Belka, Why Don't You Bark - By Hideo Furukawa Page 0,15
Vors, all prominent figures in the current Russian Federation, had gathered for a conference. When the Soviet system collapsed, the Federation was split up into twelve regions. The mafia divvied up its turf. Each of these twelve Vors controlled a region. They’d gathered to brainstorm strategies for dealing with the Chechens. Someone attacked the conference, and all twelve Vors were killed. Ha ha ha! A remarkably efficient massacre! The attacker was a professional, obviously. And of course the Chechens must have hired him. I wasn’t much of a reporter at the time, just a kid with a pen and a pad of paper, but I managed to learn, not his name, no—but his nickname. They called him the Archbishop.”
“The…Archbishop?”
“Yes. Somehow just hearing that makes you sober up a bit, doesn’t it? I don’t know why. I wonder why. Ha ha ha! What next? Things get interesting—as soon as he killed the twelve Vors, he immediately betrayed the Chechens. The two groups were decapitated, and their struggle, this feud between the Russian and the Chechen mafia, grew messier, more ferocious. All these little Vors trying to fight their way to the top, all sorts of people like that—and to make it worse, you’ve got these ethnic groups, Ukrainians and Kazakhs and so on, now they’re joining the fray too. They’ve turned the western regions of our great Russia into a bloodbath. It’s gone on this way for years, groups competing for profits that swell day by day, week after week, month after month. And now, at last, this year, the struggle between the two main forces has spread, leaping like a spark, to the Far East.”
“So the Freedom Daily reported. Seven months ago.”
“So we reported. It was a tremendous scoop. And what fun we’ve had since! Of course, it was unfortunate that a hundred blameless civilians had to get mixed up in it all. That was too bad. But it’s a fact—it is the truth—that the Chechen mafia has started moving into the Far East, hoping to further its business interests in used cars, gasoline, and firearms. They’re serving themselves nice fat pieces from the Russian mafia’s pie. That, too, is the truth. So you see, Uncle, I never wrote any lies! I never asked my reporters to lie! I don’t publish lies!”
“Just speculation,” the old man said.
“Yes, speculation. We do that.”
“And that created this situation. This world we’re in. Gangsters all over the place, riding around in heavily armored cars—not that this keeps the gangsters from being blown sky-high, along with their bodyguards.”
“We’ll keep the speculations coming. Ha ha ha!”
“Not long ago Freedom Daily reported that they’ve started targeting rigs?”
“The Chechen mafia? Trying to get control of the rigs? Hell yes! Of course! That seems to have irritated the Russians. Still, it’s not a lie. The information may not have come from you, Uncle, but even so. On another note…”
“What is it, Nephew?”
“You don’t belong to either side.”
“Let us drink a fourth time.”
“Na zdorovye!”
“Delicious.”
“Delicious indeed.”
“It’s best not to probe too deeply, wouldn’t you say? I’m helping you, yes, but only because you’re valuable to me. Those articles you print stir things up. I would advise you, for instance, not to call me inappropriate nicknames. That would be dangerous. You mustn’t ask me what sort of nickname I have in mind. You understand? Take care. I’m warning you. I’ve bought you. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And why not?”
“Because I value my life.”
“And?”
“And?”
“It boosts sales.”
“It certainly does! Good ol’ capitalism! Ha ha ha!”
“You have a charming smile.”
“And this is a marvelous restaurant, isn’t it?”
“Nice and loud?”
“Conveniently loud. So conveniently.”
“Sometimes it’s quiet.”
“Quiet? Is it?”
“A rumor for you.”
“Yes?”
“People have seen yakuza here.”
“Yakuza? The Japanese mafia?”
“Yes. They’re here to foster international cooperation. The Russian mafia is stronger at the moment, right? This month they’re pushing back at the Chechens. What do you make of that? Balance is more important than anything, right? And then—this is simply a rumor, of course—the yakuza turn up. What happens next? Here’s a prophecy for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole Far East turns into an enormous powder keg.”
“If you’re right, we’ll change the name of our newspaper.”
“Change it? No more Freedom Daily?”
“That’s right…to Terror Daily. Na zdorovye!”
Three days later. Same restaurant. Unusual sounds mixed in with the Russian. A conversation in Japanese. Jeering, tongue-clicking, raucous laughter, a ribald exchange. Hey, dick, is this the best champagne they got? What the fuck’s up with this sweet shit? It’s from Moldova, Boss. Mol…what? Where the fuck