Nevsky Prospekt. Bloody Auction бесплатное чтение

"Nevsky Prospekt. Bloody Auction"

Prologue

Part One

St. Petersburg, October 1993. The city greeted autumn with wet snow that melted before reaching the asphalt, settling as sticky drizzle on the granite embankments, on the backs of bronze lions, on the rusty roofs of cars parked along the Griboyedov Canal.

A light was on in the antique shop on Liteyny Prospekt. Usually by nine-thirty in the evening, Ilya Borisovich would already be closing up, but today a customer had come. A solid man, with an expensive watch, a Moscow accent, and an unpleasant gleam in his eyes. He wanted to buy a collection – Imperial porcelain, two dozen Gardener figurines that Ilya Borisovich had spent fifteen years collecting.

"I've already explained," Ilya Borisovich adjusted his glasses on his nose, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's not for sale. It's museum quality. I'm waiting for a call from the Hermitage; they're interested."

The buyer, a stocky man around forty in a long leather coat, smirked. He sat on a visitor's chair, his coat unbuttoned, jangling his car keys.

"Ilya Borisovich," he said wearily, like a teacher explaining the multiplication tables to a struggling student. "The Hermitage will pay peanuts. We'll pay well. In dollars. Today. Right now."

"I won't take dollars," the antiquarian shook his head. "It's illegal."

The man in the leather coat stopped smiling. He looked at Ilya Borisovich long and hard, then turned his head towards the door and gave a short nod.

The door opened. Two men entered. Young, athletic, with identical crew cuts. One immediately stood by the entrance, blocking the exit. The second walked deeper into the shop, unceremoniously pushed Ilya Borisovich aside, and started examining the porcelain display case.

"Careful there!" Ilya Borisovich shouted, but his voice cracked.

The guy at the case picked up one figurine – a shepherdess in a pink dress, from the early 1900s – twirled it in his hands like a potato, and carelessly put it back. The shepherdess wobbled, nearly falling.

"I said – careful!" Ilya Borisovich lunged forward, but the second guy, the one at the entrance, grabbed him by the shoulder and sat him back down on the chair. Hard, without effort, as if he were a child.

The man in the leather coat leaned towards him. He smelled of expensive cologne and something else, something elusively dangerous.

"Ilya Borisovich, let's do this the easy way. You're an old man, your daughter, they say, has gone to Israel. Do you need trouble? We'll pay. Five thousand dollars. That's very good money."

"I don't want your money," the antiquarian said stubbornly. "Leave. I'll call the police."

The man sighed. He stood up, straightened his coat.

"He'll call the police," he repeated thoughtfully. Then he nodded to the guy at the display case. "Take it."

The guy, without asking, opened the case and started dumping the figurines into a sports bag he'd brought. He scooped them up by the handful, like potatoes. The porcelain clinked, knocking against each other.

"No!" Ilya Borisovich jumped up, broke free from the second guard's weakened grip, and rushed to the case. "No, you bastards! These are unique pieces!"

He grabbed the bag, trying to tear it away. The guy, startled, let go of the bag, and it fell to the floor, shattering. Porcelain shards scattered across the parquet – shepherdesses, hussars, peasant girls, all mixed together, in dust and dirt.

Ilya Borisovich froze. Then he dropped to his knees and began gathering the shards with trembling hands.

"Idiots," the man in the leather coat said calmly. "Fine. Let's go."

"What about him?" asked the guy who had been holding the antiquarian.

"I said, let's go."

They left. The door slammed. Ilya Borisovich remained sitting on the floor among the remains of his collection. For a minute he sat motionless, then slowly, with difficulty, he got up. He went to the back room. He opened the safe where he kept a little cash and documents. He didn't take out a wad of money, but an old photograph in a frame – a woman with a child, his wife and daughter, back from Soviet times. He kissed the glass. Then he opened the desk drawer and took out a hunting rifle he'd kept since the eighties, when they were still allowed.

He wasn't a hero. He was an old, frightened man from whom everything he loved had just been taken. And at that moment, dying didn't seem so scary anymore.

