“He ain’t going anywhere.”
Beck looked at Willie Reese. He had no doubt that the plate glass repairman would not be leaving until the job was done.
*
Markov had reserved a room with his usual online shopping routine, using another stolen credit card number. The room was at the Waldorf Astoria. He arrived at 3:30 p.m., the earliest check-in time.
Markov wasn’t surprised that it was a small room with no view. He didn’t care. It had a bed, a desk, and outlets for his phone chargers and laptop. He could work and sleep and plan.
Markov was very good at planning. It made him feel in control. He could spend uninterrupted hours at it. The mess with Crane and Summit had put him behind schedule. Time to catch up. He already had a checklist in his head.
First, contact his sources in Albania. His masters at U.S. Military Intelligence had ordered up a roster of small arms for militant factions trying to overthrow the Assad government. Markov could not have cared less who the arms were for. He only cared about the amount and the logistics. And the price.
The order was somewhat flexible. Markov already knew how he would configure it.
He would make a deal with his Albanian suppliers for five to ten thousand AK-47 rifles, at least two million rounds of ammunition, and as many rockets and launchers as they would sell him. Markov estimated he’d probably get about a hundred of the launchers.
The weapons were part of the stockpiles assembled for sale by a company created by the Albanian government called MEICO. The sale was perfectly legal in Albania. However, the stamps and end-user certificates he needed would not be. He would have to assemble a mix of genuine and forged documents. His sources in Albania would provide both.
He had started the process three weeks ago. Now he would finalize everything.
He worked for two hours, nailing down loose ends, and then placed a series of calls to numbers connected to U.S. Army Intelligence. Within forty minutes, Markov received a callback through the hotel phone lines from his contact, a Colonel Mark Redmond, who told Markov to log on to a secure Web site where they could conduct a live video chat.
Markov used the first part of the chat to report the progress of the arms shipment, outlining how it would be flown first into Beirut and from there to Al Thaurah Airport in Syria.
Redmond told him that from Al Thaurah U.S. Army contractors would truck the weapons to their final destination. Markov had no concerns about what happened to the weapons after he completed his part of the delivery, but he knew Redmond gave him that information so it would be clear that the shipment would have to be packed in a way to hold up under transit by truck.
The video chat was mostly one way, with Redmond responding in short sentences.
Once their business was concluded, Markov asked Redmond for a favor, explaining that he was having trouble with a criminal group in New York that was using extortion to impede his operations.
For the first time during the live video chat, Redmond looked directly into the computer webcam.
Redmond was central casting for an Army operative. All-American Big Ten football boy, aging into a hardened man, close-cropped hair going gray at the temples.
“What kind of favor?”
“I may need your help finding some people.”
Redmond paused. Calculating his answer. There was always the possibility of blowback if he agreed. But he was under enormous pressure to deliver the arms shipment. Anything that took Markov off track couldn’t be tolerated. Markov had been known to disappear for weeks or months at the first hint of trouble.
“Why?”
“They are causing me trouble.”
“Is it jeopardizing our contract?”
Markov thought carefully before he answered. If Redmond had any doubts about his ability to deliver on his commitment it could be very costly to him.
“Not yet. And rest assured, this is a problem caused by someone else. Not me. But if I need your help, I want you to know in advance. And I won’t ask unless it’s necessary.”
Redmond pursed his lips, nodded, and limited his response to, “Duly noted.”
“Thank you.”
Markov ended the connection. He would have to use Redmond very carefully. He had Milstein, for whatever that idiot was worth. He had Gregor and his men. And he had another resource he could use, Ivan Kolenka, but only if it became absolutely necessary. Right now, he would put pressure on Milstein and Gregor.
24
Beck had been hunkered down next to Alex Liebowitz feeding him information, providing descriptions, looking at pictures Alex brought up for identification, in between making phone calls to the Bolo brothers, getting up to check with Ciro, and looking outside to see how Willie Reese was doing with the window repair.
Liebowitz listened, typed in data, manipulated the mouse, shifted his gaze back and forth between two monitors. Ran through databases. Pulled up information.
After about an hour, Alex leaned back and announced, “Okay, so here we go. We’ve got the arms dealer. And we’ve got the fighter.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Started with Elizabeth Stern’s ID and password to get into the NCIC database. And then from there to other sources, some of which I have my own ways into. I mean, sometimes it’s like the NYPD antiterrorist group is doing it, sometimes not. Some of it was just public sites. It’s really just a matter of…”
Beck gently interrupted Alex before he began with a long lecture. “Great. Great. I’m glad the thing with Elizabeth is still good.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“I have to remember to set up a wormhole in case she moves on. But that might be very tough. They use automatically regenerated six-digit randomized numbers every sixty seconds, so I’d have to get hold of at least one functioning sequence that I could…”
“Alex.”
“Yeah?”
“What have you got?”