The Jews and the Crow

At nine o'clock in the evening, the streets of Brighton Beach were shrouded in a thin layer of mist.

The neon sign of Black Sea Seafood was dark, the rolling shutter door was half-closed, and the parking spaces in front were completely empty.

According to normal business hours, the restaurant should have been open for another two hours, but Sergei had closed it early tonight.

Looking from the outside, only one window on the second floor of the four-story building emitted a dim, yellowish light, resembling a half-closed eye.

Sergei Kuzmin sat in a high-backed leather chair in his second-floor office, facing a heavy oak desk.

On the desk sat a bottle of "Stolichnaya" vodka that was a third empty, a heavy glass, an ashtray containing half of a stubbed-out cigar, and a Motorola flip phone lying face down.

He had returned from the 60th Precinct less than an hour ago.

In theory, he had been "released."

Lieutenant De Luca's men had taken him from the restaurant a few days ago, detaining him under the pretext of "suspected involvement in organized crime."

But in reality, during those few days, he had spent less than forty minutes in the interrogation room; the rest of the time was spent living safely and comfortably in a luxury holding cell.

If Sergei had wanted to get out, it would have been easy; he only needed to have his lawyer visit the 60th Precinct, and he could have left after twenty-four hours.

However, Sergei did not want to leave; he had even bribed Lieutenant De Luca with five thousand dollars to keep him detained in violation of protocol for a month.

There was no helping it; while his freedom was restricted inside the police station, Sergei was at least able to hide from the storm outside and provide some people with an explanation, giving himself some room to maneuver.

Unexpectedly, the money was taken, but the job wasn't done; he had only stayed at the 60th Precinct for a few days before the police kicked him out.

This in itself made Sergei irritable.

What made him even more irritable was that when the detective sent him out the precinct door, he patted him on the shoulder and said in a tone that was almost friendly.

"Sergei, to be honest, the reason I had to arrest you was because someone asked me to question you... about that business where you kidnapped the Columbia University professor..."

De Luca did not say the words that followed.

But this question itself was a blade hanging over his head.

It meant two things: first, someone was targeting him; second, the person targeting him had enough power to make a detective from the 60th Precinct speak on their behalf.

This was not good news; as someone who made a living in the New York underworld, Sergei knew all too well whose dog the New York City police were.

Sergei poured a glass of vodka and downed it in one gulp.

The alcohol burned a trail of fire down his throat, temporarily suppressing the surging irritability in his stomach. He cursed under his breath in Russian, then slammed the empty glass back onto the desk.

Two troublesome matters. No, to be precise, three.

But there was only one reason he was sitting here drinking tonight.

The first matter was that the job for the New Jersey pharmaceutical company, Traplex Bio, had not been completed.

Not only had their experiment in the abandoned factory district of Brooklyn gone wrong, but the FBI had also raided Sergei's other strongholds, seizing over thirty guns and a batch of medical equipment of unknown purpose, and arresting seven of his men.

That company was currently busy dealing with the FBI investigation, overwhelmed and having no time to come looking for trouble with him for the moment.

Besides, the main responsibility for that matter didn't lie with him... it was their experiment that had gone wrong, and his men were only responsible for security and transport.

So, this one was not urgent.

The second matter was that Jew.

Sergei poured another glass of alcohol, not drinking it immediately, but staring at the transparent liquid in the glass as if he could find some answer within it.

David Goldstein.

When this name spilled from his lips, Sergei's vodka-filled stomach gave a spasm, and he felt a wave of nausea.

He had known Goldstein for three years and had done business with him five or six times, and each time only made him more certain of one thing... never do business with a Jew.

On one hand, it was a matter of money; for every job, Goldstein was very unpleasant about paying, always dragging his feet and finding excuses to deduct the commission beyond the deposit.

Beyond that, this man possessed an unbearable arrogance typical of certain businessmen... he believed that money could solve every problem, including those that money could not solve.

He believed that once he paid, the whole world should revolve around him.

He believed that once he hired Sergei, the latter should act like a dog, unconditionally completing every task he assigned without any mistakes or accidents.

And once an accident occurred, he would fly into a rage.

If it weren't for last year's economic crisis, which had affected everyone—including Sergei, who worked in the black market—and caused his income to plummet, he really would not have wanted to deal with that Jewish pig or accept his tasks.

