police officers emerged from the vehicle, leaving the driver inside.
  
   The sergeant, donning his bulletproof vest, advanced toward the store while the other officer carefully surveyed the surroundings, hoping to spot a witness or the culprit. The young recruit diligently circled the parking lot, scanning for any signs of suspicious activity.
  
   Upon reaching the store's entrance, the senior officer examined the bag left behind, then quickly returned to the minibus. He nodded approvingly at the driver, who understood the prearranged signal. Without delay, the driver picked up the radio and confirmed the authenticity of the anonymous tip with the officer on duty. Even before he could complete his report, the blaring sirens of several police cars echoed throughout the neighborhood. Patrol vehicles from the Lefortovsky, Tagansky, and Perovsky police stations rushed towards the potentially dangerous site.
  
   As they arrived at the scene, the police formed a secure cordon, and sergeants erected red and white warning tape to seal off the area around the parking lot.
  
  
   At eight in the morning, the phone rudely interrupted the tranquility of the one-bedroom apartment on the twelfth floor of building 60 on Proletarians Street.
  
   The forty-year-old man answered the call with annoyance, "Yes."
   "Cherkanov, this is Vassiliev," the serious voice on the other end said. "I won't wish you a good morning. I need you here in thirty minutes."
   "I'll be there on time, Comrade General," the officer replied.
   "One more thing, Boris: Where is Fedotov? My aide called him at home, but there was no answer."
   "Fedotov and his wife crashed on my sofa in the hall. We celebrated Victory Day yesterday and watched the fireworks from the balcony. You know, I have a small one-bedroom apartment on the twelfth floor, right under the roof," he teasingly reminded his boss, highlighting the modest accommodations provided by the state.
   "Boris, don't be cheeky," the General retorted. "You were offered a two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Moscow, but you insisted on this prestigious location. Now, wake Fedotov up and come immediately. We have an emergency."
  
   "Oh God, who calls so early?" the senior counterintelligence officer's wife groaned, covering her head with a pillow.
   Her husband got out of bed and assured her, "Go back to sleep, Honey. It's work-related."
  
   Speeding with a siren through the still sleepy streets of Moscow, a five-year-old dark cherry Volvo 940 cost much more than Lieutenant Colonel Cherkanov could afford, and his colleague Fedotov clearly understood this.
  
   "Boris, when I joined the department as your deputy a year ago, you already had this car," Peter asked curiously. "How did you manage to get it, my sapper-brother?"
  
   "I know what you're thinking," Boris replied with a hint of mischief. "You're wondering how the head of the explosive-technical department at the Institute of Forensic Science of the FSB affords such a luxury ride. Well, let me share an interesting story with you. It's a reward, my friend. For disarming several foreign-made booby traps during the arrest of a foreign spy, I was awarded the prestigious Order of the Red Star. However, the counterintelligence officers were adamant about keeping the details of my award discreet, so they made me a unique proposition: instead of receiving the Order, they offered me the confiscated car of the captured spy, a magnificent Swedish Mercedes. They believed that the allure of the luxurious car and the confidentiality surrounding the event far outweighed the recognition of a small Soviet order."
   Fedotov chuckled, "That's quite a tale, Boris, and I'll happily believe it. Now, let's find out why Vassiliev has summoned us."
  
   Boris drove the Volvo through the morning streets of the capital, his mind filled with questions about the reason for the early call to service. He and Fedotov exchanged knowing glances, understanding that the general wouldn't have come in person at such an early hour for a trivial matter like disassembling unexploded fireworks.
  
   Arriving at their department, they found General Vasiliev and three junior officers waiting for them in the task-setting hall. The room was surrounded by glass tables with samples of explosive devices, setting a serious atmosphere.
  
   As soon as the two lieutenant colonels settled at the desk, General Vasiliev briefed them on the situation, "I apologize for waking you up on your day off, but we had no other choice. The sapper from the Main Directorate of Internal Affairs informed us that an amateur bomber has installed non-removable fuses on the Enthusiasts Highway. Cherkanov and Fedotov will undertake reconnaissance there. Boris, if the task proves too challenging for the sappers from the central police station, defuse the bomb yourself. And if the mine is as complicated as the police report suggests, establish a one-hundred-meter cordon, await a mine-clearing truck, and proceed with a controlled detonation. You are the best specialist in Russia, so exercise utmost caution," the General added.
   He then turned to the junior officers and instructed, "You three will use the special equipment truck to follow Cherkanov. Does my order seem straightforward?"
   "Yes, Comrade General, the task is clear," the officers replied.
   "Very well, then. I order you to carry out the mission and report back every thirty minutes," Vasiliev concluded.
  
   Cherkanov's Volvo came to a stop near the police minibus, and two camouflaged officers without insignia stepped out. A police lieutenant colonel approached them and inquired, "Comrades officers, which one of you is Cherkanov?"
   Boris identified himself, "I am," and asked, "And who are you?"
   "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Maximov, Deputy Chief of the Tagansky District Police Department, reporting for duty under your command," replied the police officer.
   "That's right, Maximov. Move your minibus out of the parking lot and keep a distance of fifty steps from us," Cherkanov directed as he walked toward his car's trunk.
   "Is it really that dangerous here?" questioned Maximov.
   "I don't know yet," Cherkanov responded, donning a bulletproof vest. "I'll approach the bomb to assess the situation. I can already tell you that if it's an army field mine, we'll have to block traffic on the highway."
   "You plan to stop traffic on a ten-lane highway heading east?" Maximov exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you serious? I doubt we'll be allowed to do that."
   "Step aside and let's see what we're dealing with first. After that, we'll see whether the authorities permit it or not," Fedotov chimed in, securing his helmet with a protective plexiglass visor.
  
   With that, the police officer moved aside, and the counterintelligence sappers ascended the stairs to the store entrance.
  
   Cherkanov leaned over the open laundry bag and whispered to Fedotov, "Peter, step back."
   Fedotov complied immediately, moving ten meters away from the store and squatting down, asking, "What do we have, Boris?"
   Cherkanov responded, gripping the handles of the heavy bag, "MON-Fifty with an alarm clock fuse set for ten o'clock, along with five gallons of gasoline."
   Fedotov inquired, "What's your plan?"
   "I'll turn the bag 180 degrees, to direct the explosion toward the store," Cherkanov replied, adding, "And after that, we'll report to Vasiliev."
  
   Minutes later over the radio, Cherkanov reported, "Comrade General, it's me. We have an anti-personnel army mine here with a canister of gasoline. I've repositioned it toward the building to minimize dispersion of the submunition. It appears to be a homemade mine. The bomber has set a time fuse for ten o"clock."
  "So you have about an hour to neutralize the bomb," General Vasiliev acknowledged.
  
   "Yes, I have an hour if they planned the explosion for the morning. But what if the bomber planned to detonate it at 10 pm yesterday?" the sapper asked, answering himself. "The fuse is frozen and may blow at any moment."
   "What is your plan?" the general asked.
   "I suggest that we block traffic on Enthusiasts' Highway, wait for our mobile laboratory, and use a water cannon to destroy the bomb," Cherkanov replied firmly.
   The general asked, "Are you sure we need to close the highway?"
   "Yes, I'm confident of it. If the explosive device goes off, we won't avoid multiple casualties," the sapper replied firmly.
   "And Budyonny Avenue?" Vasiliev asked. "It is even closer to the explosion site."
   "There is no need to block Budyonny Avenue. The spreading height of the shrapnel doesn"t exceed twelve feet, and the concrete edge of the viaduct crossing Entuziasts" highway is twice as high."
   "Stand by, I will report to the Director of the Federal Counterintelligence Service," Vasiliev concluded and shut off the radio.
  
   The radio in Cherkanov's hands came to life again after ten minutes.
   "Boris, block the highway," Vasiliev ordered. "The director gave the go-ahead."
  
  *****
  
   The truck labeled "Mine clearing" moved slowly through the traffic. Its orange flashing beacon spun continuously, and the anti-terrorist office driver honked and gestured frantically to make way for him. Drivers ignored the sappers' demands.
  
   The sappers' vehicle driver saw a gap in the left lane and attempted to overtake the passing Lada as he changed lanes from Znamenka to Borovitskaya Square. The driver turned the steering wheel, looking in the rear-view mirror, and hit the car's rear fender before the Big Stone Bridge.
  
   Both drivers involved in the fender-bender stopped and exchanged angry words. Traffic slowed behind them. On behalf of the counter-terrorist directorate, one of the FSB junior officers who traveled with his colleagues to the site offered compensation to the owner of the Lada. The last one, however, refused to unblock the cargo van until the traffic cops arrived.
  
  *****
  
   The sound of a walkie-talkie broke the silence in the dark cherry Volvo forty minutes after police stopped traffic on the Enthusiasts Highway, and Vasiliev's voice came through: "Cherkanov, do you hear me?"
  
   Boris responded almost immediately, "Yes, Comrade General."
   "There are two pieces of news for you, one worse than the other," Vasiliev said. "First, our truck carrying mine-clearing equipment was involved in an accident, and the driver of the damaged car is blocking the way for our group. Therefore, the mine clearing laboratory won't be available for you anytime soon. Second, it's even worse. The Moscow leadership has asked us to open the Enthusiasts Highway as soon as possible."
   "What does the Director of the Federal Counterintelligence Service think about this?" Cherkanov asked.
   The General's disappointment was evident in his reply: "Do you really think that the Moscow Mayor Luzhkov personally called me? Of course not. The Mayor had a word with our Director, and he relayed Luzhkov's sentiments about us in rather candid and unpleasant terms."
   "Comrade General, I understand. Fedotov and I will try to handle everything ourselves," Cherkanov replied, turning off the radio.
   "Did you hear?"
   "Yes," his Deputy replied.
  
   As they exchanged glances, a mix of emotions flooded their faces. In their eyes, determination and doubt in the positive outcome of the case clashed. They knew the situation was dire, and their chances for survival seemed slim, but they had no choice but to move forward with the plan. The weight of the responsibility they carried was palpable, and the uncertainty of the moment hung heavy in the air.
   In that tense moment, a sense of camaraderie and trust bound them together. They had been through countless dangerous situations before, but this one felt different - more perilous and uncertain. Yet, they understood that there was no turning back; they had a duty to fulfill, and they couldn't let fear dictate their actions.
  
   Cherkanov's voice wavered slightly, revealing the internal conflict he was facing, but he tried to maintain a façade of composure for his colleague. "We have no choice, my friend, Peter. We will go ahead with the plan," he said resolutely, trying to instill confidence in both himself and Fedotov.
  
   When the officers returned to the store entrance and climbed the steps to the mine, Cherkanov ordered Fedotov, "Take the canister and go around the corner."
  
   Following the order, Peter carefully removed the canister from the bag, descended the stairs, and walked along the store's glass wall to Budyonny Avenue.
  
   Cherkanov glanced at his comrade, pulled long-nose pliers from his pocket, and lightly touched the wire running from the anti-personnel mine to the alarm clock with them.
  
   It was enough to take the mine out of the 'hovering state," and MON-Fifty exploded.
  
   Boris Cherkanov's body was thrown several meters from the store, and the shrapnel struck Fedotov in the back. Peter's wounded body fell forward and covered a can of gasoline.
  
  
   In Mamonov's office, a Sony Trinitron TV blared breaking news. The criminal lord and Potap were seated on a leather sofa in front of the television, while Elephant and Afghan occupied 'lazy boy' recliners on either side of them. After the announcer read the official statement from the General Directorate of Internal Affairs, an MTV reporter took over the broadcast. The reportage kicked off with gripping footage from the scene.
  
  "The broken glass, the double iron doors of the Capital Auto store torn out with a piece of the wall, the deceased senior officer of the Federal Counterintelligence Service, and his wounded colleague all point to a criminal showdown between gangs operating in Moscow and the Moscow region," the reporter's words were accompanied by dramatic visuals of the explosion's aftermath. "At seven forty a.m., an unknown person called the police and reported finding an object that looked like an anti-personnel mine near the Enthusiasts Highway. The canister of gasoline was found in a Chinese laundry bag next to the anti-personnel mine. Lieutenant Colonel Boris Cherkanov, a Pyrotechnic specialist of the Russian Federal Counterintelligence Service, tragically lost his life while clearing an improvised explosive device. Another counterintelligence officer sustained serious injuries. The nearby defense enterprise, Agat, also suffered damage. Fortunately, there were no other casualties or destruction."
  
   As the camera panned toward the highway, a dark cherry Volvo with round holes came into view. Mamonov promptly turned off the TV, surveyed the room, stood up from the couch, and reached for a knife on the desk.
  
   "We won't change our stance until there is clear evidence that we're suspects. We'll continue living as we always have. Any deviation from our usual routine will only draw unwanted attention and implicate us in the death of that Federal officer. Potap," the boss spoke sternly, stepping close to his brother-in-law and raising his chin with a knife, "your incompetence has put us at risk. If you weren't my ex-wife's older brother, I'd have skinned you on this couch by now, cutting you into shreds. Get back to the tailor shop immediately. Don't meddle in affairs that don't concern you, and keep your distance from my people. Blink your eyes if you understand."
  
   With his head pressed against the back of the sofa and his lower jaw propped up by the knife, Potap's eyelashes fluttered like hummingbird wings, and tears welled in his eyes.
  
   Mamonov seemed satisfied with his relative's reaction and shifted his attention to Anton.
  
   "Find me an additional bodyguard, someone who can drive well," he ordered, then glanced at Elephant and added, "I have a feeling this summer will be a scorcher."
  
  Chapter Twenty. May 13, 1996, Moscow-Gorky Freeway.
  
   On the third day following an unsuccessful attempt to explode Svyat's office, a red Toyota Celica was parked on the side of the road, a hundred kilometers east of Moscow. The rear plastic bumper and trunk of the car displayed the telltale signs of the recent fender-bender.
   Alex stood by the passenger door of the car, peering through marine binoculars at the license plates of approaching trucks. A hundred meters west of his Toyota, there was a Lada, with Sergey at the wheel. The Russian coupe had a broken left headlight and a damaged radiator grill.
  
   Alex squirmed uncomfortably as he waited, occasionally pacing beside the car, nervously checking his watch. As the clock struck quarter to six, another eighteen-wheeler emerged on the horizon. The boy focused his binoculars on the small letters of the license plate and muttered to himself, "The Ukrainian flag, followed by - E Ninety-eight Thirty-three OD. It's my guy."
  
   Tossing the binoculars onto the passenger seat, he pulled out a walkie-talkie from his pocket and announced, "I have a client insight."
  
   Five minutes later, the truck passed the Toyota, and Alex got behind the wheel to tail it. Sergey, in the Lada, started his engine and followed Alex, blinking his headlights as a signal. When Alex saw the indication from his friend in the rearview mirror, he overtook the truck. Sergey in the Lada rushed after the Toyota. As the cars entered the left lane, Alex suddenly hit the brakes, causing Sergey's Lada to collide with the Toyota's rear bumper using its left fender. Both cars came to a stop in the middle of the road. The young drivers stepped out of their vehicles, inspecting the damage and bending over the Lada's bumper. A few meters away, the first passing car halted, followed by the second and third. Sergey took a bottle of antifreeze from his jacket pocket and poured its contents under the radiator.
  
   A similar accident involving two cars occurred ten kilometers west of the Toyota-Lada "Sputnik" collision, causing traffic to halt on the Gorkovskaya highway in both directions.
  
  
   While the guys were busy blocking the road, the truck heading to Odessa smoothly covered several more kilometers and passed the last checkpoint.
  
   In a secluded spot at the edge of the forest, a young man, around twenty years old, sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. He played a trendy song on his tape recorder, the fast-paced beat of the drums and rhythmic electric guitar blending with a high-pitched male voice singing about the frustrations with modern girls:
  
   "I'll come to her and give her a punch in the left eye."
  
   As the Ukrainian truck passed by, the young man hit the 'pause' button, and the singer's voice faded out.
  When the Ukrainian truck passed the gangster, the young fellow hit the "pause" button, and the singer's voice faded out shortly after:
  
   "Then I'll take off my belt...."
  
   The sentinel communicated with the invisible accomplice via walkie-talkie, saying, "The Third, respond to the Second."
  
  
   An old wheeled tractor remained hidden at the intersection of the highway and a rural road leading to Yuchmer, concealed by the dense forest belt from drivers heading towards Moscow. Afghan occupied the cab of his diesel tractor, holding a walkie-talkie in his hand.
  
   Anton acknowledged the call and responded, "Speak, the Second."
   "The First identified the client, and he just passed me," the Second's voice crackled through the radio interference.
   "I got it. He's mine," Anton replied, pocketed the radio, started the engine, and headed towards the highway.
  
   The tractor stopped in the mid of the hi-way. Afghan waved cheerfully at the approaching truck driver and jumped out of the cab.
  
  
   "Fucking bitch," Artem cursed when he saw a bright red tractor slowly crawling out onto the highway from behind the forest, about half a kilometer away from him.
  
   A half-naked, thin woman peeked out from behind the curtain of the sleeping area and asked, "What the hell is blocking the road?"
   "Some guy on a tractor crawled out and stopped," Artem replied. "Looks like we're screwed."
  
   Afghan waved to the truck driver in a friendly manner, jumped out of the cab, and stepped onto the shoulder. The bewilderment on the drivers' faces turned into grimaces of anger. It seemed that the unexpected appearance of the red tractor had disrupted their plans, and tensions were rising.
  
   "What makes you so pessimistic?" the woman softly asked, understanding that nothing threatened her.
   "No car has passed us in the last ten kilometers. Do you understand?" Artem replied resignedly. "They not only didn't overtake us, no one even followed us. As you can see, the tractor blocked the road, and the bandits came running out of the woods. We have to stop."
  
   As Artem's words sank in, a sense of danger and urgency filled the air. Four guys crossed the roadside ditch and surrounded the truck's cab. Two men stood in front of the driver's windshield with an Ak-47, pointed at him. The third opened the passenger cabin door and pointed a pistol at the woman.
  
   "Come with me to the forest. We will have fun there," he mocked and added, "Don't run. The bullet will catch up to you anyway."
   "Don't scare a professional bitch with a long dick," the road whore said mockingly, displaying a fearless attitude despite the menacing situation.
   The woman displayed remarkable courage as she added, "Rather than threaten me, give the lady a hand," and promptly jumped out of the truck's cab, not waiting for the robber's gallantry.
  
  
   During this time, the red tractor reversed back to the forest belt, and the fourth robber sat in the passenger seat. The situation was escalating rapidly, and there seemed to be no way out for the trapped couple.
  
   "Start the engine and take a country road," the fourth robber ordered Artem, his voice filled with menace and authority. It was clear the driver and his truck were now under the control of these dangerous criminals.
  
   As the eighteen-wheeler turned off the road and headed deep into the forest in the direction of the Yuchmer village, Afghan took out a radio and ordered, "All posts, move forward."
  
   Four drivers of cars involved in staged accidents on the highway stopped gesturing and insulting each other. After that, they got into their cars and continued driving.
   The four drivers of the cars involved in the staged accidents on the highway stopped gesticulating and insulting each other.
  
   Afterward, they got back into their cars and continued driving as if there were no collisions at all.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-one. May 17, 1996. Reutov-Balashikha
  
   In the late evening of the seventeenth of May, Mamonov sat at his desk, engrossed in routine tasks. He meticulously counted the bundles of money from plastic bags, read the notes attached to them, and recorded the amounts received from the commanders of the fives in his notebook. Elephant, his bodyguard, lounged in an armchair nearby, flipping through a battered Playboy magazine, while halfheartedly listening to the news on television.
  
   "In connection with Russia's entry into the Council of Europe, President Boris Yeltsin signed a decree gradually reducing the use of the death penalty in the country," the news presenter announced, and Elephant nodded in approval.
  
   Glancing up from the magazine, he remarked, "Did you hear the news? The lads will be delighted that Yeltsin announced a moratorium on the death penalty."
  
   Vladimir responded as he secured an elastic band around the next pack of dollars, "I don't think they'll all be pleased. Opinions will split fifty-fifty here. Half of the murderers will still prefer a bullet in the forehead, while the other half might settle for rotting in the worst prisons, like Black Dolphin or Polar Owl."
  
