Authors: Brian Haig
Tatyana, in a soothing tone obviously intended to unruffle the feathers: “What makes you think Khodorin’s behind it, Nicky?
He’s just a businessman.”
“’Cause we keep finding notes pinned on the corpses. ‘Lay off Central Enterprises, or we’ll kick your ass.’” A brief pause.
“Hey, you know what? They
are
kicking my ass.”
Golitsin, in an annoyed, slightly absent tone: “He never called.”
Tatyana: “Who never called who, Sergei?”
“Yuri Khodorin. He never called my man to handle his company’s security.”
Nicky: “Yeah, well, sure as hell he called somebody. Somebody connected. I’ll tell ya who he called. A real vicious prick.”
Tatyana: “Well, we can’t let him off the hook. Not now. The man is worth billions, Nicky.”
“You know, you keep sayin’ that. But I don’t see your ass out on the street, takin’ the lumps this guy’s dishing out. I’m
tellin’ ya, this guy’s smart.”
Golitsin: “How smart?”
“Last week, a few of my guys went to lay a little dynamite in that warehouse. Same one we talked about last week. It was a
massacre.”
Mikhail laughed so hard he nearly choked on his coffee. He had overheard their plan the week before, and quietly passed it
along to his old friend from police days who was now handling security for Khodorin—with brutal effectiveness, based upon
what he was hearing.
Tatyana: “Is it possible another syndicate is going to war with you? That sometimes happens, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah, good point, I hadn’t thought of that.” A brief pause. “Stick with what you know. No syndicate leaves messages warning
me to lay off this Khodorin guy.”
Tatyana: “Come on, Nicky. We’ve invested months in this. Central Enterprises is perfect, just perfect. Five hundred million
in cash reserves. Cash, Nicky, cash. We’d be idiots to walk away at this point.”
Nicky: “It’s his fault”—presumably pointing a finger at Golitsin—“wasn’t he supposed to get one of his snoops inside? Whatever
happened to that, huh?”
Yes, whatever did happen to that, Mikhail wanted to yell in their faces.
But for a few long moments there was silence. Mikhail chuckled. He’d almost do this job for free. He couldn’t wait to share
this tape with Captain Yurshenko, the recently appointed head of security at Central Enterprises. They would crack a bottle
of vodka, sit back, and bust a nut over the poisonous frustration on the other side.
Eventually, Golitsin, turning the tables: “All right, I’ll find a way to get some people inside. Now what’s the story with
Konevitch?”
Nicky, speaking to Tatyana in an accusatory sneer: “Yeah, thought you said he was taken care of.”
Tatyana: “It’s under control. Tromble called this morning. Konevitch is in a federal penitentiary in Atlanta. Tromble swore
he placed our friend in the nastiest hole in the universe.”
Nicky, who presumably knew something about this subject: “I hear they got some places over there that are just unbelievable.”
Tatyana: “We’re cooking up the case to be presented to their courts right now.”
Golitsin: “I have experts with decades of experience in this. Why don’t I help you?”
Tatyana: “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The team that manufactures this evidence has to go over and present it to their
lawyers. If you build your own lies, you should know your own lies, don’t you think?”
Loud chuckles all around.
Three days languishing at the federal transit center in Atlanta—while Justice hotly debated which of its many prisons was
the most awful at that particular moment—proved to be a godsend. Despite frequent requests, nobody would tell Alex his eventual
destination.
Two days after his appearance in court, he had been hustled out of the Alexandria jail by a pair of federal marshals whose
only words to Alex were, “Say good-bye to the good life.” A quick flight on a Bureau of Prisons 737 to a private hangar in
Atlanta International was followed by a fast trip in a shiny black van to the sprawling prison facility in Atlanta. The moment
he entered the transient center for what he was warned would be a brief stay, Alex knew he wasn’t headed for the pleasurable
resort the judge had ordered.
He was locked in a small cell with a repeat sex offender named Ernie, who favored small boys but settled for little girls,
depending on his mood at the moment. Ernie was a leper, a small, oddly ebullient man despised and avoided by everybody. Even
Alex could not bring himself to speak with the twisted pervert.
