As he walked into the station, Dobrev considered the possibilities. Glancing east, he stared at the powerful locomotive. He pondered the significance of the guarded cargo, the pigeon messengers to signal its progress, and the unscheduled departure in the dead of night.
Dobrev stopped and trembled at the thought.
His feeling of good fortune disappeared when he realized that the coin he found was probably a tiny fraction of the contents of the dozens of crates. Vast tons of coins and treasures, all being taken away. The wealth of a nation being removed from his homeland.
The chill he felt as he entered the cavernous waiting area was deeper than any he had felt during his short walk through the winter night.
It was the chill of despair.
1
The surveillance van was parked down the street on the left. The same place it had been the day before and the day before that. Its location was the second-worst-kept secret in the Eastern Bloc neighborhood of Brighton Beach.
The
Vladimir Kozlov had built a criminal empire in Moscow. He dabbled in everything from drugs and weapons to prostitution and smuggling. In recent years, he had discovered the advantages of cybercrime, though he rarely used computers himself. Through it all, he had managed to avoid prosecution. Thanks to the liberal free-trade laws established after the fall of the Soviet Union and, more importantly, millions of dollars in bribes to key officials, Kozlov was viewed by most Russians — the same people that he secretly robbed, and threatened, and extorted — as a national hero.
But to the FBI, he was something else.
He was a person of interest.
Possibly the most interesting man in New York.
Because of his ‘clean’ criminal record, Kozlov was allowed to enter America in order to expand his legitimate businesses. He immediately bought the largest house in Brighton Beach, an area of Brooklyn known as ‘Little Odessa’ because of its huge population of Ukrainians. He then used his reputation and connections to unite the local
In the media, they were known as the Killer Bees.
Inside the van, they were called something worse.
‘I’m telling you,’ Special Agent Jason Koontz said as he stuffed noodles into his mouth from a takeout carton, ‘these guys are cold-hearted Russian motherfuckers. American criminals don’t think like them. Neither do the Italians. These Commie bastards are a different breed. They’re as nasty as the Triads, only a lot less Asian.’
His partner, Rudy Callahan, nearly spit out his lukewarm coffee. He quickly glanced at his computer screen and made sure that neither of their microphones was actively transmitting. If they had been, his partner’s profane and racist rant would have been recorded on the Bureau’s mainframe, and it undoubtedly would have been red- flagged by their superiors and cited in Koontz’s ever-growing discipline file.
‘Stop doing that!’ Callahan demanded.
‘Doing what?’ Koontz asked, seemingly oblivious to the problem. He accented his ignorance by slurping up more lo mein. Soy sauce sprayed everywhere.
‘Saying stuff like that in the van. Do you know what would happen if the director heard what you just said?’
Koontz shrugged. ‘He’d probably agree with me.’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Callahan assured him. ‘He’d probably suspend you. You know damn well we can’t make racist comments during an operation. Your comments could be used against us in court. It makes our observations seem biased.’
Koontz shook his head. His partner was such a boy scout. ‘You think I’m bad? You should hear some of the stories I’ve heard from the Narco units that cover the streetwalkers downtown. They say this one Czech chick can fit a-’
‘Jason!’ Callahan interrupted. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? Just about everything you say is racist!’
‘Racist? How can I be a racist? I’m eating
‘Oh … my … God,’ he mumbled in disbelief. ‘I’m stuck in a van with a total idiot. Why do I even bother?’
‘Because I’m your only friend.’
‘Shut up.’
Koontz laughed to himself. He loved getting on his partner’s nerves, especially on long stakeouts like this one where nothing major was expected to occur. The two agents were there to take pictures of Kozlov’s minions, fresh-off-the-boat recruits who were smuggled to America with promises of power and money but were actually brought here to do the dirty work that Kozlov’s top earners couldn’t risk doing. These thugs were recycled so quickly that the Bureau had to maintain constant surveillance to keep track of them. Conveniently, most of them lived in the houses that bordered Kozlov’s property. In many ways, they were like a community watch program in reverse.
They warned Kozlov when the cops were around.
Lately, that had been twenty-four hours a day.
As part of a cooperative arrangement with the NYPD’s 60th Precinct, the FBI maintained an ongoing presence in Brighton Beach at the behest of community leaders who were trying to combat the notorious reputation of Little Odessa. This was particularly true in the summer months when tourists flocked to the local beaches with pockets full of cash and plenty of entertainment options. With Coney Island to the west and Manhattan Beach to the east, the businesses of Brighton Beach had to work extra hard to attract visitors. That meant convincing locals and tourists alike that foreign gangsters wouldn’t rob them before they had a chance to spend their hard-earned money on beers, souvenirs, and cotton candy.
But unlike the 60th Precinct, which was tasked with patrolling the streets and walking the beat, the Bureau took advantage of this special opportunity by parking one of its state-of-the-art surveillance vans fifty feet from Kozlov’s house in an attempt to spook him. Initially, his high-powered attorney had tried to argue harassment — after all, Kozlov was a businessman to be ‘respected’, not a criminal to be ‘persecuted’ — but a federal judge dismissed the motion after the Bureau’s attorneys argued that they were watching the house, not the man. It was a technicality that stood on weak legal legs, but the judge agreed with the distinction.
That was why the van never moved.
And why Koontz was bored silly.
Sensing a chance for some privacy, he did everything he could to agitate his partner. ‘Seriously, what did I say that was so wrong?’
‘Everything!’ Callahan explained. ‘First of all, half of his men
‘Whatever.’
‘Don’t “whatever” me! I get enough of that from my kids and my ex-wives. I don’t need it from you, too.’
Koontz rolled his eyes, agitating his partner even more. ‘Fine, but you’re like a broken record. I know Kozlov’s men aren’t all Russians, but calling them “multi-ethnic motherfuckers” doesn’t have the same zing to it. Of course,
