The ransoming was taking too long. Filshin and his wife Natasha had planned for 24-36 hours, but it had been days now. Why was it taking so long? And how would he keep Popov from killing Pawlowski when the ransom arrived?
Filshin was at an internet café instant messaging Natasha when the reply to his ransom email arrived.
He was elated. His nightmare excursion into the underworld was about to end. He had already decided to take whatever they offered. Then he would extricate himself by convincing his gang to take jobs with Pawlowski. Simple, straightforward.
So simple that at first, he didn’t understand the email.
It was in English, but it made no sense. “Meitner AG not responsible,” it read. “Employee contracts reassigned during asset relocation following corporate merger. RGB International, formerly Meitner-Poland, is a wholly-owned subsidiary of RGB Waste of Newark, New Jersey, USA.”
He looked up the merger in Business Weekly online, found the telephone numbers he needed, and called. The more calls he made, the more worried he became. The last call, with a man called Johnny Rienzo, was the worst.
His voice was raspy. Filshin understood every word, but again, it made no sense. ‘Who is this?’…‘RGB International doesn’t carry ransom insurance.’…‘Our executives sign contracts indemnifying RGB. We expect employees to take appropriate measures. Hire a security team.’
Employee? The Economist bio had been vague about Pawlowski’s connection to Meitner, but employee? Filshin had thought Pawlowski was more than a mere employee…
Finally, most ominous of all…when he mentioned Pawlowski by name… “Jan Pawlowski? Never heard of him,” the raspy voice said. “Wrong number.’
Filshin didn’t dare mention this to his gang. He had to talk to Pawlowski. Fast.
The day went downhill from there.
He entered the basement hideout and heard shouting, the sound of a punch connecting, and the crashing of chairs being thrown.
Bogosian was yelling, “Stop!” Someone else moaned.
Filshin ran through the dimly lit tunnel.
Caspar, just back from buying a pack of smokes, was close behind.
“Shut up, Bogosian,” Popov yelled. “The man has a memory problem. This will remind him to stay quiet next time.”
Filshin and Caspar ran faster. They found Pawlowski on the ground, trying to crawl under the table with the hot plate.
Popov was a mad man, not feeling the kicks Pawlowski flailed at his tattooed hands, as he pulled him back out.
An easy extrication? Pawlowski would never agree to hire his gang after this.
Popov kicked Pawlowski’s belly, his legs, his back, anywhere his thick boots could connect. Pawlowski curled into a ball. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Bashir, drinking vodka next to Mario, laughed as if watching an American reality TV show. A horrified Bogosian stood behind them.
“Idiots,” Filshin screamed. “Stop it.”
“You’ll kill him,” Bogosian shouted.
“Leave them alone,” Mario snarled. “Pawlowski will ruin everything if he gets the FSB curious.” His bloody hands testified, he had gone the first round.
Caspar, with his young man’s reflexes, responded before Filshin could. He pulled Popov away, freeing Pawlowski. Then he didn’t stop, as first his elbow, then his fists smashed into Popov’s belly. “Stupid fucker,” he yelled. “You’re not cheating me out of my ransom.”
“Leave Popov alone and sit, Caspar.” Filshin said in a loud, but calm voice. He turned to Bogosian. “Some water. And a rag.” He tipped his head at Pawlowski. “Clean him up.” Popov stalked away. Filshin looked at Mario. “What happened?”
Speaking badly mangled Russian to Filshin and German to Caspar, Mario told how he and Popov had made the rounds that day, collecting their first cash payments for the protection from the recent arson attacks along Kaliningrad’s river front that they were providing for local businesses. The police must have spotted them, because not twenty minutes later, the FSB was knocking on the door, demanding their share, and Pawlowski started his ruckus. The wood was too thick for them to hear what he was screaming, but the FSB men started asking questions.
Bogosian told them it was Filshin, and Popov took the hint for once, instead of losing his temper. Yes, he told them. Filshin likes to fight when he gets drunk, so we lock him up until he sleeps it off. Mario had had to add a lot of rubles to the pile to make them go away.
Popov walked back in. “Next time won’t be so easy. Pawlowski has to learn his lesson.”
“We can’t ransom a dead man,” Caspar yelled from his chair.
Ransom. Filshin felt sick to his stomach.
He peeled some bills from the few he had left and handed them to Popov. “Take the night off. You, Bashir and Mario. Drive Caspar into the city, show him Immanuel Kant’s grave, so he knows where he and his bride should leave bouquets on their wedding day.”
