Among Thieves (38 page)

“Anything?”

“Yeah. We just got down here. I haven't seen those guys, but the blue Taurus you described is parked over on West Street. So it looks like they are up there with your boyfriend Crane. Unless they know somebody else in this nabe.”

“Pearce ended up home?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. See you at ten o'clock.”

 

58

Beck shoved his phone in his pocket and continued through the front bar and down the stairs leading into the cellar. He went through the same routine he had before. Walking to the back, moving the shelves, carefully sliding back the plastered plywood cover, and walking through to the basement of the building next door.

As he passed through the opening in the wall, the smell of body odor was palpable. The darkness still impenetrable.

Even though it was cool in the basement, and it had only been about twenty-four hours, his prisoner had started to stink from worry and tension.

Beck stood at the doorway, motionless, waiting in the dark for any sound that his prisoner was awake and moving.

He'd picked up a Maglite they kept hanging on the wall near the entrance and turned it on, aiming it at the floor so he could follow the circle of illumination and still remain concealed by the darkness.

When he arrived at the cell, Beck stopped about five feet away from the iron bars. Slowly he aimed the beam of light into Ahmet Sukol's small prison cell. He carefully moved the bright light toward the bunk where Sukol lay, and shined the beam on his face.

If Sukol had been sleeping, he wasn't now. He immediately covered his eyes with the crook of his arm.

Beck waited. And waited.

Finally Sukol broke and said, “I need food. Or are you going to starve me?”

His voice sounded raspy, and he seemed to be slightly out of breath. Like he'd spent a few hours shouting for help. He spoke with a Slavic accent, but his English was good enough to make Beck think he had been in the U.S. for a long time.

“So far, that's the plan,” said Beck.

“What?”

“Just let you starve to death.”

“You are serious?”

“Of course I'm serious. The easiest thing is to just leave you here in the dark and let what happens, happen.”

“Why not just shoot me?”

“I'm not going to splatter blood all over the place. You can't believe how hard it is to get all the traces of blood out of a porous surface like that concrete block wall, or the floor. Much easier if I just let you wither away in the dark and die. Then all I have to do is get rid of your body. Plus, by then there'll be a lot less fat on you.”

Sukol cursed quietly in a Slavic language Beck didn't understand, and didn't take much notice of. Beck continued speaking as if talking to himself as much as to the prisoner.

“Not that getting rid of a grown man is all that easy.”

Beck swung the light away from Sukol's face and aimed it at the large commercial meat grinder in the opposite corner.

“That thing helps. It can grind up a body in about fifteen minutes. I mean, first we have to cut you into pieces, which is a lot more difficult than most imagine. Takes about half an hour. That's with two guys. We use hacksaws. We don't use the circular saw on that rack. That thing throws shit everywhere. Blood and bone and flesh. Cleaning that up is impossible.

“We do it by hand. First the arms, they're pretty easy. Just have to get through the shoulder joints. Then your head. Easy. Legs are a bitch. Big bones up near the hip sockets. Then we still have to cut them at the knee joints. Not easy.

“Then the fucking torso. That's the hardest part. That's when you're tempted to use the electric saw. Got to cut it in sections. All those ribs and the spine, and all the fucking intestines and big organs. But once that's done, the hard part is over. That damn grinder goes through everything fast: bones, meat, everything. Made in China.”

Beck paused. Waiting to see if the prisoner said anything, but Sukol remained silent, which was fine with Beck.

“We push the paste into heavy-duty twenty-five-pound plastic bags and feed it to a pack of dogs a crazy lady around here keeps. Big mongrels. Pit bulls. Shepherds. Rotties. All mixed up and inbred. Those dogs can eat a couple hundred pounds a week, easy. We burn the bags and you end up as big piles of dog shit.”

Beck paused. Letting the prisoner think about it.

“I suppose once you're dead, you really don't care how you end up. I wouldn't. But some people don't like the idea of the dogs.”

Beck paused again.

“I admit the dog thing is disgusting. And it takes time. We don't give her everything at once. We want to make it look like we've accumulated restaurant scraps. So, we have to keep the bags in the walk-in refrigerator until she's done. About three weeks.

“I sometimes wonder if that woman has figured it out. It's not like we give her a steady supply.

“But like I said, she's crazy. Nobody can figure out what she's talking about half the time.”

