UNDER RED NOTICE

CHAPTER I

THE FIRST SERIOUS LESSON

It was late December 2005. I lived in a beautiful city in Russia: Saint Petersburg.

I had just parked my car in a lot near my apartment building

after finishing work for the day at the office. I lived on the tenth floor

and entered the building to take the elevator.

The elevator’s arrival chimed, and I stepped inside. Seconds later, I

stepped out onto my floor and walked toward the first secure metal

door. The metal door separating several apartments from the elevator

landing was a common security measure in Russia. I slid the key into

the lock.

Suddenly, my vision went dark from a blow to the back of my head. I

fell against the door. A moment later, I realized my face had gone slack,

and saliva was drooling from my mouth. I was almost unconscious but

managed to remain upright. I heard indistinct, muffled voices behind

me. I managed to turn my head enough to see two blurred figures with

what looked like metal clubs. But as I turned, a torrent of blows rained

down on me again.

Instinctively, I threw up my hands to protect myself, but the next blows

knocked me to the floor. Blows continued to slam into my body from

every direction. All I could do was use my hands and legs to protect

myself, but soon they were broken, and I could not move them. And

still the attack continued… I saw my blood everywhere. Sounds became

garbled… I lost consciousness.

I opened my eyes to the shouts of “Count time” and realized that

everything I had just seen was a dream-memory of the experience I

went through in Russia thirteen years ago. It was Count Time in the

early morning at Dorm Charlie, a maximum-security jail complex in

the State of California, United States, and it was September 14, 2018.

CHAPTER I I

NOVEMBER 2010

November in Russia is usually chilly. It was one of the late evenings in

November 2010, nearly a year before everything changed. I stood in

the kitchen of my St. Petersburg apartment, the tenth-floor windows

framing the city’s glowing lights against the early winter darkness. A

beef tenderloin steak sizzled in a pan before me, its edges crisping under

a sheen of melted butter as I pressed it gently with a spatula. The

rich aroma filled the air, mingling with a hint of cracked pepper – a

small indulgence after a long day. My apartment wasn’t anything luxurious.

It was just a regular business-class apartment building, but, more

importantly, I owned it: a spacious 850 sq. ft. one-bedroom apartment

with a simple, tasteful design and a touch of comfort, the kind of place

that felt like a reward for several years of quiet persistence.

The television hummed in the background, its oversized LED screen

dominating one wall. My love for huge screens came from my childhood,

when I saw one of the first Hollywood movies I had ever

watched – Total Recall, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. One of the

opening scenes showed Arnold’s character watching the morning news

on a wall-integrated TV panel covering half of the wall above the table.

Now, from my own wall-sized TV panel, Prime Minister Putin’s voice

filled the room, steady and deliberate, delivering one of those speeches

that seemed to promise a new era for business – “We should develop

our economy relying on medium and small entrepreneurship,” he

said – “We need to create a strategy and program for supporting our

entrepreneurs.” I paused, glancing at the screen. The message coming

from his figure was crafted to sound decisive and convincing, yet a

faint insincerity drifted through his speech. Back then, I was studying

for my second master’s degree in economics at the Russian Presidential

Academy in Moscow, and I thought – Why don’t I write my final thesis

as a strategy for Russian economic development through proper application

of monetary and fiscal policies in order to create a sustainable

economy relying on medium and small businesses? I was also considering

incorporating my ideas on combating Russia’s endemic corruption

into my thesis.

I turned back to the stove, stirring the pan, when my phone buzzed

on the counter. The screen lit up with Maria’s name – my assistant in

my small business supplying electronic equipment to different manufacturers

in our region. I wiped my hands on a towel and picked up

the phone.

“Hey! How are you? Tell me something good about our bid.”

Her voice crackled through, quick and upbeat. “We got it, Gregory.

We won the bid. We’re now the suppliers for their new overload and

overvoltage safety system.”

I listened for maybe thirty seconds as she ran through the details –

“one of the largest commercial companies… several manufacturers

across Russia,” “a contract to supply and install a new overload- and

overvoltage-safety system.” Honestly, I barely registered any of it; I

couldn’t hold back my happiness. My heart leapt with happiness. When

she finished, I said, “We can’t afford to fail our first successful bid. Tomorrow,

we need to put together a plan to fulfill this contract. Thanks

for the good news, Maria. See you tomorrow at the office.”

I hung up the phone, set it down, and leaned against the countertop,

hands pressing into the edge. A long breath escaped me, mixed

with something sharper – like pride, maybe. For five months, my team

worked on this first bid, with no understanding at the beginning of

what to do or how to win. It seemed at that time like a doomed idea.

And now, it was a real win.

I looked around the kitchen – at the sleek cabinets and the faint steam

curling up from the pan before disappearing into the vent above the

stove, then glanced toward the living room, where the TV still flickered.

