of years now they have been a ruthless presence in all the major cities of Western Europe. They like to travel—they are not provincial peasants.”
Ometov seemed to be a man given more to thinking his way through to solutions than to acting, but he had an air of savvy about him that made Cate suspect he once had been an agent himself, though he had long ago gravitated to the cerebral end of operations.
“Sergei grew up in a smuggling family,” he went on, clearly immersed in Krupatin history, “and by the time he was a teenager he was in charge of his own gang, bringing cigarettes and whiskey across the Black Sea from northern Turkey into Georgia. He quickly graduated to gun-running and heroin. When he was eighteen, he was with his father and three of his brothers and some cousins when they were cornered by a Soviet coastal patrol on the Russian coast of the Black Sea. They were smuggling Turkish arms to rebels in southern Russia through ports in the Crimea. But they were betrayed by some of their own people. The father and oldest brother were captured, and while Sergei and the others watched from their hiding places in the rocky cliffs above the beach, those two were tortured by the militia. They were dragged naked up and down the beach behind a jeep while the soldiers used them forbayonet practice, jabbing at them until they were in shreds, falling to pieces. Then they were left there on the sand. Sergei and his other two brothers could not fire on the patrol for fear of giving away their positions. They watched in silence.
“Afterward Sergei made it his personal business to discover who had betrayed them. It was a cousin. Sergei made the man watch as his house was burned down and then while his wife and two daughters were gang-raped until they were dead. Then Sergei himself disemboweled the man with a shovel.
“A few years after this, Sergei moved to Moscow, where numerous Chechen gangs were already well established. But he did not go to work for one of these many gangs. Instead he did something that was to become a trademark of his operational style. Rather than start his own black-market scheme or set up his own protection racket, he took time to study the world in which these gangs operated. What was the hierarchy? Some gangs were more influential than others. Why? What rackets yielded the most income? Which were the best controlled? Which ones had the best connections with city politicians or influential party members? When he had satisfied himself regarding these questions, he and his men picked a ‘business’ they liked and simply took it over. It was a black-market food operation. Five men died quickly within eighteen hours, and Krupatin was established, literally overnight, as a major black marketeer.
“Within the next three years he did the same thing with a car theft ring, a prostitution ring, and a major protection racket. He used violence ambitiously, precisely, and without hesitation. Once he focused on a business, there was no denying him.”
Ometov paused, seemingly to decide how best to proceed. His pale gray eyes, which had been so much a part of his quick smile earlier, had grown calm and thoughtful. He seemed more tired than the others.
“By the early 1980s,” he continued, “Sergei had become a very rich man. But he was still a thief among thieves, and he wanted that to change. He decided to pay huge bribes to several officials in the central ministry in order to obtain import licenses, which were very difficult to acquire. This he did. At this time the Soviet Union was flush with profits from its oil exports. The embargo had driven world oil prices to thirty-fivedollars a barrel, and the Soviet Union, because we had vast oil reserves, was collecting windfall profits. But the rest of the country’s infrastructure was in shambles—our factories were outdated and falling apart, our agricultural programs were unproductive, nothing worked. Virtually every kind of consumer item
Ometov seemed to be a man given more to thinking his way through to solutions than to acting, but he had an air of savvy about him that made Cate suspect he once had been an agent himself, though he had long ago gravitated to the cerebral end of operations.
“Sergei grew up in a smuggling family,” he went on, clearly immersed in Krupatin history, “and by the time he was a teenager he was in charge of his own gang, bringing cigarettes and whiskey across the Black Sea from northern Turkey into Georgia. He quickly graduated to gun-running and heroin. When he was eighteen, he was with his father and three of his brothers and some cousins when they were cornered by a Soviet coastal patrol on the Russian coast of the Black Sea. They were smuggling Turkish arms to rebels in southern Russia through ports in the Crimea. But they were betrayed by some of their own people. The father and oldest brother were captured, and while Sergei and the others watched from their hiding places in the rocky cliffs above the beach, those two were tortured by the militia. They were dragged naked up and down the beach behind a jeep while the soldiers used them forbayonet practice, jabbing at them until they were in shreds, falling to pieces. Then they were left there on the sand. Sergei and his other two brothers could not fire on the patrol for fear of giving away their positions. They watched in silence.
“Afterward Sergei made it his personal business to discover who had betrayed them. It was a cousin. Sergei made the man watch as his house was burned down and then while his wife and two daughters were gang-raped until they were dead. Then Sergei himself disemboweled the man with a shovel.
“A few years after this, Sergei moved to Moscow, where numerous Chechen gangs were already well established. But he did not go to work for one of these many gangs. Instead he did something that was to become a trademark of his operational style. Rather than start his own black-market scheme or set up his own protection racket, he took time to study the world in which these gangs operated. What was the hierarchy? Some gangs were more influential than others. Why? What rackets yielded the most income? Which were the best controlled? Which ones had the best connections with city politicians or influential party members? When he had satisfied himself regarding these questions, he and his men picked a ‘business’ they liked and simply took it over. It was a black-market food operation. Five men died quickly within eighteen hours, and Krupatin was established, literally overnight, as a major black marketeer.
“Within the next three years he did the same thing with a car theft ring, a prostitution ring, and a major protection racket. He used violence ambitiously, precisely, and without hesitation. Once he focused on a business, there was no denying him.”
Ometov paused, seemingly to decide how best to proceed. His pale gray eyes, which had been so much a part of his quick smile earlier, had grown calm and thoughtful. He seemed more tired than the others.
“By the early 1980s,” he continued, “Sergei had become a very rich man. But he was still a thief among thieves, and he wanted that to change. He decided to pay huge bribes to several officials in the central ministry in order to obtain import licenses, which were very difficult to acquire. This he did. At this time the Soviet Union was flush with profits from its oil exports. The embargo had driven world oil prices to thirty-fivedollars a barrel, and the Soviet Union, because we had vast oil reserves, was collecting windfall profits. But the rest of the country’s infrastructure was in shambles—our factories were outdated and falling apart, our agricultural programs were unproductive, nothing worked. Virtually every kind of consumer item
Similar Books