When they were gone, Bogosian put water on the hot plate to make tea. “You trust Popov with Caspar?”
“They’re two of a kind. They’ll blow off steam with a few vodkas and come back pals.”
He walked to Pawlowski and helped him stand. Bogosian took his other elbow, and they helped him onto a chair.
“He’ll be all right, I think,” Bogosian said, after looking at how Pawlowski’s right eye was swelling shut. He set three glasses on the table.
Filshin undid the tape holding Pawlowski’s wrists together. He had to convince him that employing the Filshin Gang was the best way forward, and he had to do it now.
“So, Mr. Pawlowski. How is your tea tasting?” he asked, as the three men sipped tea.
“Good, thank you, good,” Pawlowski said. He perched on his chair with his abdomen and chest scrunched into a small ball, as if expecting another beating.
Filshin sipped and waited. Let him get used to the idea that he wasn’t Popov. Bogosian refilled their glasses and, after a nod from Filshin, added a shot of vodka.
He would have to be careful. Bogosian had worked for the Americans in Georgia, so had to know at least a few words of BSE, or the Americans wouldn’t have hired him. He gave Bogosian some rubles, “Bring us something with meat, will you?” he asked. “A nice hot shashlik. None of that lukewarm Soviet-style swill.”
Bogosian left to find a street vendor, and Filshin waited for the vodka to take effect.
“Tell me why, Mr. Pawlowski,” he began. No. That sounded like an interrogation. Start by revealing something, he told himself. “We have mutual enemy, I am thinking.”
Pawlowski silently sipped tea. Was he curious? His swollen face was hard to read.
“Mr. Michael Usher?”
No reaction.
Filshin poured more vodka, not bothering with tea.
Of course Usher’s name hadn’t surprised Pawlowski. He had tried to blackmail him and doubtless spent most of the last week cursing his stupidity in believing Usher wouldn’t try something like a kidnapping. But it wasn’t supposed to be a kidnapping. Had he figured that out?
“Why, Mr. Pawlowski, is Michael Usher wanting you dead?” Filshin asked.
“Dead?” Surprise showed through the puffiness.
“Yes, dead. Kidnapping is being my idea. Free enterprise like in America. I am thinking we can be getting more from Meitner to be letting you go, than from Usher to be killing you.”
He sat up straighter. “That bastard!”
“You have been careless, Mr. Pawlowski. And maybe a little naïve. You think because Usher is working for American government, you will be safe from dirty tricks, no?”
Pawlowski didn’t answer.
Filshin waited. “We are keeping you alive, as you can see.”
Pawlowski snorted his opinion of how he was being kept, then winced in pain.
“You are not needing to be afraid of Popov,” Filshin said. “If he is having night off, he will be finding young lady and be dancing at disco. In morning he will be coming back with big headache, but happy. You are being s
afe.”
“How much did Usher offer you to kill me?”
By then Bogosian had returned with the shashlik. Filshin glanced over at him. Had he understood? “Enough,” he said.
A craftiness burned in Pawlowski’s eyes. The beating hadn’t cowed him. “How much did you ask Meitner for?”
“Also enough.” Quid pro quo. He had given Pawlowski information. Now it was his turn. He wouldn’t mention Rienzo or the refusal to pay ransom until Pawlowski told him more.
“I can get you more. Lots more.”
Filshin looked at Bogosian who had stopped unwrapping shashlik to watch. How good was his English? Filshin had to chance it. “Perhaps you are thinking you can be going directly to Blue Sky, to be accusing them of dumping barrels of nuclear waste at Meitner facility in Poland?
“Perhaps you are having photos and thinking Blue Sky will be paying you money so photos are not appearing in press?”
“You’ve seen the photos?”
“Mr. Usher was telling me,” Filshin said, without revealing who had planted the barrels.
“I thought Usher would want to protect his friends at Blue Sky, but we can take the photos directly to Blue Sky. They’ll pay.”
Filshin noticed the ‘we’ and let himself hope. Yes, this was the right way.
The swollen face contorted into a lopsided grin. “After they pay for the photos, we’ll release them to the press anyway. I’ll get that fucker Usher.” His eyes grew crafty. “There’s a big bonus in it, if you help me.” He looked at Bogosian unsure if he understood, but included him anyway. “For all of you. And jobs. Real work. No more hiding and running. I’ll take care of the police.”