   At that moment, the phone on Vladimir's desk rang. Elephant glanced at the boss, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Mamonov nodded in acknowledgment. The bodyguard took the phone and asked, "What do you need?" then promptly handed it over to Vladimir, stating, "This is for you, boss."
   "Who is it?" Vladimir asked, raising his head.
   Elephant replied, "It's Svyat."
   Vladimir grabbed the phone, his voice firm, and asked, "What do you want, you bastard?"
  
   An angry roar came through the receiver, "Mamonov, have you completely lost your fear? Why did you plant a bomb near my office? Did you even know that two counterintelligence colonels were killed there during the mine clearing?"
  
   "You've got the wrong idea, and I also don't appreciate your tone and choice of words," Vladimir calmly responded. "First, remember who I am and address me with the courtesy befitting a king's servant. It seems you've forgotten whose hands you recently ate from. Second, I had nothing to do with the explosion in front of your office. And finally, only one Federal officer was obliterated by the bomb. The other is still alive."
  
  
   The phone receiver went silent for a few moments. Mamonov guessed that Svyat buried the microphone in his palms and consulted with his assistants. Vladimir was about to hang up when Svyat's voice was heard once again.
  
   "I see that we can't resolve this issue by phone; "I'll be waiting for you at the Gorky Outpost restaurant tomorrow, an hour before midnight. You'll answer everything there. If you ignore my invitation, then I"ll inform all regional kingpins that you are a shameful coward who refused to answer for your actions."
   "Don't raise your voice. I'm accepting your invitation. You are a cockerel and don't deserve respect," Mamonov laughed. "Come up to Outpost tomorrow. I'll show you who's the boss in the Moscow Eastern District."
  
   Vladimir handed Elephant the phone and said thoughtfully: "Call Afghan here as soon as possible."
  
  
   An hour later, Vladimir and Afghan settled on the veranda beneath the balcony. The sun's red disc touched the treetops beyond the pond and slowly slipped behind the horizon. Mamonov lit a cigar, letting the smoke fill the air as he contemplated a way to permanently resolve Svyat's problem. Meanwhile, Afghan savored Pavillon de Leoville Poyferre red wine, recently delivered to Mamonov's villa from Bordeaux, France, engaging himself with the liquid's taste and watching the tranquil scene unfold before them.
  
   As the yellow dwarf slowly slipped behind the horizon, Vladimir finally asked, "Can you guess why I called you urgently?"
   "I think so," Anton replied. "It's because of our recent failure."
  
   "The death of a Federal Lieutenant Colonel might be costly for us. We have to reduce our activities. All our fighters of the second echelon must leave the Moscow region. Tell them the coordinates of our allies in Rostov-on-Don, and ask them to write me a letter on my behalf. Let the guys rest in the south until everything settles down. Of course, it's a pity that we couldn't finish off Svyat on his territory, but tomorrow we'll have a chance to do that on ours," Mamonov said.
   "Are you planning to kill your former deputy in Reutovo?" Anton asked.
   "The meeting will take place in Balashikha tomorrow at the Gorky Outpost. If you can, go there as soon as you wake up and look at where it is best to position the shooter," the Boss responded.
   Afghan shook his head in disbelief, "Svyat's murder will bring consequences. The Moscow Central Police Investigation Bureau and the FSB Organized Crime Investigation Department will be able to tie up the loose ends and realize that after the unsuccessful attempt to blow up his Moscow office, we killed him on the threshold of our home."
  
   The oppressive silence enveloped them under the balcony. Mamonov could hear birds chirping over the lake and crickets singing from the nearby grove.
   He spoke, "Here and now, I must decide whether I will go down in criminal Russia's history as a ruthless criminal or as a pimply pickpocket spoken of with contempt. The quiet life in my country house is over. There are over twenty gangster groups in the Moscow region alone. At least half of them are ready to offer us protection and maybe even help transfer money to Europe."
   "Are you thinking about hiding in Turkey?" Afghan asked.
   "That won't work. Chechens occupy Istanbul since the war for their independence began in their Republic. They'd be more than happy to slit a Russian thief-in-law's throat from ear to ear if I show up in their Muslim enclave."
   "How about Greece?"
   "Rumors have it that the best Russian assassin, Sasha Soldier, is hiding there. He killed the famous thieves Globe, Gide, and Rambo last year. Sasha won't hesitate to eliminate me if someone pays him. Spain or Portugal will do just fine."
  
   At that moment Mamonov faced the most important decision of his life: retreat and live in disgrace, or attack and put his gang, his family, and his life on the brink of existence.
  
   "It's decided," he said, taking a deep breath, "we'll take out Svyat and try to escape. I have no choice. Losing face is more painful than losing freedom. If I slack off today, I will be dethroned at the next kingpins' meeting, and no one will be willing to extend a hand to me."
   "Do you want to wipe out Svyat alone, or his entire army? Or, would you like me to take out his lads, and you deal with him?"
   "I don't care about him anymore. I asked him several times to return all the auto parts stores under my control. In response, he said that only what I controlled before my term in prison was mine, and that what he took under his roof in my absence belonged to him. He doesn't understand that everything he 'took under the roof' during my prison term, he did so using my people for his own enrichment. Without them, he would be nobody. Well, as he refused to settle everything peacefully, I'll erase him along with the other traitors who previously served me. Prepare an ambush and kill everyone who shows up at the meeting, starting with Svyat."
   "Vladimir, I'm a veteran and used to receiving detailed orders. Are you asking me to kill them before we even talk?"
   "It is only in Hollywood movies that the killer explains why he is going to kill the victims," Mamonov replied impatiently. "Shoot them as soon as they arrive in the line of fire, and do not let them open fire first."
   "Well, yes, in Hollywood they explain why they kill, and in Bollywood, they dance and sing about the reason," Afghan said quietly. "Boss, I hope you understand that this is an unavoidable death sentence for both of us?"
   "Not from today. Yeltsin replaced capital punishment with life imprisonment. So don't piss your pants; if the police catch us, we'll meet old age in neighboring cells."
   "I'll do everything as you said," Anton replied.
  
  
   The Azerbaijani cafeteria's summer veranda was nestled between the glass showcase of Gorky Outpost restaurant and the brick wall of Miracle Oven bakery. A tall wooden fence surrounded the veranda at the back, with a narrow gate leading to a vast parking lot in front of the three catering establishments.
  
   At the rear of the Azerbaijani teahouse, six men were seated at three tables. Mamonov and Elephant occupied one table near the restaurant's side window, a couple of gangsters sat a little in front and to the left of them, and further to the left, against the bakery wall, there were two more.
  
   At ten fifty p.m., three black Land Cruisers pulled up in the parking lot in front of the restaurant. Three muscular men with guns stepped out of the first vehicle and glanced at two empty BMW 5 Series parked nearby before entering the restaurant. Gorky Outpost was nearly empty at this hour. The eldest of the gangsters quickly went to the washroom. Four youngsters caught his attention as he passed the bar. The guys and girls were sipping cocktails and enjoying themselves.
  
   Svyat's bodyguard signaled to the two assistants standing at the front door, motioning for them to search the restaurant's customers. Within half a minute, the security chief emerged from the washroom and headed to the bar, where his men were patting down the guys' pockets and seemingly enjoying groping the girls.
  
   The elder gangster announced, "There's no one in the washroom."
   One of the fighters cursed, "Mamonov, that cowardly piece of shit, didn't show up," just as someone tapped metal against the glass.
  
  
   As Mamonov observed the bustling scene inside the restaurant, he absentmindedly twirled a fork in his hand, contemplating the frailty of life.
  
   "Elephant, do you know what the frailty of being is?" Mamonov asked.
   "I don't know such smart words," the bodyguard replied. "Why did you get into philosophy?"
   "Look at them. They run, fuss, and have no idea that they have just a few minutes to live. I would also like such a sudden and unexpected death. I was alive, and then I was gone. Not to get sick and not to suffer, not to wait and not to be afraid," Mamonov said, tapping the fork handle on the thick window glass.
  
   Svyat's fighters drew their pistols and turned to knock, and Mamonov, smiling broadly, waved affably to them.
  
   The trio stepped outside and approached the porch gate. From the depths of the teahouse, Elephant shouted, "You clowns! Hide your guns."
  
   As Mamonov's bodyguards reached for their weapons, Svyat's men put their pistols in their holsters, though their hands remained on the pistol grips. Two of the gangsters stayed at the gate, but the third returned to the SUV. The tinted glass dropped by half, revealing Svyat's face in the cabin.
  
   "What do we have here?" He asked the security chief.
   "There were no waiters or visitors in the teahouse. Mamonov and his five bulls are sitting at three tables. A distance of about ten meters separates the gates from them. As the only light comes from the restaurant window, there is not enough light for accurate shooting. You can see Mamonov clearly, but the rest are in the dark. If we want to kill all at once, we have to shorten the distance twice," Svyat's bodyguard reported.
   "I understand. The conversation with Mamonov is unavoidable," Svyat said thoughtfully. "Then take five more men and tell them that we're going to get rid of the Reutov gang as soon as I say, 'You're done'. Your goal is to kill Mamonov. You can use the entire clip on him. It's up to you, but I don't want to hear about him anymore."
   The bodyguard replied, "I will."
  
   Svyat left the Toyota and approached the tea house, accompanied by six guards. Once the group passed the gate, a couple of 'bulls' stepped forward, drawing their firearms and facing the street.
  
   "Hi, Svyat," Vladimir warmly greeted the visitor.
  
   In a silent movement, the wooden planks of the summer veranda fence shifted sideways, and the black flame arrestor of an AK-47 assault rifle appeared from the gap.
  
   Svyat had not yet answered Mamonov's greeting when he added: "I'll see you in Hell."
  
   The barrel twitched, and a burst of tracer bullets pierced Svyat and his bodyguards. Within seconds, nine young men lay on the dusty concrete.
  
   Mamonov turned to the gate and said to his men: "We are leaving."
  
   "Vladimir," Elephant called out to the boss, walking four steps behind him. "Some of them are still moving here. Shall I finish them off?"
   The thief-in-law turned around, pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, and grinned. "I'll take care of it."
  
   Mamonov stepped over the dead and wounded victims, ensuring those showing signs of life met their end.
  
   A lone shooter in a camouflage robe emerged from the grass, illuminated by the moon in the cloudless sky, and swiftly disappeared into the nearby forest.
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-two. May 17, 1996
  
   Moscow-Petushki suburban electric train halted at the Reutov station precisely at midnight. A few passengers disembarked from the cars, trudging wearily towards the station square. The locals cautiously avoided puddles along the way, glancing anxiously at the drifting thunderclouds above their heads. Each person pondered the same question: had the thunderstorm subsided, or were there just brief pauses before it unleashed its fury with thunder, gusty winds, and torrential rain?
  
   Meanwhile, four young gangsters were making their way back from a successful raid on the outlets in the Eastern Moscow micro-district, Novogireevo. After collecting tributes from seven auto parts stores and two tire shops, the racketeers strolled nonchalantly along the platform, casually discussing their evening's exploits. Alex, the boss' favorite, acted as the weapon carrier, commonly referred to by racketeers as a 'mule'. He walked three paces ahead of the group, a medium gym bag slung over his shoulder.Ten paces behind, the gang's leader, a forty-year-old woman who had recently served time for shoplifting, wearily followed the youngsters.
  
   It was Afghan's idea to employ female criminals as cashiers. He had advised Mamonov to use inconspicuous middle-aged women to transport money, believing it would draw less attention.
  
   As the group approached the station square, Alex noticed two police patrol vehicles parked next to the minibus, that was waiting for them.
   The boy muttered to himself in English, "Fuck," and looked despondently at Dan, who was standing by the concrete stairs. Alex had a foreboding that meeting with the police at this hour wouldn't end well.
  
   The police patrol slowed down and blocked Alex's path. The three older gang members attempted to bypass both Alex and the policemen, but the sergeant fixed his gaze on them and declared firmly, "Take your time, boys. ID checks apply to you too."
  
   They halted, and a woman in a raincoat walked around them, heading towards Dan.
  
   "Good evening, lad," the police sergeant greeted Alex politely.
   "Good evening, comrade sergeant," Alex replied.
   "Where are you headed?" the policeman asked the teen, trying to detect any signs of fear that young offenders often showed when facing law enforcement.
   Alex replied without embarrassment, "Home."
   The sergeant nodded at the guys behind Alex, "Are you all together?"
   Sergey answered for his friend, "We don't know each other. We saw him on the train."
   "Show me your paperwork," the patrol cop ordered.
   Alex responded, "I'm younger than sixteen and I don't have an ID yet."
   The sergeant stared at the boy unkindly and stepped towards the trio behind him, and asked: "And yours?"
   "Our IDs are at home," Sergey replied for everyone.
   The sergeant looked at the privates, saying, "This evening is no longer boring. We have an excuse to return to the department to identify the travelers."
   "It will be a splendid chance to have supper in the department," said the ordinary policeman.
   The sergeant turned to Alex and asked, "What's in your bag?"
   "My sports stuff," the guy confidently answered without showing the anxiety that gripped him. "Sneakers, T-shirt, underwear, and a towel with a washcloth."
   "Put your bag on the ground and step back," the sergeant ordered, turning to one of the patrolmen. "Give me your Kalashnikov and check the contents of the bag."
  
   The policeman handed the assault rifle to the senior patrolman, kneeled in front of the bag, and reached inside.
  
   Keeping his eyes on the guys, the sergeant asked impatiently, "Well, what's there? Did he have any forbidden items?"
   "At the bottom of the bag are two pistols wrapped in a terry towel and a couple of electric cattle prods in plastic bags," the ordinary cop said in response.
   The sergeant raised his assault rifle and shouted loudly: "All to the ground now, faces down, hands behind your head."
  
   The guys reluctantly lay down on the wet platform, and the sergeant called to the driver of the second patrol car: "Anatoliy, are you hearing me?"
   "Yes. But why?" the radio hissed back.
   In response to the subordinate's blunt question, the sergeant growled over radio, "I'll make you cry. Find two witnesses and drive to the station's platform stairs."
   Sergey asked, raising his head, "Why are we on the asphalt? We haven't seen this boy before."
   The sergeant didn't respond to the guy. Rather, he kneeled on Alex's back and told the policeman: "Handcuff the trio. I'll control this one by hands."
   He then pointed an assault rifle at Sergey and warned him: "If you open your mouth again, I'll hit your head with the AK-47's butt."
  
   The ordinary cop zipped Alex's bag and complied with the sergeant's order. Seeing two privates leading the three guys towards the stairs, the sergeant jumped from Alex's back, grabbed the collar of his leather jacket, and yanked him upright.
  
   The dramatic event that unfolded on the platform was watched by half a dozen curious fellow travelers who had gotten off the suburban electric train on the Reutovo platform, along with a group of teenagers. Among the onlookers at the stairs leading to the station square, Dan and the cashier stood silently. As soon as the police patrol handcuffed the accomplices, the head of the gang said quietly to Dan, "Now we have a problem. We must urgently inform Afghan about this," after which she turned around and slowly went to the minivan waiting for the bandits.
  
   The patrolmen brought the detainees to the square of the station. At the police jeeps, an elderly couple of attesting witnesses waited for the entire procession.
  
   "Good evening, fellow citizens," the sergeant called out to the elderly couple as he introduced himself, "we're gonna need you to check out the contents of this bag belonging to one of these four citizens, and we ask you to be our witnesses."
  
   Sergey couldn't help but speak up again. "Hold on, Comrade Sergeant, I'm telling you, it ain't our bag."
  
   In the heat of the moment, the sergeant swung his assault rifle, aiming the butt at the youngster's forehead, but the kid quickly covered his head with his hands. The patrol chief then ordered the private, "Petrov, dump everything out of the bag on the asphalt."
  
   With a quick move, the officer turned the bag upside down and emptied its contents right in front of the witnesses.
  
   "As you can see," the sergeant stated, "there are two nine-millimeter pistols in the towel and two electric cattle prods in the plastic bag. Any objections or questions?"
   The man of about seventy replied, "No questions. I do recognize those pistols, but I've never seen such prods before. However, if you say they were in the bag, I'll confirm their presence."
   "Good enough for me," the sergeant nodded. "Petrov, make sure to jot down the witnesses' names and addresses." He turned back to the attesting couple and added, "We'll be waiting for you at the city police department on Victory Square tomorrow at eight o'clock. When you get there, just let the officer on duty know you're the witnesses from the train station."
  
   Petrov scribbled down the necessary information in his notebook, and the witnesses departed. Meanwhile, the sergeant seated the guys in pairs in the jeeps, flinging Alex's bag onto the passenger seat's floor. He then took the wheel, and both cars swiftly left the square.
  
   As they drove away, Dan's minibus quietly hummed with its diesel engine, carrying the gang's cashier on board.
  
   The police patrol brought four detainees into the police station just after midnight.
   A police officer on duty went out of his office to meet them in the lobby.
   "What have these guys done?" he asked.
  
   Rather than replying, the sergeant took the bag from Petrov, showed it to the duty officer, and pointed to the weapon inside.
   "I got it." The captain sighed, unlocked the lattice door of the temporary detention cell, made from iron bars and installed in the police headquarters lobby, and said, "Welcome to the monkey cage, boys."
  
   An average-sized man wearing jeans and a blazer came into the department's lobby as the policeman removed the detainees' handcuffs.
  
   The sergeant greeted him, "Good night, Detective. My patrol arrested four suspected racketeers at the station."
  
   The duty officer returned to his office and watched the conversation between the sergeant and the detective through the thick glass.
  
   "Report to me in detail where, why, and under what circumstances you held them," the detective ordered the sergeant.
  
   "At midnight, that kid over there," the sergeant pointed out to Alex, "got off the Moscow train with this bag. We stopped him to check his documents, and since he didn't have any, I searched his belongings and found two nine millimeter pistols and a couple of electrical shockers. We invited witnesses and searched the bag again in their presence."
   "And what does it have to do with those three lads?" the detective nodded towards the guys.
   "They walked right behind the first guy. They denied any connection with him at the train station, but I know they lied," the sergeant explained.
   "Why don't you trust them?" The detective knew the answer, but wanted to test the sergeant's wits.
   "Because, that youngster seems to me as a weapon mule for older lads. His bag holds two pistols and two electric cattle prods, which perfectly match the gang's four members," the sergeant passed the test.
   "Did you tell the witnesses to come here in the morning?" the detective asked.
  
   The ordinary cop Petrov stepped out from behind the sergeant, took a notebook out of his jacket pocket, and tore an entry from it for the detective.
  
   The sergeant replied, "This is their data. I told them to be here by eight in the morning. They said they would be here."
   "Write a report about the detention right now," the detective instructed.
   The sergeant responded, "Yes, sir."
  
   The detective picked up Alex's bag from the floor and turned to the officer on duty: "Gennady, bring this kid to my office in five minutes and call the duty detectives."
  
   A detective disappeared behind the office door, on which was posted: 'Acting Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, Captain Erokhin', and the duty officer dialed a phone number, briefly spoke to someone, then reluctantly went to the cage with the detainees.
  
   Erokhin was a little over forty years old. He was sturdy, but he was a bit overweight. As he laid the contents of the bag on the desk, he put on thin rubber gloves. After examining the pistols, the detective removed the clips, hid them in the desk drawer, and checked that the barrels' chambers were empty.
  
   Alex and the duty captain entered the office. The boy was handcuffed behind his back. The captain led the young man to the detective's desk and sat him down on the chair.
   Erokhin put his chair in front of Alex and said to the duty officer: "Thank you, Gennady; I will take care of him."
  
   The duty officer left, and the detective turned to the boy: "Your name, patronymic, surname, year of birth, and address of residence."
   "I'm Alexander Georgievich Mikheev, born in 1980, and I don't currently have a permanent address," said the young man.
  
   Erokhin took down the detainee's data.
  
