Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“Second responders,” Browning said, a smile playing on his lips in spite of his effort not to let on that it was funny. “Well, he’s a brother investigator now, so let’s say we give him some help.”

Tower shrugged. “Sure. But since it’s his case we’re running, he’s buying, right?”

1204 hours

Valeriy walked into the poorly lit coffee shop and found a seat near the window. A dowdy waitress appeared at his table after several minutes. He ordered a Turkish coffee from her, then pulled a Marlboro out and lit it.

As the smoke curled upward from his cigarette, he stared out the window at the street beyond. His thoughts strayed to the streets of Kiev and his hardscrabble teenage years there. He imagined that he might have died in some street fight if he hadn’t found his way into the army at sixteen. There, his ability to control his emotions and to focus had served him well. He’d found himself part of the elite forces, the Spetsnaz, before he would have been old enough to legally drink in America.

Val smiled at that. Even more ironic, when he finished his term of service he elected to leave the military and found himself right back on those same Kiev streets he’d left only a few short years before. Of course, things were different for him by that time. He had learned to organize, to weigh risks and to act decisively. It wasn’t long before he was a leader in the black market groups.

He drew in the tobacco smoke, held it, and let it whoosh out as the waitress clattered a tiny cup of Turkish coffee in front of him. He eyed her coldly, but she ignored him and waddled away.

Val didn’t touch the coffee right away. Sergey’s words from Saturday night stuck in his mind. “The calm before the storm,” he’d said. Valeriy knew his boss was right, even though Sergey didn’t realize everything that was in play. His ambition was grand. Too grand, in Val’s eyes. There was plenty of opportunity here in America, if a man were careful and not too greedy.

I will let the big man’s ambition exceed his grasp, Val thought. They would expand and expand until everyone decided the Russian Mafia was a huge problem for these American police. Sergey would not stop before that happened, Val knew. It was inevitable, so he chose to embrace the fact and make it work for him. They would rise up like a great civilization, and then, when they were eventually seen as a threat and the police focused on them and beat them back? Well, they would simply retreat. But that retreat would only go so far. Their operation would still be well beyond where they’d started. But because they would have been so prevalent before the retreat, the police would forget them. Bigger fish would catch their attention while Val and his operation continued to swim, mostly unseen.

Of course, Val knew that would never happen as long as Sergey was in charge. Always a gangster, never a soldier, Sergey didn’t understand what it took to be a true leader. It must be Val who took charge. But how? How to do it right?

For all his plans, that was one thing Val did not have an answer for yet. He wondered if it was because he knew he had to be very careful, or if he was hesitant because Sergey was married to Marina. Was he allowing sentiment and emotion to interfere with his decision?

Val stubbed out his cigarette and cast a mildly irritated glance at the door. Dmitri was late.

The momentary diversion didn’t dispel his self-doubt. The question hung in his mind’s eye, flashing in red. Val reached down and lifted the small cup to his lips and sipped the strong, bitter brew. He let his mind mull over the question, poking and prodding at his heart.

It took another sip before he reached his conclusion. It wasn’t Sergey. It was Marina. He did not want her to feel any pain. She was his sister and he loved her. But Sergey would have to go.

The two propositions seemed mutually exclusive. If Sergey left this world, Marina would feel pain. But Sergey would eventually have to be eliminated for Val’s plan to work.

He sat in the chair and examined the problem from every angle, as if it were cold marble pieces on a black and white checkered board and not people of flesh and blood and hearts. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he didn’t hear the front door to the coffee shop open.

Dmitri appeared at his table, gasping and out of breath. “I’m sorry, Valeriy,” he wheezed, his fat face red with exertion. Huge droplets of sweat rolled down his cheeks. “I ran into a problem with-”

Val held up a palm. After a moment, he swung the palm downward into an invitation for Dmitri to sit down. The corpulent man gratefully squeezed into the seat across from Val.

“Have a coffee,” Val suggested. “It’s Turkish, and very good here. The service is horrible, but the grind is delicious.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Dmitri said. “I am not really-”

“Have a coffee,” Val repeated.

His voice held no more of an edge than his first suggestion. If anything, the second time Val spoke in a quieter voice, but Dmitri read the danger and the intensity there.

“Of course I will,” Dmitri said. He swallowed thickly and raised his hand to get the waitress’s attention. She looked annoyed, but took his order. Dmitri thanked her but she turned and strode away.

“I wonder what her problem is?” Dmitri mused.

“She’s fat and disgusting,” Val pointed out.

Dmitri cleared his throat. Then he said, “I don’t know, Valeriy. I’m very fat, too, but I am not unhappy like that.”

“It is different for a woman,” Val told him.

Dmitri raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Ah, yes, I suppose it is.”

The two men sat quietly until the waitress plopped Dmitri’s coffee in front of him. He immediately picked it up and tasted it. Val watched as Dmitri first grimaced, then smiled and raised the tiny cup in his direction. “Thank you for suggesting it. It is very good.”

“Do you know what the Turks say about coffee, Dmitri?”

The fat man shook his head.

“They say it is black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love.”

Dmitri nodded. “True enough, I suppose.”

Val grunted and took another sip of his own. He was already weary of Dmitri’s sycophantic ways, though he was glad to command such respect from the people in the organization. He knew that much of it was transference of their respect for Sergey, but Val was working hard to ensure that those loyalties slowly migrated to him.

“Were the parts I gave you the correct ones?” he asked Dmitri.

The round-faced Russian nodded quickly and repeatedly while taking another sip. “Yes, yes. They were exactly what was needed. Where did you find them?”

Val waved away his question. “Don’t worry about that. Have you begun the conversion?”

“Yes.”

“How long until all of the rifles are converted?”

Dmitri’s expression grew pensive. “It took me a while to do the first one, but now that I see how it works, the rest should follow quickly. I believe I can have all ten finished in a couple of days. Perhaps sooner.”

Val nodded. “Excellent. Good work, Dmitri.”

Dmitri smiled at the praise. “Thank you. You’ll tell Sergey who did this job, yes?”

Val gave him a contemplative look. After a few moments, he said, “Of course I will.”

“Thank you. It is always an honor to be of service.”

“If you complete this task on time, I will be very grateful,” Val told him, choosing his words carefully for full effect. “And I won’t forget your service.”

Dmitri nodded his thanks again. Val could tell that the fat armorer didn’t yet understand what he had meant, but that was exactly Val’s intent. When the time came, words like the ones he just spoke would resonate with the people who’d heard them.