It was that easy. He should have talked to Pawlowski days ago. Now, Filshin decided, he needed to be told the rest. He poured more vodka. “It will not be working. Blue Sky can be claiming innocence.” He tossed back his glass, and became reckless.
“It was all being fault of this Russian immigrant they are hiring, Blue Sky will be saying. Gennady Filshin was his name. Gennady Filshin, that’s me, Mr. Pawlowski.” Had he just aimed a loaded gun at himself? Too late now. “Filshin was having good recommendations, but he was having financial difficulties and was disappearing. Probably he was being agent for Meitner to be making Blue Sky look bad in Europe.”
“You?” Pawlowski asked. “Why?”
“Why? You are seeing what kind of man Michael Usher is. Can you not be guessing?” He wouldn’t say more. He couldn’t mention his family.
“Yes.”
“Usher is needing something nuclear to be making Meitner look bad. ‘Nothing dangerous. Just messy. Something to be ending deals with risky company that cannot be guaranteeing security,’ he is saying, and I am thinking, why should I be risking my life in Lithuania or in Belarus to be doing this thing?” Filshin drank. “So I am organizing job in Michigan and forgetting about lousy quality of paint in eastern Europe.”
Pawlowski said nothing.
“After he is seeing photos, Usher is trying to make Filshin into murderer, and Filshin is having to be making deals with people like Popov.
“I am engineer, Mr. Pawlowski. I will be finding work again, Usher cannot be stopping me here in Mother Russia, but they…Popov, Caspar, and the others,” he nodded at Bogosian, “Are being desperate men. They are needing money to be letting you go.”
“The ransom insurance will pay.”
“That is bringing us to problem number two. Meitner is saying they are not being responsible. Meitner-Poland is having new owner…RGB International, man is saying, and is no ransom insurance, and is no one called Jan Pawlowski working for RGB.”
“What the fuck?” Pawlowski’s swollen face went white. “Who? What was his name?”
“A man named Rienzo. Johnny Rienzo.”
He laughed. “Puffed up little weasel. Of course I don’t work for him. I’m his partner. I own the company. At least I will once I sign the final papers. The deal can’t go through without my signature.” He grinned a Quasimodo grin and reached for the newspaper-wrapped shashlik.
Filshin opened his own package of shashlik and nibbled on a bit of onion between the lamb chunks. “I think you are now understanding, how dangerous everything is being.”
“Oh yeah.” Pawlowski swished vodka around his mouth. “I think it’s time for Michael Fucking Usher to meet my new partner, New Jersey born-and-bred Johnny Rienzo.”
Who was predator and who was prey, Filshin wondered, as he handed Pawlowski a printout of a newspaper interview with Rienzo.
“So Johnny’s coming here? Even better,” Pawlowski said. “I have an idea.” He took a cigarette from the pack Bogosian had left lying on the table and poured out three vodkas as if he was in charge.
Filshin saw Bogosian wonder, but he would wait for an explanation.
“No one will get rich quick,” Pawlowski said, “But it will solve our Usher problem.”
So easy. Why, oh why, had he waited so long, Filshin wondered, as he listened to a real crime gang boss laying out his plans.
“Yes…Michael Usher needs to meet Johnny. And you, Filshin, you’re an engineer. Rienzo’s smart. Once I explain things, he’ll see that your name on the company stationery is worth every penny.”
“Popov won’t like working for a living.”
“I’ll give him Rienzo’s number. Let him play hard ass with the hard ass.” He smiled, and his swollen lower lip cracked open. “I can understand how an engineer might have trouble managing Popov, but trust me, Rienzo and I can handle him.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Of course, I’m angry. But I’m not a fool. Neither is Popov. I’ve been treated worse and survived.” He felt the swelling around his eye. “With enough vodka, I don’t even feel it.”
The eye that still saw peered at Filshin with drunken sincerity. “If you had refused to play along, Usher would have hired someone else, and I’d be lying in the Prague morgue, not sitting here with a banged up face. Considering what could have happened, I’m prepared to be generous.”
He lifted his glass. “When that fucker Usher sees us together, he’ll go nuts trying to get even, but there’s nothing he can do. With Rienzo, a 100% bona-fide American heading the company, and you, a real engineer with sheepskin, running the day-to-day, and me in charge of the Polish Ministry that hands out the certifications…Blue Sky is history.”
21 Kaliningrad