He went outside. The buyers' Volga hadn't left yet – they were standing twenty meters away, at the traffic light, waiting for the green. Ilya Borisovich raised the rifle, aimed at the rear window, and fired.

Glass shattered. The car swerved, hit a parked Zhiguli, and crashed into a lamppost. Two men jumped out – those same guys – and then, ducking down, the man in the leather coat scrambled out too.

Ilya Borisovich fired again. Hit the fender. A third shot – into the air, because the guys were already running towards him.

They caught up with him quickly. One kicked the rifle out of his hands, the other knocked him onto the wet asphalt. Ilya Borisovich hit his head, losing orientation for a second. When consciousness returned, he was lying face down in a puddle, feeling someone's boot on the back of his head.

"Old bitch," he heard a voice from above. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Vadim Borisovich," someone said. "Look, he's bleeding."

That was the last thing he heard. Someone's boot pressed harder, grinding his face into the wet asphalt, into the mud, into the shards of glass.

When the police arrived twenty minutes later – summoned by a passerby who'd seen the shooting – Ilya Borisovich was still alive. But the ambulance didn't make it in time. Heart attack, the doctors said later. His heart gave out.

The streetlights burned on Liteyny Prospekt, a drizzle fell, and the old man's body in a puddle of blood and mud was covered with a tarpaulin. Operatives smoked nearby, talking in low voices. The car with Moscow plates had already been taken to the impound lot, and they didn't bother looking for the ones who'd been in it – they had more important things to do.

No one knew then that this dead antiquarian was the cousin of a man the city knew as Baron. And that in a week, other Muscovites would come to Petersburg. Completely different ones. The kind you don't mess with.

Autumn had only just begun.

Chapter 1. The Newcomers

Moscow, two days earlier.

German Sotnikov, whom his people called Grek (The Greek), stood by the window of his office on Novy Arbat and watched the people down on the avenue scurrying through the rain, ducking into underpasses. Behind him sat three men, and the silence in the room was heavy, oppressive.

"So, here's the plan," Grek said without turning around. "I'm going to Petersburg myself."

"German Andreevich," one of the seated men spoke up, a balding man with a neck chain as thick as a finger. "Maybe you shouldn't? Things are different there. This Baron… he's a tough cookie. The old-time thieves put him in place. Let's just send a brigade, they'll sort it out."

Grek turned. He was thirty-five, but looked all of forty – a heavy jaw, deep wrinkles around his mouth, eyes the color of Baltic water – light grey, almost transparent. On his left cheek, a barely noticeable scar, a souvenir from Afghanistan. He was dressed simply: a black, coarse-knit sweater, jeans. No chains, no gold.

"Listen up, Shtyr (The Bayonet)," he said quietly. His voice was low, calm. The calmer he spoke, the more terrifying it was for those who knew him. "This Baron of yours has been giving us the runaround for a year. The ports are his. Goods go through Petersburg – we don't see a single kopeck. The thieves there are old school, they've got their ponyatiya [their code, their concepts]. And you know what I think about ponyatiya?"

Shtyr was silent. He knew. Grek didn't recognize the thieves' code. A thief belongs in prison, he believed; whoever's free is just a businessman like everyone else. Only his goods are specific.

"I'll talk to him myself," Grek continued. "The nice way. Larisa, is it ready?"

The woman sitting in the corner on a chair raised her head. Larisa was twenty-eight, but looked younger – delicate features, fair hair pulled back in a strict bun, no makeup. She was dressed expensively but discreetly: a dark blue business suit, low-heeled shoes. If not for her eyes – intelligent, sharp, appraising – she could have been mistaken for a secretary.

"The documents are ready," she said. Her voice was low, with a slight huskiness. "The company is registered, the bank account is open. The cover story is clean: a Moscow investment company looking for opportunities in the Northwestern region. Interested in port infrastructure, warehouse facilities, real estate."

"Clever girl," Grek smirked faintly. "Did you hear that, Shtyr? An investment company. Not gangsters, but businessmen. Baron respects that type."

Shtyr grunted but remained silent. He was an old convict, served eight years for armed robbery. Grek had pulled him out of prison six months ago – paid off the right people, arranged early release. Since then, Shtyr followed him like a shadow. Not out of gratitude, even – but from the understanding that men like Grek either lift you high or bury you so deep no one will ever find you.