   "It's a pity," the detective said, "that you don't provide me your address. This means our heart-to-heart conversation went wrong from the very beginning."
   "I'm being honest with you, Sir. I'm homeless. I was riding the train to Pavlovsky Posad to see my friend. I wanted to spend the night with him. The boy said, almost crying, "I saw three drunken men get out of the car one station before Reutovo, in Novogireevo. I saw that they left a bag under the seat. I sat in their place and stole the bag. I didn't even open it."
  
   Erokhin understood that the boy was lying, but he wanted him to bury himself in his own lies, and he asked him, "That"s fine, but why did you get off the train in Reutov if you were going to Pavlovsky Posad? How did such happiness come to us?"
   "Curiosity took over me," Alex perked up. "I was impatient to find out what was in the bags."
  
   This was his first encounter with a police officer; he was doing well with deceiving the man, who looked older than Alex's father, and decided to consolidate his success: "I wanted to look inside the bag, but I didn't want to attract the attention of other passengers. I decided to look for a quiet area in your city to rummage through it quietly. Had I known that there were guns, I would have moved to another train car and never touched the bag."
   "Did you prepare for the interrogation in advance, or did you make up a story on the spot?" Erokhin asked, turning to the desk: "What is the address of a friend in Pavlovsky Posad?"
   "My friend, Victor, lives on Herzen Street. I can't recall the number of his apartment building. I always went there with him. Oh, I remembered that his apartment building had a car shop on the bottom floor. Just a moment, I'll tell you its name. It's called Capital-Auto."
  
   Alex knew the name of a chain of stores that covers the entire Eastern District, and one is in Pavlovsky Posad. Even though he had only stepped into the store once, he remembered both its location and name. After picturing in mind eight entrances of a twelve-story building on the site, he quickly multiplied them by six apartments on each landing and received over five hundred flats.
  
   Gritting malignly, he thought, "There must be at least one Victor my age. Get a detective, check this information in the first hour after midnight."
  
   Alex had no idea how strong and resourceful the law enforcement system was.
  
   "Assuming you told the truth," Erokhin nodded his head in agreement with Alex's alibi. "Now, think twice before you respond. Do you know the guys who are sitting in the monkey house?"
   "No," Alex replied without hesitation. "They were probably behind my back on the train. The first time I saw them was on the platform when the sergeant ordered us all face down in puddles at gunpoint."
   "Okay, I'll believe you," said the detective, picking up his phone, and dialing.
  
   After two long beeps, the duty officer of Pavlovskiy Posad city department answered, and Erokhin introduced himself: "Good night, this is the interim head of the criminal investigation department from Reutov, Captain Erokhin. Which of my colleagues is currently on duty?"
   A voice was heard in the receiver that said, "Captain Ravgaliev."
   Erokhin asked, "Is he still awake?"
   "Yes, he is," the attendant answered.
   "Okay, call him to the phone," the detective said.
  
   "Hello, Marat, this is Erokhin," the detective said when the man answered on the other side, "Thank you, I still exist," he answered when his colleague inquired about his wellbeing. "Yes, and I work at night. I have a lot of work, my friend. So, a boy sits in front of me and claims that his friend Victor lives in the apartment building where the Capital-Auto auto parts store is located. If I remember right, before being transferred to the criminal investigation unit, you worked in the department of juvenile offenders. Oh, used to be the Head of that department, that's even better. Can you answer a quick question for me, is there a problem boy named Victor living in that apartment building? Well, I was sure of it. Thank you."
  
   The detective's eyes narrowed as he looked at Alex, who was trying to maintain a façade of innocence. "Oh, you think you're clever, huh?" Erokhin retorted with a stern expression. "Well, let me tell you something, kid. I've seen all sorts of tricks and lies in my career, and you're not the first one to play this game. But I can assure you, I always find out the truth, one way or another."
  
   Alex's heart raced as he tried to keep his composure. He knew he was in a dangerous situation, and he couldn't afford to make any more mistakes.
  
   "Now, let's try this again," Erokhin continued, leaning closer to Alex. "Tell me the truth, and you might just save yourself from a world of pain. Who are those guys you were with at the station? What were you planning to do with those weapons?"
   "I swear, I don't know them," Alex stammered, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "I've never seen them before in my life. And I had no idea there were guns in the bag. I just found it and thought I could sell whatever was inside."
   Erokhin raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of Alex's story. "Sell it, huh? You expect me to believe that? You're not exactly the innocent type, are you? I've got a file on you, Alex Mikheev. You've been involved in some shady business before."
  
   Erokhin's words were a ruse; he had no criminal case against Alex. Despite the FSB's suspicions of a teenager from Reutovo with the same name being involved in the "Swiss watch" case, both Major Loboda and Colonel Baranov had no intentions of reporting him to the Reutov police department.
  
   Alex couldn't ascertain if the detective was lying or if he had any information about Alex's involvement in the crimes through informants or victims, so he chose to remain silent. The pause lasted no more than a minute, but Erokhin's patience was wearing thin. It became apparent to the detective that the guy was impervious to persuasion, so he resorted to using force to make Alex cooperate.
  
   Erokhin grabbed the electric cattle prod from the table, his finger hovering over the 'Discharge' button. With a swift motion, he struck Alex under the right ribs.
  
   A searing electric shock pierced Alex's body just below his liver, causing him to scream and shudder uncontrollably. He eventually fell off his chair, his limbs twisted in pain. Erokhin observed the grimaced face of the young man with a curious, almost sadistic, expression for several seconds.
  
   When Alex finally went still, the detective leaned over him, his teeth clenched with intensity. "Listen carefully, asshole," he threatened, "every time you lie to me, I'll hit you with nine hundred thousand volts. Consider this strike a humane warning. Next time, I'll direct the discharge to your groin. You'll be impotent for life after that. Do you understand?"
  
   Alex didn't reply, keeping his eyes closed and pretending not to hear the detective's words.
  
   The pain he felt was unlike anything he had experienced before. Even the bottle punch to the head during his last restaurant fight seemed insignificant in comparison. "When someone broke a bottle against my head, I passed out, and that was it. There was plenty of blood, but the pain was bearable, like after getting an eyebrow cut in a boxing match. Now, the shock lasts much longer and is unbearably intense," he thought.
  
   Gradually, Alex started to regain consciousness, feeling his body slowly responding. Erokhin decided to untie Alex's handcuffs and sat him back on the chair. The young man continued to play the role of an innocent victim of police brutality, looking up at the detective with feigned surprise.
  
   Two men about thirty entered the office. Erokhin looked at them and said: "Hi, guys. Sorry for ripping you out of bed. I hope Gennadiy has already provided you with the latest information?"
   "Yes, he did," one detective replied.
   "Interrogate each of the three detainees in your offices and find out who owns the guns. Don't follow the interrogation procedure. This one lies smoothly, so the suspect was preparing for possible scenarios. Also, since he's still too small for shooting from two hands, the guns belong to somebody else. Find out by any means who owns the pistols."
   "By morning, we'll beat this shit out of them," the second police officer told the head of the detective department.
  
   The detectives had already left to apprehend the suspects, and Erokhin was just about to wrap up an interrogation report when the phone suddenly rang.
  
   Grabbing the receiver, he answered with a firm, "Captain Erokhin." As he listened to the message on the other end, he repeatedly sought clarification, asking questions like, "Where exactly? How many victims? Understood. Tell all patrol squads to head to the shooting location and wake up the forensic officer on duty to join us."
  
   As he rose from his chair, Erokhin grasped Alex's arm firmly and steered him out of the office. They made their way to the lobby where the cop placed the disheveled teen in the designated holding area often referred to as the 'monkey house.' Through the dusty window of the duty office, Erokhin caught sight of Gennady's disapproving gaze. He was well aware that the scene might look disturbing to someone observing from the outside, but he didn't blame Gennady for silently passing judgment on the situation.
  
   Thoughts raced through his mind: "The duty officers will always criticize detectives and interrogators. It looks disturbing when a forty-year-old detective escorts a barely conscious teenager by the arms after a night of questioning. However, if they had witnessed what young gangsters typically do to their victims, they would undoubtedly understand my actions."
  
   Alex struggled to move his legs, trying to convey the full horror of his condition. As soon as he reached the wooden bench in the monkey cage, he collapsed onto it, staring blankly ahead.
  
   Erokhin's assistants brought the other guys from their separate offices, and they sat on a bench opposite Alex.
  
   "Wait for us here," Erokhin taunted the suspects. "We'll be back soon to continue the interrogation."
  
  
   A drowsy civilian-clad man emerged from the corridor, holding a small kit bag in his hand. He was the forensic scientist, and he inquired about the incident on the city's outskirts. While the detectives exchanged information with him, all four of them left the police department building.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-three. May 18. 1996
  
   As soon as the front door closed behind them, Alex fell off the bench and started moaning loudly. Sergey knelt beside him and asked, "Are you alright?"
   "I'm fine. I told the cop that I found the bag in the train car," Alex whispered, barely audible. "But he didn't believe me and used my electric prod on me, just below my ribs."
   "What a bastard," Sergey muttered.
   "Forget about him. It's time for me to get out of here," Alex said, realizing he had little time and wanting to share his thoughts with his accomplices. "Just play along with me."
   "Guys!" Sergey called out to the others. "Something's seriously wrong with him."
   "Hey, watchdog!" the third guy barked. "Your detective zapped the kid with an electric prod. He looks like he's dying."
  
   Gennady turned to his assistant and said, "Call an ambulance. We can't let the boy die under our watch. We won't be able to explain this away. Erokhin will say he left the boy alive in the holding area for suspects, and we failed to notice he was in bad shape."
   The duty officer approached the holding area and said, "Guys, help him up and take him to the door."
  
   The accomplices grabbed Alex by the arm and carried him to the bars.
  
   "Can you stand on your own?" the cop asked.
   "With difficulty," Alex replied.
   "Where does it hurt?" Gennady inquired.
   "Under the ribs on the right side," the youth answered.
   "Show me exactly where it hurts," Gennady requested.
   Pulling up his shirt, Alex touched the burn with his fingers and explained, "I feel a sharp, cutting pain here."
  
   Suddenly, the lobby door swung open, and an ambulance male nurse with a medical bag and a doctor with a stethoscope around his neck entered. Both the ambulance team members wore white medical gowns adorned with Red Cross pins on their collar lapels.
  
   The doctor turned to the police captain and asked, "What do you have here?"
   "The boy complains of sharp pain in the right hypochondrium," Gennady replied.
  
   The doctor fearlessly entered the holding area, lifted Alex's shirt in a professional manner, and examined the chicken egg-sized burn on the young man's skin. His eyebrows furrowed in disapproval as he glanced contemptuously at the police officer on duty and gently pressed on Alex's red spot.
  
   The pain caused Alex to grit his teeth and let out a louder scream than expected.
  
   "It's possible that the boy's gallbladder was ruptured. He needs to be taken to the hospital immediately," the doctor stated.
   "Oh, really?" Gennady responded mockingly. "I've never seen such serious consequences of using special equipment."
   The doctor retorted firmly, "There's a big difference between touching someone's body with a device that sends an electrical current through them, leaving two small red spots, and striking them with a cattle prod under the ribs. You can clearly see that a subcutaneous bruise has aggravated the burn. Tomorrow, he'll likely have a hematoma the size of a fist."
   The officer eventually gave in, saying, "Enter your signature in the register of detainees and take him away," as he pointed to the window with the inscription "The Duty Unit," and then addressed his assistant, "Sergeant, give the doctor the journal."
  
   As the doctor filled in the required fields, the duty officer informed him, "We'll send an investigator to the hospital to speak to the child in the morning. I hope he doesn't run away before then."
   "Not in his condition," the doctor replied, expressing his displeasure. "It's only two minutes from here to the medical center. You could drive him there while on duty."
   The captain responded, "We might, but all our vehicles are currently on the road."
   The doctor inquired, "Is there a major emergency in our city?"
   The captain simply said, "You'll find out soon."
  
   Beside the reception desk at the medical center sat a forty-year-old nurse. Her head and upper chest were visible through the glass partition. Her wavy hair, barely reaching the light green shoulder straps beneath the white robe's collar, flowed down to the raglan sleeves. On her left breast pocket, an ornate and curly design embroidered the name 'Olga Ostapenko.'
  
   As the nurse answered a phone call and made notes in the work log, she was not alone in the emergency room at this late hour. A peculiar couple of unknown age occupied hard chairs opposite the reception window.
  
   A woman with a black eye sat under a poster displaying the muscular and skeletal structures of a man. She held a bloody handkerchief around her nose and muttered curses under her breath. A few steps away, an unshaven older man sat beneath an image illustrating the human internal organs, holding a handful of cotton wool to the top of his head.
  
   The sound of a bell chimed as the emergency room door opened. Glancing up, Olga saw the ambulance doctor escorting a blond boy into the hospital lobby.
  
   "Alex, have a seat here while we handle the paperwork," the doctor instructed, observing the somewhat messy scene before heading to the front desk.
  
   Alex settled down on the first chair by the door, cradling his right side with his hand.
  
   "Sweetheart, Olga, do you know a couple of misfits have taken residence in your domain?" the doctor playfully cooed to the nurse.
  
   Quietly, without looking up from the phone, Olga replied, "A daughter and father had a fight tonight. We provided them with first aid, but they refused to leave. The outcasts demanded opioids. Even though I told them, 'Get lost. Opiates aren't for vagrants,' they still lingered there."
   The doctor nodded, "I see. Please take care of this handsome young man who has been injured by the authorities. It seems his gallbladder has ruptured."
   "Vasily, wait a minute," the nurse pleaded. "I have no time for cute boys right now. We had a bloody gun fight between two gangs on the city's outskirts. There were four fatalities, two in critical condition with severe gunshot wounds, and three others barely clinging to life with multiple stab wounds. We desperately need blood for transfusions, at least four gallons. Despite my extensive efforts, our colleagues are reluctant to help. Can your patient wait a little longer?"
   "He can wait, but it would be best if the surgeon examines him as soon as possible. Laparoscopy might be needed to remove the gallbladder," the ambulance doctor suggested.
   Olga's tone turned grim, "God help you, Vasiliy," she murmured while covering the microphone, conveying the weight of the upcoming event. "The only one capable of that surgery is the head of the surgical department, but the waitlist for such a procedure stretches a month ahead."
   "Well, Olga, I know he's having an affair with you, so make it happen," the doctor joked.
   The nurse playfully replied, "Those relationships are long in the past."
   "So can I take his place then?" the fifty-five-year-old womanizer teased sweetly.
   "Oh, what nonsense, Vasiliy?" Olga brushed off the remark. "His place has long been filled by a handsome, brave, and thirty-year-old veteran of the Afghan war."
  
   Just then, the ambulance nurse rushed into the emergency room.
  
   "Doc," he interrupted Olga's conversation with the doctor. "The dispatcher directed us to Eastern Highway, building number three. Tanya said all ambulances should report to the 'Gorky Outpost' restaurant immediately."
   "Olga," the doctor smiled at the nurse. "Looks like we're heading to the scene of a bloody gun fight between two gangs that you mentioned earlier. Don't forget to record the young man in the patient log."
  
   Olga gave the doctor a thumbs-up and continued making notes in her journal as Vasiliy and the nurse exited through the emergency room door.
   Passing by Alex, the doctor gently touched his shoulder and said in English, "Don't worry. Everything will be alright."
   "Thanks a lot, Doc," Alex replied in English. "I believe it will be."
  
   Shortly after Vasiliy and his assistant left the hospital, the emergency room door swung open once again. The orderlies rushed in, bringing with them a wounded man, and right behind him, another injured individual. The nurse on duty wasted no time and immediately called for doctors, nurses, and orderlies from the medical department to attend to the new arrivals.
  
   The emergency room quickly filled with medics and seriously wounded gang members from Svyat's brigade. The orderlies and ambulance drivers swiftly transferred the guys from stretchers to mobile examination tables. The hospital staff worked tirelessly, taking the wounded to different areas of the hospital - some to the operating room in hopes of saving them, while others were taken to the morgue.
  
   As the bloody horror unfolded before their eyes, the father and daughter, who had fought just an hour ago, silently left the emergency room. Soon after, Alex discreetly slipped out the door as well.
  
   A speeding ambulance van raced east along the Gorky Highway, and with the driver fully occupied, the nurse seized the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.
  
   "Vasiliy," the nurse couldn't help but ask, "I didn't understand anything you said to the boy."
   "Neither he nor I said anything particularly extraordinary," the elderly therapist replied wearily. "I reassured him not to worry and told him that everything would be fine. He thanked me and expressed his confidence in it."
   "Why did you say it in English?" The nurse looked puzzled.
   "I wanted to make sure I was helping a smart boy and not a scumbag," the doctor explained.
   "Are you fully convinced now?" the nurse inquired.
   The doctor nodded, "Yes, more than enough."
  
  
   The distance between Central City Hospital and Alex's grandmother's house in Old Kosino was no more than four kilometers, and Alex planned to cover this distance in less than half an hour. He ran along Lenin Street for the first ten minutes without any incident.
  
  On this rainy night, the central road of the city was deserted. As he ran, Alex contemplated his next moves, darting between the avenues of trees that separated the road from the sidewalk.
  
  "I can't stay in Ruetov, especially with my fingerprints on the Walter pistol. Once the police catch me, I'll be looking at a long prison term. Even if Mamonov tries to hide me with Lipchansky, the Kuntsevo gang leader, in an attempt to protect me, it will only delay the inevitable arrest. So, I can't remain in Ruetov or even in Russia," Alex thought to himself.
  
  Approaching the intersection with Karl Marx Street, Alex noticed a lone passerby-a man walking a dirty white lapdog on a leash. When the dog barked at Alex, the big, sad middle-aged man grabbed the leash and grunted angrily, "Do your business and let's go home."
  
  Alex continued rushing towards the train station. The rail line from Moscow to the east divided Reutov into northern and southern parts. While the police department and the hospital were situated on the northern side, the train station lay on the southern side. That night, Alex was headed to Kosino, one of the oldest settlements in the Moscow region, located between three lakes not far from South Reutov. An underground passage connected Northern Reutov to the railway station.
  
  Without slowing down, Alex kept running down the stairs of the underground passage. Twenty meters ahead, he spotted the backs of three policemen, their grey patrol uniforms appearing black in the dim neon lights. Alex's quick reflexes allowed him to dodge to the side and hide behind a pharmacy kiosk, barely stepping onto the tunnel's pavement.
  
  "The black and white stripes in my life keep alternating. Successful racketeering followed by a black stripe of arrest, then a white stripe of escaping arrest, and now another black stripe of encountering the same cops who had arrested me two hours earlier," Alex's thoughts raced.
  
  "Fuck, my life looks like a zebra's back," he pondered, leaning against the wall, listening to the fading sound of footsteps. Lost in his reflections on the contrasting light and dark moments in his life, he continued to muse, "It's interesting, am I running towards the zebra's head or its rear end? If towards the head, then maybe I'll live a little longer; but if it's the other way around, toward an asshole, then I'm done."
  
   Sergeant Petrov called quietly to the senior patrol, "Comrade Sergeant."
   "What do you need?" the sergeant asked without looking around.
   Behind the sergeant's back, Petrov kept pace with his partner. Leaning forward, he said: "As I looked back, I saw someone running down the stairs after us. It seemed the man we arrested before midnight made his way into the tunnel."
   The sergeant glanced around. Nobody was behind them. He kept walking while muttering: "It's unlikely to be the same teen. The youngster-gangster must now be in the monkey house. In case there is someone, he is hiding behind a booth with aspirin and condoms. That means the citizen is trying to hide from us. If we return and try to catch him in the passage, he will run up the stairs, and we will lose him. We should let him believe we didn't notice him. I propose setting up a trap in the station square and pursuing the man in our patrol Jeep around the city."
  
   The roar of a freight train muffled the sound of uniform police boots shuffled up the stairs. Alex carefully peered out of his hiding place to ensure the underpass was empty.He followed cops with springy steps as if dancing with an opponent in a boxing ring and calculated his next moves: "If they are waiting for me near the stairs in the tickets' hall, then I'll sprint into the underground passage and escape. If they cut off my way to the underpass, then I'll move forward to the exit to the station square. They won't take me. I just need not miss their attack."
  