The transient prisoners moving through this portal to hell were a mixture of hardened two- and three-timers, seasoned vets,
and others like Alex, wide-eyed newbies about to be thrown into a frightening new world.
The old-timers adored the chance to show off their experience, and they acted like garrulous college kids returning from spring
break. They hollered back and forth, spitting out stories, exchanging names of acquaintances in this prison or that. The only
verboten topic was any mention of their newest crimes. Alex listened carefully to every word, every boast. He studied how
they moved, their mannerisms, how they wore their prison garb. He took careful mental notes and absorbed every nuance. Head
down, always, but stay alert. Avoid eye contact at all costs—a wrong glance in this milieu was an invitation to rape, or worse.
Among enemies, among guards, among friends, it didn’t matter—act indifferent, no matter what. Better yet,
be
indifferent, and trust no one. And the golden rule: never, ever, under any circumstances, snitch.
On day four, Alex’s toe was jerked out of the water. He was led out of his transient cell by a pair of stone-faced guards,
escorted through a number of cellblocks and hallways, across a large courtyard, and, after four hours of tedious processing—including
another shower, another delousing, and another invasive body search—was shoved into his new home.
Ernie, his former cellmate, smiled and welcomed Alex to his new cell. The cold, unpleasant relations between Alex and Ernie
had been duly noted by the authorities. Being trapped in a small cell with this pervert would surely kick up the misery level
a few notches.
Ernie had arrived two hours earlier, enough time for a little interior decorating. The walls were already plastered with pictures
of little boys and girls clipped from magazines.
Based on the most recent indices of prison violence and brutality—and only after the chief of Justice’s Bureau of Prisons
twice swore it was the pick of the litter—Atlanta’s medium-security prison earned the booby prize.
The truth was that by almost every measure, Atlanta’s high-security facility had an impressive edge over its adjoining medium-security
counterpart—three more murders over the past year, eighty percent more vicious assaults, nearly thirty more days in lockdown,
and an impressive seventy percent lead in reported AIDS cases.
That year, Atlanta’s high-security prison was, without question, and by any conceivable measure, the worst canker sore in
the entire federal system.
The medium-security facility, however, offered a big advantage, one that swung the argument in its favor. Because it was medium-security,
Alex would be forced to mix freely and openly with the prison population. Two hours every day in the yard, socializing with
killers, gangbangers, big-time dope dealers, rapists, child molesters, and assorted other criminals. Showers twice a week
in a large open bay, with minimal supervision. Three meals every day in the huge mess, where violence was as pervasive as
big southern cockroaches.
Alex Konevitch, they were sure, would be petrified. A rich boy from Russia who had pampered and spoiled himself silly with
unimaginable luxuries. Nothing in his background had prepared him for this. They were sure he would panic and end up begging
for a seat on the next plane to Russia. Or maybe he would run afoul of one of the inhabitants and be shipped home in a casket.
Who cared? The Russians never stipulated dead or alive.
The tipping point, though, was the large concentration of Cuban criminals. The facility contained the usual toxic mix of Crips
and Bloods, a large, swaggering White Power brotherhood, and an assortment of lesser bands that huddled together under a hodgepodge
of quirky banners and social distinctions. But the Cubans ruled. They terrorized the other groups, ran roughshod over the
guards, got a piece of all the prison drug traffic and black-market action, and generally did as they pleased.
The ringleaders were a long-term institution, a troupe of thirty cutthroats shipped over on a special boat by Castro at the
tail end of the Mariel Boatlift. The Immigration Service had been tipped off about their impending arrival by a Cuban convict
who hoped his little favor would be met by a bigger favor. This was Castro’s biggest flip of the bird, he warned without the
slightest exaggeration; a group of handpicked incorrigibles, men who had been killing and raping and stealing since they were
in diapers. The dregs of the dregs—once loose on America’s streets, the havoc would be unimaginable.
They were picked up the second they climbed off the boat onto a lovely beach just south of Miami, and sent straight to Atlanta’s
prison. It was unfortunate, but since they had been denied the opportunity to commit crimes on American soil, no legal justification
existed to place them in a high-security lockup, where they clearly belonged.
