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.”