   The sergeant and two policemen waited for Alex at the station square, hiding from prying eyes and the wind behind the corrugated iron wall of a bus stop.
  
   Carefully stepping through the ticket hall, which also served as a waiting zone, Alex looked around. Besides him, there was only one person in the spacious room. An elderly woman with a broom and a dustpan was sweeping up candy wrappers and fruit peels from under the long rows of plywood seats.
  
   The fugitive approached the massive entrance door and pressed his ear against it. Behind the door, it was quiet.
  
   "Ready, set, GO!" Alex told himself, then with a forceful kick, he swung open the door and dashed along the station building, down October Street towards the park of culture and rest, named after his hometown.
  
   The police patrol had not expected such aggressive behavior from the fugitive. Stunned by the fact that they encountered the young gang member, who had been recently arrested with a weapon and successfully put behind bars, the sergeant shouted to his subordinates, "After him, you idiots!!!"
  
   Petrov and his partner slung their short-barreled rifles over their backs and ran after Alex, straight through a large flower bed that encircled the station square, providing circular movement within the area.
  
   The sergeant barked into the radio, "Anatoliy! Rush to the bus stop."
  
   The yellow Jeep with the blue stripe screeched to a halt in front of the sergeant.
  
   The sergeant jumped into the passenger seat and shouted, "Speed up along South Street until Jubilee Avenue, then turn left. Stop at the park exit."
   "There are three exits from the park. Which one do you mean?" the driver asked.
   "The one closest to South Street," replied the sergeant.
  
   The Jeep sped off.
  
   "Should I use the siren?" Anatoliy asked as he accelerated to ninety kilometers per hour on an empty street.
   The sergeant gripped the vertical handrail on the door frame of the passenger seat and snapped, "Don't be stupid!"
   Anatoliy grinned, "Are you afraid of civilian complaints for interrupting their peaceful sleep?"
   "I don't give a damn about their dreams," the sergeant replied angrily. "It appears our fugitive is quite clever. I've encountered him twice today. I don't want him to know we're chasing him."
  
   As they approached the park's exit, the police Jeep stopped ten meters away from a pedestrian crossing. The driver couldn't believe what he had heard, "Are we pursuing the same kid that we caught with the guns and shockers?"
   The sergeant shrugged in confusion and replied, "Yes, that's him. We spotted this suspect in an underpass and considered arresting him at the square, but as he left the terminal, he rushed into the park. I'm completely baffled. How did he manage to escape from the police department? Why aren't his accomplices with him? He had three of them."
  
   Alex sped up towards the park at the same pace he usually does before training in the ring. He could not hear his pursuers' footsteps as the wind rustled in his ears.Two patrolmen ran after him, but soon Alex was out of their sight. The last time Petrov saw him, Alex had turned from the church's trampled path onto Commune Street, but when policemen arrived at the church, he was gone. The policemen on the run adjusted their assault rifles behind their backs as the boy ran along Commune Street, turned left, and headed to the artificial pond at the Winter Skating Rink.
   In the Reutovo central park, the winding paths created an enchanting maze, meandering between tall, human-sized bushes that swayed gently in the breeze. Those bushes, with their dark green foliage, seemed to have a life of their own, as if whispering secrets about Alex's location to each other. The branches of majestic pines and graceful larches stretched out like arms, forming a natural curtain behind the fugitive's back.
  
   For those who wished to vanish into anonymity or evade prying eyes, the park offered a haven of seclusion. Its abundant vegetation became a sanctuary, where one could easily slip away and disappear among the foliage. The rustling leaves and softly swaying branches created a sense of tranquility and secrecy, making it much easier to conceal oneself than to be found.
  
   Five minutes after Alex had vanished, Petrov and his partner rushed onto Jubilee Avenue. The sergeant stepped out of the Jeep and approached them, asking, "Have you lost the fugitive?"
   "That's right, comrade sergeant," Petrov replied. "The last time we saw him, he turned toward this exit. Would you like to return to the park and continue the search?"
   "I don't think it's worth the time. He could be anywhere by now. Get in the Jeep; we're heading back to the station. Don't say a word about how we saw him," the sergeant replied, poking a finger into Petrov's chest, and adding, "Otherwise, the authorities will blame us for his escape."
  
   The half-hour after Alex managed to shake off his pursuers, he knocked on grandma's window frame.
  Spotting her grandson in the glow of the streetlamp, grandma hurried to the front door to let him in.
   A woman who was used to Alex's late-night returns wasted no time asking, "What happened? Where are your keys?"
   "They're at the police station," Alex replied as he entered the kitchen, shoes still on.
   Concern evident in her eyes, grandma inquired, "Have you eaten yet?"
   "Nah, I'm more in the mood for a drink than food," he said, taking a sip of water from the kitchen faucet. "Last night was a wild ride. I was collecting 'tribute' from small-time merchants in Izmailovo, spent an hour at the police station, got mixed up in a twenty-minute hospital stint, and now here I am."
   Curiosity getting the better of her, grandma asked, leaning on the back of a chair, "So, how'd you end up behind bars?"
   "The cops nabbed me, along with three of my buddies, at Reutovo railway station. They found two pistols hidden in my bag," Alex explained. "While I was getting grilled by the detective, a damn shootout broke out nearby. Thankfully, all the officers hightailed it to the crime scene, giving me a chance to make a run for it."
   "And what about the hospital?" Grandma pressed.
  
   Alex pulled up his shirt, revealing a burn, and recounted, "The investigator decided to use a cattle prod on me. When he left for the shootout scene, I pulled off a fake injury stunt and wound up in the hospital. Chaos was ensuing as the paramedics brought in the wounded and dead from the gunfight, and I slipped out unnoticed."
   Curiosity still lingering, grandma asked, "What name did you give the police?"
   "Alex Mikheev, just like you taught me," he answered.
   "That's not gonna cut it. If you're on their radar, they'll keep hunting you down, slow and methodical," she warned.
   "Dang it, Sergey's still at the station, and he knows my true identity, Zafiros," Alex exclaimed in frustration.
   "If he knows, then the detectives will find out sooner or later," Daria replied, while Alex warmed his dinner on the stove. She returned with an envelope containing a letter, explaining that her cousin in Livny, Oryol region, could help Alex obtain new documents.
   Feeling torn, Alex asked, "But what about revenge, granny? You said these scumbags need to pay."
   "Don't rush for revenge; it can wait. Risking your life to settle scores isn't worth it, nor should you forgive the guilty," Daria said with a mix of sorrow and determination. "I'm sorry about the loss of my daughter, but I want you to carry on our family legacy."
   "I won't head to Livny," Alex asserted. "I don't want to remain hidden forever. Instead, I dream of leaving Russia and going to America, just like my father always wanted. Maybe not right away, but someday."
   Daria was concerned, questioning, "But who will sponsor your journey? And how will you cross the border?"
   "I know a debtor in Odessa who owes me money," Alex replied, gazing firmly into his grandmother's eyes. "He'll pay for my trip, and he'll also answer for what happened to my mom and dad."
   "Since you've decided on your own path, I won't stand in your way," Daria said. "But you still don't have any proper documents. And how will you manage to leave Russia?"
   "To buy train tickets, I'll need my Athlete Qualification Book. It has my photo and the club's stamp, serving as the only proof of my identity right now," Alex explained.
   His grandmother inquired, "So, where is it?"
   "In the boxing club coach's office," he replied.
   Daria sighed, "It's too late to reach him now."
   "I won't disturb him. I can open the club and his office in a matter of minutes. Those qualification books are usually kept on the coach's desk," Alex assured her, heading to his bedroom to pack his backpack.
   As they stood by the door, grandmother asked, "Will we see each other again?"
   "I hope so. As long as one of my parents' killers is still alive, I won't rest. I'll stay in Europe, gain experience, and then return to settle the score with those murderers," he replied resolutely.
   "I'll do whatever it takes to survive. The hope of seeing you again will keep me going. I regret not letting the train guard shoot Afghan last fall. One less scoundrel in the world would have been a blessing," Alex expressed his feelings as he approached the door.
   Alex turned to his grandmother, sharing his thoughts, "I've been pondering your advice about using someone else's hands to get rid of the killers, but I've come to realize that such a death won't heal my soul. If Afghan knows why he must pay, I'll be better able to face things."
   Grandma kissed her grandson goodbye as she stood at the edge of the fence, saying, "I curse fate for outliving my daughter, but I'm grateful for the six months I had with you."
   "I'll never forget you, granny," Alex assured her and walked away along the street toward Reutov.
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-four. May 18-22, 1996
  
   Between seven and half-past seven in the morning, Captain Erokhin, his detectives, the forensic experts, and the city police chief made their way back to the police station. Detectives and forensic experts dispersed to their offices, while Colonel Nosov glanced at the monkey house before heading into the duty officer's office.
  
   Just a few minutes ago, Gennady had hoped the police chief would be delayed due to the firefight. He silently persuaded Nosov to stay a little longer with his lady or mistress in bed, then take a shower, shave, have a hearty breakfast, and only then come to the department.That way, Gennady could hand over duty watch to his replacement, retreat to his bachelor apartment in Balashikha, savor a glass of Stolichnaya vodka, and finally get some much-needed sleep.
  
   However, luck seemed to be on Alex's side that morning. He was peacefully sleeping on the top shelf of a compartment train carriage, traveling from Moscow to Odessa. The others, however, had to deal with the consequences of the night's events. And in the distribution of blame, the first man in line was the duty officer.
  
   Sergey and his two comrades in misfortune observed with sluggish interest as the Colonel scolded Gennady. A thick window separated the duty station from the lobby, making it difficult for the young racketeers to catch every word the captain uttered. His voice was low, but the colorful speech of the department head still managed to tickle their ears.
  
   Stepping into the Duty Unit, where the duty officer and his assistant sergeant had their tables, alongside safe holding important documents, and an iron door leading to the weapons room, Nosov growled at the sergeant, "Fuck off from here!"
  
   The police sergeant quickly bolted from the duty room.
  
   The department head then turned his attention to Gennady, demanding, "Why didn't you inform me about the fugitive over the phone last night?"
   "I thought a high-profile shooting incident was more important than a minor injury to a teenager," the captain replied.
   "You think with your ass?" The Colonel was furious. "Seems like you've drowned your brain in vodka and are using something else to think. How could a gangster shootout in Balashikha possibly affect our department? Even if all the Moscow gangsters were to shoot each other, me and my subordinates wouldn't be affected. But the loss of one goddamn boy, injured by one of my key detectives, could lead to all of us - you, Erokhin, and myself - being booted from the police without a pension. Do you understand the gravity of the situation? Because of you idiots, our superiors could strip me of my rank and kick me out of my office!"
   "I'm sorry, Comrade Colonel," Gennady apologized.
   "Of course you are. But it's your fault, and you're not the only one to blame," Nosov snapped. "Is the head of the duty unit here?"
   "Yes, Sir," the duty officer reported, stretching out his words. "He arrived five minutes before you did."
   "Tell him to come to my office," ordered the city police chief, before he stormed off.
  
   Before heading to his office on the second floor, Nosov paid a visit to Erokhin.
  
   "Did you know," the Colonel began in a tone full of insinuation that didn't bode well for the detective, "your prime suspect, the one with the firearms, managed to escape from the hospital?"
   "Now I know it, Comrade Colonel," Erokhin replied glumly.
   "Don't you dare make fun of me here," Nosov retorted sharply. "I may understand that it was a tough night, but I'm still in charge of this department. What the hell did you do to that kid? Didn't you realize you were giving him the chance to fake a severe internal injury? This guy easily deceived the hospital nurses and ambulance medics. What stopped you from giving him a few hits with a rubber truncheon in the kidneys?"
   "Nothing. I now realize that hitting the boy with a rubber truncheon would have left no evidence," Erokhin admitted, getting up from his seat, guilt written all over his face. "But who could have known there would be a gun battle at Gorky Outpost? I was sure I had the entire night for questioning. If the night shooting with so many victims hadn't happened, then all the pistol-related reports would have been on your desk."
  
   Nosov sarcastically paraphrased a common saying about grandma and grandpa, "If you had a vagina, I'd call you Natasha. I hope you at least got the runaway kid's fingerprints."
   Erokhin replied with a heavy sigh, "I didn't have time. I planned to do it first thing in the morning."
   "Remind me to exclude the criminologist and you from the monthly bonus list because of this incident," Nosov said as he made his way to the office door.
   Erokhin spoke up, "The criminologist had nothing to do with it. Valerian didn't know I had a suspect. He was sleeping in his office until we woke him."
   "But because he slept during working hours, he'll lose the monthly bonus," Nosov answered, opening the door. For a moment, he hesitated, then added, "Keep working with the others and don't mention the fugitive to anyone. I'll ask the head of the duty unit to rewrite the report, focusing on the fact that we only have three detainees. Do you understand me?"
   "Yes, I do, Comrade Colonel," Captain Erokhin responded.
  
   Nosov left, and Erokhin called his detectives. Within a minute, three men entered the office of the acting head of the criminal investigation unit. Two of them had spent the night with Erokhin at the crime scene, and the third joined the team the following day.
  
   "To avoid unnecessary questions, I'll provide you with Nosov's instructions verbatim," Erokhin said, looking closely at his subordinates, and added, "We shouldn't mention the fugitive to anyone, including the Internal Investigation Department. There was no fourth guy. Understood?"
   "Yes, we've got it," the two detectives answered in unison, while the third detective simply shrugged his shoulders.
   "Let's assume we've discussed the night incident; now we'll move on to pressing matters," Erokhin said, pointing to the two detectives who had been with him at the Gorky Outpost that night. "Take the two older guys for questioning. They probably won't cooperate, so let them go at the end of the day. And you," he instructed the youngest detective, the recent police academy graduate, "will question Sergey Morozov. Find out where they went yesterday and what they did. Keep him in the monkey house, reduce his food ration by half, but don't limit his water intake. Before you finish your shift tonight, tell the next duty officer not to let him sleep. By the third day, I want him exhausted and hungry. If I remember correctly, you'll be the detective on duty the following night, right?"
   The recent graduate replied, "Yes, Comrade Captain."
   "If there are no accidents on your watch, you can question him all night. A light assault during an interrogation is permissible, but not excessive. We don't need another malingerer. That's all, you can go," Erokhin concluded the morning briefing and dismissed his subordinates.
  
   In the late evening of the third day after detention, Sergey sat on a chair in front of Erokhin's desk. His left eye was covered in swollen skin on both eyelids, and the blood-soaked whites were red, with a barely visible black pupil peeking through the eyelashes. On the desk between the detained young man and the police captain, there sat a liter bottle of vodka, a glass, and two plates of snacks - cheese, bacon, salami, and black bread.
   Munching on a slice of Hungarian salami, Erokhin asked, "Who painted your eye like that?"
   Sergey replied, swallowing his saliva, "I fell on the bench accidentally."
   "Accidentally, you say," the captain clarified, then added, "Well, accidents do happen. By law, I have no right to keep you in the monkey house for any length of time. Honestly, I would have let you go two days ago. But what should I do about your left eye? I don't want you to leave our department bearing grudges against my detectives. They do their job as best they can, sometimes going a bit too far. We're all a bit sinful, you know. I hope you don't hold any ill feelings towards them."
   "No," Sergey sadly replied.
   Pulling out a second glass from his safe, Erokhin turned to the guy and said, "Well, if you're not offended, then let's drink to peace and you can go home."
   The guy declined, "I don't drink vodka. I've practically not eaten for three days, so I'd rather have some cheese or salami, comrade captain."
   Erokhin raised his glass, looked through the transparent liquid at Sergey, and in a drunken voice said, "As the famous bard Vysozky said, 'Who doesn't drink, does not eat.'"
   "Then pour me the same amount as in your glass," the hungry guy asked.
   Erokhin poured Sergey a half-glass of vodka and asked, "Would you mind making a toast?"
   "I'd like to drink to avoid seeing you again," said the young man.
   "Wonderful words, they carry a deep meaning," Erokhin nodded his head and said thoughtfully, "You leave the gang, and we never meet again. Let's drink to that."
  
   Sergey drank and reached for some food, while Erokhin filled the detainee's glass to the brim and splashed some vodka on the bottom of his own glass.
  
   "A short gap separated the first and second vodka shots," the detective said. "Let me make a toast. I'd like us to meet again, but as friends."
  
   Sergey stared at the glass he was holding, showing difficulty in thinking after consuming a hundred milliliters of vodka.
  
   The captain seized the moment, adding pressure on the guy, and said, "Sergey, do you want to be friends with the head of the criminal investigation department? Do you respect me?"
  
   The teen regained his composure and drank the entire glass in three gulps. Huge tears streamed down his face as he stuffed all the cheese cut by Erokhin into his mouth with his fingers, trying to wash out the disgusting taste of 'Absolute' vodka.
  
   The captain watched Sergey closely, understanding that the young man had lost control over himself, and it was time to push him to the breaking point.
  
   Erokhin removed a folder containing the interrogation protocols and the report of the forensic experts from the safe.
   After wiping away the last remnants of friendliness from his face, he said bluntly, "Now listen, Mamonov's bitch. When we arrested you at the station that evening with weapons, your gang killed the entire top of Svyat's brigade during a gang showdown. Alexei Mikheev, your squire, managed to escape the hospital, and you helped him. According to forensic science data, the weapon oil on your hands indicates that you were an accomplice in killing the gang leader and his bodyguards. You'll spend at least ten years in prison for this crime."
  
   "No, it wasn't me," Sergey cried out. "I have no connection to the gangster showdown. My friends and I were in a totally different place, and the oil in my hands is not weapon oil, but machine lubricant oil."
   Erokhin opened the folder containing the interrogation protocols and said, "Here is your accomplice's testimony. All of them mention different locations where you were last seen. If you lie about where you were on May 17, I'll send your case to the prosecutor, who will send you to a temporary detention center for two months."
   "The five of us spent the entire evening collecting tribute from shops in Novogireevo Micro District," Sergey said with a slurred tongue, "We left the last tire service near the garages on Ketcherskaya at ten in the evening."
   "Where else have you gone?" Erokhin entered the lad's statement into the interrogation protocol.
   "In 'Auto-All' and 'Country of auto parts' on the same street, in 'Risko' and then in 'Elikon-S', I can't recall all the names now. We visited about eight or ten businesses."
   "You said there were five of you, didn't you?" Erokhin clarified.
   "Yes," the suspect replied.
   The detective asked, "Who is the fifth?"
   "The woman was with us, a former shoplifter. After she served her jail time, Afghan attached her to us as a cashier. Her name is Maria, and she followed us with the money," Sergey explained.
   "And where did she go when my men detained you?" the captain asked, noting in the interrogation protocol: "Ask the patrolmen about the cashier."
   The teen described in detail what took place: "A minivan was waiting for us in front of the station. She was picked up from the Square by Den."
   "And who is Dan?" Erokhin asked.
   "Almost no one, he drives a Gazelle since Algis disappeared," Sergey replied.
  
   Erokhin wrote down Sergey's explanation and put a question mark next to the name.
  
   "So who is Algis?" The captain looked up at Sergey once again.
   "Lithuanian carpenter," replied the guy eagerly. "I met him and his cousin Mantas working at Mamonov's villa when they were doing renovation last summer."
   "Were they active criminals at the time?" Erokhin clarified his question.
   "Both of them were apartment burglars, but I haven't seen them for a month," Sergey replied.
   "Did squire Mikheev accompany you?"
  
   Hearing his friend's name from Erokhin, Sergey trembled. The detective saw that the guy had overcome another barrier in his soul.
  
   Sergey yanked out of himself, betraying his best friend, "He's not Mikheev. He's Alex Zafiros, Mamonov's closest youngster."
  
