“Apparently he needed to see Grishin, to talk to him.”
“To talk to him like that? I was sitting three tables away. He practically asked to be killed.”
“I don’t understand why either, Umar. Those were his instructions.”
“Jason, there are twenty five hundred private security companies in this country and eight hundred of them in Moscow. He could have hired fifty men from any one of them.”
With the rise of gangsterdom, another mushroom industry had been that of private guards. Gunayev’s figures were quite accurate. The security companies tended to draw their men from the same ex-military units; there were ex-army, marines, special forces, paratroops, police, KGB, all available for hire.
By 1999 the number of private guards across the Russian nation was 800,000, a third of them in Moscow. In theory the militia was the licensing authority for all such companies, and had a duty under the law to check out all recruits to the payroll, their criminal records if any, their suitability, sense of responsibility, weapons carried, how many, what type, and what for.
That was the theory. In practice the well-stuffed envelope could procure all the licenses needed. So useful was the cover of “security company” that the gangs simply formed and registered their own, so that every hoodlum in town could produce identification to show he was a security guard permitted to carry what he wore under his left armpit.
“The trouble is, Umar, they’re buyable. They see Grishin, they know they can double their fee; they would change sides and do the job themselves.”
“So you use my men, because they will not betray you?”
“I had no choice.”
“You know Grishin will now be completely aware who has been shielding you? If he was ever puzzled before, he will not be now. Life is going to get very hard from now on. Already I hear word from the street that the Dolgoruki have been told to tool up for a major gang war. The last thing I need is a gang war.”
“If Komarov comes to power, the Dolgoruki will be the least of your problems.”
“What the hell have you started here, you and your damned black file?”
“Whatever it is, we can’t stop now, Umar.”
“We? What is all this about ‘we’? You came to me for help. You needed shelter. I offered you my hospitality. It is the way of my people. Now I’m threatened with open war.”
“I could try and head it off.”
“How?”
“Speak to Major General Petrovsky.”
“Him? That Chekist? You know how much damage he and his GUVD have done to my operations? You know how many raids he has conducted
against my clubs, warehouses, casinos?”
“He hates the Dolgoruki more than he hates you. I also need to see the Patriarch. One last time.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to him. There are things to tell him. But this time I will need to be helped to get away.”
“No one suspects him. Dress as a priest and go see him.”
“It’s more complicated than that. I think the Englishman used a hotel limousine. If Grishin checks the records, and he probably will, the log will reveal the Englishman visited the Patriarch. The house in Chisti Pereulok could be under surveillance.”
Umar shook his head in disbelief.
“You know, my friend, that Englishman of yours is an old fool.”
¯
COLONEL Grishin sat at his desk in the dacha and surveyed the blown-up eight-by-ten photograph with unalloyed satisfaction. Finally he pressed a button on his intercom.
“Mr. President, I need to speak to you.”