Spilled Blood

By Bill Bitetti

The world is brought to the brink of war when Nikolai Norossisk, an avowed ultranationalist and demagogue bent on taking over the Russian government, is pitted against the ambitious ex-KGB operative turned television news reporter, Veronika Dovsk, when she takes it upon herself to reveal the dark side of Norossisk and his illegal dealings with the Russian Mafia by writing his unauthorized biography.

Unwittingly, Veronika becomes a pawn in a plot to assassinate Norossisk to prevent him from becoming President of Russia, only to find herself being hunted down by men who will stop at nothing to destroy her manuscript.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Bitetti
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301711376

Bill Bitetti

Bill Bitetti earned a Bachelor of Arts degree from William Paterson University in Wayne, New Jersey. Soon thereafter he traveled extensively throughout Europe earning a living as a professional model and actor. Upon returning to the states, he started his first business with only five hundred dollars. Some time later, he moved to Florida to publish a singles magazine. He has gone onto become a prosperous entrepreneur, buying and selling numerous businesses and commercial properties. His hobbies include gardening, art collecting, traveling, remodeling old homes, hiking, writing poetry, and alternative medicine. Currently, he owns a successful land development company in Florida and North Carolina. Additionally, he operates a franchise of National Tenant Network. NTN happens to be the largest privately owned and operated tenant screening company in the world with franchises in the United States and Canada. He has written related articles which have appeared in Condo management Magazine and various Florida newspapers since he purchased the franchise in 1987. He lives with his Norwegian wife, Ingrid, her two daughters, and their harlequin Great dane, Moses, in a dream house he built on five acres in a gated community atop a hillock in a bucolic setting in Northern Florida.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Veronika Dovsk cast a striking figure standing outside the Kremlin beneath an ominous, over-cast sky. Her dark gray pantsuit accentuated her limpid gray eyes. Tall, with long stunning reddish hair, a small straight nose, strong cheekbones, a forceful jaw, full lips, and a high forehead, she possessed the regal features of a queen.

A gust of wind swirled her hair as her eyes darted back and forth following the procession of dignitaries passing in front of her.

The ceremony was about to begin.

Glancing back at the cameraman with an anxious smile, she knew she should be up above filming the President, who was scheduled to give his pledge to build a monument honoring the people who’d died on both sides of the 1917 revolt. It was a conciliatory gesture toward the Communists, who would soon be celebrating the 80th anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution. However, Veronika had a nagging suspicion that the ultranationalist, Nikolai Norossisk, would try to disrupt the President’s speech.

Norossisk’s limousine suddenly came racing around the corner.

Veronika ran toward the curb, waving at the cameraman to follow.

The limo came to a screeching halt no more than ten feet in front of her.

Flushed, Veronika felt blood coursing through her veins. She lived for moments like this. A secretary to the President had tipped her in advance that the President had ordered Norossisk barred from the memorial ceremony. It was being held on the eve of the Victory Day Holiday, which marked the defeat of Nazi Germany in World War II. She wanted everyone watching Moscow’s nightly news to see Norossisk fighting the authorities. She wanted everyone to see him for what he was…a wrongheaded bully.

The rear door of the limousine sprang open and with a petulant toss of his head, Norossisk leaped out.

Veronika thought he looked like an animal escaping from its cage.

A short man with thick legs, Nikolai Norossisk’s face glistened with sweat. He had a noticeable bulge above his waist. His dull-brown, sullen eyes were deeply set inside a wrinkled, ruddy face. From a distance the tassel of thinning gray hair jutting out from the top of his head looked like a horn. The black suit he was wearing was wrinkled, and in spite of his arrogant demeanor his creepy, craggy features made him appear to be nothing more than a pompous, minor official. Veronika approached him with the microphone trembling in her hand. She recalled the last time she’d tried to interview him. He’d pulled the microphone from her hand and shoved her to the ground, while a stream of maledictions gushed from his mouth. Norossisk noticed the Moscow Television cameraman filming him and a malicious sneer snaked across his long, angular face. In a fit of rage he rushed Veronika, grabbed the microphone and threw it to the ground.

