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Washington Eagles. Everyone know him?” Chief Ha asks. A few heads bob around the room. “Well, get to know him now. His older brother, Vladimir Drakonov, immigrated to the United States in the late 1990s and has been involved in the American branch of the Bratva ever since.”
    Okay, Roger, tell me something I don’t know. Every freakin’ news article written about Sergei has made some reference to his brother and alleged criminal enterprises. But Sergei was living in Moscow until a month ago. Certainly from the way he was talking the other night, he and his brother aren’t exactly close.
    “I’ll be sending detailed dossiers on both Drakonov brothers to you all later today. But the general idea is this: now that both brothers are in the States, we think it’s only a matter of time before Vladimir reaches out to his younger brother. He’s used other relatives before, pressuring them into aiding his criminal enterprise. And his powers of . . . persuasion . . . are unmatched. Everyone’s familiar with the Brighton Beach shootings two summers ago, right?”
    Again, a few half-assed head bobs. I almost put my hand in the air. I wrote about the shootings in my profiling class, though no one had pegged Vladimir Drakonov as being responsible back then. Over the course of a few months, five different Russian families had been found slaughtered—the wife, the children, the grandparents—with the husband disappearing into the night. The leading theory had been it was a means of intimidation. That the husbands had failed to pay their debts to the Bratva, and the Bratva had taken revenge by killing their families. I had a slightly different theory that I expanded on in my paper: that it had been an initiation rite. A severing of ties.
    Chief Ha explains the shootings to the group, then sighs. “The New York field office uncovered that all five of the missing men were related to Drakonov or his lieutenants by blood—third cousins, nephews-in-law and the like. Drakonov believes that family members can only be one of two things: an ally, or an enemy. So he ordered them to kill whichever family members might possibly get in the Bratva’s way.” Ha rubs at his jaw. “Chances are very good that Vladimir’s going to look at Sergei much the same way.”
    One of the male agents, Steve or Jim or something I can never remember, leans forward. “What use could someone like Sergei Drakonov possibly serve the Bratva? He’s got paparazzi following him everywhere he goes. And the season just started—he’s not exactly full of free time between his busy schedule of playing hockey and chasing tail.”
    I wince and bite down on my tongue.
    Chief Ha, for his part, looks similarly unimpressed. He taps the end of his pen against his teeth. “What’s the Bratva’s main source of income?” he asks the man.
    The man shrugs, but Frederica, my boss, answers. “Smuggling. Money laundering.”
    “And how might an international hockey star be able to help with both those operations?” Chief Ha asks. “Think about it. Sergei could hire any number of Vladimir’s goons as consultants, personal security, valets, you name it. That’s an easy way to launder several million in cash. And smuggling? The Eagles cris-cross America and Canada all the time on a private plane. Sergei would have no trouble moving product for them, especially if he got, say, the team’s equipment manager on the take.”
    I look down at my notepad and realize, with sudden horror, that I haven’t written down a single word. Because I’ve actually been paying attention in a meeting for once, instead of mindlessly transcribing. I start writing furiously.
    “Read over the dossiers. I want proposals from each of you on my desk this afternoon. Propose to me the best way for us to approach Sergei Drakonov, and then either gather intel on him and his brother, or else convince him to inform on his brother for us.” Chief Ha claps his hands once. “You’re