   "Oh, that's it," Erokhin said in a wonderfully surprised tone. "Then you drank in vain so we wouldn't meet again. Now you and I will meet regularly."
   Getting up from his desk, Erokhin opened the safe, removed a document, gave it to Sergey, and ordered, "Sign the document and write your name, surname, and residence legibly next to your signature."
   "What is this?" Sergey's head spun, and his eyes saw a thick fog covering his surroundings.
   "An Agreement on voluntary cooperation with law enforcement agencies," the detective replied.
   The young man replied angrily, "I won't be a snitch."
   "You won't survive a day if you refuse to be my informant," Erokhin responded calmly. "Are you sure I won't find a way to leak our conversation to Vladimir Mamonov?"
   Sergey picked up the ballpen, his eyes locked on the captain's face, and asked, "Where shall I sign?"
   "Right here," Erokhin pointed to the bottom of the contract.
  
   Sergey signed the document, and the detective noticed a spark of hope in the young man's eyes.
  
   As Erokhin secured the top-secret file in the safe and returned to his desk, he thought, "It's time to extract every bit of information he knows about Reutov's crime, who killed Svyat, and why."
  
   "Now that we've become much closer than before, tell me about Mamonov's gang. Who is in it, what positions they hold, what crimes they've committed, and your involvement," Erokhin urged. "Who shot Svyat three days ago? And, most importantly, who attempted to kill him on the Enthusiasts Highway on Victory Day?"
   "I'll tell you everything I know about the gang. Just please, don't put me in jail with my accomplices," Sergey pleaded. "I don't want to be charged for their crimes."
   The detective's sincerity was evident as he replied, "If you provide all the information truthfully, I'll completely clear you. But if you withhold anything, you'll end up in jail for minors. Play games with me, and you'll join the first Mamonov's bandits behind bars."
   Sergey mustered the courage and asked, "And if I tell you who set the bomb on May 9, will you release me?"
   "It's my lucky day. Soon I'll be the Major," Erokhin thought, feeling the promotion within reach. "The 'Interim' prefix will disappear from my office doorplate in a week."
   The detective reassured Sergey, "Not only will I let you go, but I'll protect you in the future."
  
  
   Meanwhile, in a different setting, Afghan, wearing only his underpants, worked on his abdominal muscles by doing sit-ups from a lying position on his back. Olga, dressed in a nightgown and slippers, stepped out of the bedroom and approached Anton.
  
   "Would you like me to hold your legs?" Olga asked naively.
   "This is my line," Afghan replied in a vulgar tone. "Better make us some coffee."
  
   Olga obliged and went to the kitchen to prepare the Turkish coffee. While Afghan took a shower in the washroom, Olga seized the opportunity to join him. She opened the curtain, peeking in with a hopeful look.
  
   "I hope you're not leaving today, are you?" she asked with a hint of longing.
   Afghan turned to her, gently kissed her forehead, and replied, "No, I won't leave. I feel so comfortable in your apartment that I'm thinking about selling mine."
   "Anton, please move in with me," the woman's soul requested. Her young lover seemed to be sincerely interested in her, so she decided to consolidate the relationship: "I'm tired of waiting for you. Every night, I dream of falling asleep on your shoulder and waking up in your arms."
   "Afghan continued taking a shower behind the curtain and answered, "You should not rush me. I'm close to it. I'm just not sure about your son. He will return from conscript service in October, so what? Will he live with us in your one-bedroom apartment?"
   She suggested, "Don't sell your condo as soon as you move in here. You'll live with me, and my son could live there," and she added with thoughtfulness, "Until he finds a job."
   "I will think about it," came through the sound of the water. "In the meantime, do not tell anyone I live with you, especially close friends. Envious fools can be dangerous. They might ruin our idyllic life."
  
   Anton had no intention of tying his life to Olga's; he only spent time with her because it was convenient for him to stay overnight in Reutovo from time to time.
   At Olga's place, he could always expect a great dinner, mediocre sex, and Italian coffee Rosa with a sandwich. As a bonus to these conveniences, he maintained his absolute indifference to the nurse from the Moscow suburbs. However, after Svyat's execution and the death of the FSB lieutenant colonel, Afghan tried to be as affectionate as possible with Olga. For a few days, he needed a reliable hideout where nobody would think to look for him, and Olga's apartment came in very handy for that purpose.
  
   Olga got ready for work after breakfast. Afghan kissed her goodbye, returned to the living room, and made a phone call.
  
   "Cop, would you like to relax in the sauna?" He asked the district police officer, omitting the greeting.
   The police officer was surprised when he replied, "Right in the morning?"
   "Why wait? Your wife will be waiting for you at home in the evening, and my old cow will come back from her duty in the late afternoon," Anton replied.
   "Will the girls be there?" the policeman inquired.
   "And the boys, too. Everyone is to your taste," Afghan assured the district policeman.
   "Where and when?" Afghan heard in the receiver.
   "The same place as usual. The bathhouse behind the car wash, Fifth line. I'll wait for you in an hour," Anton answered.
  
   The Police Lada maneuvered its way behind a car wash and came to a stop at a dead-end, flanked by a dense forest and a bathhouse attached to the rear wall of the car wash.
  
   Afghan discreetly positioned himself behind the glass showcase of the car wash, carefully observing to see if anyone was tailing the district policeman. Once he was certain that the captain had arrived alone, Anton emerged from the car wash office, turned the corner, and approached the open window of the driver's door.
  
   The policeman looked at Anton with surprise and questioned, "What were you doing behind the corner?"
   Anton replied casually, "Just making sure you didn't bring along any tails."
   "You mentioned there would be young girls and boys here for some fun," the cop said. "Where are their cars?"
   Afghan replied, "Don't worry. I have everything ready for you," then looked around, pulled out a pistol with a silencer from under his summer jacket, and shot the district policeman in the left temple.
  
   Blood mixed with brain pieces flew out of the right temple after the bullet, splattering the passenger seat, the plastic panel above the glove compartment, and the ceiling above the right door.
  
   Afghan glared around, opened the driver's door, pulled the lifeless body out of the vehicle, and dragged it into a dense forest nearby.
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-five. May 25, 1996
  
   Nosov and Erokhin meticulously examined Mamonov's office, while the crime scene investigators diligently collected evidence from various items around the two-story mansion. Fingerprints were carefully lifted from furniture, doorknobs, and kitchen utensils, and hair samples were taken from the carpet. Toothbrushes and combs were packed in evidence bags.
  
   As they conducted the search, Erokhin's detectives were busy searching Vladimir's bedroom and his daughter's room.
  
   In dismay, Nosov paused at the open door of the empty safe and said, "A snake has crawled away. Could someone from my department have warned him?"
   Erokhin replied, "I don't think we've got a rat. It's the journalists' fault. I saw the local newspaper, the Daily News, on his desk. A crime blogger mentioned the arrest of four gangsters from the Reutov organized criminal group in Stupino. Mamonov must have panicked and didn't wait for us to bring the rest of the gang here."
   Nosov asked, "How about the rest of the members of his gang?"
   Erokhin informed him, "Their bomber, Potap Sviridov, was arrested by counterintelligence officers on Saturday evening. He confessed everything during his first interrogation. We arrested seven more gang members last night based on information from Potap. All of them are in the temporary detention center in different cells, but we haven't interrogated them yet. Afghan was last seen two days ago, and my informant isn't sure where he is now. Elephant and Mamonov are still at large. They're likely hiding in one of the Moscow suburban towns, either Balashikha or Lyubertsy."
   "Why am I learning about Sviridov's arrest and confession only today?" Nosov muttered in a displeased tone.
  
   The captain reflected, "He's clearly out of sorts, but why? All seems to be going our way - we have defeated the gang, we have captured the bomb-maker, and we know who committed the murder of Svyat. It won't take long to catch Mamonov. What is the chief upset about? Is it because the safe is empty? It's not for nothing that he has been standing in front of it for a quarter of an hour, staring blankly into an empty box."
   Erokhin replied, "I didn't have time to report. It's now seven a.m. on Monday. You came here straight from home."
   "I won't sign the paperwork for your promotion if you keep playing the role of a too-clever guy," the Colonel answered with a hint of humor.
  
   The threat of Nosov was empty, and Erokhin already knew it. On Friday, the head of the personnel department had told Erokhin in secret that an order to appoint him as the head of the city criminal investigation department and to promote him to the rank of major had already come from the central police department. On the same day, Nosov signed both documents, and they were taken by courier to the central police office.
  
   "Who are Afghan and Elephant?" The head of the Department finally stepped away from the safe and sat down next to Erokhin. "Do they have any names?"
   "Afghan's name is Anton. We still don't know his surname or address. As far as we know, he served as an officer in Afghanistan. In Russia, there are several thousand junior officers like him. By the way, the mine detonated two weeks ago was his. Things are more straightforward with Elephant. Pavel Semyonov is a native of our city, thirty-two years old, and he is a local champion in weightlifting."
  
   In contrast to Erokhin, Nosov was committed not only to arresting the vast majority of the gang members but also to finding their arsenal. The next question from him was: "How are you going to identify Afghan and find that veteran?"
   "In the next three days, I'll extort the address of a weapons warehouse from detainees. Then, by the catalog numbers on mines and assault rifles, we'll find out the source, and it will lead us to his name. When we know Afghan's name, we will get his photo from the Ministry of Defence... ," Erokhin did not finish his thought.
   "And with his name and photo, we will list him on the Russian wanted list, and maybe Interpol can help us," the police chief finished the sentence for his subordinate before exiting Mamonov's office and walking into the spacious hallway on the second floor.
  
   Erokhin's detectives left the bedroom and met Nosov in the hallway.
  
   "Have you found anything relevant to the case?" The lieutenant colonel asked the detectives.
   One of the detectives replied, "Nothing was found in the wardrobes, or in the chest of drawers, or under the bed, or in the bedside table."
   "The bandit's sexodrome is huge. The bed is large enough to accommodate at least four people. The criminal lord lived even better than an English lord. Mamonov's bedroom had a mirrored ceiling in addition to the mirrored closet doors," said the second detective.
   "Inspect the guest house and garage," Nosov instructed, adding, "Look for weapons, drugs, and notebooks there. Any information on the whereabouts of Mamonov and his accomplices will be beneficial."
  
   The Colonel stepped inside Mamonov's bedroom as the young detectives were still descending the stairs.
  
   Indifferently glancing at the huge bed, he thought, "The younger generation invents new words by combining existing ones. They simply took the English word 'sex,' tore the core from the French word 'aerodrome,' and it turned out to be a 'sexodrome.' Very original. Literally translated as a vast place for sex."
  
   Discarding the envious thought of the bed, Nosov examined a white furniture set, and mirrored ceiling, which were so much admired by one of his subordinates, he turned his attention to the 'red corner' of the bedroom, the place where all Orthodox Russians keep their icons.
  
   "Oh my God," he whispered. "I can't believe what I'm seeing."
  
   With a handkerchief, Nosov wiped sweat from his forehead, looked at the door behind him, and turned the lock on the handle.
  
   When he approached the iconostasis, he examined the icon closely and thought: "My Lord, this is the famous Icon of the Mother of God that six hundred years ago belonged to the Byzantine emperor Andronicus III. It has been sought all over the world for twelve years, and it stands calmly in a bedroom of a bandit, just ten kilometers from the Moscow Ring Road. I was a captain when I heard about the loss of a religious shrine of the Kazan Convent of the Tver Diocese."
  
   Nosov reached into his pocket for a miniature magnifying glass and leaned toward the face of the Mother of God.
  
   "This is the original. Even traces of the case where the icon-hating Turk's knife was kept are visible below. A chance like this can't be missed. Now or never. It will be too late when the criminologists arrive here with their cameras," Nosov thought as he opened the leather folder he always carried in his left hand while visiting crime scenes, and placed the icon inside.
  
  
   Sergey had been sitting by the window in the Fairy Tale café since it opened. The young man had stopped attending Viktor's boxing sessions after being released from the police. On rainy days, he spent time aimlessly in shopping centers, inexpensive cafes, and, when the weather permitted, in the park near the Factory Pond.
  
   As he heard the creak of brakes coming from the street, Sergey glanced around and saw a cargo Gazelle stop in front of the café's windows. He turned away and continued eating his strawberry ice cream.
  
   The Gazelle driver blew twice on the horn. Sergey looked on the street again and saw Elephant waving with a hand out the window of the truck.
  
   The waitress shouted after the man when he rushed to the exit, "Hey, you! Are you going to pay?"
   "I'll be back soon," Sergey answered and walked out of the café toward the mini-truck.
  
   Sergey went to the passenger door, and Elephant surveyed the street, glancing in the rearview mirror before turning to him.
  
   Elephant handed the guy a crumpled piece of paper and told him, "Walk around this address from lunch until ten in the evening."
  
   Sergey began to unfold the note.
  
   "Don't read it here," the giant said. "Put the note in your pocket. If you see cops near that building or suspicious men in civilian clothes, call the number on the back of the note. Wait for me exactly at ten in the parking lot in front of Novokosinsky grocery market. Do you understand?"
   "Yes," he replied and tucked the note into his pocket.
   Elephant expelled a heavy breath, "I hope so. Get back to finishing your ice cream, and in two hours, you have to be at the address."
  
   The giant waved his hand to the driver, and the Gazelle began to move.
  
  
   A week after Mamonov's mansion search, Erokhin sat on a couch in front of the furniture wall in the apartment that once belonged to Zafiros' family. He was dressed in a brown flight jacket and jeans and had sneakers on his feet as he rested them on the chair. The captain held a black-covered second volume of Conan Doyle and read aloud the story of Brigadier Gerard.
  
   "Whenever the Emperor needed a confidant, he recalled my name, although it often slipped his mind when he was distributing awards. Even so, I was a colonel at twenty-eight and a brigadier at thirty-one."
   "Gerard lied," Erokhin thought, "but perhaps he didn't. At twenty-four, Napoleon was promoted to brigadier general. In the past, captains could become generals by the age of thirty, but today it isn't true. My goal is to achieve the rank of major at forty, and I will be glad if the promotion occurs."
  
   He sighed heavily and looked at his left wrist. It read five to eleven.
  
   "An interesting collection of books for Potap Sviridov: Conan Doyle, Pushkin, Tolstoy, Mayakovsky, and even Bunin, the Nobel laureate. Does the self-taught bomber like classical literature? I don't believe so. The tailor was probably so greedy that he took all the family's property along with the apartment, including the family's library. Time for the 'snitch' to show up," Erokhin thought, and the doorbell rang.
  
   Stepping silently on the worn carpet, the captain looked through the peephole at the door. Sergey stood on the staircase, gnawing his thumbnail as he looked around. The detective allowed the informant into the hallway while hiding behind a closed door to avoid prying eyes.
  
   Sergey whispered, "Just a minute."
   Erokhin replied quietly, "Not here. Let's go to the living room."
  
   In the living room, the teen whispered quickly, "Mamonov is going to visit his ex-wife tonight. She lives in a nine-story building on Workers Street. I don't know her apartment number."
   Erokhin wrote down what the informant said in a notebook, confirming, "Who told you about this?"
   "Elephant found me an hour ago in the Fairy Tale cafe on Jubilee Avenue, where I usually hang out in the morning. He ordered me to watch the house's perimeter on Workers from noon until ten in the evening. If I see police or suspicious men in civilian clothes, I must call this number immediately," Sergey pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Erokhin. "He also said that I should wait for him in the parking lot in front of the entrance to Novokosinsky grocery market at ten to ten."
  
   Erokhin wrote down the phone number in his notebook, gave the crumpled note to the informant, and took out his wallet.
  
   "Here are ten bucks for you," the detective told the teen. "Go back to the Fairy Tale cafe and sit there until lunchtime. Then do everything as Elephant instructed."
  
   Sergey nodded and entered the corridor.
  
   Escorting Sergey to the entrance door, Erokhin wondered if the guy knew that they were meeting in the apartment of his best friend, whom he had betrayed, but changed his mind. "The guy doesn't need extra stress now. I use this psychological leverage in case of internal doubts of the informant about his snitching," Erokhin thought, trying to be cautious with Sergey's emotions
  
   Erokhin locked the door after Sergey, returned to the room, and dialed Nosov's number: "Comrade Colonel, tonight may be our last chance to capture Mamonov. Therefore, I propose informing Moscow's counterintelligence headquarters of this situation. Their assistance won't harm us."
   "Erokhin, where are you?" The chief of the city police asked, as usual unhappy. "Your phone number is not identified."
   "I'm in the apartment of George Zafiros. He vanished a year ago," replied Erokhin.
  . Nosov was surprised, "How did you end up there?"
   "This flat was illegally registered in the name of Potap Sviridov. He lived in it with his family until the Federals arrested him," the captain replied, but knew that such an answer would not be acceptable to the Colonel.
   "We still don't know how and who helped him with re-registration," Nosov said thoughtfully, and after a pause, added: "I think this may be connected with the disappearance of the district precinct. By the way, did you find out where the Zafiros are?"
   "Only their son. It was he who escaped from us during the Gorky Outpost massacre."
   "Damn it! I thought it was him. Do you know that the Feds are looking for him in connection with the Moscow Mint robbery attempt?" Nosov hissed quietly but viciously.
   "Nobody in our group knows about it, and I've already forgotten about it," the detective assured the chief.
   "You did the right thing. What about his parents?"
   "They have vanished, with no trace left behind," Erokhin gasped.
   Nosov drawled his words, relishing the opportunity to poke the captain's nose in the shit once more. He said, "Ero-khi-in! People couldn't disappear at the molecular level. Even in theory, it is impossible."
   "I didn't know our district precinct officer also was missing," Erokhin didn't want to talk about the missing family, because for him, it was a sore subject, so he tried to divert the conversation from them asking, "How long has the precinct been gone?"
   "It's none of your business," snapped the Lieutenant Colonel, taking the subject deviation as a personal attack. The local police chief already assumed the disappearance of the Zaphiros family and the police precinct were connected. "The internal interrogation department will deal with him. You didn't answer the question directly: how did you get there?"
   "The risk of further angering Nosov is too great. The current monthly bonus is already gone," Erokhin thought, observing his own silence. "But if I bring Nosov to a boiling point, then he'll delay the assignment of a Major for three months. The cost is too high, so I'm telling the truth."
   "After learning that the Internal Affairs Central Investigation Bureau was planning to conduct an operation on our territory along with counterintelligence, I asked permission to stand behind their backs. They gave the okay. As soon as the Feds arrested Sviridov and his wife, I called the locksmith to change their door locks. Since then, I have the keys from their flat."
   "Why do you need them?" The chief of police asked. "To fuck your whores there?"
   The captain confessed, "I use it to meet with informants and also with the girls."
   "I hope you have documented this properly as a service apartment," Nosov cooled slowly, but remained angry with Erokhin.
   The detective responded, "I didn't have time. I planned on doing it today."
  
   The interim head of the criminal investigation unit always irritated the chief of police for procedural issues. If it weren't for the captain's aversion to paperwork, he would have long been a major. Unfortunately for Nosov, his best detective would rather spend a night in ambush than spend two hours at his desk.
  
   "Come to my office immediately for a reprimand," the Colonel exploded and hung up the phone.
  
  
   The Novokosinsky food market's parking lot lay empty as Sergey's solitary figure cast a long shadow between two lampposts. An air of trepidation filled him as he paced along the asphalt, trying not to dwell on what the next few hours might hold. Around ten past ten, he heard the distant hum of an engine behind him, causing him to turn around nervously. A sleek black BMW approached slowly, its darkened windows concealing its occupants. Sergey couldn't help but tremble with fear, convinced that it was one of Mamonov's cars.
  
   The front window of the BMW rolled down two-thirds as it came to a halt. Elephant's imposing figure leaned out, his head turning to fixate on Sergey.
   "Get into the car," the giant said in a bass voice.
  
   Sergey settled into the back seat next to Mamonov, and without any formal greeting, Vladimir asked, "Have you noticed anything unusual around the building?"
   "No, sir," Sergey responded. "I've been lurking around the entrance since noon."
   Elephant interjected without turning around, "Haven't you gone anywhere? Not even for a quick break?"
   Reluctantly, Sergey admitted, "I did step out for ten minutes around seven to grab a snack at the donut shop. But then I returned right away."
   "Well, at least you're being honest," Mamonov acknowledged thoughtfully, gently tapping the driver's shoulder. "Sting, pull up to my entrance, and wait until Elephant takes me to my apartment. After that, return to Lyubertsy. If I'm not out by quarter past seven in the morning, assume the cops got me. In that case, bury this kid alive, and tell Afghan he's in charge while I'm behind bars."
  
