“Yeah.”

Beck continued to the back of the bar, listening for his call to go through.

Brandon Wright answered without any preamble, “I see you’re still alive.”

“So far. Thanks. I think of you every time I take a step.”

“Leave those stitches alone.”

“I will. I need another favor.”

“What a surprise.”

“I need medical information on a woman named Olivia Sanchez. About two weeks ago, she showed up at the emergency room at Lenox Hill Hospital.” Beck took a moment to calculate the date. “Sometime around February second or third. Around seven p.m. She had two broken fingers on her left hand. Little finger and ring finger. They set the fingers in the emergency room. Can you look into it? You know, like you’re her primary care physician or something and you’re following up.”

“What do you mean by look into it?”

“Find out what happened. The circumstances. Get whatever records they have. X-rays, whatever.”

“Can you get me a copy of her signature?”

“Why? Can’t you just scribble something on your usual form?”

“Not if you want it to match the five or six signatures she had to sign in the emergency room at Lenox Hill.”

“Who even looks at that shit?”

“The person in charge of medical records. Get me a signature. You won’t get two chances.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Beck cut the call and continued on into the kitchen, trying to think of how the hell he could get Olivia Sanchez’s signature.

23

“Look, Pearce, I don’t need his goddamn life story. I just want to know how to find him and what his connection to Olivia Sanchez is,” said Milstein.

Milstein had just gotten off the phone with Leonard Markov, who had spent most of the call snarling threats into his ear, while Milstein kept wondering how they let James Beck get away from them.

Markov pressed Milstein, so now Milstein pressed Walter Pearce, getting more and more frustrated by what he heard.

“I know what you want,” said Pearce. “I’m working on it. But you have to understand, this is no ordinary guy. So far I don’t see any address, anywhere in the five boroughs, or Connecticut or Jersey, that would match the James Beck we’re looking for.”

Milstein sat at his desk on the twenty-eighth floor of Summit Investing, wearing his phone headset, staring out at a view north and east that made up for his otherwise modest office. Milstein could see across Manhattan over into Queens. He enjoyed watching planes depart and arrive at LaGuardia Airport. The distance made them look as if they were moving so slowly that they appeared to be suspended in the air. The sight usually relaxed him. But the more he listened to Pearce, the less calm he felt.

“I’ve gone through five databases. I have his arrest record, court proceedings, but after his case was settled three years ago there’s nothing. It’s like he disappeared. No car registration. No voter registration. No property records. Nothing. He’s out of the system. He’s not on parole. He has no record of any arrests. No liens. No court cases. Not even a traffic ticket.”

“Goddammit, Walter, listen to me carefully.” Milstein made a concerted effort to lower his voice and speak calmly. “I know you have your procedures. Your methods. But this situation is quite different. Every hour that man is out there—look, I’m not going to explain. I’ll explain some other time. This Beck fellow is causing us real trouble. If you can’t find him in your usual way, try another way. He’s connected to that Baldassare guy, right? Take that angle. Find him and maybe you’ll find Beck. Or maybe you can find him through his lawyer. You must have that name in his files.”

“All due respect, Mr. Milstein, I doubt his lawyer is going to be handing out any information on him. As for Ciro Baldassare, I’ve already checked on him. The only connection to Beck that I can see is that they were in Dannemora at the same time. His last known address is on Staten Island. But if I find him, he’s not going to tell me anything about Beck. All that would do is warn Beck, and he’ll go even deeper into hiding. If you want to try the Baldassare angle, the best way is to put men on him, tail him, and hope he will lead us to Beck. But that will take a lot of time and will cost significant money.”

Milstein hated hearing reasons why something couldn’t be done.

“All right, all right, Walter, I’m just making suggestions. You’re the detective, not me. Just fucking do whatever you can to find him. As fast as possible. Stay in touch.”

Milstein hung up before Walter could tell him any more reasons why he couldn’t find James Beck.

*   *   *

Beck walked into the downstairs bar kitchen, holding the insurance form Willie Reese had given him.

“Olivia.”

She had her coat and hat on, ready to leave with Manny.

“Do me a favor. Sign this form for me, will you. It’s to get my window fixed. It’ll be better if it looks like someone from the property manager’s office signed it instead of me.”

She made a confused face. It didn’t make much sense to her. She stared at the form, a set of three pages in three different colors. She scanned it. Decided it made no difference if she accommodated Beck’s request.

“My name?”

“Yeah. Why not? Yours is as good as any.”

“That’ll work?”

“Sure.”

She signed the form.

“Thanks.” Beck quickly picked up the form and said to Manny, “You guys are getting food first, right?”

Manny said, “Yeah. Then we’ll take care of what Olivia needs. Then I’ll do that other thing and be back.”

“Okay.”

Beck limped up the back stairs with the form, came out on the second floor, and handed the signed form to Alex Liebowitz.

“Alex, scan that signature, clean it up, and send it to Brandon Wright. Please.”

Liebowitz took the form, turned to the scanner on Beck’s desk, and started doing what Beck had asked. Beck waited until Alex completed the scan. Then he pulled the form out of the scanner and under Olivia’s signature printed “for J. Beck.” He hurried back down to the bar, handed the form to Reese.

“That should do it. Don’t let glass man leave until there’s a new window in here. If it gets late, don’t let him tell you some bullshit about it being too dark. He has work lights.”

“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.