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and passport—taking advantage of the Israeli policy of Right of Return, which allows citizenship and safe haven to all those with Jewish heritage and doesn’t bend for any extradition laws. But most Russian mobsters were Jewish in passport only. Eicher doubted that Viktor Sarvydas had ever seen the inside of a synagogue.
    “Just find the kid,” Eicher barked into the phone and hung up.

Chapter 9
     
    After hanging up with LaPoint, Eicher desperately needed a fix of good news. It was just past nine in the morning in New York, and the offices in Foley Square were beginning to fill up with the wretched rumblings of Monday morning.
    Eicher viewed the hustle and bustle through the glass partition of his office and noticed a man who didn’t fit in with the conservative suit-and-tie attire of the US Attorney’s Office. And he was headed directly into his office.
    The intruder didn’t alarm Eicher. In fact, he was happy to see Ivan, even if he wasn’t thrilled with the heavy scent of fish he brought with him.
    “Ivan—it’s April, not January,” he greeted his visitor, noticing his fur cap and dense beard. He carried a cooler one might use to store bait. “Going fishing?”
    Ivan displayed a toothless grin and spoke in his thick Russian accent, “We already do fishing today, and I think you be interested what we caught.”
    Eicher nodded his head, indicating him to continue.
    “Moziaf Butcher Shop was raided first thing this morning, investigating last week’s shooting. I could have saved them time, they, of course, found nothing to connect Moziafs to murder. But they came across something that might interest you .”
    Ivan was an undercover cop in Brighton Beach—a section of Brooklyn that is the home office for the Russian mob in the United States. That’s not to say the majority of the residents weren’t hard working and law-abiding citizens, but Eicher was only interested in those who broke the laws. Ivan was one of the rare few willing to talk, and only Eicher and a few colleagues above his pay grade knew Ivan’s true identity. He very rarely showed up here—there are only so many times you can claim to being hassled by the feds without suspicions being raised—so Eicher knew this must be important.
    Like many Russians, he emigrated to Brighton Beach in the 1970s, and became a popular street vendor in Little Odessa. He was known for his homemade foods that included everything from pirogi to pastry shells filled with spicy pork. Word of mouth attracted none other than the don of Brighton Beach, Viktor Sarvydas. He was so impressed with Ivan that he made him his personal caterer at his popular club, Sarvy’s.
    But at heart, Ivan was a man of honor. And after observing Sarvydas’ unspeakable acts, Ivan chose to become what the Russians call a musor , or informant. While he was never able to get Sarvydas, he did have success in the arrest and prosecutions of many of his dangerous underlings. He was so successful that the NYPD offered him a full-time position.
    “So what was this shooting about?” Eicher made conversation as he accepted the ice chest and set it on his cluttered desk.
    Ivan shrugged. “Who knows? Moziafs are crazy. Maybe they no kill anybody this week and needed fix.”
    No statement could better sum up the Moziafs—a husband and wife team of killers. They had been working for Sarvydas in recent years, although their allegiance was usually with the highest bidder for their services.
    Oleg, the husband, was an enormous four-hundred-pound former Olympic weightlifting champion from the Soviet Union. He loved three things—killing, steroids, and his wife, Vana. She was arguably the more ruthless of the two, and claimed that killing was like sex for them. Ivan joked if that were the case then they sure were getting more than the average couple. The shooting connected to this morning’s raid was the typical work of the Moziafs—six people shot in Coney Island in the middle of the day with