   The black car crossed Novokosinsky Avenue and disappeared into the courtyard of a high-rise building.
  
   "No one has heard from Afghan since we went into hiding. He vanished without leaving any clues," Elephant remarked.
  
   Quietly rustling its tires on the asphalt, the BMW approached the Mamonov's ex-wife's apartment building and stopped at the entrance.
  
   "If he doesn't show up soon, you'll have to take over the business the best you can. I don't see any other choice," Vladimir said with a heavy sigh. "And don't forget to take care of my girls financially."
   Elephant asked, "Are you sure it's time to write yourself off?"
   "I can't shake this feeling of danger, Pavel," the criminal lord replied. "I sense it right now, but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from."
  
   Meanwhile, Mamonov's ex-wife, Marina, anxiously glanced at the roof of his car from her apartment's kitchen window. The water on the stove boiled, but thirty-two years old woman paid it no mind, waiting eagerly for her beloved man to exit the BMW and come through the entrance.
  
   The three passengers sat in complete silence for five minutes. The new driver, and part-time second bodyguard, Sting, who served in formations of the Soviet Army as a scout twenty years ago, still had the habit of listening to the environment while scanning three hundred and sixty degrees before embarking on a risky venture. Lowering all the windows of the car, he listened to the noises of the city, trying to catch something unusual in them, while his eyes continuously scanned the front hemisphere through the windshield, and the rear through the rear-view mirror and side mirrors.
  
   After five minutes of Sting discreetly surveying the surroundings, he reported, "Vladimir, it seems pretty quiet around here."
   "Alright, let's go," Mamonov commanded, stepping out of the car.
  
   "Thank God he's here," Marina whispered as she tossed three dozen dumplings into a pan and then grabbed a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka from the freezer, placing it on the kitchen table. In a hurry, she took off her apron, left it on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and entered the hallway.
  
   Elephant was the first to enter the building. After climbing to the top of the first floor landing, the bodyguard turned to the elevator doors and pressed the call button.
  
   "Let's go up on foot," Mamonov said as he passed behind the bodyguard.
  
   Pavel obeyed his boss.
  
   "Your wife will ruin you," the bodyguard said, moving heavily up the staircase. "It's not in vain that the thieves' law forbids crime lords to live with one woman and have children from her alone."
   "I divorced Marina because of this law," Vladimir said without turning around. "The truth is, I broke up with her and my daughter, but I can't live without them. I love these fools. But you know that. Instead of hurting my soul, you'd better stomp faster and don't lag."
  
   Mamonov and Elephant were climbing to the fifth floor of a high-rise building when the Federal Counterintelligence Service's anti-terrorism unit commandos surrounded the BMW, dragged Sting and Sergey from their car, put black bags on their heads and carried them around the corner of the building. The second group of special forces followed the gangsters silently to the entrance.
  
   The door to Marina's apartment was closest to the flight of stairs. Vladimir approached it with the thought that behind this door he spent the best years of his life. He sighed heavily as he remembered how fifteen years ago he had carried his wife into the hallway of their new apartment in arms. Vladimir reached into his pocket and found the keys.
  
   Elephant stopped halfway up the flight of stairs, breathing heavily. As Pavel placed his right hand on the railing, he felt a faint vibration.
  
   "There's someone here," the bodyguard said quietly, reaching for his axillary holster.
   "Where are they?" As he asked, Mamonov pulled a sharp knife from his pocket instead of a key.
  
   Elephant nodded toward the sixth floor, and they both heard the sound of footsteps. Erokhin and his two detectives walked down the stairs, and as their eyes met the kingpin's, the head of the criminal investigation unit calmly ordered: "Mamonov and Semyonov, raise your hands and face the wall. Special counterterrorism forces and the police have blocked the entrance."
   Mamonov shouted in response, "I'll kill you, bitch!" and rushed at the detective.
  
   Elephant was stunned upon hearing his last name. Pavel hadn't heard it in so long that he was confident nobody in Reutov remembered it.
  
   "Semyonov, you say?" yelled his inner voice. "Now, I'll show you who I am."
  
   Erokhin dodged a stab aimed at his stomach, grabbed Mamonov's hand, twisted his wrist with a wrestling technique, and pulled Vladimir by the collar of his jacket so hard that he turned the crowned thief on his back. When the knife fell, the thief tried to reach it with his free hand. But as soon as he bent down, Erokhin's detectives jumped on his back and knocked him to the concrete floor.
  
   Elephant held a Beretta and waited for a chance to shoot the senior policeman. Once two detectives had hauled Mamonov to the ground, Semyonov opened fire. Four of the six bullets fired by Semyonov struck the target.
  
   Erokhin covered his chest with his hands after the first strike. The captain's legs buckled, and he slowly sank on the steps.
  
   Elephant jerked his pistol five more times before the special operations forces opened fire with short-barreled assault rifles. At least two dozen bullets pierced the bodyguard's jacket. Brown blood spots covered the leather jacket as it reared up. Having dropped the pistol, the giant straightened up to his full height, froze for a moment, and then collapsed onto his back, almost crushing the special operatives.
  
   In the cramped space of the staircase, right in front of the elevator car, two detectives of the criminal investigation department beat Mamonov, who was lying on the floor. He resisted as well as he could. Unlike his opponents, the master of knife fighting was not a master of combat wrestling techniques. Soon, one detective managed to stomp with his knee on Vladimir's neck. The external branch of the carotid artery was pinched, and the kingpin stopped resisting within seconds.
  
   The special forces would probably have managed to save the local mafia boss for investigation had Semyonov's body not been lying in their way. The soldiers could not run up the stairs beside Elephant's enormous body, as there was no room, and they did not realize the corpse could be dragged down onto the inter-story walkway. Leaning on the smooth wall, they carefully walked over the dead body.
  
   Two minutes ago, Mamonov had a chance to survive, but he could not hold out for an additional one hundred and twenty seconds under the continuous blows of the police.
  
   When the special forces dragged the detectives away from Mamonov, he was already dead.
  
   "Why the hell did you beat him to death?" the commando sergeant growled at the two young detectives, raising the thick protective visor of his helmet. "Who will you interrogate now?"
   "In some ways, the worse the calamity, the less there is for the first medical responders to do," Valeriy snapped back, still breathing heavily.
   "The neighbors have probably already called both the ambulance and the police, and if our guys, like us and you, are already here and won't send reinforcements, then all the ambulance vehicles will definitely be here. It wouldn't hurt to warn them not to waste gasoline unnecessarily. There's no one left to save anyway," Eugene said wearily, sitting on the concrete steps.
  
  
   Marina stood in front of the door and sobbed soundlessly on her knees. During the last five minutes she spent at the peephole, the thirty-two year old woman's hair turned gray. The ex-wife's soul was torn by the screams and groans of a dying man. Marina knew she was powerless to help her husband, and this realization was killing her.
   In a saucepan, dumplings boiled, and the bubbly water lifted the lid, causing hot water to overflow the gas burner fire. Slowly, the kitchen filled with propane.
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-six. June 10, 1996. Moscow and Moscow Region
  
   Marina, Svetlana, and several elderly women dressed in black stood at the grave two weeks later. A temporary Orthodox cross with Mamonov's portrait was placed at the burial head, slightly leaning over the mound of the tomb.
  
   Marina and the women wept bitterly, their grief pouring out in raw emotion.
  
   Svetlana, however, seemed detached, her gaze fixed on the hillock of dirt. The two detectives who observed her from afar during the ceremony wondered if she truly grasped the magnitude of the moment.
  
   A mournful funeral march composed by Frederic Chopin played nearby, performed by a substandard orchestra, adding to the somber atmosphere. The elderly women laid flowers on the grave and slowly made their way along the aisle between the fences toward the exit.
  
   Marina and Svetlana followed them to the bus stop. Marina, looking worn and aged by the ordeal, checked the schedule with her wristwatch and then sat down on a bench.
  
   Meanwhile, the detectives discreetly sat in an inconspicuous beige Volkswagen 'Bug' near the cemetery exit.
   "No one came to the funeral of the bastard we expected," one detective reported.
   His partner replied, "I told you it was a waste of time. They are either dead or in jail."
   "Not all," objected the first detective. "Nosov ordered us to look for Afghan. He believes the widow may be in contact with him."
   "What makes him think that?" asked his partner.
   The detective glanced at his comrade and replied, "Ask this question at the next meeting with the colonel."
   "Let's move on; there's already a hunt to eat," the partner suggested, hinting at their next meal.
   "You're always right about that," the detective conceded. He turned on the ignition, and the beige runabout drove off toward the Nosovikhinsky highway.
  
   Unbeknownst to them, just twenty meters from the 'Bug,' behind the long-burnt Toyota and Audi, there was a "Gazelle" cargo van. A cemetery employee in overalls and a baseball cap was working beside it, throwing shovels, buckets, and picks into the back of the vehicle, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the "Bug"s" passengers from beneath the visor of his cap.
  
   The detectives left the parking lot, but the bus was nowhere in sight. Gazing at the dark-gray sky, Marina commented to her daughter, "It seems that we don't have enough problems, now the rain is approaching."
   "Mom, is it true the rain is the tears of angels for the dead?" Svetlana asked.
   "No, my dear, angels can"t cry, for of all their feelings, they have only smiles," Marina answered as she raised her head at the sound of the "Gazelle"s' brakes.
   The driver waved his hand at the Mamonovs from the open passenger side window, "Marina, Svetlana, get in the cabin."
  
   The widow looked at the unfamiliar man with surprise and wariness, gripping her daughter's forearm just above the elbow.
  
   "Mom, I know him. This is Anton. He was dad's right hand," the girl revealed to her mother. Before Marina could completely come to her senses, her daughter had already climbed into the truck's salon.
  
   The woman looked around helplessly as sad people slowly trickled out of the cemetery gates and filled the cracked asphalt of the bus stop.
  
   "My daughter is already in the car, there is no one to ask for help, and it could not get any worse than it is," the widow thought and sat down next to her daughter in the "Gazelle"s' cabin.
  
   Afghan broke the silence as he drove up to Lake Street on the Nosovikhinskoye Highway. "I apologize, Marina, for not having the opportunity to be introduced to you personally for the two years of working with your deceased spouse," he said.
   The untimely gray woman gloomily said, "Not deceased. But brutally murdered by two cops."
   "Yes, Marina, you are right, I saw the murderers today at the funeral," Anton replied.
   "I didn't see them," Marina replied indifferently.
   "I can totally understand, you didn't have time to do that, and they didn't come to say goodbye to him. But, still, to see who would come to pay tribute to an authoritative person," Afghan spoke quietly and confidently, driving the "Gazelle" down the highway toward Moscow.
  
  
   Marina gazed out the open window. In front of her was the Bumer-service, which once belonged to her husband. Next was the swampy the Chechera River, and finally the new Reutov Park shopping center. After the furniture salon, the mini-truck passed her apartment building's turn.
  
   Marina asked, "Where are we going? I thought you wanted to take us home, but we just passed the turn."
   Afghan replied calmly, "Your house is being watched and we have a crucial issue to resolve without unnecessary eyes and ears. Therefore, we are not going to you, but me."
   "What are you on about?" Marina asked, looking at Afghan.
   Anton replied, "About the gang's common fund."
   "I don't have it."
   "I know. I do."
   "So, why should we discuss it?" The woman asked in surprise.
   "Give me a minute, and I will explain." Afghan was choosing the right words. "Our gang is totally destroyed. Law enforcers have killed some members, some are in the FSB or police detention centers, and I still have a thieves' common fund. I won't remain in the region and will not take it with me."
   "It sounds strange," Marina chuckled contemptuously. "I was sure everything you did was for the money, and now you want to leave it with me. Did I understand you correctly?"
   "Yes, that's right. However, as you already know, the common fund belongs to the thieves' world and not to me or any other authority. Consequently, if I assign it, first, all the criminal lord of the country will look for me. I don't need this. Having some enemies among criminals and my name on the police wanted list, I already have too much to deal with. Second, if I disappear with the fund, the criminals will turn to you for answers," Afghan thought for a moment and then added: "It's no secret that Vladimir loved you both, so he could easily entrust the money to you."
   "If you keep a gang's common fund and don't want to expose my daughter and me to reprisals, then why did you not bring it to my apartment today, or did you not bring it to my apartment anytime you wanted?" The woman asked.
   "Has your flat been searched by the police?" Anton replied by asking a question.
   "Two detectives came," the widow said. "They were looking for money and jewelry. Vladimir was killed in the stairwell by those motherfuckers."
   "Did they leave with nothing?" Anton knew the answer, but he asked anyway.
   "What could they take from a pure widow?" Marina was truly indignant.
   "They won't rest until they find the money. Your close relative, Potap, sang to them about the riches of his brother-in-law, so you can't come home with cash. As I said before, I"m on the wanted list. So, they"ll apprehend me as soon as they identify me, and your appearance with a bag can prompt a second search," said Anton.
   "If they graze me at the house, how will I get back there with cash?" Marina asked.
   Afghan thought, "Mamonov was right - Marina is a fool," but said something completely different: "You shouldn't bring it home. Place the money in a bank, open a bank account, and leave it there."
  
   "Mom, we already have a safety deposit box," the girl said, who had been silent since the cemetery.
  
   The words, "Everything is like a dead man said, both of them are fools," echoed in Afghan's head.
  
   "Great, Svetlana will wait for us at my place, and I'll accompany you to the bank with the money; I'll stay on the street until you deposit the cash, and then we'll go back to get her," Anton offered.
  
   Marina asked, "Do I need to do anything with the money?"
  
   Anton replied, parking near the apartment building's entrance, "If criminals come after them, then keep ten percent and give the rest; otherwise, spend wisely."
  
   Afghan let Marina and her daughter enter the hallway of his apartment, followed them, and locked the door behind them. The mother and daughter went into the studio while Afghan went to the kitchen. Marina went to the sectional furniture wall and began looking at the books on the shelves, while Svetlana sat down on an unfolded, but not covered, sofa bed and turned on the TV with the remote control.
  
   "Girls, would you like some tea, coffee, or a snack?" The man asked from the kitchen.
   Marina answered for herself and her daughter, "Thanks, but let's get this over with already."
   "Well, let's get this over with," said Afghan, entering the room with a carpetbag.
   "Is that all you have?" Marina moved away from the wall furniture units, surprised by the small bag's size.
  
   Afghan put the bag on the table, turned around, and answered, "Not all," and struck Marina's jaw with an uppercut.
   The woman"s head abruptly threw back, and she collapsed unconscious on the sofa bed next to her daughter.
  
   Anton did not wait for Svetlana to come to her senses and scream. He took a step towards her, placed his hand on her nape, and covered her mouth with the other. Slowly and steadily picking up Svetlana from the sofa, Afghan turned her back to him, grabbed her thin neck with his forearm, and squeezed her throat. The girl almost instantly became limp and collapsed to the floor.
  
   Marina was the first to wake up. Lying on her side, she looked at her unconscious daughter and tried to say something, but she couldn't. Afghan taped her mouth shut. Marina realized that her hands were tied behind her back, but she was still able to move. Leaning against the wall carpet, the widow sat down. When she raised her head above the table, she saw the open carpetbag on it, as well as a plaster, a syringe, and several ampules.
  
   Afghan looked out of the window at the distance beyond the Moscow Ring Road. Hearing something behind him, Anton turned around.
  
   "You see, Marina," he said as he sat at her feet. "I don't have our gang's common fund and have never had it. It was your responsibility to keep it in the safe. Your husband believed he was the smartest one around. The man was sure that no one knew the contents of the food bags that Svetlana was taking away from the villa every week, but I'll tell you, widow, he managed to fool Elephant and the guard at the gate, but I'm sure even Alex knew about the food bag's real content. We have only one choice for the development of events: We will go to the bank, you will take the cash out of the cell, we will return here, and I will drive you two to Reutov. After that, I will vanish from your lives."
  
   The woman shook her head from side to side.
   "Well, if you reject my proposal, I will strangle you both. Please, nod if you understand."
   When Marina nodded, he slowly removed the plaster from her mouth and she told him, "There are crumbs in our safe deposit box. The sum is barely enough for Svetlana and me to live on. I haven't worked all my life. If you take everything, we will die of hunger."
   "Sincerely, I'm not a monster. Let's look at how much is there. If it's not enough for us both, I'll take a couple of hundred dollars for sandwiches, and the rest will go to you. If there is more than you say, we will divide it equally," Anton said peacefully.
   "There is so little there that the trip is worthless," snapped the widow.
   Afghan sighed heavily and looked intently at Marina, then said, "Well, then I'll try giving you morphine first, and if it doesn't work, I'll tie you to a chair and throw you on the floor, and I'll rape your daughter here on this couch until you change your mind. During this time, the morphine buzz will already be coming out of you, and we'll go to the bank with you for money."
   Marina glanced at her daughter, at the syringe with ampoules on the table, and replied, "Okay, but promise not to touch her."
   "I give you the officer's word I wouldn't harm her," Afghan said. "I also promise to shoot you without hesitation if you try to call someone for help on the streets or in the bank, then I'll come back and rape your daughter."
   Afghan lifted the girl from the floor, placed her on the sofa, tied her arms and legs, and untied Marina. Together they left the apartment.
  
  
   The Head of the Investigative Service of the FSB, also known as the Federal Security Service, of Russia for Moscow and the Moscow region, Major General of Justice Shishkov, listened to his deputy.
  
   The portrait of the Minister of Justice, Valentin Kovalev, hung on the wall behind the General, while the oily image of Boris Yeltsin with a light smile on his face observed the office from the opposite wall, gazing directly at Shishkov's face.
  
   Colonel Popov, the Deputy of the Head of Service, stood a few meters from General's desk with a folder in his hands, ready to read summaries of current affairs.
  
   "Report the very essence," Shishkov said.
   "Potap Sviridov, the main suspect in the Entuziastov explosion, confirmed during the confrontation that Sergey Samokhin, age 18, was his accomplice in the assassination plot. Samokhin confessed to his crimes but maintained that he had been an informant of Captain Erokhin, the acting chief of criminal investigations at the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Reutov. The captain was killed during Mamonov's arrest, so we weren't able to verify that claim. The documents seized from Erokhin's working safe confirmed the presence of an informant in the case of the Reutov organized crime group. In the agreement, Captain Erokhin did not mention the informant's name, but only gave him a pseudonym - "The Boxer". However, it suited half of the gang perfectly."
   "Is that all you have to report on the death of Cherkanov?" Shishkov asked.
   "No, comrade General, that's not all. A third suspect in the bombing case is Afghan, the henchman of the late leader of the Reutov organized criminal group. His real name was unknown until recently. A breakthrough, in this case, happened the day before yesterday, when the Ministry of Internal Affairs reported two bodies found in his bachelor apartment in Izmailovo. The corpses belonged to Mamonov's widow and their thirteen-year-old daughter. Both died of overdoses of morphine. The girl was raped by the suspect before she died. The forensic analysis of the crime scene revealed his fingerprints and other DNA evidence, which positively identified Afghan as the perpetrator."
   "Sit down; it won't work out briefly," said the general, and asked: "How does this pertain to our case?"
   "It is tightly connected, sir. Currently, we are investigating the death of two people who overdosed on medical morphine. Security officers found the bodies of two workers in the Goznak Printing factory in mid-April. Both were citizens of the Russian Federation and Lithuania. The murder's handwriting is similar to the one in Izmailovo, and the substance used in the killing is similar as well. The victims were all related to Mamonov. Male fingerprints found at his home matched those taken in Izmailovo. With the help of the Ministry of Defence, we were able to confirm that Afghan's name is Anton Yegorov. The suspect's fingerprints confirmed his identity."
   "Is he on the wanted list already?" Shishkov asked.
   "All Russian, yes, we have sent orientations to colleagues in our Commonwealth Independent States countries. We are preparing a request for Interpol," the colonel said.
   "From what I have heard, the investigators have enough evidence in the bombing case. There is no need to incriminate Sviridov further. He cooperated with the investigation from the very beginning. The sentence for Cherkanov's death is sufficient for him. Sergey Samokhin should be sentenced as an accomplice without extenuating circumstances. I'll be on vacation next week, so you'll take over my responsibilities. After the investigators sign the indictment bill, sign the consent to transfer cases to the prosecutor's office," ordered Shishkov. "And keep a keen eye on the search for Afghan-Yegorov."
   "I'll do it," replied Colonel Popov, standing up.
  
