In that northern colony, Boris soon became the Thinker’s dependable right hand. He settled disputes, watched over the common fund, and learned to read people with remarkable accuracy.
One careful look was often enough for him to understand who stood in front of him—a rat, a drifter, or a man with principles. He was rarely wrong. In 1981, he was released at twenty-eight.
By then his mother had died quietly after a long illness. Boris learned about it a month after the burial. He had no blood family left, but he had a criminal brotherhood.
He returned to his city and went back to work, but now his name was known in higher circles. He was invited to important regional meetings, and people asked for his opinion.
Boris never pushed himself forward, but when he spoke, people listened. He lived by the code with almost rigid discipline. He never lied to his own people.
He never informed on anyone. And, as was expected of a man rising in that world, he never held an official job. In 1982, Boris met Anatoly Petrovich Krylov.
This man was a powerful crowned authority from a southern city, known as Skala—“the Rock.” He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a low commanding voice. Skala had come to Boris’s city for a major underworld meeting.
About twenty of the most respected men from different regions gathered there in secret. They discussed territory, the common fund, and what to do with those who had started breaking the old rules. Boris was there not yet as one of the highest men, but as someone already respected.
He stayed quiet through most of the meeting, listening. But when he finally spoke, everybody paid attention.
The question on the table was what to do about men who had started cooperating with police and taking businesses under their protection. Skala argued for the harshest possible response.
Boris agreed, but added one important point. It wasn’t enough, he said, to remove the men who had drifted away. The younger ones had to be taught—patiently and clearly—why those choices destroyed everything.
Otherwise, he said, their whole world would lose the very thing it had been built on. Skala studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “You speak well. Who are you?” he asked.
“Boris Timofeyevich Kholodov,” he answered. “I know who you are,” Skala said. “The Thinker spoke highly of you. Come see me in my city. We’ll talk properly there.”
Boris went a month later. Skala received him in his large house as an equal. They talked for three straight days…
