and colleagues, willed him to hurry up and die, for both his benefit and ours. He screamed a scream I will never forget, until finally his melted face went under the liquid and did not emerge. It was a horrifying experience.”
Court recognized that Sid enjoyed telling the story. He did not know what to say, so he said, “Sounds like stealing from this man was not a good idea.”
Sid shrugged, reached for his tea as he replied matter-of-factly, “Oh, Natan was perfectly innocent. I am the one who embezzled the money. Used it ultimately to go into business for myself. Our employer let the rest of us leave. He himself was killed in ninety-four, shot in the back while getting fitted for a suit in Moscow.”
Court sighed. “Is there a point to this story? Because if there is, I don’t get it. Or am I just supposed to be frightened by it? Because I am not.”
SEVEN
“The point is, I want you to understand who I am. I can be your friend. I want to be your friend. But if you come into my home and speak to me as you have just spoken to me, if you show me no respect, I can be your enemy. Do not let my pleasant regard for you allow you to think you can disrespect me in my home. I am a man who has evolved into where I am. I did not begin like this. To be a success in Russia, you need equal measures of two things: brains and brutality. This mobster I spoke of, he was a brute. Killing a man like that was effective, but then to go out by yourself to buy a suit and get shot . . . surely he did not have the brains to understand the consequences of his brutality. Other men, accountants like me, for example, they have become involved in crime because they have the brains for success, but in this vicious environment of competition and institutional corruption and the bloodthirsty hunt for money at all costs . . . the accountant criminals were swept from the chessboard even faster than the brutal fools.
“I realized there was no one who had both the brains and the stomach. Someone with the brains for business and the stomach for violence could survive and thrive in the new Russia like no one else. I had the brains . . . this I knew. But the stomach? That took a while to develop.”
“So, do you throw your employees in acid?”
“No, my employees are treated well by me. They are National Socialists, if you had not yet guessed. They beat immigrants for fun. They think you are from the Caucasus from your complexion and hair . . . so they are no fans of yours. No, I do not threaten them; I let these young men live as they wish, give them free run of my home, and I pay them extremely well.”
“In gold chains?”
Sid laughed, genuinely amused. “Ha. No, not in gold chains. In euros. Used to be in dollars but, well, time marches on. You can come here, angry as you are, and you can tell me you do not want to work with me any longer. But, Mr. Gray, I promise you, I am the best that there is for what you need.”
On the wall to Gentry’s left and Sid’s right was a huge painting in a massive gilded frame. In the smoky light of the room, the square face and penetrating eyes of Joseph Stalin stared back at Court.
“Cute picture,” Court said as he sat down in an uncomfortable wooden high-backed chair in front of Sid’s desk.
Sidorenko regarded the portrait as if he had only just noticed it. “Yes. I respect the authority that it conveys.”
“You don’t strike me as one of the old guard.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“A commie. I thought all of you billionaire mobsters were capitalist pigs like the rest of the civilized world.”
Sidorenko laughed with his mouth open and a high gurgle in the back of his throat. “Oh yes, I am a pig, but not an ideological one.” He stared at the portrait as he said, “He was a terrible man, yes, but Uncle Joe said perhaps the most brilliant words ever spoken. He said, ‘Death solves all problems’—”
Court finished the quote. “‘No man, no problem.’”
Sidorenko smiled appreciatively. “Of course you would know this. It is your own personal mission statement, is it not?”