“The Russian” continues Thomas Nichols’ fact-based novels of the border wars along the southern boundary of the United States. Beginning with Color of the Prism, continuing with We Were Young Once . . ., and concluding with the third of these spellbinding stories, Nichols’ readers experience an insider’s view of the cartel-controlled human and drug trafficking.
In “The Russian”, New Mexico State Trooper Enrique (Ricky) Basurto joins other local, state, and federal agents in the Multi-Agency Human and Controlled Substance Interdiction Task Force. Focused along the desolate NM Hwy. 9 from Columbus to Animas, Ricky and his colleagues face the dangers of the powerful cartels, their heavily armed militias, the Russian Mafia, and the innocent men, women, and children who are their victims.
The near-ghost town of Hachita, New Mexico, is the bull’s eye in the war. It is here in the remote Chihuahua desert where life and death intersect, bringing about unexpected challenges to Ricky and his colleagues’ professionalism, ethics, and personal goals and fears.
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Oleg Krutoy was as ordinary and non-descript as a man could
be. His neighbors thought him to be in his late 60s or early
70s. A bit on the portly side, the broken blood vessels on his nose
and cheeks gave him the appearance of too many vodkas over the
years. Nowadays, no one ever saw him the slightest bit tipsy. He had lived in the neighborhood for more than ten years, just off Broadway and Swan Road in Tucson, Arizona.
Everyone thought he was a widower, or maybe a bachelor, from Brighton Beach in New York City where he ran a shoe store. He talked about the old days back there when he could go to the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Transfiguration, though that was a different time, back in '07. Tucson was a lot different. They didn't have a Russian Orthodox Church. The Holy Resurrection Orthodox was close by, but it wasn't Russian just a generic substitute.
Nobody knew him well, but they were in total agreement on one point: There wasn't a better neighbor than Oleg. They found him to be a kind and gentle soul. He'd pick up your mail and newspaper if you were gone a few a days, make sure the flowerpots were watered, or maybe have a key and walk through the house to be sure there wasn't a water leak or some other calamity.
It was a Thursday morning, like any other Thursday. Everyone needed a routine, and Oleg had his. Every Thursday was just like it was last week and would be next week. There's nothing wrong with good habits. That's how life was supposed to be lived.
Barefoot but wearing his boxer shorts and undershirt, the old man rubbed the small of his back and looked at the clock on the oven.
Seven o'clock. It was time to put Coóaxa, the dusty gray and black miniature Schnauzer, in the back yard to do his duty. Of course, the
neighbor kids couldn't say his Russian name, but they weren't far off: Sobaka is what they called him, and they were pretty close to right.
Today was going to be another hot day, "104," they say. "It's going to be hot, but it's a dry heat so it isn't too oppressive." That's what those weather people always said. He chuckled to himself. "Anyhow, I'll stay inside and watch the U.S. Open up north in Wisconsin. I like that Koepka kid."
He unplugged his old percolator coffee pot, dumped the grounds in the trash, then rinsed and dried his cup and put it in the drain rack next to the sink. Shuffling to his bedroom, he donned his favorite cotton sports shirt, a pair of freshly pressed khaki trousers, calf-high silk socks, and his dark brown Mephisto Oxford shoes. Pausing, he took in his reflection in the mirror, brushed aside an errant hair from over his ear, tucked his wallet and handkerchief into
his pockets, and snatched his keys from the dresser top. He exited the carport door, taking time to lock it behind him before unlocking his
car.
Glancing at his watch, he smiled. Seven-twenty. Right on time. That was important to him. Everyone should lead an orderly life. He backed his 2016 Volvo out of the carport, negotiated the curves and roundabouts in the neighborhood, and blended into eastbound
Broadway lanes toward the rising sun. Traffic was light this time of day, but bumper to bumper westbound toward the city.
Oleg hung his ADA permit on the rearview mirror, slipped into a handicap parking spot at NYC Bagels, and found an empty table with a copy of US.A Today left behind by a previous customer. He smiled. It was a good day. He enjoyed a cup of espresso along with a hot buttered garlic bagel. They were delicious.
Saguaro National Park was a beautiful, relaxing drive out the Spanish Trail east of the sprawling suburbs and strip shopping malls of the city. It was a world within itself, home to thousands of towering saguaro cacti, deer, javelina, birds, coyotes, and the occasional
mountain lion. It also was a Mecca for bicyclists with its twisting ups, downs, and arounds for a nine-mile circular tour of the park.