What are you doing?

You stupid little wench. Norossisk twisted Veronika’s hand and jerked her toward the waiting limousine. I know what you’re up to.

Let me go!

Give me the folder.

You’re nothing more than a cheap demagogue, she raved, pushing him away as she fiercely clutched the folder full of notes she was carrying against her breast with both hands. It seemed as though he knew she was writing his biography. Someone must have told him. Veronika felt the meaty hands of one of Norossisk’s bodyguards on her shoulders. She struggled desperately to free herself.

Walleyed, she looked at the cameraman, Petro Dinsell.

At that moment another of Norossisk’s goons grabbed Petro’s camera and knocked him to the ground.

Where are you taking me? She watched as another of Norossisk’s heavy-bodied thugs kicked Petro in the face as he was lying on the ground.

Veronika kicked and punched as she was being dragged toward the waiting limousine, screaming at the top of her lungs, Help! Someone help me! I’m being kidnapped! She’d heard about the time Norossisk had grabbed a woman lawmaker by the throat and punched her in the face during a fight in the Parliament. She also knew he headed a faction in the State Duma, Parliaments lower house, and enjoyed immunity from prosecution unless the chamber would lift it, or he decided to do so himself. He was above the law. That’s what made him so dangerous.

Norossisk stuck his face into hers. His eyebrows formed a wedge, giving his dark, hooded eyes a vicious cast. You want to spread lies about me.

You pig! Veronika brought her hand up to her face to wipe away Norossisk’s saliva that had spewed from his mouth like so many bits of foam. His breath reeked of vodka. He lunged out, wedging his hands in between the folder and her tender breasts. Their eyes met. She could see his cheeks trembling with lust. Her body quaked with rage. She screamed, though her screams could barely be heard above the band…and the ceremony continued.

Move. Move, the tall man behind her growled, jabbing her hard in the back with his knuckles.

She knew that once Norossisk got her inside the limousine he would steal her notes. No! She had to protect her sources. But how?

Wildly, Veronika kicked her right leg backwards. The hard leather heel of her shoe dug into the shin of the man behind her.

He lost his balance, tripped, and fell onto the sidewalk.

She thrust the palm of her hand forcefully into Norossisk’s face, then turned and raced up the wide stone stairs toward the crowd of people encircling the President. When she reached the top she turned and saw Norossisk’s limo pulling away. She let out a sigh of relief. She was safe. But for how long?

Chapter 2

Veronika drove the TV van back to the office, while an ambulance transported Petro to the hospital to be treated for a broken jaw and facial lacerations.

She parked the van in front of the Moscow Television Headquarters, rushed through the swinging doors and ran up the stairs.

Upstairs, she walked through the open door, hurried past the staring eyes of her fellow workers, and barged into the Director’s small musty office with a fearsome expression on her face. Sitting behind an oversized mahogany desk wrapped up in his work, Igor Rominsky gave her a cursory glanced and asked, What is it Veronika?

Veronika threw back her shoulders, and said in a stentorian voice, You told Norossisk that I’m writing his biography.

Rominsky stood up and looked at her with piercing eyes. His lips pressed into a thin gray line.

You told him, didn’t you?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Veronica glared at the Director. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

Sit down, he insisted, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.

I don’t want to sit down.

Close the door.

Why? Because you don’t want everyone to know you sold me out?

Rominsky walked to the door and slammed it shut.

Norossisk attacked me and tried to take my notes.

Romnisky’s eyebrows arched. And you think I…

You’re the only one I’ve told about the book, Igor.

Rominsky leaned his lanky frame against the edge of his desk, stared her squarely in the eyes, and asked, Why the hell would I betray you?

That’s what I want to know.

He let out a torturous sigh, and then ran his long piano fingers through his short-cropped pepper-and-salt hair. Where’s Petro?

In the hospital. His jaw’s broken.

What?

He tried to come to my aid.

Where’s his camera?

One of Norossisk’s goons stomped on it and broke it into a hundred pieces.

So, there’s no record of the attack?

No.

He gazed out the window, then turned back to Veronika and said, I gave a publishing company an outline of your book.

