Among Thieves (27 page)

“So what went wrong? Why did Crane get so crazy?”

“Because he got wind of what we were planning before Milstein could pitch him. Crane heard what Milstein and me were up to and he went nuts.”

“Meaning the attack. The yelling and screaming, threatening to kill you. Breaking your hand.”

Olivia stopped. She sensed something. She watched Beck looking at her. She knew. Maybe she had known from the moment Beck started going over it all again. She looked down, than back up at Beck. She spoke slowly and softly. “It didn't happen exactly that way.”

Beck sat back in Nydia's chair. “What way did it happen?”

She couldn't look at Beck. She stared past him, gazing at the glow of the city lights coming in through the transparent inner drape drawn over the window.

“Everything I told you is true. Crane came in. Yelling, screaming, threatening. Pounding the desk. He really got to me. I really believed my life was at risk. I realized I may have underestimated the whole thing. Crane truly sounded like he actually could have me killed.

“I hadn't really thought about who Markov was until that moment. What he might be capable of doing. When Crane threatened to kill me, I was terrified. Then I suddenly got paranoid. Maybe Milstein had set the whole thing up knowing Crane would do this. Maybe
he
tipped off Crane. Was he using me as a stalking horse to see what Crane would do? Did he blow up everything so I would go to Manny?

“My head was reeling.” Now she turned her gaze to Beck. “I never experienced anything like that.”

“Go on.”

“I was numb. I kept thinking, what the hell have I done? I left the office in a daze. I usually get the train on Fifty-ninth, but I couldn't. I needed to move. I decided to walk to Grand Central. It was cold out, but there were still a lot of people on the streets. People heading home. I was kind of like walking at my own pace, you know. Dazed, not like all the people walking past me.

“It was dark, I wasn't paying attention. I don't even know exactly how it happened. Or where. I was in the middle of a crosswalk. Maybe there was a little ice, a manhole, and uneven part, I don't know. I just slipped. Fell sort of to the side. Landed on my hand.”

She lifted her left hand, wrapped in the cast as if it were an exhibit. Remembering how it had actually happened. She closed her eyes. The tears were coming, silently moving down her cheeks as if something separate and apart from her.

Beck watched her. Picturing it. Listening for the truth in her words.

“I don't think anything ever hurt me as much as that did. I didn't even have gloves on. It was horrible. Horrible. I swear it seemed to be all part of what Crane had done to me. He put me in that state. He drove me out of there. It was as if he'd done it to me. Made it happen.”

She took a slow deep breath, shook her head, distancing herself from the memory. Beck sat unmoving, watching her, listening closely.

“Anyhow, I just cradled my hand in the crook of my arm. I knew the little finger was broken. It was jutting out at a crazy angle. I was crying. People helped me up, asked me if I was okay. I couldn't talk. Somebody told me to get to a hospital. Somebody hailed a cab for me. Next thing I was in the emergency room at Lenox Hill.

“They gave me a shot. The pain started to ebb. I just went with it. Whatever they said, I did. Sit here. Go there. I was drained. The time didn't matter. It took a while to get everything done, but once the X-rays came back and the surgeon set my fingers, it felt more normal. The pain shots kept it all numb. He was a very confident guy. He told me I might not need surgery.

“About the time they started to put the cast on and the pain settled, I began thinking about what had happened. I started to get furious. That fucking Alan Crane. The years I put in. His arrogance. His stupidity. His … his recklessness. And the fucking nerve to threaten me like that.”

She paused to look at Beck. He sat motionless, no expression, listening. She had to get through it now. Get the rest of it out.

“Fuck.” She shook her head. “I was still afraid. From what Crane did. But I started wondering if Milstein had turned against me. If he had tipped off Crane. I was sure Crane meant what he said. The hate in him.

“I called Milstein from the hospital. I left a message on his voice mail. I figured for sure he'd call me back. He never did.”

