Two of his men out of action, who would have to be killed because he couldn’t take any chances that the police would use them to penetrate his operation.
There was clearly a serious ongoing threat to Markov, a man who was a source of significant sums of money to him.
But above all else, Kolenka was certain that Beck realized he had aligned with Markov, and would therefore try to kill him.
Conclusion: Beck had to be eliminated. And all his men, whoever they were. Anything and everything that had to do with James Beck had to be eliminated from the face of the earth. Executed, burned down. Buried and salt poured in the hole.
Along with Kolenka and Markov sitting in the kitchen were three of Kolenka’s men plus Gregor Stepanovich, who had come with Markov.
Finally, Kolenka spoke.
“We must eliminate Beck.”
“Agreed.”
“You understand he’s not alone.”
“How many men does he have?”
“I don’t know. I expect he’s gathered his men at his headquarters in Brooklyn. I have made inquiries, and now I have the exact location.”
There was a street map of Brooklyn laid flat on the kitchen table. Kolenka pointed a bony finger at a spot on Conover Street. He had studied the streets around Beck’s building, which was located right near the water at the far western edge of Red Hook. Kolenka believed they could trap him in that location by blocking only two streets: Van Brunt on the south side and Van Dyke on the east side. Once trapped, they would kill everything that moved in that building. But Kolenka had to be sure Beck was in the building and find out how many men were with him.
“We need to do this very soon,” said Kolenka.
“Yes.”
But even as he agreed, Markov began to calculate the time he would need. It was Thursday, a little before 6 a.m. Crane would certainly want Friday to trade. He imagined Kolenka would want to strike at night. So, earliest would be tonight, more likely early Friday morning.
For sure, there would be a massive police investigation. Markov could not be anywhere in New York when that happened. But if he closed out all his positions by the end of trading on Friday, assembled all the cash in his Cayman bank by the end of business Friday, he could fly out of New York Friday night. Meet in person with the Cayman bankers on Saturday to transfer the money someplace only he knew about. Set up the funds on the Isle of Wight, or maybe Andorra. Or Lichtenstein. Or maybe all three. No point leaving everything in one basket. The Syrian arms shipments should all be in place by then. Handle everything with the bank in Cayman and the transfer banks, leave Grand Cayman the same day to a place outside the U.S., but civilized. Disappear. Settle in Prague, perhaps. Perhaps Sicily. Just lay low. Stay out of circulation as he planned his next moves.
Beck would be eliminated once and for all. And in all likelihood, the woman was with Beck, so she, too, would die. But if not, if she was hiding somewhere else, he would find her and take care of her later. For now, Markov knew he had to gather his assets and disappear.
This was going to cost him. Certainly Kolenka would demand a large payment. Speculating with his investment would cost him millions. But there were always reversals in business. He told himself to never look back. Crane would preserve enough to meet his obligations, and be ready for the next deal. There was always another deal.
“Agreed,” said Markov. “Thursday night, early Friday morning.”
Kolenka asked Markov, “And how many men can you give me? Good men,”
“How many do you need? For what?”
“To wipe this Beck and all around him off the map of life.”
“I’ll give you whatever you need. What is your plan?”
“I’ll tell you after I send men in to look around. To see exactly what is where.”
Markov asked, “Do you have men that can do that? Without being spotted?”
Kolenka shrugged.
Markov said, “I have the best. Three men. Highly trained. They will be meeting me at JFK in a few hours. We can send them into Beck’s neighborhood. Nobody will connect them to us. They know how to fit into any area. They are experts, I guarantee it. They’ll get whatever intelligence you need.”
“Fine. Have them go in this afternoon. We’ll see what we have to do. We make a plan. We end this, now.”
“Agreed.”
“Yes, and then you and I will agree on how much you will be paying me.”
47
Milstein and Walter Pearce were the only occupants in the Summit offices at 7:10 a.m. on a Wednesday morning.
They sat in Milstein’s office, a surprisingly small space, situated in the southeast corner of the twenty-eighth floor. The building at that height was oddly shaped, so that Milstein’s office didn’t occupy a full corner, but rather a section of a triangle. Milstein liked the shape of his office because with him sitting behind his desk, anyone else in his office was relegated to the cramped and disorienting space on the other side of his desk.
Although it was a workday, Milstein wore casual weekend clothes. Brown corduroy pants, open-collar blue button-down shirt, a tan V-neck cashmere sweater, all of it about a size too big for his small frame.
Pearce sat uncomfortably at the side of Milstein’s desk. His rumpled suit, white shirt, and blue-striped tie looked like he had been wearing them all day.