Among Thieves (25 page)

The acrid odor he exuded actually comforted him. It made him feel not only productive, but protected in a perverse way. The fact that he was repugnant empowered Markov. He extracted pleasure from it. He reveled in exercising his entitlement to cause discomfort in others. As if it were his right.

The people who dealt in selling weapons that could kill, that could create a chain of incalculable misery, almost always made some effort to rationalize it. As did thieves and exploiters of all types. The rationale ran along the usual line—if I don't do it someone else will, so why not me? Markov never rationalized. He created misery and pain without a second thought. As if it were his natural right. And because it brought him power and privilege, which he deserved to have. Why did he deserve it? Markov didn't need a reason why.

No one had the right to prevent Markov from getting whatever he wanted. And yet, at the moment, his will was being thwarted. His entitlement obstructed. He had not yet succeeded in overcoming his biggest challenge: obtaining end-user certificates for his arms shipment. In this case, he needed end-user certificates to get his shipment of arms someplace where they could be trucked into Syria. Flying directly into Syria was out of the question. There could be no trail connecting him and his masters to where the arms had been obtained, or to where they would end up in Syria. There had to be a destination in between that would allow plausible deniability.

He had planned on Beirut. But as so often happened, his suppliers knew the game, and knew the end-user certificates represented an opportunity for profit. In order to squeeze more money, they had to claim more difficulties. There was always a tipping point between the costs versus the trouble. And Markov never went into a negotiation without options.

So, he considered Turkey. Gazientep Airport was a good choice, but Markov knew from experience the bribes needed were astronomical. Not that U.S. Military Intelligence couldn't afford it. He just had to calculate the cost of Redmond complaining about the rise in price.

Markov played chicken or egg for three hours, trying to work around the problem of end-user certificates. He finally realized his first plan was the only way possible and spent an additional half hour forcing his Albanian connection with a combination of threats and bribes to come up with the documents he needed.

Many would have given up, or at least taken a break, but not Markov. He thrived on the effort.

He began to strip off the sweaty clothes, until he was sitting on the upholstered desk chair in only his socks and underwear.

He checked his watch. Nearly eleven o'clock. He had been working since just before four. He retrieved the cell phone he used while in the United States and turned it on, having kept it off while he was working.

As the phone booted up, he absentmindedly fondled his penis, thinking about which escort service to call after he finished his work. He'd decided on negotiating for some desperate Russian girl that would keep doing whatever he asked as long as he kept handing her hundred-dollar bills.

He began to fantasize about how far he could take her. Which humiliations he could get her to agree to. He knew his body would disgust her. Fat, hairy, too many creases and crevices producing body odors that would sicken her. He pictured her—thin, bleached blond. Her pubic region shaved completely. The fun would be to see how far he could go. How long he could keep things hovering on the edge of fear and disgust and shame, giving her just enough additional money so she wouldn't rebel.

Maybe take a half a Viagra. A few pulls of marijuana. Nothing too extreme. He'd rummage around in his laptop bag and see what he had.

And then a big dinner. Steak. Where? Smith & Wollensky? What restaurant would still be open when he was done?

In the middle of his musing, his cell phone began to signal the missed calls alert.

Three missed calls from Stepanovich.

Markov's alarm instincts fired. He felt a pang of dread in his gut.

He dialed Gregor's number. The call went directly to voice mail. He left a message. Waited. Waited.

“Fuck.”

He continued to wait.

Finally, Stepanovich returned his call. Markov's face darkened the moment he heard Stepanovich say, “Trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“That asshole from this afternoon showed up again.”

“What! Where?”

“Near Crane's apartment. He must have been waiting for him.”

“You sound strange.”

“He broke my fucking nose.”

Markov looked up, shaking his head. “
Chyort voz'mi.
What did he want with Alan?”

“He wanted Crane to tell him about us. He told Crane he would help him against us.”

“And what does Crane say he told him?”