   With that, the meeting concluded, and Colonel Popov left to continue his investigation into the intertwined criminal activities surrounding Mamonov's death and the bombings. Major General Shishkov sat back in his chair, deep in thought, knowing that justice needed to be served, and there was no room for error in such a complex and dangerous case.
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-seven. June 14. Odessa, Ukraine
  
   Tanya and Alex sat on a bench in the back of the apartment building's courtyard near Admirals Prospect. The youths held hands and reminisced about last year's adventures.
  
   "I'm glad you're renting out your new apartment instead of moving into it," Alex said after the girl finished describing her experiences over the past eight months. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have known where you lived."
   "You're selfish," Tanya smiled and poked the guy lightly in the side. "You only think about yourself." Sighing, she added, "But by the way, most of you men are like that as well."
   Tanya leaned her head against Alex's shoulder, hugged him, and said, "It's a pity you're so young. I'd spend the rest of my life with you."
   Alex replied, "We would have a boring life."
   The girl asked, "Why?"
   "I would never put my wife, and even more so the mother of my children, at risk, and I cannot live without adrenaline. That's why," Alex said.
  
   Silence fell over the bench. The young people inhaled the fragrance of white acacia and listened to the bird song.
  
   "It's him," Tanya broke the silence by saying, "I told you he would show up soon."
  
   Pometkin escorted a young couple of tenants to the entrance where Alex lived one year ago.
  
   The teen kissed the girl on the cheek and replied, "I never doubted you. You're the smartest and the most beautiful girl in the world."
   In return, Tanya kissed Alex on the lips, saying, "Don't get me started; otherwise, we'll do something else instead of doing business."
   "We won't lose this chance, I promise," the guy replied, rising to his feet. "But first, let's find out where this creature lives. Follow him as soon as he leaves the entrance. Maintain a distance of twenty paces."
   "What if he looks around on the road?" The girl asked.
   "If he does it once, then keep walking. Don't slow down, and don't look away. If it seems to you that he checked for a tail, go to the first door you come across - a café, a tour company, a hairdresser. I'll follow you and pick up the trail."
   "Should I follow him if he goes to a pizzeria or pub?"
   Alex replied, "If he goes to a pizzeria, then yes. If he goes to the bar 'Our beer', I'll go after him. In this case, you must return here. Once I find his address, I'll come back to meet with you."
   "He came out," Tanya said.
   "Follow him, but most importantly, don't be afraid. I'll always be there for you," Alex replied.
  
  
   As Pometkin rounded the corner of the building, Tanya leapt up and followed him. Approaching Admirals Avenue, he looked in both directions. The man walked toward the intersection of the avenue with Fountain Road, and Tanya followed him. In the midst of the surveillance, the man passed real estate agencies and a grocery store; opposite the 'Our Beer' bar, Pometkin unexpectedly turned to the roadway and crossed diagonally to reach a four-story residential building.
  
   Tanya looked around in confusion. She saw Alex cross the road thirty steps behind her. She felt her heart flutter when the boy almost fell under the wheels of a passing car.
  
   Finding himself on a narrow strip of green space dividing the avenue, the young tracker gave the girl a friendly wave, let a couple of cars pass, and then disappeared into the courtyards on the opposite side of Admirals Avenue.
  
   The young woman went home, took the keys to the cottage, then returned to the bench.
  
   Alex sat down with her ten minutes later.
  
   "I followed him almost to the apartment building entrance and saw his entry through the street window. In the morning, I'll see if he has a wife and children," said the young man.
   "How?" Tanya was surprised.
   "The answer is pretty straightforward. If Pometkin is married, his wife would go to work, and if there are children, they would go to school. There's always the chance that he will live alone, but I need to be ready for it," Alex said.
   Tanya kissed him on the lips and said, "I have the keys to the cottage. Let's stay there tonight."
   "But what would your parents think of this?" Alex asked.
   "I wrote a note to tell them I'm going to sleepover at my girl-schoolmate's house," Tanya said.
   "Are you kidding me? And they're gonna buy this bullshit?" Alex was surprised.
   "Nah, of course not. It's a family game," the girl laughed. "I pretend to respect them, and they pretend to trust me."
   "Is there food in your cottage?" Alex asked.
   "We won't go hungry," Tanya promised, grabbing Alex by the arm and dragging him toward Admiral Avenue. "We'll take a taxi, and on the way, we can stop at the grocery store."
  
   The sun had already slipped behind a hawk ravine and was somewhere over the Atlantic. Tanya and Alex sat on an open veranda at dusk, watching a small garden of fruit trees, and drinking dry white wine and eating goat cheese.
  
   "Tell me about your parents," Alex said to the young, pretty woman, looking at her through the glass with wine remnants. "I just saw them one time a year ago and didn't get to know them."
   "What can I tell you about them?" Tanya asked. "They are ordinary ancestors. There are hundreds of thousands like them in Odessa."
  
   Alex said, "Don't tell me that. There aren't many locals who own a two-bedroom apartment in a prestigious neighborhood and a garden villa in a nearby suburb."
  
   Tanya said, "Don't cling to words. My father is a well-known physician at the city hospital. Like all Jewish doctors around the world, he also knows how to help those in need during work hours and after hours at patients' homes. We celebrated his fiftieth birthday here two months ago. He received a live ram as a gift from the Chechen diaspora. The ram was slaughtered and skinned by a Chechen. You wouldn't believe how highly regarded he is in this city! I mean, picture this: the Muslims actually gave a gift to a Jew. That's how much they respect him. It's incredible! The apartment and this house are the result of his hard work."
  
   "I didn't realize you are Jewish," Alex responded, surprised.
   "That can only be said about me in Odessa. Locals in Israel won't recognize me as their own. By the way, my mother is Russian and a doctor as well. For that reason, we will never leave Ukraine."
   Tanya leaned over the coffee table, touched Alex's chin, narrowed her eyes, and said, "Your light hair makes me doubt you're Greek. However, when I look at your profile, I see you are the descendant of a proud, independent, and freedom-loving people. As a person, you are restrained in your emotions, loyal to friends, and love wealth. You are like the Greeks."
   "Don't compliment me if you don't want to embarrass me. I am not Plistarchus, the son of Sparta's king Leonidas. I am half-blood like you. "It's our mothers' fault," Alex said.
   "No way. My mother has nothing to do with it," Tanya continued, "When my father was criticized by the 'chosen of God' people because he married a goyka, he replied: 'I could marry a Jewish woman, but they are too talkative. They hold the last word. Twenty years ago, when I graduated from Vinnitsa medical school, I had to focus on my future and not spend time on futile arguments in the kitchen."
   "My father was the head of the household too. He was fiery, quick to make decisions, and angry whenever he disagreed. My dad avoided Greek women. Once, he said: I don't need another boiler in my house. It's a pity he didn't have time to make me a person," Alex said, remembering his father.
   "You're doing very well," Tatiana said. "At sixteen, you're as hard as a metal nail."
   "It seems that way to you because you only see me when I know what I must do," replied the young man.
   "Let's go to the bedroom, and we'll see whether you know what to do or not," Tanya got up from the rocking chair, grabbed Alex's hand, and pulled him together.
   He picked Tanya up, hugged her, kissed her on the lips, and then carried her inside.
  
   In the end of May, on a scorching day, Alex was sitting down on the steps leading to the fourth floor of the apartment building where Pometkin lived. His trusty backpack, a faithful companion for years, lay at his feet.
   The aroma of fish and cabbage stew filled the air around the building's entrance, while distant violin melodies and heated arguments echoed from the upper floors. Uninterested in either, Alex's attention was captured by primitive drawings of male and female genitals etched on the staircase wall, accompanied by the mysterious mention of a girl named Elena.
  
   A quiet creak from the driveway door hinges signaled the arrival of a tenant ascending the steps. Alex silently got up and moved downwards, trying not to make a sound.
  
   At the metal door to Pometkin's apartment, Nikolay fumbled with a set of keys, but the soft singing and footsteps he heard behind him put him on high alert. As Alex leisurely strolled down the stairs, he softly hummed in English,
  
   "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away."
  
  
   Nikolay turned around and saw the fair-haired young man on his way down, casually draping his backpack strap over his shoulder with his left hand, while his right hand glided along the railing with an air of ease. Pometkin turned back to the door and managed to open two of the three locks but paused, puzzled by the sight of Alex wearing black leather gloves in the sweltering heat, "Why would he be wearing gloves when it's so hot outside?"
  
   Nikolay didn't have time to find out the answer to his dumb question.
  
   He looked at the man's face again, met Alex's gaze, and then the fleeting thought of gloves faded into the background.
  
   Pometkin asked himself, "Where could I have seen him before?" The calm start to the day suddenly darkened by a feeling of unease.
  
   Nikolay felt indecent to look at the young stranger's face for several seconds. A further thought flashed into man"s mind: "He might think that I'm flirting with him like some old pedophile. Better open the lock as soon as possible and hide in my fortress."
  
   The man turned toward the door and inserted the key into the lower lock hole.
  
   From behind the man, Alex sang,
  
   "Now it looks as though they're here to stay."
  
   Pometkin opened the third lock, put the keys in his pocket, and grabbed the handle of the lower lock.
  
   The song ended louder than it started,
  
   "Oh, I believe in yesterday!"
  
   At the last word, Alex struck Pometkin forcefully with his fist on the hindhead. The man's forehead slammed against the iron door, his legs swayed unsteadily, and he fell to the floor.
  
  
   Pometkin's consciousness did not return immediately. After he opened his eyes, he found himself naked in the middle of his apartment's living room. Several wide strips of duct tape wrapped around his torso and arms. He tried to get up but couldn't. His body was bound to the back of a chair. When he looked down, he saw his arms pressed against his body and hips, and his thighs were tied to the seat with tape. Despite his efforts, the prisoner couldn't move his legs. The clothesline pressed their calf muscles against the chair's legs, digging into his skin.
  There was a gaping red bump along the border of Pometkin's hairline and forehead. Nikolay couldn't see the result of the injury, but he could clearly observe that most of his T-shirt was hanging from his mouth, down to his chest.
  
   When Nikolay examined his apartment, he was horrified. He had never allowed an apartment to become so cluttered. All the items found in cabinets, drawers, shelves, and mezzanines were scattered on the floor by the intruder.
  
   Pometkin's anger reached a boiling point when he saw a teenager exiting the kitchen wearing dusty sneakers. With a piece of dry-cured salami in his hand, the guy walked through Pometkin"s underwear.
  
   Before he had time to decide what infuriated him more - an expensive smoked Gotto salami in his hand or dirty shoes on a new carpet - the uninvited guest said,
   "Woke up? It's great. I was in the kitchen, and I heard that you were moaning. So, I decided to come see you. I'm glad that you finally woke up. Two hours remain before your wife gets home from work. It's both a long and short period of human life at the same time. This is a philosophical paradox. The lads from my gang in Moscow taught me this. These two hours will slowly creep by for you, but they will fly by unnoticed for me."
  
   Pometkin moaned and shifted his head from side to side.
  
   "I see in your eyes that two questions trouble you: the first, who I am, and the second, why you ended up in such a terrible situation. Nod if I guess correctly," the intruder scoffed.
  
   The man nodded desperately.
  
   "To answer both questions and to dispel your ignorance about my intentions, I'll explain everything to you right now," the young man said.
  
   Alex went into the bedroom for a moment, opened the wardrobe, took out an electric steam iron from the top shelf, and returned to Pometkin to plug the iron in.
  
   "I'm the son of the Zafiros couple, who gave you sixteen hundred bucks a year ago, after which you immediately handed them over to corrupt cops. Then you decided that money wasn"t enough for you and stole two suitcases of our family's belongings."
  
   Nikolay shook his head in disbelief.
  
   "Do you think I'm wrong?" the youth asked.
  
   Potetkin nodded.
  
   "Like, it was someone else," Alex mocked.
  
   The captive's entrails made a guttural noise.
  
   "No, rat. That was you. I saw you give the envelope with the money to a shameful cop. I saw his butchers shackling my parents and how you dragged two suitcases filled with our clothes. I'm amazed at you. What kind of creature are you? I found my dead mother's dresses in your closet. What happened? Why did you bulge your eyes at me? Do you want to tell me that my parents' deaths were accidental?"
  
   Pometkin nodded.
  
   "You are lying to me. I found a pair of my dad's shirts and his favorite tie, and if you misbehave, I'll suffocate you with it," Saying that, Alex spat on the electric iron. Saliva bounced off the mirror surface with a hiss. "You probably took revenge on them for bargaining with you for rent? So," Alex continued. "I haven't forgiven you either and came to pay you back. Your bookshelf contains volumes of the Great Soviet Encyclopedia. I understand you draw knowledge from them. I used to be a simple guy, and I didn't have such smart books at home. Elephant, the sadist, and murderer who taught me my life lessons, once saw me with a book in my hand and said: 'Boy, the source of knowledge is not a book, but a steam iron. Using it, you can discover the information you wish to know.' Nod your head when you are ready to give me all the cash you have."
  
   Pometkin's eyes widened in horror, and before he could respond, the young man had applied the iron to the upper surface of his thigh. Nikolai fidgeted in his chair, a wave passed through his body, he rounded his back and froze.
  
   "You're wriggling like a snake," Alex's face wrinkled at the smell of burnt skin.
  
   The lad then removed the electric iron from the victim's leg. When Nikolay came to consciousness and opened his eyes, the torturer said, "Listen, you fucking cunt. You have no idea whose family you ran into a year ago. To help you understand what to expect, I'll draw you a small picture of my childhood."
  
   Alex sat down on Pometkin's unharmed leg, hugged his shoulder, and bent down to Nikolay's face. The boy stared at his victim with blue eyes as cold as ice.
  
   "You see," the uninvited guest said. "I'm a Greek by my father. You don't know that the name Zafiros derives from the Spartan branch of the Greek ethnos. My father raised me the same way our distant ancestors raised their boys. Before going to bed, he read me stories about ancient Greek heroes. A year ago, I thought that this knowledge would be useless. I studied English and did well in school. I won the Moscow championship in boxing in my age category and was planning to attend the Bauman Moscow State Technical University, which is located across the street from my apartment building in Reutovo. So, a year ago, after receiving money from my father, you called the police officer, crossing out my future and ending the lives of my parents. Do you understand, bitch? We haven't seen each other since the day you put a money envelope in the hands of a corrupt cop, and only a few months ago, I learned that local gangsters tortured my parents to death in a forest and then burned their corpses there."
  
   As Alex looked away, his eyes welled up with tears. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, and getting up, the lad touched Pometkin's leg with an electric iron for a moment. As Nikolay made a dull howl, twitched for a moment, and then fell silent, the young man set the iron on the hardwood floor, pulled out the cord, and left the living room.
  
   The teen returned from the bathroom with a bucket of water. Pometkin's head hung low, but as Alex splashed him with the water, he began to come to his senses.
  
   "Are you aware of why you are still alive?" Alex asked, his voice laced with anger. "It's because my mother was Russian. She was kind and loved me very much. When my father was away on business, she never told me legends about Spartans, who were fierce warriors. Instead she read me Russian fairy tales, and one of them stuck with me for life.
  
   The fairy tale I'm referring to is called 'Fire, Water, and Copper Pipes.' I'm sure you're familiar with it, but let me refresh your memory so you can feel the atmosphere. It tells the story of Vasily, who meets and falls in love with Alyona. Unfortunately, dark forces steal her away from him. In the plot, Vasily must fight for his happiness and endure numerous trials, even having to battle with his own inner demons to remain human. You will undergo similar kinds of tests. Despite enduring the 'fire,' you still haven't disclosed the location of the money. Perhaps you wanted to tell but couldn't. Don't worry; you'll have more opportunities to reveal the cache. Now, get ready to face the next test - the one involving water."
  
   Saying that, Alex struck Pometkin's forehead with his fist, and the victim with on the chair fell to the floor. The teen covered Nikolay's face with a T-short then poured water on his head, while the man tried to dodge the jet of water.
   "This is normally done with an assistant," the young man noted, continuing to fill the captive's nasopharynx. "He poured from the bucket, and I held the head, so the victims wouldn't dodge. Since I am here alone, I have to take care of everything on my own. Nikolay, stop twitching, or I'll put you on your knees and dip your head into a bucket of water. You'll feel much worse."
  
   After emptying the bucket, Alex squatted down next to the man and asked: "Where's the money?"
  
   Pometkin shook his head negatively.
  
   "Clearly, you claim that there is no money. It seems to me that you are stubborn since you don't understand the whole plan," Alex smiled unkindly. "Listen, scum. Here's the final test for you: a copper pipe. As a child, I loved to read fiction about knights. I recall that in one novel, "The Iron King", there is a story about how the younger brother of the English monarch kills the heir to the throne without leaving a single sign of the killing on the body. You can't imagine what he came up with, but let me tell you. They bent the king on a table, stuck a piece of a severed bovine horn in his ass, and inserted into his rectum a red-hot rod used to stir the coals in the fireplace. The local priests inspected the body of the king and were unable to determine what caused the death. You understand that the Vatican forbade autopsies at the time. I did not bother with the horn. Anyway, your physician will understand what caused your death. Instead of a horn, I brought a short piece of copper pipe with a diameter similar to that of an iron ruble. I also have a drill and a soldering iron. Unless you tell me where the money is hidden, I will turn you over with the chair, drill a hole in the seat, insert a pipe into your ass, and burn your insides with a soldering iron to its entire length. By the way, that king was a fagot, and his subjects weren't sorry about his fate. Since you are a rat, no one will be sorry for you."
  
   Pometkin lay on his back and vigorously shook his head from side to side. Alex kicked the chair to which the victim was tied onto its side, pulled a drill out of his backpack, plugged in the Forstner bit, and hooked up the power cord. Nikolay did not notice the boy's activities behind him and was taken aback when a one-inch cutting disc spun dangerously close to his eyes.
  
   The young man calmly observed the puddle of urine growing in diameter on the carpet and asked, "Where's the money?"
  
   Pometkin pointed at the balcony door with his head.
  
   Alex stepped out onto the glassed-in balcony and examined the walls, bedside table, and floor carefully. As he scuffed his foot on the fringed linen rug, he noticed that the legs of the nightstand had left a mark on the concrete floor below. As soon as the guy had moved the bedside table out of the way, he discovered that the back wall was double. With a screwdriver in hand, Alex unscrewed the screws from the plywood wall and found three packs of American tens and a pack of twenties.
  
   The young man thought pessimistically, "Five thousand? Not much." The young man smiled, "But better than nothing and the blood of that nit on my hands."
  
   Alex tucked tools into his backpack and dollars into pockets, then quietly left Pometkin"s apartment.
  
   Tanya's bedroom was lit, but her window was closed. Alex threw a small pebble at the window to get the girl's attention. Tanya cracked the window to look out.
  
   "Open it wider," Alex said.
   The young woman flung open the window and offered, "Come to me, my parents went to the cottage."
   Alex threw a wad of money into the window opening and whispered, "I'm sorry, but I can't stay in Odessa. It is too dangerous for me."
   "Are you leaving?" Tanya asked.
   "Yes. My childhood ended with the death of my parents, and my youth ended when our gang was defeated. It's time to start over in adulthood. From scratch and as far as I can," Alex replied.
   "How far?" The girl asked, hoping that Alex wanted to return to Russia and, in the future, would return to Odessa again.
   He said sadly, "I'll stop in France first. My parents always wanted to go to the States. Maybe one day I can fulfill their dream."
   "Will I see you again?" Tanya frowned in hope that Alex would leave her at least a glimmer of hope.
   The young man's heart sank from pain, but his brain said, "To stay is to die. Life moves forward, not back."
   "No," came the answer from the darkness.
   Tanya's voice was pleading, as she asked, "But why?"
   In the shadow of the acacias, the boy quoted Forrest Gump and said, "My Mama always said you have to put the past behind you before you can move forward."
   "Goodbye, my love," the quickly grown man said before disappearing.
   The girl clutched a pack of American tens to her chest and began to sob. Through her tears, she whispered, "Goodbye, Alex."
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-eight. June 17, 1996. Brest, Belarus.
  
