knew where he was going.
"Listen," Eddie said. "How about you get me the transcripts of the wiretaps and informant interviews. Maybe I can pick out something your analysts might gloss over."
"The feds frown on that shit, but I'll see what I can sneak out."
Eddie handed him a copy of Novoye Russkoye Slovo , the only Russian-language daily newspaper in the United States. It meant New Russian Word .
"Start reading this," he said.
"It's in Russian."
"I know, but unless you understand these people, you don't have a prayer. Look in today's obit section. They've got five paragraphs on this thirty-year-old guy. It says he 'tragically died.' That means murdered. You can lay money Borodenko was involved. Somebody should be looking into this one."
"How much Russian do you understand?" Matty said.
"Enough to follow the obits."
"But not enough to understand Lukin when he talked about business."
"I didn't want to understand," Eddie said. "You want to become the Russian OC expert. Make a point to learn the language."
"The feds got rooms full of interpreters downtown," Boland said.
Intelligence sources predicted Yuri Borodenko would blame Lukin for the firebombing of his Rolls-Royce. He'd retaliate very soon; Borodenko was the patron saint of revenge. With a little luck, the task force hoped to grab someone in the act of murder, then turn him into an informant. Murder one, even the attempt, was a heavy sword to dangle over the head of the average lowlife. But Eddie knew they could never coerce a Russian into cooperating. The only reason a Russian ever spoke to the police was to make fools of them.
"How about drugs?" Boland said. "Lukin invest in a supply route or poppy field somewhere in Afghanistan, or one of those other 'stans?"
"Absolutely not. I'd stake my life on it."
"Cut the shit, Eddie. You're making these guys sound like Damon Runyon characters. This ain't Guys and Dolls out here."
"No, it's not. These are very smart people. Don't try to compare them to anyone you ever worked on before. They understand money and documents, they're bilingual, international, and they don't fear our court system. Our jails are like Club Med to them. They're the best white-collar criminals in the world, by far. But I don't see drug dealing and I don't see the violence you're talking about. At least not when I was working for Lukin."
"Well then, I have to bring you up to speed," Boland said. "Guys like Yuri Borodenko are the new, improved Russian mafiya . Russian crime exploded worldwide after the breakup of the Soviet Union. These guys are ethnic Russians with serious connections back home. They're using that old country like their personal warehouse. You want a tank, you want a box of grenades, just put your order in. They also control the shipping industry. See, this is why the hell the FBI is jumping in with both feet. They're afraid one of these guys like Borodenko is going to sell the bomb to Saddam, or some other psycho. And for the right price, don't tell me they won't do it."
"Wasn't that a Tom Clancy novel?" Eddie said, now realizing he'd underestimated Matty Boland. It wouldn't happen again.
"I got a lot more stories for Clancy," Boland said. "Two years ago in Florida, we arrested one of Borodenko's people for selling Russian helicopters to the Colombians, the Cali cartel. He even offered them a submarine for drug smuggling. Complete with Russian crew. That's just the tip of the iceberg."
Lukin and his bodyguards turned right on Brighton Beach Avenue. Boland drove slowly to the corner. Like all thoroughfares shaded by elevated train tracks, Brighton Beach Avenue offered both tracker and prey more places to hide. The avenue was almost deserted at this hour. Too early for the crowds of daily shoppers. Too early for the street vendors selling their pastries and ma-trioshka dolls.
"That's why I don't get this mob war," Boland said. "I mean, why? Borodenko has a huge operation with worldwide connections. He doesn't need Lukin's
"Listen," Eddie said. "How about you get me the transcripts of the wiretaps and informant interviews. Maybe I can pick out something your analysts might gloss over."
"The feds frown on that shit, but I'll see what I can sneak out."
Eddie handed him a copy of Novoye Russkoye Slovo , the only Russian-language daily newspaper in the United States. It meant New Russian Word .
"Start reading this," he said.
"It's in Russian."
"I know, but unless you understand these people, you don't have a prayer. Look in today's obit section. They've got five paragraphs on this thirty-year-old guy. It says he 'tragically died.' That means murdered. You can lay money Borodenko was involved. Somebody should be looking into this one."
"How much Russian do you understand?" Matty said.
"Enough to follow the obits."
"But not enough to understand Lukin when he talked about business."
"I didn't want to understand," Eddie said. "You want to become the Russian OC expert. Make a point to learn the language."
"The feds got rooms full of interpreters downtown," Boland said.
Intelligence sources predicted Yuri Borodenko would blame Lukin for the firebombing of his Rolls-Royce. He'd retaliate very soon; Borodenko was the patron saint of revenge. With a little luck, the task force hoped to grab someone in the act of murder, then turn him into an informant. Murder one, even the attempt, was a heavy sword to dangle over the head of the average lowlife. But Eddie knew they could never coerce a Russian into cooperating. The only reason a Russian ever spoke to the police was to make fools of them.
"How about drugs?" Boland said. "Lukin invest in a supply route or poppy field somewhere in Afghanistan, or one of those other 'stans?"
"Absolutely not. I'd stake my life on it."
"Cut the shit, Eddie. You're making these guys sound like Damon Runyon characters. This ain't Guys and Dolls out here."
"No, it's not. These are very smart people. Don't try to compare them to anyone you ever worked on before. They understand money and documents, they're bilingual, international, and they don't fear our court system. Our jails are like Club Med to them. They're the best white-collar criminals in the world, by far. But I don't see drug dealing and I don't see the violence you're talking about. At least not when I was working for Lukin."
"Well then, I have to bring you up to speed," Boland said. "Guys like Yuri Borodenko are the new, improved Russian mafiya . Russian crime exploded worldwide after the breakup of the Soviet Union. These guys are ethnic Russians with serious connections back home. They're using that old country like their personal warehouse. You want a tank, you want a box of grenades, just put your order in. They also control the shipping industry. See, this is why the hell the FBI is jumping in with both feet. They're afraid one of these guys like Borodenko is going to sell the bomb to Saddam, or some other psycho. And for the right price, don't tell me they won't do it."
"Wasn't that a Tom Clancy novel?" Eddie said, now realizing he'd underestimated Matty Boland. It wouldn't happen again.
"I got a lot more stories for Clancy," Boland said. "Two years ago in Florida, we arrested one of Borodenko's people for selling Russian helicopters to the Colombians, the Cali cartel. He even offered them a submarine for drug smuggling. Complete with Russian crew. That's just the tip of the iceberg."
Lukin and his bodyguards turned right on Brighton Beach Avenue. Boland drove slowly to the corner. Like all thoroughfares shaded by elevated train tracks, Brighton Beach Avenue offered both tracker and prey more places to hide. The avenue was almost deserted at this hour. Too early for the crowds of daily shoppers. Too early for the street vendors selling their pastries and ma-trioshka dolls.
"That's why I don't get this mob war," Boland said. "I mean, why? Borodenko has a huge operation with worldwide connections. He doesn't need Lukin's
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