“Then you are familiar with the Velikayas.”
Another smile. Also patronizing. “We’re all familiar with the Velikayas. It is Moscow’s largest crime family,” he said, as if it were an entity more than a family. Gusev adjusted his paisley tie and pressed it against his dark-blue shirt.
“Yes, of course. Perhaps you can give me a synopsis; I am interested in the hierarchy.”
Gusev laughed. “How much time do you have?”
Since his wife’s death . . . “All the time in the world, Investigator Gusev, but perhaps today a short version.”
Gusev let out a breath. “Okay. May I ask what this is about?”
“In time.” Arkhip offered nothing more.
After a few seconds of silence, Gusev got the hint. He chuckled and looked at his watch. “Do you want to record this?”
“Yes. Of course.” Arkhip patted his sport coat and removed his notepad and pencil. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Gusev grinned. “I meant do you wish to record our session?” He looked up at the camera in the ceiling corner. “Are we being recorded?”
“No.” Arkhip smiled. “We are not. And my notes will be sufficient.”
Arkhip learned early in his career that a tape recorder was a crutch. Investigators depended on the recording and failed to listen to a witness’s answers. Without listening, there was no hearing; without hearing, one could not ask intelligent follow-up questions. Opportunities not taken were opportunities lost. Arkhip took notes and maximized his intuitive abilities. With years of practice, he could recall almost verbatim what a witness had said. “Please begin.”
Gusev took a moment, then told Arkhip that the vory dated to tsarist times. The word meant “thief”—a general term used for an underworld member. The Velikayas emerged from the Khitrovka, a notorious slum just a ten-minute walk from the Kremlin.
“I’ve read about it,” Arkhip interrupted.
“You have?”
“I’ve read many books on Russia’s history these last two years. These places were crammed with lean-tos, shacks, tenements, and disease-ridden houses. The poorest of the poor.”
“Criminalized enclaves for thieves and murderers,” Gusev said without sympathy.
“Crime is the stepchild of poverty, is it not?”
“Perhaps, but the modern vory, which is who you are really concerned about, is anything but poor and was shaped in Stalin’s labor camps.”
“The gulags.”
“Those imprisoned had a common enemy and vowed to never support the government. Sergei Velikaya spent years in one of these Siberian gulags. He was an audacious and ambitious gangster with a head for numbers and a natural ability to lead.”
“Good qualities for a leader,” Arkhip said.
Gusev scoffed. “He led by brutal and ruthless violence. His mistake was flaunting his status, promenading through Moscow in a cream-colored suit, bow tie, and straw boater hat, and currying favor with the public by throwing street parties with buckets of free vodka and food. His son, Alexei Velikaya, was educated in Moscow’s finest schools and took over the family business when Sergei was killed in a mafiya war. Alexei moved away from the traditional vory of his father. He was fascinated by the American Godfather movies, specifically the Corleones’ attempt to become a legitimate business family. He tried to blend in with the new elite and create a new breed of gangster-businessman, the avtoritet.”
“The authority. It has a better ring to it than ‘thieves,’ doesn’t it?”
“A thief is a thief, regardless of the label slapped on his backside. In the 1990s with all the chaos, Alexei Velikaya made a fortune in currency speculation and used the capital to buy real estate in Moscow.”
“Part of his quest to become legitimate?”
“Thieves don’t die that easily. He persuaded the elderly and invalids to sell their apartments. Those who refused disappeared.”
“Oh,” Arkhip said.
“He bought dozens of buildings for next to nothing, rehabbed them, and sold them at an exorbitant profit. Along the way, he established political connections. In return for their looking the other way, he ensured civic construction projects proceeded on time, and that labor was at a reasonable price. It allowed for unprecedented growth in Moscow, billion-dollar improvements to the Metro super trains, road construction and repairs, and airport expansion. Alexei Velikaya, however, was his father’s son. His philanthropy made him a celebrity, and he thrived on the attention.”
“I see where this is headed,” Arkhip said.
“Yes. When President Putin took power, most of the avtoritet stepped back into the shadows. Alexei Velikaya did not. He believed his extensive business profile, network of informants, and beloved public persona would protect him.”
Gusev paused here, not about to say more with a camera in the room, despite Arkhip’s assurances they were not being recorded. The story of Alexei Velikaya’s death was well known in Moscow. In 2008, during a campaign for a seat in the Duma, Velikaya was shot and killed, despite wearing a bulletproof vest and being surrounded by bodyguards. The government blamed rival gangsters until an oligarch exposed an FSB secret branch authorized by the president and within the Counterterrorist Directorate to kill him and other powerful oligarchs and mafiya family leaders.
“Which brings me to Yekaterina Velikaya,” Gusev said. “His only child. Malen’kaya Printsessa.”
“The little princess?” Arkhip said.
“No longer. She is now—”
“Catherine the Great.” Arkhip said the literal translation of her name. “A woman. That must be unique.”
“Unprecedented,” Gusev said. “The vory sexualizes or reveres women, but never respects them. Yekaterina had an uncle who said she didn’t have the balls to run her father’s business. They found him hanging in a warehouse, castrated, his balls shoved down his throat.”
“She had something to prove,” Arkhip said.
“Clearly. She’s a chip off the old block. She has met every subsequent challenge with quick and decisive violence. She is also bright, like her father, and has legalized the family business while placating the Kremlin with its piece of the pie.”
“How has she avoided her father’s and grandfather’s fates?” Arkhip asked.
“She hired former KGB officers and moonlighting FSB officers who inform her if the state intends to move against her or her businesses. And, unlike her father, she avoids all publicity.”
“And does she have children?” Arkhip asked, knowing she did, of course, but wanting to hear Gusev’s impression of Eldar Velikaya.
Gusev gave a short laugh. “A son. Eldar Velikaya. He is not his mother or his grandfather. He is a mental midget, which makes him dangerous. He runs around town spending money on hookers, gambling, and generally causing problems. There are rumors he has killed at least two prostitutes, but nothing has come of it. Now, Investigator Mishkin, do you wish to tell me what this is about?”
“Not yet. No.”