"The third wheel," Grek said, looking at the third man sitting by the door. He was young, about twenty-five, with a plain, simple face and hands that he kept clenching into fists, then unclenching, then clenching again. "What's your name?"

"Kolyan," the guy stood up. "Kolyan… well, Shtyr's my uncle," he nodded towards Shtyr.

"So why are you here?"

"Uncle said we need young guys. I've been to Petersburg, I know the city. And besides – if you need someone wasted, I can do it."

He said it simply, as if it were an everyday matter. Grek looked at him more closely.

"Wasted, huh? And how many have you wasted already?"

Kolyan hesitated.

"Well… one. He didn't want to go back to the zone, asked for it himself. I helped."

"Sit down," Grek waved his hand. "In Petersburg, you do nothing without orders. Got it?"

"Got it," Kolyan sat down.

"Alright then," Grek walked to the table, leaned on it with his hands. "We leave tomorrow morning. By car. Shtyr, you're with us. Kolyan, you're driving; they'll give you a decent car. Larisa, you bring all the documents. We'll stay at a hotel in Petersburg, but not the Evropeyskaya or the Astoria – too many ears there. Find something modest but decent. We make contact with Baron through his people. Do we have a contact?"

"Yes," Larisa nodded. "Baron's former university professor. He's in Moscow now, down on his luck. For a small sum, he's ready to arrange a meeting."

"Good. We'll go through him. No threats, no pressure. Just get acquainted, talk business. If Baron's a smart man – we'll make a deal. If not…"

He didn't finish. But everyone understood.

That night, Grek didn't sleep. He sat on the windowsill in his office, drinking tea, watching the lights of Moscow. The city lived its own life – somewhere they were shooting, somewhere counting money, somewhere burying someone. An ordinary night of '93.

The door creaked. Larisa entered, without her jacket now, just in her blouse. She came over, stood beside him.

"Can't sleep?"

"Can't sleep," he confirmed.

"Are you afraid?"

Grek smirked.

"I'm not afraid of anyone, Larisa. You know that."

"That's not what I mean. You're afraid you won't be able to make a deal. That you'll have to start a war."

He was silent for a moment. Then said quietly:

"War is filth. Blood, corpses, cops crawling around. Money goes the wrong way. If you can negotiate – you negotiate."

"And if you can't?"

Grek turned to her. In the darkness, his eyes seemed black.

"If you can't – then war. Petersburg is small. Moscow is big. It's clear who'll crush who."

"What if they unite? Petersburg with someone else?"

"With who?" Grek smirked. "Chechnya? Too far. The Baltics? They don't even know who they are right now. No, Lara, Petersburg is alone. And we are Moscow. We decide everything now. The Kremlin, the White House – all ours. Whoever we needed, we put in place. Whoever got in the way, we removed. Did you hear, more shooting at the White House yesterday?"

"I heard."

"See. The country is ours. And Petersburg will be ours too. Sooner or later."

She looked at him and thought that this man would either rise so high they'd write books about him, or disappear so fast no one would remember. And somehow she felt she had to be there, to see it with her own eyes.

"Go to sleep," Grek said. "Tomorrow's a tough day."

She nodded and left.

And he remained sitting on the windowsill, drinking cold tea, watching Moscow. The city beneath him breathed, stirred, lived. Soon he would go to another city to make it his own. Or to die.

The second option, Grek did not consider.

Chapter 2. The Baron

St. Petersburg, Vasilievsky Island district, the same night.

Vadim Demidov, whom the city had called Baron for about ten years, sat in his study reading a book. Not accounting reports or brigade leaders' dispatches – a real book. The History of the Byzantine Empire, volume three. A desk lamp with a green shade burned on the table, old grandfather clock ticked in the corner, paintings hung on the walls – a genuine Repin, an original bought back in the eighties for a pittance by today's standards.

Baron was forty-five, but looked younger. Tall, fit, with regular features and neat grey hair at his temples. He wore a house sweater and corduroy trousers – at home he allowed himself to relax. On his nose were reading glasses, which he was embarrassed to wear in public.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes," he said without raising his head from the book.

