Page 98 of King’s Ransom

As Georgy and I rode up in it, I could see that my companion was shitting bricks.

‘Georgy,’ I said. ‘Stay calm.’

‘Dr Sam,’ Georgy said, ‘Roman Oberov is bad, bad man. It is said that he has buried his enemies—alive—in the concrete foundations of the buildings in these parts. Even the police fear him.’

‘We’ll be okay,’ I said. ‘And Georgy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t let them know you speak Russian, okay?’

‘Okay, Dr Sam.’

Moments later, our elevator arrived on the 19th floor and Georgy and I were greeted by two gigantic Russian goons. They both wore Adidas tracksuits over white singlets.

(Honestly, what is it with Eastern European gangs and Adidas tracksuits and singlets? Is it a uniform? And what’s wrong with Nike or New Balance? Why is it always Adidas?)

The two thugs patted me down, but I was unarmed. (I’d given Merritt Garrett’s spare pistol back to him on December 21.)

They also frisked Georgy, who I thought might faint, but to my surprise, he maintained consciousness throughout the ordeal.

We were ushered down a short hallway and into an apartment facing the ocean.

Standing there waiting for us was the leader of the Brighton Bratva and criminal overlord of Brighton Beach and Coney Island, Roman Oberov.

Oberov’s apartment was enormous. He must have joined together several smaller ones to create this big one.

The views were amazing.

The apartment looked out over the ocean and Coney Island. I could see the boardwalk and the rollercoasters. A gigantic construction pit lay next to the amusement park, filled with unfinished parking levels, cranes and bulldozers.

(Seeing the pit, I wondered about Georgy’s claim that Oberov had buried people alive in concrete foundations. Was someone buried in that building site?)

It was interesting, I thought, to compare this gang lord’s home to Aristo King’s.

Top floor.

Bigger than any other apartment in the building.

Great views.

Being the top dog had similar perks no matter what your social circle was.

‘Welcome,’ Roman Oberov said.

He was a huge obese man with an enormous head, a bad comb-over and shrewd dark eyes. His voice was deep and he wore a silver suit and tie. No Adidas tracksuit for the boss.

But it was his eyes that seized my attention.

They were more than shrewd. They were calculating. They saw everything about you in a few seconds.

The eyes of a street killer.

Standing beside him was a younger man—also in a suit—who looked just like him.

‘I am Roman Oberov. This is my son, Dmitri. You say you are a private detective, Mr Speedman?’

‘Er, sir, it is actually Doctor Speedman—’ Georgy said helpfully.