   At the Belarusian Brest railway station, a Moscow-Berlin express train stood prominently on the first track, ready to continue its journey. As passengers disembarked for the regional center, porters swiftly rushed forward with their carts, while a watchful police patrol followed closely behind.
  
   Amidst the hustle and bustle, Alex calmly strolled along the railway embankment between the first and second tracks. He sported a dark gray jumpsuit adorned with an orange track fitter's vest, along with a uniform baseball cap displaying the label "Second Brigade, Third District." Completing his attire were short barnyard boots, and as the evening clouds loomed, the reflective stripes on his legs and sleeves seemed grayer than usual. On his right shoulder, the young man carried a track template he had acquired earlier, having liberated it from the locker room of the railway station workers.
  
   Alex carefully observed the gravel beneath his feet, not relying on mere visual judgment, as he carried a track template with him. Despite the unpleasant odor emanating from his shoes, he remained focused on his plan.
  
   Reflecting on the past year, Alex had endured trials that would be unparalleled in most people's lives. Unbeknownst to him, those who were involved in his tragic journey had inadvertently become his teachers.
  
   "My father was right to push me to learn English," Alex mused as he meandered alongside the train carriages. "It's not just about its practicality; it helped develop my memory. My tutoring sessions and boxing training with Victor taught me to value every lesson life threw my way. My encounter with Captain Erokhin, though challenging, offered a valuable lesson about using any means necessary to achieve high goals. Thank you, detective, for the demonstration. You didn't hesitate to utilize special equipment against me, and I learned from it. The tales of Afghan's military tactics and Elephant's teachings on self-control have been invaluable. And Mamonov's quote, "The most important thing is to truly want something, and those who will fulfill your desire will always be here," rings true in my mind as I stand among these individuals."
  
  
   Meanwhile, near the open door of the dining car, two conductors appeared to be engaging in some covert activity. Dressed in dark blue uniforms and knee-length skirts, they seemed occupied with mysterious tasks.
  
   One of the conductors, a young lady in her early twenties, skillfully accepted boxes filled with vodka bottles from a man in the nearby train, passing them off to her partner with practiced ease. Her older colleague diligently transferred the boxes to the cook in the dining car.
  
   From Alex's point of view, it appeared that way. In reality, he could only catch a glimpse of the dining car cook's hands receiving the boxes from the car's lobby.
  
   "Good evening to the Russian Railways workers," Alex greeted, slowing his pace.
   "Valentina, look what a cute railway track fitter showed up," said the young woman to her older friend. "We didn't notice him."
   "Ah, screw him. We have no time to chat with this youngster," Valentina swore, handing her colleague another box.
   "Ladies, can I help you?" The youth asked.
   "How can you help us? Don't you see that we have a team? One person fetches boxes from the train, another person takes them to the restaurant, and we pass them from hand to hand, between two trains," the burly conductor explained the situation, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. "Don't bother. We don't need you."
   "Valentina, if you give me another minute of your precious time, things may turn around for you. I have a business proposal for both of you," Alex said.
   "While the cook is gone, tell us about your offer quickly," Valentina replied.
   "I need to go to Berlin, and I'm willing to pay a lot," the guy said.
   "Have you lost your mind, and are you afraid to return to the company office?" The young woman looked deeply into the boy's eyes.
   "No, not that," her partner laughed. "He left a crutch hammer under his girlfriend's bed."
   "I'm not a rail track fitter," Alex replied, tossing a track template onto the sleepers of the second track. "This outfit is intended to divert unnecessary attention from the station police."
   "Everyone wants to get to the German capital after the Berlin Wall falls," the younger conductor said. "Oh, boy, that's expensive."
   "How much is it?" Alex stood his ground.
   "I think you don't have that much," Valentina paused and glanced at her partner.
   "But still?" Alex persisted.
   "Three thousand dollars," she replied quietly.
   Instead of answering, Alex took off his backpack, rummaged in it, pulled out a packet of American dollars, and said, "I agree."
   The puffy Valentina said, "Stay here; I'll be back soon," and she hurriedly climbed the iron steps into the dining car.
  
   The cook encountered her in the vestibule.
   "Are we done yet?" he asked.
   "No, Gleb, there are still five boxes left, but we need to discuss an urgent matter," the conductor said as she entered, with the cook following behind.
   "What happened?" The cook inquired when the conductor turned to face him.
   "A boy of about sixteen is standing outside. He wants to go to Berlin. I quoted the price as three thousand greens, and he agreed without blinking. I'm offering you fifteen hundred, I'll take one thousand, and my assistant will get five hundred greens. Will you hide the boy for us?"
   The cook replied, "Is he big?"
   Valentina responded, "Medium height, but slim."
   Gleb agreed, "I'll hide him this time. I have space for one illegal passenger."
  
   The conductor descended to the gravel. Five boxes stood next to her colleague, and the door of the adjacent train was closed.
   "Have you paid Ostap yet?" Valentina asked a junior conductor.
   "Yes," the woman replied. "What about the kid?"
   "I sorted it out, but we need to hurry. In ten minutes, the train will leave for the wheel rearrangement. Let's get in the car and raise the threshold, and you," Valentina turned to the young man and asked, "What's your name?"
   The teen replied, "Alex."
   Upon hearing his response, she said, "Alexander and I will load the boxes under your feet."
  
   The older conductor received a pack of twenties from the passenger in the vestibule of the dining car.
  
   Passing the money to Valentina, the teen said, "Here are only two thousand. I"ll give you another five hundred when we cross the Polish border, and I"ll pay you the rest when we get to Germany. So, don't try to change the terms, and please feed me along the way. I get angry when I'm hungry."
   The young woman behind Valentina sarcastically asked, "And when you're angry and hungry, do you bite?"
   "Leave him alone," Valentina told her colleague, hiding the cash in her bra. "We have to think about the business now. The time spent in the hangar for 'shoe change' will be seventy minutes, followed by a two-hour wait while we go through customs and border checks on the Moscow and Warsaw sides of the Brest station, and a forty-minute trip through the Polish sanitary zone. This totals almost four hours. The boy will pee in his pants in Gleb's kitchen. Go to your carriage; we need to leave him alone for a couple of minutes. And you, Alex, after urinating in the open door, lock it and go straight to the cook. Gleb will instruct you, and you will hide. Got it?"
   "Got it," Alex replied.
  
   The train came to a stop at the bogie carts change point. After the locomotive departed from the massive building, railroad workers surrounded the wheelsets of the cars. Within five minutes, the workers moved away from the train cars, and electric jacks lifted them above the carts.
   As the Dining Car was smoothly elevated, Alex quickly devoured a meal prepared by Gleb in Navy style - spaghetti with fried ground beef.
  
   With the Dining Car swaying smoothly, Alex inquired, "How high did we rise?"
   The cook replied, "About four feet."
   "Will they put us on narrower carts and send us on our way?" Alex asked again.
   "No," Gleb responded, casting a curious look at Alex. "The workers will change the couplings between the intercars and send us back."
   Astonishment showed on Alex's face, and the cook explained, "The Brest railway station has both Moscow and Warsaw sides. The Moscow side is Russian and wider, while the Warsaw side is European, four inches narrower!"
   "I had no idea," the guy admitted. "What's the reason behind this?"
   "This has two versions, official and popular," it seemed to Alex that the chef had not been the only one to mention it. "According to the official one, it was done to prevent the enemy from using our railways to transport their troops."
   "And what about the popular version?" Alex inquired.
   "I prefer it better," Gleb said. "In that version, a German-Bohemian engineer, Franz Gerstner, who built the first railway in the Russian Empire, asked Emperor Nicholas the First whether he should make a railroad from St. Petersburg to Moscow the same width as the Europeans or wider. The Emperor replied, 'For a dick wider?' The Austrian didn't understand the Emperor's sarcastic response and took it literally. Franz Gerstner asked His Majesty's courtiers to measure the tsar's penis in the bathhouse and made Russian roads four inches wider than European ones."
   "That's quite the historical anecdote," Alex laughed.
  
   A winch motor hummed, and the broad-gauge bogie rolled out from under the dining car. A motor-car brought up the 'shoes', and the dining car descended smoothly.
  
   "The workers will fasten the connections in five minutes, and then they'll roll us out of the hangar. I see you've finished your meal," the cook said to Alex as he rose from his seat. "I won't offer you a drink. You know why. Let's go. I'll show you where to hide."
  
   The cook and his passenger left the dining car and proceeded to the kitchen, where they squatted at an iron-made counter with cabinets. Gleb opened a cabinet door and pulled out four drawers. One of them contained meat forks, knives, and spoons. Another held cutting boards, baking trays, and serving trays for side dishes. The third one had pans, and the bottom one stored saucepans and pots. Gleb arranged the utensils on the countertop and fetched an electric drill from a nearby cabinet.
   "Look in the drawers," the chef said. "What is their length?"
   "Two feet," Alex replied.
   "Close, but to be accurate, it's three inches shorter," Gleb corrected him. "And the countertop is three feet. Look inside. Do you see the back wall?"
   Not understanding where the cook was going with this, Alex answered, "Yes," uncertainly.
   "There's space behind it, along with the entire counter. Cables and piping run in there. When I first saw the wall, it was solid, so I carefully cut it out in one cabinet and fashioned a new one from the same metal, but slightly longer. I bent the edges from the top and the bottom and drilled holes for screws in the "sweep". The wall became removable. If I need to, I can take it off in three minutes and put it back in the same time," explained Gleb, pleased with his ingenuity.
   "How do you hold the removable wall during installation? Plus, after all, self-tapping screws require precision during installation," the curious guy said.
   The cook replied, "With two plungers," and noticing Alex's confusion, he explained: "These suckers are an integral part of any kitchen. I use them to clean the pipes in the sink if they get clogged with leftover food from washing dishes. Let me hide you in there now. There will be no comfort sitting there, so I suggest you lie on the pipes. I won't use hot water until the restaurant opens. I'll take you out of there once we've crossed the border. Have you used a drill before?"
   "Yes, of course."
   "Good, then take down the back wall. I'll start cooking," the chef said and began to retrieve seasonings from the cabinets.
   "You said the restaurant wouldn't open soon. Why are you cooking so early?" The young man wondered.
   "It's not for passengers. It's for the dog's nose that will soon arrive with the Belarusian border guards."
   "I understand you want to mask my smell with spices," the young man said and unzipped his backpack.
  
  
   The locomotive backed into the station's Warsaw side, and Alex swiftly changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. He crawled into a snug cranny between the carriage walls and the kitchen counter, lying down on the stolen railroad workers' uniform.
  
   Gleb patiently waited for Alex to finish hiding before restoring the cabinet wall to conceal the hidden space. Satisfied that there were no traces of Alex's presence in the kitchen, he made his way to Valentina's carriage.
  
   "Valentina, you promised me fifteen hundred dollars, and here's a thousand," the cook asked, counting the money. "Is this a scam?"
   "I'll give you five hundred when you let the kid out," the conductor replied.
   "Who do you think I am?" Gleb retorted indignantly. "No doubt, I'm a bastard, but I'm not a murderer. Of course, I'll let him out. I don't want his corpse in the kitchen. I won't feed passengers with human flesh."
   Valentina burst into laughter. "I didn't mean that. The guy gave me two thousand. I kept the extra five hundred for myself. He promised to give you the rest in Poland, so you can get it from him. Later, I'll shake the money from him for my partner."
   "Do you trust him?" The cook asked skeptically.
   "Where will he go?" Valentina replied seriously. "If he deceives me, I'll give you my five hundred, and I'll throw him out of the train at full speed."
  
   Two border guards entered the dining car. The first was a young lieutenant with the Golden Star of the Hero of the USSR on his jacket. Behind the young lieutenant followed a sergeant-dog handler with his loyal shepherd dog, the oldest member of the trio.
  
   The dog, though still energetic and spry, had reached an age equivalent to that of a human in their late sixtieth, making it the most experienced and mature member of the group. Despite its age, the shepherd dog's training and dedication were evident in every step it took alongside its handler, displaying the wisdom and loyalty that come with years of service and companionship.
  
   The officer introduced himself as Lieutenant Yevgeny Povolyaev of the Belarus border service and politely requested Gleb's passport.
  
   Gleb cordially greeted the border guard and handed over the document.
  
   The officer meticulously examined each page of the passport, making notes in his notebook and pulling out a plastic rotary stamp from his pocket.
  
   Gleb couldn't help but be curious about the young man on the other side of the table.
  
   "Have you got the Golden Star of the Hero at the train station?" The cook asked, trying to strike up a conversation.
  
   The lieutenant didn't seem offended by the question, having probably been asked about the Golden Star before.
  
   "Of course not," the officer replied a bit begrudgingly. "I served in a motorized rifle brigade for a year and a half in Afghanistan."
   "I didn't think you could be an Afghan war veteran," said Gleb.
  
   The cook felt guilty before a man with such an extraordinary past and decided to make amends by showing genuine interest in listening to the officer's story about his heroic feat.
  
   "While your sergeant looks around the kitchen, maybe you can tell me about your heroic experiences during your time in Afghanistan," Gleb asked with genuine curiosity, showing interest in the officer's past service.
  
   The border guard did not distinguish himself in any way - perhaps repeating his story for the hundredth time, he began: "I was an ordinary tank driver. My tank was blown up six times by landmines during the war. I was wounded twice, and shell-shocked six times. Every time, the chain of command offered me the chance to return to the Soviet Union, but I declined. Because of my stubbornness, they awarded me the Hero title and granted me the right to attend any military college of the USSR without taking an entrance exam. The KGB college was my choice. I dreamed of joining the Secret Intelligence Service after graduation, but it seems I'm too dumb for that field. I had a C in all of my classes during college. As a Hero, I had the privilege of choosing my service placement following graduation, and I ended up serving at the Belarusian-Polish border point."
   Gleb said, "Well done, you're brave and stubborn."
   "More stubborn than courageous," the officer replied.
  
   While the young officer checked the cook's passport and talked about his service with a motorized rifle brigade, his subordinate walked around the restaurant nooks with his dog.
  
   The dog studied the legs of tables and chairs, checked out the shelves of wine bottles, and carefully evaluated the bar.
  
   After the K-9 handler entered the kitchen, his four-leg companion grunted at the frozen mutton lying on the cutting board. As the dog approached the cabinet of kitchen utensils, he grunted maniacally toward the door and bared his teeth.
  
   "What's the matter, Charlie?" The man asked the dog, opening the iron door.
  
   Behind the door were four drawers. Despite seeing this picture several times a day, the sergeant could not ignore the dog's reaction. He trusted Charlie's scent more than his own experience. He turned on a pocket flashlight to illuminate the cabinet's back wall. Seeing nothing unusual, he straightened his back and looked at the counter.
  Saffron, barberry, peeled garlic cloves, turmeric, cumin seeds, two onions and two chili peppers were on clean parchment paper in front of him.
  
   "Charlie," the sergeant said as he squatted next to the German shepherd, brushed gently the black wool on the dog's neck with his fingers, patted it gently, and looked into the dog's eyes, saying softly: "My old friend, you don't need to worry. The chef will cook pilaf for customers."
  
   The dog relaxed, his eyes became indifferent, he yawned widely and lost interest in the kitchen.
  
   "Is everything in order?" The officer asked when the dog handler returned to the dining room.
   "Yes, comrade Lieutenant," the sergeant answered wearily. "There are no illegals."
   "Then good luck to you," the officer said, handing the passport to Gleb, and with the sergeant left the dining car.
  
   Just as their footsteps melted in the next car, a plump customs officer burst in to see the cook.
  
   The inspector, fully aware of the prevailing sentiment towards customs officers, skipped over the self-introduction and greeting. He knew that any politeness from his side wouldn't change the Russian cook's opinion, not about him personally, nor about the Custom servicemen in general. After all, customs officers were despised throughout the vast expanse of Russia, from the Arctic to the scorching deserts in the deep South, and from the Far East to the Western borders. They were considered the most corrupt of all public servants, perched atop the corruption pyramid, surpassing even the taxmen and traffic police officers.
  
   He asked directly, "Is anything in the dining car forbidden for export outside Belarus?"
   The cook replied, "No."
   "And if I find something?"
   "Look. I'm not a railway conductor. Smuggling isn't my business," Gleb replied.
  
   The customs officer pulled a unique key from his jacket pocket, selectively opened several hatches in the dining room, and walked to the kitchen. The chef followed him.
  
   "Get out of here while I search the kitchen," the inspector ordered the cook.
   "It's illegal to search my workplace without my presence," Gleb said in an imperturbable tone.
  
   The inspector took out a flashlight and began searching through cabinets, drawers, the refrigerator, and the dishwasher. He rearranged the cans of canned food, peered at the labels, put his fingers in several baskets of cereal, and felt the plastic trash bag. When he got to a cutting table with fitted wardrobes, the officer pulled out every drawer and opened every door.
   "The table is wider than the drawers. What has hidden behind the cabinet wall?" The customs inspector asked sternly.
   In disgust over the customs officers, Gleb asked contemptuously, "What are you, a moron? There are the same features as in all dining cars built in the Soviet Union; pipelines, exhaust ventilation, and electrical wiring. There is nothing contrary to federal law on customs regulations that could replenish your state's budget."
   Having no idea what the cook was talking about, the inspector asked, "What are you talking about?"
   "I'm quoting the second clause of the first paragraph of the Custom code of the Belarus Republic, which reads: Customs regulation is the process of establishing procedures and rules for the movement of goods and vehicles across customs borders"
   With a tone of confidence, the cook added, "I responsibly state that there are no goods or vehicles inside the table."
   "So what is there then?" The customs officer asked, his eyes widening.
   "It's incredible how stupid you are. It's just a nightmare. Do you want me to disassemble the entire counter and show you the age-old mold? Do you want to risk lung cancer? If you're so stubborn, tell your bosses on the radio that you are delaying the international fast train, calling a team of locksmiths, and dismantling the kitchen. I'm in no hurry to Berlin. I've been there two hundred times."
   "Please give me fifty dollars," the inspector begged.
  
   Gleb took out of his pocket ten thousand rubles, twenty times less than the custom inspector asked, thrust it into his breast pocket, and said: "I have no right to carry foreign currency across the border. And you, provocateur, know that. Get out of here."
  
   The customs officer left, defeated and empty-handed, while Gleb continued with his preparations, ensuring Alex's safe journey towards Berlin.
  
  
  Chapter twenty-nine. June 30, 1996. Kehl. Germany
  
   Greta sat in a chair, holding an empty glass, still in a state of shock. Her thoughts raced, "I treated him like a pet for two weeks, like a puppy or a kitten. Oh my gosh! He could snap my neck at any moment, not just at night. I could die in the morning, afternoon, or evening. Every day, I tried to civilize him, bring order and respect for the law into his life, without knowing he was a Russian gangster. He grew up between Europe and Asia, absorbing all the vices of the Italian mafia and Japanese yakuza. He might be even more dangerous than both. The only reason I'm still alive is that he hasn't realized it yet."
  
   Tiny beads of sweat formed on Greta's forehead. She noticed Alex was still sitting on the floor, two steps away from her. The stem of the glass rested in her palm, and the spilled wine stained the carpet.
  
   Gently, Greta pleaded, "Please, just leave now. Pack your things and go."
   "Is it okay if I take some money from the pay terminal?" Alex asked, getting up.
   In a pleading tone, Greta replied, "Take whatever you want. I won't call the police. Please, just go, and don't come back."
   "No problem," Alex said. "I'll grab my stuff, put it in my backpack, and vanish into the night."
   He quickly packed his belongings, slipped on his sneakers in the hallway, threw his backpack over his shoulder, and left Greta's apartment without saying goodbye.
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