Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Val paused, examining the face of the man across from him. As a technician, Evgeniy’s skill was unrivaled. But if he couldn’t be trusted…

Val adjusted his position in his seat, tapping ash from his cigarette to help disguise the movement. He slid his.45 Colt 1911 from his belt and held it against his leg.

Evgeniy didn’t seem to notice. He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes far away. After a few moments he shook himself from his reverie and turned to face Val. “It is difficult, that is all.”

Val nodded slowly. “There is no punishment harsh enough for betrayal,” he reminded Evgeniy.

“No,” Evgeniy agreed, shaking his head. “There isn’t. That’s true.”

“And the sins of the fathers…” Val began.

“Reside in the sons,” Evgeniy finished. “Yes, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, you are correct. I regret that there is some sentimentality creeping into my soul in my old age.”

“No regrets,” Val said. “Now, tell me about the timers.”

“They’re made of soft plastic with only a few tiny metal parts,” Evgeniy said. “The entire device will melt except for the metal. Those pieces shouldn’t be detectable.”

“The police will suspect?”

“No.” Evgeniy shook his head. “It will look like an electrical short, and the house is old. The police will not suspect a thing.”

“Good,” Val said. “Then you’ve done well.”

“We shall see,” Evgeniy answered with a sigh.

Val smiled slightly. Despite his skill, Evgeniy was always nervous until everything had passed. “Very well,” Val said, his tone dismissive. “Then I will meet with you tomorrow for coffee.”

“ Do svidanija ,” Evgeniy said. He nodded at his superior, started his engine, and drove away.

Only after the technician’s taillights had disappeared did Val replace his pistol inside his belt. Then he dropped his BMW into gear and headed toward Sergey’s house.

As he drove, he let his thoughts drift over all of the events that were in motion. For someone less focused, so many things might be overwhelming. After all, he had his own plans to tutor young Pavel. Sergey had his plans for the organization, most of which Val took an active part in developing. They had to find a way to deal with the rival gangs in River City, most of whom were blacks from California. The single Hispanic gang would need some attention, too, at some point in the near future.

The direction that they wanted to take required careful consideration as well. Drugs and prostitution were lucrative, but high risk, so they stayed only marginally involved in those endeavors. Cars were more labor intensive and required more organization, but the payoff was still significant. Particularly with the connections that he and Sergey had maintained in Europe.

And now they had to deal with the traitor, too. This fucking musor . Betrayal was bad enough, but for it to be someone like Oleg was that much worse. A key player like him turning on them risked everything, for everyone.

And so the price to be paid was high.

Val didn’t feel any of Evgeniy’s reticence or regret for the course they’d chosen. The choice was logical and just. Evgeniy had a daughter of his own, so that was probably the reason for his sentimentality, more so than the technician’s age. That was another reason Val remained unencumbered. He had women on occasion, but they meant little to him. He regarded them in much the same way he regarded food and drink, as something to be consumed when the need arose and forgotten once he was sated.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Val had his own plans, which he kept to himself. Every move he made for Sergey, for Pavel, for the organization-all ultimately served his own designs.

Val smiled coldly as he drove. One of the first Western books he had read was a battered paperback called Dune . After he read the science-fiction epic, Val thought that the author could very well have been a Russian. The plot was suffused with political intrigue, which captivated Val. It was there he first read the words, “Plans within plans within plans,” and realized the wisdom of that sentiment. The book became an educational text for him. He read it over again once a year, studying the nuances carefully. When his English proficiency allowed, he read the book in the original language, finding still more intriguing subtleties. When he eventually read Machiavelli’s The Prince , he found it weak in comparison.

Val knew that the actions of his organization had to be attracting the attention of the police. When he had told Sergey, the boss agreed with him but didn’t seem concerned. “American police are weak,” he’d told Val. “Their jails are like having a dacha in the country.”

Sergey was right. But police attention would eventually hamper their operation. So Val devised a plan.

So did Sergey. “Don’t buy the house,” he’d told Val, “buy the neighborhood. We need to expand, Valeriy. Beat down our rivals and take control of this city.”

Val turned onto Sergey’s street, his cold smile still in place. He’d embraced Sergey’s plan and they’d discussed how to make it happen. They had planned deep into the night for better than a week, mapping out their moves like chess masters. When they’d finished, both men were certain that they’d be successful.

And Val was well pleased, for Sergey’s plans fit his own. Plans within plans within plans.

Sergey’s driveway was full. The boss’s black Lincoln and Pavel’s tricked-out Honda were nestled side by side, so Val found an open spot along the curb and parked. As he stepped up the walkway he flicked away his cigarette butt. The warm night air was full of that clean freshness that Val attributed to all the trees that grew within the city. Only the barest wisp of a faraway barbecue disturbed the unpolluted essence of the breath he drew deep into his lungs. Only in the winter after a hard snow had the Kiev air ever seemed so clean.

Val knocked quietly at the door. After a few moments his sister appeared in her robe. Marina Aleksandrovna Markov smiled at her brother and swung open the door. “Valera! Come in.”

Val stepped inside, brushing a kiss across his sister’s cheek as he did so. Marina’s exuberance always overwhelmed him. He had long held that their parents’ genetics had bestowed all of their calculation and reason to him, the eldest son, and all of their love and joy upon their daughter, Marina.

“Can I pour you something?” Marina asked him, sliding her arm through his and putting her head on his shoulder.

“What is Sergey having?”

“He is upstairs, just coming out of the shower. But he opened a bottle of red wine before he went upstairs.”

“Red wine needs to breathe,” Val said.

“I see,” Marina said, teasing. “Aren’t my two men just the worldliest men there is?”

Val smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll have the wine, sestra .”

Marina squeezed his arm and moved toward the kitchen. Val settled into a chair near the fireplace, leaving Sergey’s favorite chair empty. He glanced around the simple room adorned with a couple of paintings and several family photographs. The photographs included some black and white shots of his parents and grandparents back in the old country. The house was nice. It was comfortable. No one would ever suspect that the head of the Russian Mafia in River City resided there.

Val scratched his arm absently. Of course, the truth of the matter was that their organization wasn’t the powerhouse here that it had once been in Kiev. Even as a second-tier power, they’d held considerable sway over their territory. It’d been almost three years since they’d come to America, arriving in Seattle and migrating east across the Cascades to River City. Marina had joked that they were the opposite of American pioneers, who had gone west to discover their fortune.