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Darya told me in a low voice as we walked through the apartment that the man still had ties to Kazakhstan and Russia. That was one of the reasons she didn’t want to bring the FBI along with us. They just wouldn’t understand.
She was also afraid the FBI would use heavy-handed tactics and threaten these people with everything from arrest to deportation—and ruin any chance of getting useful information.
The woman said, “Living in Kazakhstan can be hard in the best of times. We went with a program to work as teachers at a school for Russian children. The climate is better than Moscow, but as we got older, it was still tough on our bodies. We had a chance to follow our oldest son here and have been quite happy for the past nine years.”
Darya said, “Do you talk to others in the Kazakh community?”
“Of course. Every day.”
I followed the conversation, but the woman’s accent was sometimes tough to understand. I liked the way Darya showed her respect as if she were a daughter visiting a grandmother. The old man just stared on in silence.
Finally, Darya got to the meat of our questions. “Have you heard anyone talk about the attack yesterday?”
“Some. Mostly people just repeating things from the news.”
I had considered this question and thought this would be a critical juncture in any interview. Do we reveal the fact that we think the driver was from Kazakhstan? It might make people pay attention.
Then Darya said, “We think the driver was a Kazakh.”
The old woman was shocked. “How can this be? The Kazakhs have no real hatred for the United States. Is this some ploy to ship us all out? Do they want us all to move back to our homelands? We live here, but we’ve never trusted the government.”
I said, “Neither do we. Governments try to trick people. But this isn’t one of those times.”
Then the old man mumbled something. I thought it was English.
I looked at him and said, “Did you say something, sir?”
The old man said it again and I heard it clearly: “Bullshit.”
Apparently, he spoke the essential English words.
Chapter 13
AFTER WE TALKED to several other Russian families with ties to Kazakhstan, I decided to track down a couple of my informants as well.
Darya said, “I don’t understand. If your informants are not Russian, what would they know about this?”
“These are the type of people that hear everything. Small things. Big things. We may get a tip about someone looking for a ride out of the city that could break open the case. The more ears we have listening the better chance we have to hear something.”
“But none are Russian?”
“These people aren’t Russian, but they’re criminals, and criminals often trade in information.”
Darya said, “If they’re criminals why aren’t they in jail?”
I had to shrug at that simple question. “Different reasons. Some are smart. Some are lucky. Some have good lawyers. You can’t tell me all the criminals in Moscow are locked up.”
“It depends on who is protecting them.”
I laughed. “Here in America, we don’t care who protects who. We just found it’s easier to let most criminals stay free. Keeps me in a job.”
I could tell my Russian guest didn’t agree with my flippant logic. I was curious to see how she reacted to some of my informants.
I added, “I also have some Russian mob people who occasionally help me. But these guys are easier to reach for now.”
The first place I stopped was a gambling house in Flatbush. It was close and not too dangerous. A good test for Darya.
The small storefront on Foster Avenue looked like a simple diner. Busy, but simple. Few people realized that when you ordered one of only five things on the menu, you also got access to a variety of gambling opportunities from football to soccer in Asia.