A man entered. Middle-aged, with the face of a professional boxer – a broken nose, a heavy jaw. He was dressed in a strict suit, which looked odd with such a face. This was Baron's head of security, formerly a senior operative in the criminal investigation department, Police Major Gleb Kovalyov. He had resigned three years ago when he realized his salary was a joke and the gangsters lived a hundred times better.

"Vadim Borisovich," he said. "There's a situation."

Baron put down the book, took off his glasses.

"I'm listening."

"Ilya Borisovich… your relative… well, they found him today. Dead."

Baron froze. He didn't flinch, didn't pale – just froze, turning into a statue.

"How?"

"Heart. Heart attack. But before that… some people came to him. Demanded the collection. Gardner porcelain. He refused. They took it by force, smashed it. He ran out with a rifle, shot at them. Then he collapsed. His heart."

"Who came?"

"Muscovites. A car with Moscow plates. We've already checked – the company is fake, but the people are real. From Grek's brigade."

Baron slowly rose. Walked to the window, parted the heavy curtains. Outside was night, the Neva, the lights of bridges. A beautiful city, his city.

"Grek," he repeated. "German Sotnikov. Heard of him. Veteran, underground workshop operator, then shot up in the nineties. They say he's smart. They say he's cruel."

"Very cruel, Vadim Borisovich. He served in Afghanistan, intelligence. Knows how to kill quietly. Has connections in Moscow at the very top. Weapons went through him to Chechnya, and from there – drugs. Now he wants our ports."

Baron was silent for a long time. A minute, two, five. The clock ticked, marking time.

"Ilya," he said finally. "He wasn't just a relative. He raised me after my parents died. Practically a father."

"I know, Vadim Borisovich."

"Arrange the funeral. The best. Everything on me. And find me those Muscovites. Everyone who went into that shop. I want to know who exactly smashed the porcelain. Who pressed his face into the asphalt."

"We'll find them," Kovalyov nodded.

"Grek… Is he here yet?"

"Not yet. But he's coming tomorrow. We have information: he wants to meet, talk. Offers business."

Baron gave a grim smile.

"Business, huh. After his people killed my uncle? Does he know?"

"Unlikely. It was locals he hired. They went too far. I don't think Grek knows yet."

"Even better," Baron turned from the window. "Let him come. Let him offer his business. We'll meet him properly. Petersburg style. With respect."

Kovalyov understood. Nodded and left.

Baron was alone. He walked to the bookcase, opened a panel concealing a small bar. Poured himself some cognac – real, pre-war French. Drank it in one gulp, tasting nothing.

Ilya Borisovich. He remembered his hands – dry, warm, always smelling of wood and old books. How he taught little Vadim to distinguish a genuine Kustodiev from a fake. How he took him to the Hermitage and told him about every painting as if he'd been there himself.

And now he was gone. And would never be again.

"Forgive me, Uncle Ilya," Baron said aloud to the empty room. "I failed to protect you."

He put the glass down, returned to his desk. The book lay open at the same page. He closed it, put it back on the shelf. Then he took a heavy Stechkin pistol from the desk drawer, checked the magazine, put it back.

Tomorrow Grek arrives. The day after, there will be a conversation. And today – today he would remember. And count.

Chapter 3. The Road

The next morning, a black Mercedes 600 with Moscow plates left Novy Arbat and set course for Petersburg. Kolyan was driving, Shtyr beside him. In the back – Grek and Larisa.

They drove in silence. Outside the window flashed the Moscow region forests, already touched with yellow, then stretched fields, villages with crooked huts, rivers, bridges. Grek looked out the window, thinking his own thoughts. Larisa read some papers, occasionally making notes in a notebook.

"It's beautiful here," she said unexpectedly. "Beyond Moscow, it's a completely different Russia."

"Different," Grek agreed. "But this Russia feeds Moscow. And Petersburg. And they've got the ports, warehouses, routes. Whoever controls that is the master."

"And you want to be the master?"

Grek turned to her.

"Don't you?"