I told you not to give it to anyone.

Rominsky lowered his gaze. Someone there must have told Norossisk.

You might as well have placed a bounty on my head.

No publisher will commit without first seeing an outline.

I never thought you’d present it to a publisher. I only asked for your opinion.

I’m sorry. Rominsky’s eyes met hers. It was a terrible mistake.

She placed her hands on her hips and parted her long legs. That still doesn’t explain how he knew about my notes.

Rominsky shrugged his broad bony shoulders.

Veronika bit her upper lip, and stammered, He’s not going to stop until I’m dead.

He wouldn’t go that far.

You know as well as I that he puts himself above the law. That’s what makes him so dangerous.

Rominsky extended his open hand, and said demandingly, Give me your notes.

You can’t be serious. Her eyes filled with tears. I’ve worked on this project for six months.

It’s for your own good...

She glanced down at the manila folder in her hand. Why hadn’t he told her he’d informed the publishers?

How do I know you’re not in bed with Norossisk?

He furrowed his brow, and barked, Don’t ever let me hear you say that again.

What am I supposed to think?

You’ve just been through a terrible ordeal. But it’s no reason to accuse…

Norossisk tried to kidnap me, she said, jabbing her finger in the air in front of her. He shook his head. I doubt that was his intention.

You seem to have a callous attitude toward this whole incident...

I don’t, he said, shaking his head

You do.

Did anyone besides Petro witness the incident?

I don’t know, she said with a shrug. Norossisk arrived late.

So everyone was already at the ceremony.

Don’t you believe me?

I’m sure Norossisk has two or three bodyguards who will corroborate his version of the incident. Your only witness is Petro.

Whose side are you on? Veronika thought Rominsky had the sleazy look of a poker player trying to bluff his hand.

I warned you. Norossisk is no one to fool with.

I’m telling the truth.

What’s this book worth to you?

Veronika wasn’t about to allow herself to be intimidated. She stared up into Rominsky’s stern, dark-brown eyes, droopy and ringed with age. He had a smallish head for such a big man, which made him seem innocuous. Yet the fact that he was her superior made her think twice before she answered. Are you inferring that my job is at stake here?

I didn’t say that.

You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve found out.

Like what?

She felt like she would be nailing her coffin shut if she said anymore. I’d rather not say.

It’s become too dangerous. He took a step toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder. I’m afraid something might…

She stepped back out of reach, saying, Don’t patronize me.

Where’s the rough draft?

Back at my flat.

All you’ve given me is an outline.

She waved her notes in front of her. I won’t give these up...

I have another assignment for you.

Veronika quaked. Her face became stiff, her look intractable. What could she do? She didn’t want to lose her job.

I must say I admire your spirit.

A weak smile cracked her lips. My mother used to tell me that.

Keep your notes.

Thank you, she said, seriously wondering what other machinations he had up his sleeve. It should be finished in a week or two.

He waved his hand. Finish it sometime in the future.

She nodded and bowed her head.

I’ll tell the publisher that you’ve decided not to write the book, he said with a wry grin, slipping his hands into his pants pockets.

But…

I have a new assignment for you.

What?

He walked back behind his desk and stood there for a moment appearing to be deep in thought. He allowed his body to sink into the worn leather chair beneath him, and then said in a smooth steady voice, Russian girls are being sold into white slavery...

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, though she couldn’t help smiling when she thought that Norossisk must have paid off Rominsky in order to find out what she knew. From the moment she’d begun to study Norossisk’s life she realized that he had much to hide. If Norossisk only knew how much dirt she had uncovered about his life, she believed he would be ready to finance an army of mercenaries to kill her.

Is something I said funny?

Oh, no. Forgive me. My mind was wandering.

As I was saying, He cleared his throat, then continued, Russian girls are being promised good jobs and a new life in America; however, when they arrive they become prisoners of Russian mobsters who act as their pimps.

Do most of those girls come from Moscow?

You know as well as I that here in Moscow there’s a Soviet-era system of residence permits that has long since been discarded by the rest of the country. That’s why I asked.

He nodded.

I recall a story we did on that not long ago.