“Crane says he told him to fuck off. Told him to leave him alone, and that we would crush him.”

“Do you believe Crane?”

“Yes. When I went to the restaurant to pick up Crane, the guy had roughed him up. Left him doubled over outside a restaurant.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to beat him down. Break his face. Bite his fucking nose off and kill him.”

“But…”

“But I fucking didn't. He got away.”

Markov cursed silently, thinking, Again he gets away.

“What's Crane doing now?”

“He's in his apartment. Said he had to work. Shouted at me to keep that guy away from him. I have men with me. We have to find him and kill him.”

Markov paused. “Forget it.”

“What are you talking about? Why?”

“No. You failed twice. I need more information on who he is. How many men he has. Exactly where to find him.”

“We have to move. Fast. Now.”

Markov began shouting. “Don't fucking tell me what we have to do. You fucked up twice already. I tell you what to do. I tell you what I want you to do, or you can take your crew of idiots and go fuck yourselves off back to fucking Bosnia. What's the matter with you?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, sorry. What fucking good does sorry do me? What else? Is that it?”

“No. He had other men with him. They took one of ours. Ahmet.”

“God Christ fuck.”

“They took Ahmet while I was with Crane, near the restaurant.”

“Why? What for?”

“I don't know. So what. Let them kill him. What does he know that can hurt us? Nothing. Ahmet won't say anything anyhow. It's just another reason to get to Beck fast.”

“How many men did Beck have?”

“I don't know. I was with Crane. What does it matter? I can get more. Ask Kolenka for men.”

Markov lapsed into silence. After a few moments he said, “All right, Gregor, listen to me. Right now my thinking is, go for the woman first.”

“The woman?”

Markov spoke more calmly. “I know what you want to do, Gregor. You want to go after Beck. But he escaped you twice. How many times do you want to make the same mistake? Be patient. Do this my way. You'll have your time with him, I promise you. I'll call you back and let you know what to do. Where to go.”

Markov broke off the call and dialed Milstein's number. When he answered, Markov got right to the point.

“Do you know where I can find the woman?”

“I'm working on it. I've called her home number, her cell phone. She doesn't answer.”

“She's not at home. She's hiding somewhere by now. All right, listen. Get me all the information you have for her. Addresses. Social Security number. Bank information. If she has a company credit card, the numbers. Financials. Everything. Check your personnel records. I want it now. E-mail to me.”

He hung up before Milstein could protest about the late hour.

Yes, Markov said to himself. Find the woman. She is the key to Beck.

He'd heard from Crane more than once how astounding the woman was. He would find her, strip her naked, do things to her she had never imagined, then turn her over to Gregor and his Bosnians. They would destroy her and take their time doing it. Then they would see how good Mr. Beck is at this game.

As soon as Milstein supplied the information, he would call Redmond. Redmond would have more resources to find her than anybody. Plan it right. Move fast. No mistakes this time.

Markov spat toward the wastebasket near the small desk in his room. No whore for him tonight. But maybe something better before the night was over. Or, at least different.

 

35

Nydia Lopez was an attractive young woman. She was small, but she had a great figure, was strong, and moved with a natural grace. She also had an impressive collection of tattoos, including the burst of stars and lines that extended up the right side of her neck and the back of her head, made visible by the fact that her hair in back was cropped short enough to reveal the ink.

Adding to her style was a red bandana tied into a do-rag under a New York Yankees ball cap with a hologram seal, camouflage pants, boots, leather jacket, and a permanent scowl.

And, then, there was the brutal presence of her Smith & Wesson M&P .40 Compact automatic that she held in her left hand resting on her left thigh.

Nydia took pride in her knowledge of weapons and ammunition. Of all her guns, she loved her Smith & Wesson most. It looked badass. All black and tough looking. Top of the line. Small. Only a 3.5-inch barrel, but it held ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, with lots of features to accommodate left-handed shooters like Nydia.

Olivia wasn't sure if the tough young woman really believed she had to keep the gun in her hand while they were alone in the room, or if she just liked holding it all the time.