Olivia paused, remembering it. She looked directly at Beck. “That's when I decided to fight back. Sitting in that emergency room. I called the police. I started to build a case. I knew Crane would deny it. I didn't care. I was going on the offensive. They weren't going to get away with it. I waited for the police to come to the hospital. And waited. After a while I just couldn't wait any longer and I went home.

“On the cab ride home, that's when I decided to go to Manny. I think I would have gone to him whether I'd broken my hand or not. I was convinced I had to have some protection. The accident just made everything more real. Like a slap in the face to wake me up and show me where I was at.”

Olivia shrugged. Held up her hand again.

“It cost me enough pain. I figured I had every right to use it.” She paused. “I guess I didn't think the whole thing through with Manny. I knew about you in a very vague way. Manny never talked to me about his life. When I told him a man at work had attacked me, had broken my hand, it seemed totally real to me. I swear I didn't know it was going to get this far. I was just determined to fight back. To survive.”

She paused, wiped away the tears as if they were annoying her.

“That's the truth. That's what I did.” She stopped. Beck waited. “It's my fault Manny is involved. That you're involved. I never … I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

Olivia leaned back against the headboard. Relieved. Drained. Showing a terrible vulnerability that actually made Beck want to comfort her.

Finally, Beck said, “I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

Beck nodded.

Olivia got up and walked to the foot of the bed. She sat on the bed, close enough to Beck so that she could reach out and touch his knee.

“What can I do? What should I do? How do I make this right?”

 

36

After he finished talking to Stepanovich, Markov began working every angle. He pestered Milstein until he received an e-mail with most of the information he demanded on Olivia.

Next, he reached out to Kolenka.

Markov had to leave messages and wait nearly a half hour for the old gangster to call him back. When he answered his phone he heard Kolenka's raspy voice growl out one word.

“Yes?”

“Ivan, I need your help.”

Kolenka muttered one word. “Beck.”

“Yes.”

“I warned you.”

“You did. And now I'm taking steps. I want someone kidnapped.”

“Who?”

“The woman who started all these problems.”

“You have people, why call me?”

“Because your people are better.”

Markov heard Kolenka cough, the phlegm-filled hack of an inveterate chain-smoker. He pictured Kolenka hunched over, sipping strong Turkish coffee, smoking an unending chain of unfiltered Lucky Strikes in one of the shabby, barely furnished apartments that Kolenka used randomly.

Markov pushed. “Ivan, are you thinking of refusing me?”

“You want to take the woman because you think that will draw out Beck.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe. You understand this man is someone you must be careful with.”

“Maybe I can persuade her to call him off.”

“He won't listen.”

“Then I will make sure they are both dead.”

“There are people who will try to avenge Beck.”

“They won't find me. Or maybe we take care of them, too.”

Kolenka's silence told Markov he was thinking everything through. Markov listened to Kolenka breathing on the other end of the phone. A raspy, labored sound. Breathing and thinking.

Finally, Kolenka asked, “How will you find her?”

“My friends in Washington.”

“Ah. They push buttons and see everything.”

“Exactly.”

Another pause. Finally, Kolenka spoke. “One condition. Everything works through your end. I will give you two of my best men. You find her. They will help capture her, and deliver the woman wherever you say. After that, we have nothing more to do with it.”

“Fine.”

“Do not take Beck lightly.” Kolenka hung up without another word.

Markov felt the sharks circling him. Coming after him and his money. But now he would strike. Capture the woman. She would either tell him where to find Beck, or Beck would come after her. He would be ready this time. And then, once he had his money safe, teach those idiots Milstein and Crane a lesson for allowing this mess to happen.

 

37

Olivia continued talking to Beck, sitting at the end of the bed, leaning toward him.

“I'll do whatever I can to make this right, James. I'll tell Manny the truth about my hand. I'll do whatever you say.”

Beck shook his head. “No. Do not do that. I wouldn't be able to guarantee you would survive it.”

Olivia shook her head. “I don't believe that.”

