“Next time I’ll let you do it.”
“No thanks. Alex is done. He’s waiting around the corner on Washington.”
“That’s good. The next move would have been to just go and shoot those two pricks, which would have defeated the whole purpose.” Beck pointed down Greenwich and said, “Make your way around all these fucking one-way streets and come in from the highway side.”
Beck pulled out his cell phone and called Manny.
* * *
Manny listened carefully to Beck, said, “Okay,” and hung up.
Manny turned to the others in the Porsche and said, “Okay, maricóns, listen up.”
Manny turned the Porsche onto Hubert Street, heading west. He passed the first SUV parked near Greenwich, giving instructions as he drove slowly up the street.
Suddenly, he pulled up next to the SUV at the far end of Hubert near Washington Street.
Ciro and Joey got out first, moving very quickly.
Ciro went to the driver’s side and smashed the butt of his shotgun into the window, immediately flipped the shotgun around and placed the barrel against the driver’s head.
Joey B smashed the passenger window behind the driver, reached in, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Holding the shotgun in his right hand, he grabbed the closest body with his left, pulled one of the men out of the SUV, and shoved him down to the street with enough force to ensure he didn’t get up.
In the meantime, Manny slipped out onto the street, a large knife in his hand, and punched holes into the two rear tires of the SUV.
Ciro stepped back, keeping his shotgun aimed at the remaining men inside the SUV.
Joey did the same as he dragged the man he had pulled out of the SUV with one hand and tossed him into the back of the Porsche. He shoved in after him, pinned him against the far door, and jammed the muzzle of his shotgun into the underside of the hostage’s chin.
At the other end of the street, the other SUV started to head toward Washington, but Manny and Ciro were back in the Porsche turning onto the West Side Highway and heading for the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and Red Hook before any of the leaderless Bosnians processed what had happened, or figured out what to do about it.
The only Bosnian who knew what to do, Ahmet, did so because Joey B told him. Keeping his shotgun firmly under Ahmet’s chin, Joey said, “Don’t move.”
33
Alex Liebowitz slid into the backseat of the Mercury. Demarco drove north along the dark side street to Laight Street, then headed east, figuring he’d catch Varick Street and head for the bridge.
Alex said, “That wasn’t too bad. I was right to check the basement first. That dude’s apartment is like a satellite trading office. There’s a ton of security wiring going up to that apartment. He even has motion detectors up there.”
“So?”
“I worked around it. Got into the place, but there wasn’t too much I could do. At first, I thought I was going to get lucky. His computer was on. But he’s got a RAZ token password that prevents logging on. Thing changes every sixty seconds. I looked around for it, but couldn’t find it. I blind downloaded the hard drive and put a keystroke program on his computer. It’ll activate the next time he types in his pass code. Then I linked his Wi-Fi into a transponder in the basement that will send everything he does to a secure Web site I’ve set up. When he starts working, I’ll just shadow him and work it from there.”
“How long until you figure he finds out he’s been compromised?”
“I don’t know. Depends on his firm’s security protocols. I would imagine they run checks once a week. If not, I doubt he’ll notice anything if we just shadow him. If we start making moves in his accounts or anything, he’ll catch on at some point. ’Course if he has a regular security company that shows up in person and does a physical check, they’ll find out.”
“Nobody is going up there. What if he decides to work from his office?”
“Anything he does there will eventually show up when he logs in from his apartment.”
“But he has to log in from his apartment.”
“Yeah. But all he has to do is log in once, and we’re in.”
Based on the way Crane had talked about Milstein, Beck didn’t think he’d be working at the office any time soon. But he needed more information. He needed Olivia’s help so he could find out everything possible about Crane’s portfolio and anticipate his moves.
Beck said, “Okay you guys, head home. But first take me over to Church Street. I’m going to head uptown.”
Demarco said nothing. Just kept driving east.
“Alex, when you get home, see if anything shakes out.”
Beck hit his cell phone while Demarco maneuvered toward the uptown street.
“Manny?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the Battery Tunnel.”
“You pick up that package?”
“Yeah. We got what you asked for.”