As you know, such permits restrict entry to immigrants who aren’t really foreigners. They’ve simply moved from a provincial city, perhaps mired in post-Soviet desperation, to Moscow, the one city in modern Russia that abounds with opportunity.

What’s your point?

Without a permit, non-Moscow Russians are at the mercy of Moscow’s notoriously corrupt police force.

She nodded. It was old news. She’d heard it all before. She wondered why Rominsky was suddenly so interested in having her cover it.

The girls go underground. Some choose to be smuggled into America.

Who’s going to do the story on the victims of the gangland speculators who drive homeowners out of their homes in order to benefit from the booming real estate market?

I don’t recall ever mentioning that to you, he said with a hint of anger.

Petro said you told him it was something…

You must realize there are some topics we just can’t cover.

Why not?

There are forces pushing to convert our local channel into a national one. He placed his el-bows on the desk and folded his hands in front of him. I have to consider those government officials who might be embarrassed by such a story.

And you want to make sure your position as Director of Moscow Television is secure.

You could say that.

So, you place your own personal aggrandizement before the public’s right to know.

I don’t see any reason to shoot myself in the foot.

I thought you wanted the people to know the truth, irrespective of the political implications.

I’ll run this station as I see fit.

You know as well as I do that every newspaper in the city kowtows to the mayor’s office.

What are you saying?

When the mayor celebrated his birthday last month you stood in line to pay homage...

Rominsky shrugged. I’ve known him for years.

You gave him a fur coat.

Yes, I did.

All the bankers and businessmen back him. It’s obvious he’s preparing the way for a run for the Presidency.

And I would support him if he did.

He’s ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to…

If you don’t like the mayor go tell him. Rominsky slammed his fist on the desk. But that doesn’t give you the right to accuse me of pandering to him.

He controls the city…and you know it.

Are you insinuating that I take my orders from the mayor?

Why not? She paused, then added, Everyone else does.

I think he has a promising political future. He’s the only Russian politician whose popularity has steadily risen in recent years, and continues to do so.

He’s a shrewd and ruthless manipulator, and a political opportunist.

He gets the job done. He’s attracted foreign investors and privatized most of the city’s formerly state owned businesses, not to mention the vast public works projects he’s initiated.

Are you referring to the $20 million he spent on the Peter the Great Statue‘?

Among others...

It would make a great feature story.

You think so?

Even the President said it was ugly.

We’re all entitled to our own opinion, he said smugly.

Most Muscovites, and nearly all artists, agree that it looks like a monster rising from the banks of the Moscow River.

I think Tsereteli has created a masterpiece.

She frowned. It’s grotesque.

I’ll hear no more of this, he said in a loud voice, jumping up out of his chair, his face red with anger. Either you take the assignment, or you walk.

Veronika shook her head. It was obvious he wanted her to quit. Why else would he give her such an ultimatum?

Do you like being a reporter, he asked, sarcastically.

Maybe I was a little out-of-line...

Your problem is you’re not a team player.

Why? Because I speak my mind? She couldn’t control herself. She hated the fact that Rominsky played politics with the news. She wanted so much to tell him to take his job and shove it, but if she did she knew she’d never work in Moscow again. Will you take the assignment?

She swallowed hard. If I do, when would I start?

Immediately.

Do you have a contact for me here in Moscow?

No.

She gasped, and then asked, You mean you want me to go to America?

I must warn you. It’ll be dangerous.

She arched her back. I see.

I have a contact for you in New York.

New York...

I know your background.

She nodded.

You’ve had experience working undercover.

She pushed out her lips and gave him a coy smile in an attempt to conceal the fact that what he’d said made her feel like she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. That was years ago.

You’ve probably seen just about everything, he said, mockingly.

She gave a quick nod of her head.

Good, that will make this assignment much easier.

She put her hand up to her mouth. The thought of what he wanted her to do made her nauseous. How could he expect her to work as a prostitute for the Mafia? What we learn never really leaves us, does it?