On the second day of Alex’s incarceration, a guard, acting on orders from the warden, tipped the Cubans that the new boy in
cell D83 was worth a boatload of money. By Alex’s third week in the new facility, the Choir Boys of Mariel, as they were known,
decided it was time for the new arrival to make their acquaintance.
Alex was one minute into his shower when three men surrounded him. “What can I do for you boys?” he asked, trying to pretend
polite indifference, when every cell in his body screamed run. Just run. Don’t look back, don’t even breathe, just run.
The jefe of the trio, a small, wiry man with greasy black hair laced with gray, and long ridges of knife scars on his forehead
and left cheek, stepped closer to Alex. “What you in for?” he asked with a strong Cuban brogue.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing. Just visiting, huh?”
“All right, I was framed.”
A light chuckle sounding like chalk scratched on a blackboard. “You and all the rest of us.”
“It’s true. I haven’t even been to trial yet.”
“You’re Russian,” the man observed, shooting past the normal prisoner baggage and getting to the point.
“I was. Now I’m American.”
The man took another step toward Alex, ending up about a foot away. “I’m Cubano,” he announced with a nasty smile and his
chest puffed up. “I hate Russians. Biggest pricks in the world. You kept that bastard Castro in power.”
The prisoners around Alex suddenly began shutting down their showerheads and bolting for the towel room. A fire alarm at full
blast could not have emptied the place faster. The three men surrounding Alex were fully clothed in prison coveralls, hands
stuffed deep inside their pockets. They stank of old sweat and a thousand cigarettes. Apparently, they didn’t visit the showers
very often.
Alex swallowed his fear and kept rubbing soap in his armpits. “No, you mean the communists kept him in power,” he said and
glanced around. Act indifferent, he kept reminding himself. Don’t look scared, don’t crack a smile, control your breathing.
Pretend that standing naked in front of these three goons is no more threatening than a lap around the prison track. The guard
who had been loitering at the entrance had mysteriously disappeared, Alex suddenly noticed.
“And what? You weren’t a commie?”
Alex shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“Yeah, well, what’s that?” He wagged a finger at the hammer and sickle on Alex’s chest.
“A present from some angry former commies,” Alex informed him, eyeing the other two men, who had fanned out a bit and now
blocked his exit in any direction.
“For what?”
“Because I bankrolled Yeltsin’s election to the presidency.”
“You, by yourself?” A quick, derisive snicker directed at his friends. “Just you, eh?”
“That’s right, just me. I gave him the money to defeat Gorbachev.”
This revelation was intended to defuse the confrontation, but instead produced a nasty sneer. “And you know who I am?”
Alex soaped his arms and decided not to answer.
“Napoleon Bonaparte. You ended communism in Russia, and me… well, I’m the short little prick what conquered Europe.”
The man laughed at his own stupid joke—his friends joined him, loud guffaws that bounced off the walls. Alex forced himself
to smile. “Actually, you’re Manuel Gonzalez. But you go by Manny. Born in a small village, Maderia, you’re forty-six years
old, thirty-six of which you’ve lived inside prison. You’ve killed with guns, rope, and knives, but prefer your bare hands.
You like two sugars with your coffee, no cream. Your favorite TV show is
Miami Vice
, though I suspect you always root for the bad guys.” He paused and broadened his smile. “Have you heard enough things you
already know about yourself?”
Manny’s mouth hung open for a second before he reacquired his normal aplomb and its accompanying sneer. The sneer had a violent
edge to it. “Smart guy, huh?”
“I’ve asked around a bit.” With as much casualness as he could muster, Alex placed the soap on the metal tray on the wall.
“I suggest you do your homework, too.” He stuck out his hand. “Alex Konevitch. Have one of your boys look me up on the Internet.”
“Already did that,” he said, ignoring the hand. “You’re rich, Konevitch, filthy rich. You ripped off hundreds of millions.
I’m impressed. That’s why we’re having this little mano-a-mano. Question is, are you also generous?”
“We seem to have a tense problem, Manny.”
“Maybe my English is not so good. What’s that mean?”
“A bunch of former KGB goons stole my money and my businesses. The little that was left was seized by the FBI. I was rich,
and now I’m broke.”
Manny did not appear overly pleased with that response. He pushed his face within an inch of Alex’s. “I’m not a man you want
to lie to.”