Yuri’s odyssey to get to America had been grueling and had taken over a year. It had started in Novosibirsk in Siberia, where he’d been working at a government company called Vector. He’d been there for eleven years but had lost his job when the institution was downsized. Luckily he’d saved a few rubles before being terminated, and by a combination of plane, train, and accommodating truck drivers, he’d made his way to Moscow.
In Moscow, disaster struck. Because of the sensitive nature of his previous job, the FSB (the successor to the KGB) was notified when he applied for an international passport. Yuri was arrested and thrown into Lefortovo Prison. After a number of months, he managed to get out of prison by agreeing to work at another government facility in Zagorsk. The problem was that they didn’t pay him, at least not in money. He was given vodka and toilet paper in lieu of cash.
Fleeing in the dead of night on the evening prior to a midwinter holiday, he walked and hitchhiked the thousand miles to Tallinn, Estonia. It was a terrible trip, full of setbacks, illnesses, injury, near starvation, and unimaginable cold. It was the type of hardship that the armies of Napoleon and Hitler had experienced with disastrous results.
Although the Estonians were less than friendly to him as an ethnic Russian, and some Estonian youths had beaten him up one night, Yuri was able to earn enough money to buy fake papers that got him a job on a freighter plying the Baltic. In Sweden he jumped ship and applied for refugee status.
Sweden questioned the validity of his being a refugee but permitted him to stay temporarily. He was allowed to work at menial jobs to earn enough money to book a flight to Toronto and then to New York. When he finally arrived on U.S. soil, he bent down like the Pope and kissed the ground.
There were many times during the long, desperate quest to get to New York that Yuri was tempted to give up. But he didn’t. Throughout the whole ordeal he was driven by the promise of America: freedom, riches, and the good life.
A sneer spread across Yuri’s face. Some good life it turned out to be! It was more like a cruel joke. He was driving a cab twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day just to survive. Taxes, rent, food, and health care for himself and the fat wife he’d had to marry for a green card were all killing him.
“You must thank Almighty God you got out of Russia when you did,” Harvey said, unaware of Yuri’s state of mind. “I don’t know how the people are coping.”
Yuri didn’t respond. He just wanted Harvey to shut up. Suddenly the traffic opened up. Yuri stomped on the gas. The cab shot forward, throwing Harvey back against the rear seat. Yuri gripped the wheel and hunkered down. The tires screeched.
“Hey, my meeting’s not important enough to risk death,” Harvey shouted from the back seat.
Approaching the next intersection and a red light, Yuri hit the brakes. The car started to fishtail. Yuri expertly turned into a skid. The cab shot between a bus and a parked van, coming to an abrupt halt behind a garbage truck.
“My God!” Harvey called through the Plexiglas divider. “What kind of work did you do back in Russia? Don’t tell me you were a race car driver.”
Yuri didn’t answer.
Harvey moved forward. “I’m interested,” he said. “What did you do?” Last week I had a Russian cab driver who taught mathematics before coming over here. He said he was trained as an electrical engineer. Can you believe that?”
“I can believe it,” Yuri said. “I was trained as an engineer myself.” Yuri knew he was exaggerating, since he’d been a technician, not an engineer, but he didn’t care.
“What kind of engineering?” Harvey asked.
“Biotechnological,” Yuri said. The light changed and he pressed down on the accelerator. As soon as he could, he got out from behind the garbage truck and headed uptown, trying to get in sync with the lights.
“That’s an impressive background indeed,” Harvey said. “How come you’re still driving a cab? I would think your skills would be in demand. Biotechnology is one of the fastest-growing fields in all of industry.”
“There’s a problem with getting credit for my education,” Yuri said. “It’s what you Americans call a Catch Twenty-two.”
“Well, it’s a shame,” Harvey said. “My advice is for you to keep trying. It’ll be worth it in the end.”
Yuri didn’t answer. He didn’t have to put up with the indignity of trying any longer. He wasn’t staying.
“Ah, it’s a good thing that we won the Cold War,” Harvey said. “At least the Russian people have a shot at prosperity and basic freedoms. I just hope they don’t screw it up.”
Yuri’s irritation changed to rage. It drove him crazy to have to listen constantly to the falsehood that America won the Cold War and broke up the Soviet Empire. The Soviet Union had been betrayed from within: first by Gorbachev and his stupid glasnost and perestroika, and then by Yeltsin for no other reason than to indulge his ego.
Yuri gunned the engine of the taxi and roared uptown, weaving in among the traffic, running lights, and intimidating pedestrians.
“Hey!” Harvey shouted. “Slow the hell down! What’s the matter with you?”
Yuri didn’t respond. He hated Harvey’s smug superiority, his expensive clothes, his ostrich briefcase, and most of all his stupid little hat he had pinned to his scraggly, thinning hair.
“Hey,” Harvey yelled. He knocked on the plastic divider. “Slow down or I’m calling the police.”
The warning about the police penetrated Yuri’s fury. The last thing he wanted was a run-in with the authorities. Yuri eased up on the accelerator and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to get you to your meeting on time.”
“I’d prefer to arrive alive,” Harvey snapped.
Yuri kept his speed within the normal limits while he worked his way over to Fifth Avenue. Once there he headed south for less than two blocks. He pulled up in front of the Union Bank, stopped, and turned off the meter.
Harvey lost no time in getting out of the cab. While standing on the sidewalk he counted out the fare to the penny and plopped the cash into Yuri’s waiting hand.
“No tip?” Yuri asked.
“You deserve a tip like I deserve a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Harvey said. “You’re lucky I’m paying you at all.” He turned and headed for the revolving door of the fancy granite and glass bank building.
“I didn’t expect a tip from a Zionist pig anyway,” Yuri yelled after him.
Harvey flipped the cab driver the finger before disappearing from sight.
Yuri closed his eyes for a moment. He had to get control of himself before he did something stupid. He hoped to hell that Harvey Bloomburg lived on the Upper East Side because that was the part of the city that Yuri was going to devastate.
The next thing Yuri knew the back door to his cab was pulled open and someone climbed in. Yuri spun around.
“I’m off duty,” he said. “Get out!”
“Your off-duty sign’s not on,” the woman said indignantly. She had a Louis Vuitton briefcase on one side and a leather laptop satchel on the other.
Yuri reached over to the proper switch and flicked it. “It’s on now,” he growled. “Out!”
“Oh, for chrissake,” the woman muttered. She grabbed her bags and got out of the cab. As a passive-aggressive gesture, she left the rear door ajar. She stepped out into the street, treated Yuri to a condescending look, then hailed another taxi.
Yuri stuck his hand out the driver’s side window and gave the open door a push. It closed without a problem. He then pulled out into the traffic and headed downtown. For the moment he was in no mood to put up with any more haughty business people, particularly Jewish bankers. Instead he wanted to revel in thinking about his revenge, and to do that he needed corroboration that his agent was as deadly as he imagined. That meant checking up on Jason Papparis.