Chapter 38
COLE
We’ve wasted our first twenty-four hours.
I’m not surprised. Nikolai Tarasov didn’t become pakhan because he’s made of lace and tissue paper. His empire is built on tempered steel; it will take time to break him.
That time is marked with three bratva visits to the Georgetown house. The Sawgrass guards have no trouble holding the gate. In fact, no Russian mobsters even get out of their vehicles. But an SUV with Maryland plates—from Baltimore—takes up residence at the end of the block.
The first time the Sawgrass captain on site complains to the DC police, a patrol car drives by.
But the occupants of the car aren’t breaking any laws and after the local cops run the license plate, they don’t respond to additional requests to roust the invaders.
No one wants to be in the middle of a turf battle, even if it isn’t yet a shooting war.
Here at MAJAT, Kate monitors Richardson and Bennett like a champion. Her job is feeding them proper phrasing, making sure they have their lingo correct. She scrutinizes Tarasov’s answers as well, determining where to press, how to push, and when we can dig for more facts.
By noon, she’s wired on caffeine and adrenaline. She jumps when I brush against her shoulder, checking the audio recording level for one of the cameras. She edges away when I set my palm against the nape of her neck.
The coffee from the break room is distilled battery acid laced with grounds. I refill Kate’s cup from the carafe Nilsson gave her at home. Then, all I can do is sit beside her and wait. My work will start this afternoon.
This first day is about sketching the roadmap.
Tarasov has to understand how much we know about the bratva—their collection scams, their warehouse thefts, their gambling and money laundering and loan-sharking.
The cumulative weight will wear him down, will drive him closer to the cliff of confessing.
After a forgettable lunch, I pull up one of the videos stored on my computer. It’s the recording Pyotr pulled from the real FBI, using my Viktor software. The asshole thought he was deleting evidence forever, but he only succeeded in creating a permanent record.
I signal Kate once I’ve lined up the most incriminating bits. She waits for a break in the questioning, then nods for me to throw Pyotr’s confession to the screen in the boardroom. The black-and-white footage flickers like it was taken underwater.
Bennett folds his arms as he watches the video.
Richardson’s lips thin into a pale line.
Two FBI interrogators loom over Pyotr in a room not too different from our boardroom.
One hammers the brigadier over his sexual activities with girls as young as twelve, describing in lurid details how criminals like him are welcomed into prison.
The other suggests the FBI might hold its collective nose and look the other way if Pyotr can trade enough information about the bratva.
Emotions skate across Tarasov’s face as he watches his son sing: Disbelief. Rage. Disgust. At the end of the recording, Bennett says, “So we already have a complete record of the bratva’s activities. We only need you to confirm it.”
For a very long moment, I think Tarasov will preserve his silence. But he finally narrows his bloodshot eyes and says, “You have one weak man’s lies.”
Bennett says, “That weak man is your son.”
“Was,” Tarasov spits. “That man was my son. He was a coward and a liar.”
“You put that coward and liar in charge of major portions of your ongoing criminal enterprise,” Bennett presses.
Tarasov’s stern frown flickers. He has to swallow hard. His Russian accent is particularly heavy as he says, “I made a mistake.”
Bennett pounces. He works through dozens of questions, focusing on Tarasov’s two great weaknesses: Human trafficking and Crash.
That’s where the bratva is worse than other organized crime families.
That’s where they’re most vulnerable to the real FBI, to the real Homeland Security, and—ultimately—to us.
Thanks to my Viktor code—this time masquerading as the cryptocurrency RedBear—we have details.
Tarasov has had almost six weeks to use my software, managing his illegal income.
Bennett and Richardson have detailed information about the cost of an enslaved woman, about the profits from drugging children.
But Tarasov ignores all the facts and figures. He stares at the now-empty screen where he watched his son’s confession. He hedges his bets until the end of the day, refusing to answer all questions.
The clock ticks forward.
And we wait.