Larisa was silent. She did. Very much so. To get out of that communal apartment where her childhood passed, out of that poverty where her mother worked three jobs and there still wasn't enough money. She wanted to live well. And if that meant standing next to a man like Grek – she would stand. As long as it was profitable.

"Pull over," Grek said suddenly.

Kolyan obediently pulled onto the shoulder. Grek got out, stretched his legs. Stood at the edge of the field, looking at the horizon. Shtyr came over, lit a cigarette.

"German Andreevich," he said cautiously. "What if Baron doesn't want to do it the nice way? What then?"

"Then you know your job."

"I know. But it's not just Baron there. It's the city. There are cops of their own, old-time thieves. There are ponyatiya."

"I know all about your ponyatiya," Grek smirked. "A thief should be in prison, not writing thieves' laws while he's free. Whoever's free is a businessman. You're a businessman, Shtyr. I'm a businessman. Larisa's a businesswoman. And Baron is just an old underground workshop boss who didn't realize in time that times have changed."

"Time is always the same," Shtyr said quietly. "People don't change."

Grek looked at him long and hard, but said nothing. Got back in the car.

"Let's go."

By evening they entered the city. Petersburg greeted them with drizzling rain, wet asphalt, the yellow lights of streetlamps. They drove along Ligovsky, turned onto Nevsky. Larisa looked out the window as if spellbound.

"Beautiful," she said. "Even in the rain, it's beautiful."

"Beautiful," Grek agreed. "But foreign."

They stopped at the Oktyabrskaya Hotel – not the fanciest, but decent, right by Moskovsky Station. Larisa had chosen it specifically: from here it was easy to monitor the entrance to the city, the station was nearby, the metro was nearby, and in case of anything, a quick escape.

The room was large: two bedrooms, a living room. Grek took one bedroom, Larisa the other; Shtyr and Kolyan settled in the next room, simpler.

Grek went to the window. Below, Ligovsky Prospekt roared, people hurried about their business, trams clattered at the turns. An ordinary evening in an ordinary city.

"Do you feel it?" Larisa asked, coming up behind him.

"What?"

"The air. Different. Damp. Heavy."

Grek shrugged.

"Air is air."

"No," she shook her head. "Everything is different here. Slower. Deeper, somehow. Moscow is like boiling water. Here, it's a swamp. Quiet, deep. And you can drown without noticing."

Grek turned around.

"Are you afraid?"

"I'm being cautious. They're different things."

"Clever girl," he smirked. "Alright, let's sleep. Tough day tomorrow."

She nodded and went to her room. And Grek stood at the window for a long time, looking at the foreign city, thinking that Larisa was right. Everything was different here. But he hadn't come to adapt. He came to change.

Tomorrow they'd see who was stronger – Moscow's drive or Petersburg's stubbornness.

Chapter 4. The Meeting

The meeting was set on neutral territory – a café on the Petrograd Side, not far from Gorkovskaya metro station. The café was called "Three Bridges" and was known for its cuisine and the fact that the owner knew how to keep his mouth shut.

Grek arrived an hour early. Looked around. An ordinary place: plastic tables, a bar counter, photos of old Petersburg on the walls. There was no one in the hall except a waitress and two men in the corner who were clearly not customers but security.

"German Sotnikov?" one of them asked, approaching. Middle-aged, sturdy, with the face of a boxer.

"Yes."

"Gleb Kovalyov, security. Follow me."

Grek nodded to Shtyr to stay by the entrance and walked to the back of the hall. There, at a separate table, sat a man drinking coffee. Ordinary looking – sweater, glasses, grey at the temples. But Grek immediately understood: this was Baron.

"Hello, German," Baron said, rising. His voice was calm, polite. "Have a seat. Would you like coffee?"

"Yes. Black, no sugar."

Baron nodded to the waitress. She brought a cup.

"Your city is beautiful," Grek said, sitting down. "It's hard to believe that in such beauty, such things happen."

"What things?" Baron looked at him calmly, without a smile.

"Different things. Criminal ones, for example."