“Good. When you get home, just put him in the basement. Don’t say anything to him. Put a bag or something on his head from now until then. Check him for weapons and all. Leave a jug of water with him. Nothing else. No lights. No talking.”
“Okay.”
“Demarco and Alex are heading back, too. I have to go check on Olivia. This thing has got to blow apart at some point. They have to organize and come at us, so hunker down and make sure Willie Reese has his boys out watching the streets.”
“I’ll call him.”
“And call Olivia. Tell her I’m coming. What room is she in?”
“Forty-oh-one.”
* * *
Beck had the cab drop him off on the Fifty-eighth Street side of the Four Seasons Hotel so he could get to the hotel’s elevators without walking across the huge open lobby that faced the main entrance.
As he walked toward the double bank of elevators in the center of the hotel’s mezzanine level, he could feel the pressure of time, fatigue, and the growing burdens of pain plaguing him.
The knife wound on his leg throbbed, made worse by Stepanovich’s knee kicks. He could barely close his hands, and by tomorrow he’d be feeling another set of bruises and strains.
He decided that his move against Markov’s men in Tribeca had probably delayed any attack on them, but for how long? And how many men could Markov send against him? And what if he called on Kolenka for help?
Beck stood in front of the elevators that would lead to the fortieth floor. He thought about hotel security. The doormen on Fifty-eighth Street had greeted him and held open the door, but barely glanced at him. It was after eleven, but the bar and restaurant on that side of the hotel were still open. He could be a guest, a diner, someone stopping in for a drink, or a hired assassin.
There was a single corridor in the middle of the hotel which occupied a section of the block between Fifty-eighth and Fifty-ninth streets where the elevators were located. There were six elevators. Three on the south side of the corridor that went from the fifth floor to the twenty-ninth floor. Then three on the north side that went from the thirty-first floor to the fifty-second floor.
Beck waited in front of the north-side bank of elevators. An elevator opened and he stepped in. The car was empty.
The elevator rushed him to Olivia’s floor without stopping. He stepped out into a surprisingly small foyer, lit with discreet overhead accent lighting. Small brass plaques to the right and left indicated which rooms occupied each corridor. There was a small Léger print above each plaque.
Beck called Manny once more.
“Okay, I’m at the hotel. Call your woman who’s watching Olivia and tell her I’m heading toward the room now. Tell her what I look like and to open the door for me.”
“How soon you gonna be there?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Okay. Give me a minute before you knock.”
“Sure. Demarco back yet? You get that guy squared away?”
“D’s not back yet. Yeah, we
got the guy set the way you asked.”
“One last thing, after you talk to your gal, call Ricky and Jonas and tell ’em to get some sleep, then get back on Milstein in the morning.”
“Got it. What are you gonna do with the one we snatched?”
“Pump him for information. Maybe trade him for something. I don’t know. Just leave him alone to wonder what’s next.”
Beck broke the connection. He relaxed for a few moments, standing motionless in the quiet opulence of the fortieth floor, giving Manny time to call the woman guarding Olivia.
He wondered how much a room went for at the Four Seasons.
He inhaled slowly and held his breath for a moment, listening, feeling for a sense of the city just outside. He felt nothing, heard nothing, but it seemed as if he could still sense something out there. A hum? A pulse of the city? He wondered if he was imagining it.
He thought for a few more moments how hotels were able to create such a cocoon of peace and security like the one that surrounded him. How the careful lighting highlighted certain areas while leaving other sections in soothing shadows. How the plush carpets absorbed sound and the tasteful decorations gave an impression of opulence.
Beck looked at the calm subtle colors surrounding him. He considered how important it was for guests to feel like they had escaped from the discomfort and tension of a sometimes frantic, often inhospitable city into a refuge where they could feel warm and safe and protected. Was it true?
No, thought Beck, it was an illusion.
34
Markov had sweated through his clothes in the cramped back room at the Waldorf. It had nothing to do with the hotel’s ventilation, which worked fine. He always sweated when he concentrated and pushed and cajoled and manipulated and calculated until he had accomplished what he’d set out to do.
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.
Among Thieves Page 19