“I know you don't. But don't do it. And don't argue with me about it.”

She frowned, looking confused, but agreed. “Fine, whatever you say. What can I do?”

“You sure you've told me everything you know about Markov.”

“Everything I know.”

“Do you know anything about who his customers are?”

“Just what I told you before. My impression is that Markov does a lot of shipments for this country.”

“Arms?”

“Yes. Obviously, the U.S. does a lot of stuff that's covert. Someone has to do it. Markov is one of those someones. That's how Milstein rationalizes handling his account. He says Markov doesn't do anything the U.S. doesn't want him to do.”

“Do you know which agency?”

“No.”

“How did Markov get a legitimate brokerage to handle his money?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn't imagine someone can just hand over a hundred million dollars to you guys without triggering an inquiry.”

“Yes, you're right. It's worse than ever since the Patriot Act. But Crane and Markov have worked through it. That's one of the things Crane is good at. I suspect most of it never entered the U.S. banking system.”

“It's hidden offshore?”

Olivia shrugged. “All money is hidden to a certain extent. I'm sure Markov and Crane make sure nobody knows where his funds are: competitors, creditors, anybody he doesn't want knowing his business. It's only illegal if you're hiding money to avoid taxes. It's offshore because it was never onshore. Never earned here.”

“But how does he buy investments in U.S. markets?”

“Tons of ways. And who's to say it's all in U.S. markets? I'm sure Crane is trading in markets all over the world. That's part of how guys like Crane earn their commissions.”

“How's it work?”

“Same way hundreds of U.S. companies do it. They bundle money in various entities. Keep the assets of that entity or corporation in an offshore bank or brokerage. Invest those assets however they want. And don't forget, money that goes into those entities is legally earned. Or in ways that look legal. Markov followed the rules enough so he can invest in whatever Crane wants to invest in.”

“The rules. Whose rules?”

“The ones written for people like Markov. And they still bend them as much as they can. Why do you think guys like Crane exist? Why are you asking me all this?”

Beck ignored the question.

“So, beyond Markov, do you know anything about the people Markov is associated with?”

“No.”

“Crane has no clue either? Or Milstein?”

“I imagine Crane knows more than Milstein, but I don't know that either of them knows as much about them as you seem to. How'd you find out about the war crimes stuff?”

Again, Beck ignored the question.

“Well, I guess you know about criminal types from your time in prison. What was it like?”

“Prison?”

“Yes.”

“That's not exactly the right question. More to the point would be what was it like going from a fairly normal civilized life out in the world into being locked up, incarcerated. There was no break-in period for me. No reform school, or minimum-security lockup. There was normal life, and then maximum-security hell.”

It was Beck's turn to gaze out through the flimsy drapes.

“Eight years I breathed that stink. Listened to the din of constant yelling and screaming and carrying on twenty-four-hours a day. Crazy, insane bullshit. The most primitive, inhuman survival behavior imaginable. Trapped in a world of constant maneuvering and conning and conniving. Surrounded by men with pathetic attention spans and zero impulse control, and stupid, dangerous rationalizations.”

Olivia listened to Beck's speech, perched in front of him at the end of the bed.

“Imagine living with people ready to kill or hurt or maim anybody at any time. Anybody.” Beck snapped his fingers. “Without warning.”

“I can't imagine that.”

Beck leaned forward in his chair, moving closer to Olivia's so she couldn't avoid hearing what he was about to say.

“But those people I'm talking about in prison? They're run-of-the-mill criminals who live in that world. Sure, they can go off at any moment. They'll stab you, shoot you, hit you, doesn't matter. They'll end up dead or in prison, and either way, it's pretty much okay with them.

“But these guys Markov is with—they are in a whole other category. They went after whole towns and villages. Women, children, old people. They tried to wipe out entire categories of people.

“And the Russians I was telling you about? My God, they live by a code so ancient and fucked up they don't even know how to be half-human.”