"Ah, you mean that." Baron took a sip of coffee. "You know, German, I'm actually a historian by education. I taught at the university. And I got into this… business… by accident. In the eighties, I started an underground workshop to feed my family. Then people came and said: either you're with us, or… Well, one thing led to another. So I'm not a criminal. I'm circumstances."

"I understand," Grek nodded. "It's the times. None of us wanted it, but we had to."

"You, I heard, fought in Afghanistan?"

"Been there."

"Tough?"

"In different ways. At least there it was clear who the enemy was. Here…"

Baron smirked.

"Here you can't see the enemies. Only friends who shoot you in the back."

A pause hung in the air. Grek realized the conversation wasn't going according to his plan. Baron wasn't leaning on him, wasn't threatening, wasn't setting conditions. He was just talking, like an old acquaintance. And that was more dangerous than any threat.

"Let's get down to business," Grek said. "I came to propose cooperation. I have serious resources in Moscow. You have ports, warehouses, access to the Baltic here. Together we could control half the country."

"And why would I want to control half the country?" Baron asked. "I'm fine here."

"You're fine until Moscow comes. And Moscow will come. It's only a matter of time."

"Let them come. We have our own order here. Our own laws."

"Laws," Grek smirked. "You mean ponyatiya? They don't work anymore. New times – new rules. Whoever is stronger is right."

Baron looked at him for a long time. Then said quietly:

"You know, German, a relative of mine recently died. My father's cousin, practically a second father. He was a good man, an antiquarian. Some people came to him, demanded a collection. He refused. They took it by force, smashed it. And he went out with a rifle… his heart couldn't take it."

Grek frowned. He sensed where the wind was blowing.

"I'm sorry," he said cautiously. "But what does that have to do with me?"

"The people who did that were working for you. I checked. The Moscow brigade you hired to prepare for your arrival. They went too far."

Grek was silent. Options rapidly spun through his head. If this was true, there would be no deal. If Baron was lying – it would be too late to check.

"I didn't know," he said finally. "I came to negotiate, not to fight."

"I believe you," Baron nodded. "But it doesn't make it any easier. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"What are we going to do, German? You killed my uncle. Not personally, but your people did. According to ponyatiya, I should… for this…"

He didn't finish. But Grek understood.

"I offered business," he said. "I'm offering now. Let's forget about this. I'll compensate. Name your price."

Baron smirked.

"Price. You think you can buy an uncle for a price? And the porcelain they smashed? Each figurine there is unique. One such shepherdess sold at Sotheby's for twenty thousand dollars. And he had twenty of them. Plus the collection he spent fifteen years gathering. Can you compensate for that?"

Grek was silent.

"No," Baron answered for him. "You can't. Because it's not about money. It's about you coming to my city and starting to run things without asking. You killed my man. Now you want to forget. And I can't forget. I'm, you know, old-fashioned."

"What do you propose?" Grek asked.

"I propose you leave. Today. And never come back. And the people who did this – leave them to me."

"They are my people," Grek said harshly. "I don't give up my own."

"Then it's war," Baron shrugged. "A pity. You strike me as an intelligent man."

He stood up, put money for coffee on the table.

"Goodbye, German. I hope we don't meet again. For your own good."

And he left. His guards followed like shadows.

Grek remained sitting. Shtyr came over, sat opposite.

"What did he say?"

"War," Grek answered shortly. "His people killed that antiquarian. Remember, I sent someone to deal with those who refuse us?"

Shtyr paled.

"So that… that was his relative?"

"Cousin of his father. Second father, as he said."

"Holy mother," Shtyr exhaled. "German Andreevich, I didn't know. Kolyan said, just some stubborn antiquarian, needs to be taught a lesson. So I sent…"

"Who did you send?"

"Some local guys. Ryzhy (Ginger) and his crew. They agreed for a small fee."

Grek closed his eyes. There it was. Locals, hired for pennies, had stirred up such a hornet's nest that now it couldn't be undone.

"Where is this Ryzhy?"

"Here, in the city. Waiting, maybe we'll need him."

"We'll need him," Grek opened his eyes. "Very much so. Bring him here. And everyone who was with him. We need to figure out how to get out of this."

"War?" Shtyr asked.

"War," Grek nodded. "But first, we deal with our own. So the outsiders know: for freelancing, we have a – cost."

