As he walked toward the double bank of elevators in the center of the hotel’s mezzanine level, he could feel the pressure of time, fatigue, and the growing burdens of pain plaguing him.
The knife wound on his leg throbbed, made worse by Stepanovich’s knee kicks. He could barely close his hands, and by tomorrow he’d be feeling another set of bruises and strains.
He decided that his move against Markov’s men in Tribeca had probably delayed any attack on them, but for how long? And how many men could Markov send against him? And what if he called on Kolenka for help?
Beck stood in front of the elevators that would lead to the fortieth floor. He thought about hotel security. The doormen on Fifty-eighth Street had greeted him and held open the door, but barely glanced at him. It was after eleven, but the bar and restaurant on that side of the hotel were still open. He could be a guest, a diner, someone stopping in for a drink, or a hired assassin.
There was a single corridor in the middle of the hotel which occupied a section of the block between Fifty-eighth and Fifty-ninth streets where the elevators were located. There were six elevators. Three on the south side of the corridor that went from the fifth floor to the twenty-ninth floor. Then three on the north side that went from the thirty-first floor to the fifty-second floor.
Beck waited in front of the north-side bank of elevators. An elevator opened and he stepped in. The car was empty.
The elevator rushed him to Olivia’s floor without stopping. He stepped out into a surprisingly small foyer, lit with discreet overhead accent lighting. Small brass plaques to the right and left indicated which rooms occupied each corridor. There was a small Léger print above each plaque.
Beck called Manny once more.
“Okay, I’m at the hotel. Call your woman who’s watching Olivia and tell her I’m heading toward the room now. Tell her what I look like and to open the door for me.”
“How soon you gonna be there?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Okay. Give me a minute before you knock.”
“Sure. Demarco back yet? You get that guy squared away?”
“D’s not back yet. Yeah, we got the guy set the way you asked.”
“One last thing, after you talk to your gal, call Ricky and Jonas and tell ’em to get some sleep, then get back on Milstein in the morning.”
“Got it. What are you gonna do with the one we snatched?”
“Pump him for information. Maybe trade him for something. I don’t know. Just leave him alone to wonder what’s next.”
Beck broke the connection. He relaxed for a few moments, standing motionless in the quiet opulence of the fortieth floor, giving Manny time to call the woman guarding Olivia.
He wondered how much a room went for at the Four Seasons.
He inhaled slowly and held his breath for a moment, listening, feeling for a sense of the city just outside. He felt nothing, heard nothing, but it seemed as if he could still sense something out there. A hum? A pulse of the city? He wondered if he was imagining it.
He thought for a few more moments how hotels were able to create such a cocoon of peace and security like the one that surrounded him. How the careful lighting highlighted certain areas while leaving other sections in soothing shadows. How the plush carpets absorbed sound and the tasteful decorations gave an impression of opulence.
Beck looked at the calm subtle colors surrounding him. He considered how important it was for guests to feel like they had escaped from the discomfort and tension of a sometimes frantic, often inhospitable city into a refuge where they could feel warm and safe and protected. Was it true?
No, thought Beck, it was an illusion.
34
Markov had sweated through his clothes in the cramped back room at the Waldorf. It had nothing to do with the hotel’s ventilation, which worked fine. He always sweated when he concentrated and pushed and cajoled and manipulated and calculated until he had accomplished what he’d set out to do.
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?