Beyond the windows, St. Petersburg stretched out. One more

achievement on my path in this city. It was a significant moment for

me. I was just 31, and just eight years earlier, I had been invited to this

city to work as a personal trainer in one of the most prominent fitness

centers, Sport Life. I recalled sleeping on the sofa in the living room in

my friend’s apartment for several weeks because I didn’t have anything

but a single suitcase of clothes.

Now, I continued pondering – I had my own apartment, I was running

a business, paying for my second master’s degree on my own, and I had

huge plans to move forward in this city.

The screen picture shifted as Putin’s speech ended, but I did not turn

it off. I stood there, letting the feelings of excitement settle, thinking

about tomorrow. I clearly sensed that my life was on the brink of

changing. I understood that my company would only grow – becoming

bigger and more trusted – once we earned a solid reputation by successfully

fulfilling this contract, or so I thought. Little did I know that

life had slightly different plans for me.

CHAPTER I I I

THE CALL

That night, I could not fall asleep for a long time, and yet I woke up

at 7 a.m. – even before the alarm began playing its tune. It was still

completely dark outside the window. I went into the bathroom, took a

shower, and stood in front of the mirror with a razor in hand. A thin

layer of soap covered my jaw. I had never used shaving cream. I never

understood the point – if the razor slid perfectly over my skin with

shampoo or hand soap, why bother with anything else? A single towel

hung around my waist. The apartment was silent at that early hour. I

thought to myself, today is going to be a big day.

Suddenly, the buzz of my cell phone cut through the quiet. I even

shuddered from the surprise. I glanced at it – an unknown number

flashing on the screen. Who the hell is this? I thought.

I set the razor down, wiped my hand on the towel’s edge, and picked

up the phone. “I’m listening,” I said.

A voice came through – calm, measured, and outwardly polite, but

there was something unsettling beneath it. It was the kind of ironic

politeness that didn’t feel respectful at all, like a boa constrictor courteously

explaining to a rabbit how it intends to devour it. It sounded like

menace disguised as politeness. “Hello, may I speak with Gregory?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I replied. “Who am I speaking with?”

“Gregory, you don’t know me,” the stranger said. His pace was deliberate,

almost too smooth. “But we’d like to congratulate you on your

company’s success yesterday and invite you to lunch at 1:00 p.m. at

Ginza Restaurant, one of the fanciest places in St. Petersburg at that

time. We’d like to discuss the details of fulfilling this bid.”

I leaned against the sink and answered, testing the waters: “Wasn’t that

all settled in the contract?”

“Gregory, please, just come,” he replied, unruffled. “We do not bite;

you have no reason to worry.” The tone of that line – “we do not bite,

you have no reason to worry”- actually felt more like a shielded threat

than reassurance. I felt like I had been summoned, not invited. It made

my pulse tick up a notch. Still, I held myself together and kept my

voice steady. In that moment, I thought, “Okay… if this is a problem,

I need to show up, talk, and see who these people really are.

“Okay. How will I find you?” I asked.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be guided to the table.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

I hung up. The phone was still warm in my hand. For a moment, I

stood there, staring at my reflection – half-shaved, my thoughts spinning.

The stranger’s tone lingered in my ears – too polished and deceptively

polite, like a mask that didn’t quite hide the menace. My fingers

tightened around the razor’s handle as I replayed his words. Was I right

to accept the meeting? Was I walking into something I didn’t understand?

But the decision had already been made. I had agreed to the meeting.

And now, I just wanted it to come faster. To face it. To get clarity. To

know what this was all about.

I turned back to the mirror and finished shaving. But in my mind, I was

still circling one question: Who the hell was the man behind that voice?

CHAPTER I V

THE MEETING

That day, I arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes early. I have a

personal rule against being late. I cannot stand it when others show up

after the agreed time, and I almost never let myself do it.

The parking lot was filled with luxury vehicles, many accompanied

by black SUVs with tinted windows, security details, and special government

signal devices – underscoring the prominence of its patrons.

This was one of the most prestigious spots in St. Petersburg, frequented

by politicians, influential business figures, celebrities, and former

gangsters who had transitioned into the business world.

The restaurant featured a multi-zone layout with a beautiful open-air

terrace that was open during the summertime. The private booths

were set among blue firs and thuja trees, connected by beautifully tiled

paths used by waiters to serve guests. Each booth was draped in white

veil curtains that gently waved in the breeze, offering a sense of exclusivity

and seclusion. The lush greenery surrounding the terrace created

a peaceful ambiance, where rabbits, chinchillas, and miniature goats

occasionally darted around – giving the impression of being in nature,

despite the location in one of the city’s central districts.

However, it was November, and the terrace was closed for the season.

Nevertheless, even in late autumn, the restaurant offered cozy indoor

booths with picturesque views through large windows. The landscape

outside was meticulously designed, sometimes dusted with the season’s

first fresh snow, creating a serene, almost countryside-like atmosphere

right in the heart of the city.