This time, the job was for Goldstein to hire him to kidnap a professor from Columbia University; the matter itself was not complicated.

Sergei took the order and operated according to his usual process, contacting the executors via burner phones, arranging vehicles and lookouts, and setting the time and place.

The target was an elderly professor over sixty, with no bodyguards and no weapons, whose daily route was as fixed as a subway schedule.

In his evaluation system, this kind of job fell under "low risk, low difficulty, low reward."

And then, the four men he sent out never returned.

Suddenly, it was as if the four men, along with their phones, had been erased from this world by God.

Sergei still hadn't figured out what had happened to those four men, not until he was arrested by the police from the 60th Precinct; only then did he realize the situation was wrong, and then, through his lawyer while in the luxury holding cell, he had his men look for them.

And then, up until now, he hadn't been able to get a single piece of useful information; he had sent people to scout the house where the four men were supposed to work, only to find the house completely clean... literally clean, as everything useful inside the house had vanished, save for the floors and walls.

This is hellish; the methods the other party used are not the style of the underworld.

When a murder occurs, gangs hire cleaners or handle the body themselves to avoid bothering the police, but for God's sake, everything in the house has vanished—what is going on here?

The sofa, the television, the toilet, the pots and pans—all gone. Is this a professional job?

David Goldstein doesn't care about any of that.

Ever since Sergei Kuzmin returned to Black Sea Seafood, Goldstein's calls have been relentless. At first, it was questioning, then verbal abuse, and finally, an ultimatum.

His demands are simple, yet absurd... refund the entire commission and pay an additional triple indemnity.

Refund the money? Fine.

According to the rules, if a mission fails, the commission is returned; this is a principle Sergei acknowledges.

But triple compensation? There is no such rule.

Never has been.

If every failed mission required triple compensation, he, Sergei, would have been thrown into the Hudson River long ago.

Half an hour ago, Goldstein called again. Sergei didn't pick up. The phone rang, cut off, then rang again—repeating three times.

He looked at the Motorola lying face-down on the table, knowing those missed calls were all from the same number.

But Goldstein's threats, to put it bluntly, only serve to annoy him.

The Jews have money, connections, and immense influence in the United States, but that applies to the Jewish community as a whole; it doesn't mean Goldstein is some big shot. At most, he is a small fry among them.

And this is the Brighton Beach neighborhood, Russian territory. Any outsider entering here is met with exclusion and surveillance.

If Goldstein is truly stupid enough to send people here to cause trouble, Sergei wouldn't mind having Igor resolve this triple-commission-value problem with a single bullet in the dead of night.

What truly worries him is that professor.

Sergei picked up his glass, but this time he didn't drink; he just held it in his hand, feeling the cold touch of the glass against his palm.

Robert Jero, a professor in the Department of Mathematical Finance at Columbia University.

The name is easy to remember because Sergei specifically looked into this man before taking the job. After all, this was about moving against an intellectual; if you don't understand them clearly, accidents are prone to happen.

Jero is not an ordinary university professor. He has deep connections on Wall Street, and the mathematical models he teaches are used by major investment banks and hedge funds to predict markets, assess risks, and calculate profits.

His students are scattered throughout Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, and Lehman Brothers.

His academic reputation grants him a seat in high society, and his social connections allow him to pick up the phone at any moment and call those sitting in the top-floor offices of Manhattan skyscrapers.

And those people can pick up the phone and call those sitting in police stations, City Hall, or even the offices of the FBI.

This is what Sergei is truly afraid of.

He isn't afraid of the underworld.

He is too familiar with the methods of the underworld—familiar enough to anticipate, defend against, and retaliate with the same tactics.

But Robert Jero likely won't use those methods.

Jero is highly likely to pick up the phone, call a friend working at City Hall, and describe the attack he suffered in a calm tone.

That friend will pick up the phone and call a friend working in some United States agency—perhaps the Immigration Bureau, maybe the FBI, or perhaps...

Then, the name Sergei Kuzmin will appear on documents he doesn't want it to appear on, in meetings he doesn't want it to be mentioned in, and on lists he doesn't want to be on.

The darkness hidden deep within the United States is too terrifying; just thinking about it fills Sergei with a dread he cannot drown with vodka.

Sergei downed the drink in his glass and slammed it heavily onto the table.

"Suka blyat..."

He started in Russian, followed by a string of English profanities.

