There’s no negotiation. Not one fucking dime. Not a penny. Negotiate with jackals and you soon have nothing to negotiate.
He shoved another chunk of his cheese blintz into his mouth and slurped from his mug of hot coffee.
And then, just as he was sleeping soundly upstairs, fucking Milstein calls him again, like a big hero with more information about the criminal, James Beck. Who gives a shit? All he had to know was that Beck would be coming to see Crane at noon.
Markov picked up his phone, scrolling to find the first number he would try for Gregor Stepanovich. His call was answered on the third ring.
He gave Gregor Crane’s address in Tribeca and told him to be there no later than eleven-thirty. Bring two of his best. He gave him more instructions, making sure Gregor understood what he needed to plan for.
Markov finished his third blintz and drained the coffee. Six forty-five. The clothes he’d slept in were a mess. He knew his armpits stank. He felt as if the residue of the drugs were leaking through his pores. He needed a schvitz. Steam. And fresh clothes.
He went over everything in his mind once more. First, deal with Crane. Teach him some sense. Then, take care of this man Beck, whoever he was. But first, find out everything about the woman from him, and everything about who he was and who was with him. Markov wasn’t sure if he needed to kill him. Maybe hurt him enough to teach him a good lesson. Gregor was good at that. Gregor could spend all day and all night hurting someone and never tire of it. Never get sickened by it. Gregor would extract whatever information he needed from Mr. James Beck.
After that, the woman. He’d heard she was good-looking. He’d see about that. See about enjoying the beautiful woman before he ended her life. Fucking miserable bitch starting all this trouble. Who did she think she was? He’d let Gregor in on that. He’d never seen Gregor rape a woman, but he’d heard Stepanovich and his men talking about it. They talked about it like they used their cocks as weapons. It was more than just sexual. Much more. How many had they done that to in Bosnia? Markov was sure it was many. As many as they could.
He thought about what they would do to her as he picked the residue of the blintz from his back teeth. But then decided no, just get rid of her. Cleaner. He knew Gregor stopped being normal in Bosnia during the atrocities. Unleashing Gregor into certain activities was dangerous. He could become uncontrollable, like a mad dog junkie on drugs.
Markov pushed back from the table. He started planning how to refresh and revive himself. He wanted to be sharp for this day. There was much he needed to get done. In addition to this mess with Crane, he had two shipments that had to be taken care of by nine or ten o’clock tonight.
Okay, Markov told himself, step by step. He relished figuring out each single step in a plan, and then executing everything in a precise sequence.
First, call his driver, Vitaly. Then, back up to the apartment. Fill a garment bag with fresh clothes. He even pictured each piece of clothing. Blue shirt. Gray slacks. Brown jacket. Earth tones to go nicely with the blue. Then, his jewelry. Watch, ring, gold neck chain. Gold to set off the blue shirt. Socks, shoes, underwear. He pictured each piece. All of it custom-made to fit his large, flabby body. And a camel hair overcoat. Everything top of the line. Cut to make him look prosperous and respectable.
He’d have to make sure to stay far enough away so no blood spattered on him.
15
Beck sat in the Mercury Marauder, engine running, heat on, parked facing south at a fire hydrant on the corner of Greenwich and Hubert streets. This gave him a clear view of Alan Crane’s loft building a half-block west on Hubert.
He’d been sitting there since just before eleven, sipping a coffee now gone cold, listening to 1010 WINS, the New York twenty-four-hour news station.
Crane’s building appeared to be a typical renovated Tribeca loft building: six stories, not including the ground floor, arched windows, recently sandblasted brick. There was a commercial space on the ground floor empty at the moment.
He’d scoped out the building before finding his parking spot. Next to the entrance doors a stainless steel panel was set into the wall. On the panel were nameplates, buzzers, and a fish-eye camera lens. The front entrance opened onto a locked foyer with an identical panel, nameplates, buzzers, and another camera. Crane’s outside nameplate was labeled PH TOP FLOOR.
This was a secure building. The tenants most likely controlled access to their floors from their own apartments, for even more security.
From his vantage point on Greenwich, Beck watched people enter and leave the building.
A mother, or more likely a nanny, backed out the entrance pulling a stroller; a twentysomething man dressed in black jeans, a sport coat, a long red scarf, and a porkpie hat came out and shoved on a pair of sunglasses. A woman bundled against the cold in a red woolen coat emerged and immediately looked for a cab. She kept walking and looking until she flagged one steps from where Beck sat.
Shortly after the nanny exited, an old Mercedes S-class pulled up to Crane’s building. Beck figured the car for an eighty-six or -seven. Its pearl black finish gleamed in the sun. The car appeared to be in perfect shape. The man inside had to push himself out of the backseat with both arms. He was short, wide, wore no hat or gloves. A stubble of gray hair covered his round head. He wore a voluminous camel hair overcoat big enough to hide what Beck estimated to be about 250 pounds of bulk. He pushed a button on the outside panel and was promptly buzzed in.
Next, a cab pulled up on Greenwich kitty-corner from Beck. A tall man talking on a cell phone got out. He was bald, carrying a gym bag, wearing black sneakers, jeans, and a black leather coat. Beck figured him for a personal trainer. He hit a buzzer and was quickly given entrance to Crane’s building.