At that time, I drove a Hyundai Tucson, a compact SUV that, in that

setting, made me look more like I was there to wash someone else’s car

than to attend a formal meeting. Despite being able to afford some

thing more extravagant, I had chosen to invest all my extra resources

in real estate, building a foundation for my family’s future.

I knew this place well. When I first arrived in St. Petersburg several

years earlier, I was invited to work at the fitness center in the same

complex. The clientele there was the same type of elite public, people

from politics, big business, and entertainment, whom I served as a

personal trainer. Later, some of those people found themselves caught

in the ruthless tide of business disputes with their former partners or

the government – some ended up in prison, while others were killed,

victims of the high-stakes world they inhabited.

When I got out of the car and approached the receptionist, it was

clear that they already knew who I was. I barely had to introduce myself

before the impeccably dressed, young receptionist smiled and said,

“We’ve been expecting you. Please follow me.” She led me through the

warm, elegantly decorated interior of the restaurant to one of the cozy

indoor booths, where the ambiance was just as lush and inviting.

Inside the booth, several men were already seated. A few of them,

likely in their mid-fifties, had the distinct look of hardened gangsters.

What immediately caught my attention was the unusual appearance

of their fists. Their knuckles were abnormally large, almost like swollen

lumps, as if something unnatural had been embedded beneath the

skin. Later, out of curiosity, I asked a friend who was a doctor about it,

and he explained that in the Russia of the 1990s, some gang members

used to inject candle paraffin into their knuckles. The paraffin fused

with the tissue, making their fists heavier and more dangerous in fights.

It was my first time seeing such a thing, and it added an unsettling layer

to the already tense atmosphere of the meeting.

Alongside them sat another man, also likely in his late forties or early

fifties, but unlike the others, he was solidly built, clean-cut, and welldressed;

his appearance gave the distinct impression that he was either

a politician or a high-ranking official.

As I stepped into the booth and saw the men sitting there, I greeted

them with, “Hello, my name is Gregory.” None of them extended a

handshake or responded with more than a nod. The solid-looking man

in the center finally spoke up, “Hi, Gregory. We know who you are.

Please, have a seat at our table.”

I thanked them and took a seat, but no one spoke. The table fell into

an odd, heavy silence; everyone just sat calmly, watching, as if the burden

of the moment belonged solely to me. For a few long seconds, the

pause dragged out – uneasy, deliberate. I thought to myself, “Alright, I

came. You asked me to be here. So why the complete silence?” It felt

almost like a psychological test.

So, to cut through the tension, as a matter of courtesy, I smiled and

said, “Well...?” – breaking the growing unease.

The solid, well-dressed man seated at the center of the group finally

spoke up. “Gregory,” he said, “it’s really nice to see someone like

you – young, healthy, handsome, and full of strength – in our line of

business.”

It was a very bad sign. The way he said it sent a chill down my spine.

The tone was polite. The message wasn’t. Compliments like that, at

what was supposed to be a business meeting, felt less like praise and

more like a veiled threat, a clear indication that this meeting was neither

friendly nor truly about business.

But they did not stop. One of them leaned forward and said, “Gregory,

we want to be your friends. We just want to make sure that something

like what happened in 2005 never happens to you again.”

That last phrase made me tense. They were referring to the brutal attack

that had happened to me near my apartment in 2005. Two men

had ambushed me with baseball bats. I ended up in the hospital with

severe blood loss and nearly five dozen torn wounds on my head, arms,

and legs. My left hand and wrist were broken, and the blows to my left

leg were so heavy they tore through the muscle tissue.

The case was automatically registered after the hospital submitted its

report to law enforcement. But not long after, the case was quietly shut

down. The assigned investigator gave me a warning instead of answers:

“Better not to push this, Gregory. Dangerous people were behind it.

Next time, within the next relapse, you might not survive at all.”

The mention of that 2005 attack was a stark reminder that these men

had done their homework. They were playing a psychological game,

pressuring me and making it unmistakably clear that they had serious

connections.

The well-dressed man leaned in just enough to close the air between us

and said, “Let’s not misunderstand each other, Gregory. You’re a smart

man. You’re doing well. We respect that. That’s why we’re here – to

keep things smooth and predictable.”

Predictable? I thought. What did they mean by that? My thoughts began

to race.

I took a slow, steady breath, trying to keep my composure, and gave a

slow, deliberate nod, part acknowledgment, part calculation. “I understand,”

I said. I tried to keep my voice steady, but my mind was still

racing. I understood clearly: from this point on, I had to be extremely

careful with every word I said.

I forced a polite smile. “I appreciate your concern,” I replied, carefully

choosing each word. “But you invited me here for a business discussion.

Let’s talk about that.”