She threw her head back, and her long, wavy auburn hair caressed her broad shoulders. She regretted telling Rominsky about the years she’d spent as an agent in the former KGB. However, she knew he had friends in high government offices and would find out sooner-or-later. The KGB had recruited her as a teenager. She’d been lost and hungry, wandering the streets of Moscow. And they had opened the door to what, at the time, seemed to be a new and exciting life. Besides, she didn’t want to return home, where her father had beaten her every night after getting drunk on homemade vodka.

With your face and body, he said, his eyes examining her every curve. I don’t think you’ll have a problem.

Are you saying I look like a prostitute?

I didn’t mean it that way.

I hope not.

I have the phone number of someone high-up in the mob. He opened the top drawer of his desk. An informant gave it to me.

She took a step forward. I see those kinds of advertisements in the newspaper all the time.

Here. He handed her a small soiled piece of yellow paper with a name and telephone number on it.

They’re so transparent.

You’ll have three months to write the story.

I hope it doesn’t take that long.

I’ll call the consulate and have them issue you a visa.

Isn’t it funny?

What?

Just last month I was reading about one of the first female investigative journalists to become popular in America.

He cocked his head back. You’re not a journalist.

She pretended to be insane, Veronika said, ignoring his snide remark. So she would be committed to an insane asylum in order to uncover the horrid conditions under which the mentally ill were being confined.

It’s not going to be easy for you to walk away from these men.

That was the same problem this reporter had when she tried to leave the asylum. Veronika gazed out the window at Moscow’s skyline with a faraway look in her eyes. She felt like the American journalist who had been caught in an insane asylum. However, it was evident from Rominsky’s unconcerned remark that her cogent analogy had gone over his head.

Bear in mind, Veronika, your efforts could save many a young woman from the heartache of a life of abuse and degradation.

His facade of lofty intentions amused her. She could see from the sly look in his eyes that he never expected her to return. For all she knew Rominsky had conspired with Norossisk to concoct this contrived assignment in order to arrange to have the Mob kill her. She wanted to put a knife into Rominsky’s heart for betraying her. Instead, she decided to beat them at their own game. I’ll need some time to get my things in order.

Rominsky nodded.

Veronika turned and quietly left the room.

Chapter 3

Peering out one of the large windows of his penthouse apartment, Victor Kopoff pressed his large egg-shaped head against the high-back black leather swivel chair and shut his eyes. A pacific smile crossed his lips. He was waiting for a phone call from Vladimir Volger, head of the Russian Mafia, which the Russians had coined the Red Mafia. They were shipping a cargo of twenty tons of cocaine to Russia from Colombia. He was sure Vladimir would be pleased to hear that the freighter had safely left the port of Cartagena early that morning and was now en route to Odessa.

Hearing a whipping rain against the window, he opened his eyes and saw the bleak, cloudy gray sky. Suddenly, he felt like he was back in the orphanage where he’d spent his youth on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Day after day he had sat in his dingy room with nothing to do but gaze out the window and dream of one day living in America. He’d perused all the books and magazines he could get his hands on to read about life in America. He would cut out pictures of New York City and tape them to the wall next to his bed and stare at them for hours. His room was his only refuge from the other boys, who ridiculed and bullied him because of his small stature and unusual physique.

Consequently, it was his dream of immigrating to America that had kept him alive after his roommate had hung himself from the light fixture in their room. For fifteen long years that room had been his prison. When Victor finally left the orphanage he promised himself that he’d never be locked up again.

He swung back around and looked down at the busy street below. His life in Russia somehow seemed like a bad dream. He was now head of the Russian Mob in America, with the power to kill or corrupt anyone who got in his way. Granted, it wasn’t as easy as it was back in Moscow, where most of the police were on the take. During the past two years, however, he’d learned how to do business in a capitalist country. Most importantly he realized that money and power were the same the world over; they made slaves of anyone who chased them. And the larger a person’s ego, the greater their addictions or perversions.

He stuck out his concave chest, and stroked his dark, course goatee. It made him proud that his old friend, Vladimir, had chosen him for the job.

Kopoff stretched out his arms, and then laced his stubby fingers behind his head. America was a nation of wealthy, trusting capitalists with expensive tastes and enough money to buy