Olivia sat on the hotel room bed, her legs drawn up under her as she read through the stack of newspapers and magazines she had ordered up from the concierge downstairs.

Nydia sat about as far away from Olivia as she could get, slouched in an upholstered armchair, roaming through the TV channels with the sound turned down. She surfed from a show about being locked up in the Indiana State Prison, to a fishing show, to CNN news, to snippets of movies.

It seemed to Olivia that the TV screen soothed her almost as much as the gun.

Olivia wondered what her bodyguard would do after she turned off the lights and went to sleep. Probably sleep on the couch or the floor. Holding the gun?

Clearly. Manny wanted Nydia there as much to keep Olivia in the room as to keep everybody else out. Olivia flipped through the latest issue of
Vogue
, but couldn't concentrate on anything. She kept thinking about how much events seemed to be spinning out of control.

The phone call to Nydia had been a welcome relief, even if all it did was break the monotony.

Nydia ended the call and said to Olivia, “Manny says a dude named Beck is coming up. You know him?”

“Yes. When is he coming?”

“Like, right now. I asked Manny what he looks like, but all Manny said was he looks like a guy you don't want to fuck with.”

“Well, that's one way of putting it. He's maybe six, six one. Solid. You know, strong looking. Good head of hair. Dark hair.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know why he's coming?”

“No. Alls Manny said was to let him in.”

Just then, there was a light knock on the door. Followed by another. Just two.

Nydia moved quickly toward the door, the Smith & Wesson held against the side of her left thigh.

She stood in front of the door. There was no peephole. She slid the security lock into place.

“Yeah, who is it?”

“Beck.”

“Step back from the door, and don't move when I open it, or I'll shoot you.”

“Okay. Is Olivia in there with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Have her ID me.”

Nydia motioned for Olivia to come to the door. She turned the knob and opened the door as far as the security lock would allow. Olivia leaned around to see if it was Beck.

“It's him.”

Nydia closed the door, unfastened the security lock, and let Beck in as she quickly stepped back, her gun aimed at the center of his chest.

Beck took one step into the room and let the door shut by itself with a thunk.

Nydia looked back and forth between Beck and Olivia, lowered the gun, and took her seat in front of the television, satisfied she had let the right man in, and content to ignore them both.

Beck looked at Nydia for a moment, then at Olivia, who tipped her head and widened her eyes as if to say, I didn't tell her to do that.

Beck scanned the hotel room. It was a bit smaller than he had expected, decorated in warm wood tones, browns and beige, with a queen-size bed, two armchairs, an ottoman, a round table desk with chair, and a 36" flat-screen TV.

The room occupied a corner and featured a large square window on the south wall, and a floor-to-ceiling set of windows on the west wall. Only the inner curtains were drawn, adding a gossamer layer over the lights outside and the traffic moving on Fifty-seventh Street. Beck could hear the faint hum of the city through the double-paned windows. It seemed a comforting sound.

Olivia returned to her perch on the queen-size bed. Beck kicked the ottoman toward the side of the bed and dragged the desk chair over so he could sit next to the bed and talk to Olivia.

For a few moments, Beck said nothing. Olivia waited. Beck's demeanor did nothing to comfort her.

Beck noticed that Olivia wore the same clothes he had seen her in earlier, white shirt and jeans. She still looked stunningly attractive. Beck wasn't getting accustomed to it at all.

“So,” he said.

“Yes?”

Beck sat back in the chair and put his feet on the ottoman and looked at Olivia again. She looked back at him without expression. She sat with her back against the headboard, her encased hand in her lap, watching Beck, waiting.

Finally Beck said, “The situation isn't getting any better.”

“Why? How?”

Beck waved off her questions. “I'm not sure how to stop this, and that makes me very uncomfortable.” Beck scowled for a moment. Shifted in his chair. “Worse, I don't know how to stop this without risking Manny and my friends ending up back in jail.”