Shtyr understood. Nodded and left.

And Grek sat in the empty café, drinking cold coffee, looking at photos of old Petersburg. The city looked at him from the photos indifferently, like a beast looks at a victim that has walked into its lair.

Chapter 5. Ryzhy (Ginger)

They found Pavel Prokofiev, nicknamed Ryzhy, an hour later in an apartment on Prosveshcheniya Prospekt. He lived with his mother, but mother had been staying at her sister's for two days – Ryzhy had brought a girl over and partied so hard the walls shook.

When Shtyr and two fighters burst into the apartment, Ryzhy was sleeping naked on the couch, and the girl lay unconscious in the bathtub – too much champagne.

"Get up," Shtyr kicked the couch.

Ryzhy opened his eyes, saw the gun barrel, and woke instantly.

"What the… guys, what's up? I paid my dues, everything's fine…"

"Get dressed. Grek wants you."

"Grek?" Ryzhy was even glad. "Well, well! The man himself! I thought he was in Moscow. What happened?"

"Get dressed, I said."

Half an hour later, Ryzhy, combed and more or less dressed, stood in Grek's hotel room, looking at him with fawning admiration.

"German Andreevich! Such an honor! I'm in your debt forever, just say the word – I'll do anything!"

Grek sat in an armchair, studying him. About twenty-two, twenty-three, red hair, a freckled face that didn't match his reputation as a brutal gangster. But his eyes – darting, sharp, mean. The kind of eyes jackals have.

"Sit down," Grek said.

Ryzhy sat on the edge of a chair.

"Remember that antiquarian you went to see the other day? On Liteyny?"

Ryzhy froze. His eyes darted around.

"Oh… yeah, that happened. Some old guy, didn't want to give up his porcelain. We scared him a little, and he ran out with a rifle… crazy old man. But we didn't do anything, we left right away."

"He's dead," Grek said. "Heart."

"No kidding!" Ryzhy was genuinely surprised. "I barely touched him. Well, shoved him once when he grabbed the bag. And pressed his face into the asphalt so he wouldn't struggle. That wasn't out of malice. Turns out he had heart problems, they say his blood pressure was all over the place."

Grek looked at him and thought: this idiot doesn't even understand what he's done. To him, an old man with a broken heart is just an accident. An unfortunate misunderstanding.

"That old man," Grek said slowly, "was Baron's cousin. Heard of him?"

Ryzhy went pale. So pale his freckles showed like dark dots on white paper.

"Baron?" he whispered.

"Baron," Grek confirmed. "The one who runs all of Petersburg. Whom even the old-time thieves recognize. Who feeds the cops and rules the city. You killed his relative."

Ryzhy opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then slid off the chair onto his knees.

"German Andreevich! I didn't know! I swear to God, I didn't know! You said: punish the antiquarian who won't work with Muscovites. So I punished! Lightly! And he…"

"Get up," Grek said wearily. "Don't humiliate yourself."

Ryzhy stood. His hands were shaking.

"What's going to happen now?" he asked.

"Baron has declared war on us. Because of you."

"I… I'll fix it! Give me men, I'll take care of this Baron…"

"Shut up," Grek cut him off. "You wouldn't even get close to him. They'd waste you at the door."

"What should I do?"

Grek was silent for a moment. Then he said:

"You'll work for me. Out in the open. You know the city, you know the people. You'll be my eyes and ears here. And when the time comes – you'll be my hand."

Ryzhy nodded frantically.

"I'll do anything, German Andreevich. Anything you say."

"Go. Rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

Ryzhy left, backing out and bowing. When the door closed, Larisa emerged from the bedroom.

"Seriously?" she asked. "That idiot ruined everything for us, and you forgive him?"

"I'm not forgiving him," Grek shook his head. "I'm using him. He knows the city, knows where everything is. And he'll do anything I say because he's scared. Guys like him are good weapons. Disposable, but good."

"What if he screws up again?"

"Then I'll kill him myself. Personally."

Larisa looked at him and understood he wasn't joking. Not one bit.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now it's war," Grek answered. "Prepare the documents. We'll need money, lots of money. And weapons. Contact Moscow, have them prepare a group. Ten to fifteen men. The best."