The target of his cursing was David Goldstein; he called him greedy, called him stupid, and asked why he couldn't do business like a normal person.

After he finished cursing, he cursed himself... why did he take this job? Why collaborate with a Jew? Why didn't he cut ties after the first job?

These questions actually have one answer.

Money.

The financial crisis had too great an impact, and Sergei needs to support fifteen elite gunmen to maintain a foothold in this Brighton Beach neighborhood, which is crawling with Russian gangs, and to run his business as an intelligence and mercenary broker.

Without money, without guns, without men, Sergei would be a stray dog on the street, driven out of Brighton Beach in a heartbeat... no, he would simply vanish.

So, Sergei needs business, he needs money, and so, he made a compromise.

Now, he is paying the price for that compromise.

Sergei picked up the bottle, preparing to pour another drink. Halfway through tilting the bottle, his movements froze.

It was the cawing of a crow from outside the window. A black shadow stood by the window, watching him through the glass.

The neighborhood where Black Sea Seafood is located does indeed have the occasional crow.

Brighton Beach is near the coastline; seagulls and pigeons are frequent visitors, and while crows are relatively rare, they aren't entirely absent. Sergei has lived here for nearly ten years and has seen crows many times, never paying them any mind.

But this time, Sergei felt something was wrong. When he saw the crow, he also realized it was nine o'clock at night.

March, New York, nine o'clock at night. The sun had set nearly three hours ago. Crows are diurnal birds; they should have returned to their nests before dusk.

Sergei slowly set down his bottle, staring fixedly at the shadow outside the window before him.

After watching for a moment, Sergei saw the Crow clearly.

It was a very large crow, and its head was tilted slightly, with one eye pointed directly into the room through the window.

That eye was black, as black as a polished agate, reflecting a pinprick of light from the streetlamp.

It was watching Sergei, focused and calm, as if it were evaluating him, making sweat break out on Sergei's back.

In Slavic traditional beliefs, the crow is a quintessential "unclean bird," and there are even legends that its black feathers are God's punishment for its evil deeds, a product created by the devil.

It is believed to be able to traverse the boundary between life and death, serving as a servant and avatar for witches and evil spirits... Witches can transform into crows to commit evil at night, stealing human souls and bringing disease and curses.

As a Ukrainian, Sergei had certainly heard of and believed in such rumors... because he had seen some strange things himself that could not be explained by science.

In a panic, Sergei's hand slowly reached toward the drawer on the right side of his desk.

Inside the drawer lay a Makarov PM; the magazine was full, the safety was off, and his fingers touched the cold metal grip... but he did not pull the gun out immediately.

He stared at the Crow.

The Crow stared back at him.

After about ten seconds, or perhaps longer, the Crow suddenly moved. It shook its wings, let out a short cry, and then turned its head to look in a certain direction across the street.

That movement was too human-like.

It seemed to have confirmed something, and then it shifted its gaze to the next target that required attention.

Then, without warning, it spread its wings, dropped its body, and vanished into the night outside the window frame.

Sergei stood up abruptly, rushed to the window with the Makarov in his hand, and shoved it open.

The windowsill was empty; the light from the streetlamp shone on the small patch of concrete, reflecting a damp glimmer.

Nothing was left there—no feathers, no claw marks, nothing to prove that a bird had been standing there just seconds ago.

"Suka..."

He cursed, suddenly realizing that something was wrong tonight.

"Igor!"

A burly Russian man pushed the door open and entered.

"Boss?"

"Gather the brothers. Something is happening tonight. Tell them to get their guns, and then..."

Sergei hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself.

"Send someone to open the basement cold storage and start the thawing process. Tonight, we might need to use that Traplex Bio test subject."

Igor's pupils constricted slightly.

"That thing has been frozen ever since it was delivered. The people from Traplex said it was unstable..."

"I know."

Sergei cut him off, his gaze returning to the empty windowsill outside.

"We can't worry about that tonight."

Igor was silent for a second, then nodded and turned to leave.

His footsteps faded down the hallway, followed by the sound of him going downstairs, and then the sound of short Russian commands and the clatter of metal.

Sergei stood by the window, gripping his pistol, watching the night outside.

That feeling was still there.

Someone was watching him.

Not the Crow, but something, or someone, behind the Crow. That bird was merely a pair of eyes sent to confirm something.

And now, those eyes had finished their confirmation.