"And the locals?"

"The locals will show us where to shoot. The Muscovites will do the shooting. They've got a good eye."

Larisa nodded and went to her room – to call, negotiate, calculate.

Grek went to the window. Outside was the Petersburg night. Dark, damp, foreign.

"Well, Baron," he said quietly. "Let's see who gets who."

Chapter 6. The Scheme

Morning in Petersburg began with fog. So thick you couldn't see the neighboring buildings. Grek stood at the window watching the grey mess slowly drift through the streets, enveloping trams, cars, rare passersby.

There was a knock at the door. Shtyr entered.

"German Andreevich, it's… cops."

"What cops?"

"Local. A major, wants to talk."

Grek smirked. Interesting. Baron declared war yesterday, and today the cops show up. Either a coincidence or…

"Send him in."

A man of about forty entered, in civilian clothes – a worn jacket, rumpled shirt, tired face. He introduced himself:

"Major Korablyov, homicide department."

"What do I owe the pleasure?" Grek didn't offer him a seat.

"I have business with you, German Andreevich. May I sit?"

"Sit."

Korablyov sat, looked around. His gaze was sharp, professional. Grek recognized that look immediately – cops who work not out of fear, but out of conscience. The most dangerous kind. You can't buy them, you can't intimidate them. You can only kill them.

"Yesterday, in the Petrograd Side, at the 'Three Bridges' cafe, you met with a well-known figure in the city," Korablyov said. "I won't name names, you know who."

"Let's say."

"And this morning, two bodies were found. Two guys who worked for that well-known figure. Shot with a silenced pistol. Professionally. Point blank."

Grek raised an eyebrow.

"And you came to me because…"

"Because after your meeting," Korablyov looked him straight in the eye, "showdowns started in the city. And for some reason, it seems to me that you're at the center of it."

"You're mistaken, Major. I'm a peaceful man. A businessman."

"Right," Korablyov smirked. "A businessman from Moscow. The most dangerous kind of businessman. Listen, German Andreevich, I'm not going to threaten you. Threatening people like you is pointless. I just want you to know: I'm watching you. And if something happens – I'll come. Not alone."

"Is that a threat?"

"A warning. There's a difference."

He stood up, nodded, and left.

Grek watched him go. Interesting. Very interesting. A major who's afraid of nothing. There aren't many, but they exist. And they're dangerous.

"Shtyr," he called. "Find out everything about this cop. Who, what, where he lives, does he have a family. Everything."

"Will do."

When Shtyr left, Larisa appeared from the bedroom. She was already dressed, combed, with a notebook in her hands.

"Moscow confirmed," she said. "Twelve men will arrive in two days. Weapons will be brought separately, in a truck with food."

"Good. What about money?"

"Accounts are in order. We can withdraw up to a hundred thousand a day. If we need more, we need to go to Moscow personally."

"Enough for now. What about Baron?"

"He was at the Nevsky restaurant last night. Had dinner with some people. Our people tracked them – they went to three addresses. All mid-level authorities. Looks like he's gathering a council."

"So he's getting ready," Grek nodded. "Smart. Gives us time, while he gathers allies."

"What do we do?"

"Wait. Until our people arrive. Meanwhile – get to know the city better. Let's go check out the ports. Need to understand what we're fighting for."

"Dangerous. Baron might set up an ambush."

"He might," Grek agreed. "But he won't. He's old-fashioned. He'll gather a council first, discuss, vote. Then he'll act. While he's consulting – we work."

Larisa looked at him and thought: how foreign he still is in this city. And how much he belongs in that world where money and power rule.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

"No. You'll stay here. Keep contact with Moscow. And watch the news. If anything goes wrong – leave. On your own. Without me."

"And you?"

"I'll manage somehow," Grek smirked. "Not the first time."

Chapter 7. The Port

The port greeted them with the smell of salt, fish, and fuel oil. Grek stood on the pier, looking at the huge ships loading containers, thinking about how much money passed through these gates every day. Thousands, tens of thousands of dollars. Maybe even hundreds of thousands.