Beck stopped talking for a while. Feeling the fatigue and stress of the last days coming over him. But he kept the Maglite shining on the meat grinder.

“Cleaning that grinder is no picnic. Doable, but has to be done right. Cold water first. Then laundry detergent. Then ammonia. Then bleach on the concrete surfaces. I think there's some other stuff the guys use. Enzymes or something to break down the protein. Everything washes down the drain, then we pour a bunch of bleach in the drain to get rid of any blood traces or scraps.

“We don't keep the hacksaws. They end up in the bay.”

Beck paused, letting the circle of light from the Maglite rest on the floor drain.

“Doing it all down here is safer than hauling you out and dumping you someplace. A lot more work, but way more safe. No chance anybody sees us loading your body into the trunk of a car or something. Most important, zero chance anybody finds a body.”

Beck remained in the dark, just a matter-of-fact voice reciting the truth with the Maglite again shining steadily on the industrial meat grinder.

Finally, Sukol said, “Like you say, who gives a shit once you're dead.”

“I agree. But trust me, some guys really freak out at the idea of getting eaten by a bunch of filthy mongrels and mastiffs. I'm like you. It's the dying that I'd worry about. Just withering away down here in the dark. You've only been here about a day.” Beck shook his head, thinking about it. “You ever starve for a long time? You start really going nuts.”

Sukol had to concentrate on not screaming at Beck to shut the fuck up.

Beck let silence fill the dark basement as the Maglite beam drifted back toward Sukol's cell. And then he said, “You're thinking about how you can persuade me to kill you some other way instead of letting you just lay in there and die. Something quicker. You're also thinking, fuck him. Markov's men will be here some time or other. They'll find me.

“But I won't kill you any other way, because there's no percentage in touching you. Or getting close enough so that you can touch me. I won't put a bullet in you because that causes lots of other problems.

“And as far as waiting for that bald motherfucker or anybody else, forget it. This place isn't anywhere near where they think I am, so even if they find me, they won't find you. Nobody knows about this place. Nobody will find you, or hear you. There's nothing above you or around you that has anything to do with me.”

Beck waited again. Letting it sink in. Then finally said, “And face it. Who's looking for you anyhow? Who really gives a shit about you?”

After a while, Sukol said, “Then why are you down here?”

With that question, Beck knew he had a chance. He just had to play it carefully.

He turned off the Maglite. Beck suddenly felt exhausted. He'd had very little sleep since this all started. The cold basement pressed in on him. The knife wound on his thigh ached. Every time he moved pain flashed in his upper back. There were tender bruises everywhere: his arms, hips, ribs. And the constant tension was making his lower back stiff.

There was a row of brick pillars holding up the floor above the cellar. One of them stood opposite the cell, about five feet away. Beck sidled over to it, eased himself down onto the cold concrete floor, and leaned back, arms around his knees. He felt the moist cold from the floor seeping through the seat of his black jeans. He tried to position himself so his lower back stretched out.

Beck repeated the question. “Why am I down here?” He waited a few moments. “Sometimes it's good to go back into the hole.”

“What do you mean?”

“You've never been in solitary confinement?”

Sukol didn't answer.

“I did twenty-eight days once. Then another time, fourteen days. The fourteen days was worse than the twenty-eight. By then, I knew what I was looking at. The first time they turned the lights off and on, I thought I might not make it. But then your eyes get used to it. Yours are all fucked up now that I've brought some light in. You won't be able to pick anything out for hours.

“And it's almost worse when the lights come on. I was never sure they weren't fucking with me. How long was it between dark and light? Eight hours? Six. Ten. A half hour. I was convinced they were using the lights to drive me nuts. But maybe I already was.”

Beck lapsed silent. Thinking back on it.

“So you come down here to remember how crazy you are?”

“You think that's it?”

“No. I think you want to use me for something.”

“What can I possibly use you for?”

Sukol sat up suddenly, swinging his feet to the cold basement floor. “Listen to me,” he said. “I know things. I don't give a fuck about Markov or Stepanovich. Stepanovich is a maniac. I hate that guy. I was just in it for the pay.”

And then Beck knew he had him.

“Uh, what the hell is your name, anyhow?”

“Ahmet.”

“Ahmet, why the fuck would I believe anything you say? You're with the guys trying to kill me.”

Ahmet started talking. Fast. His Slavic accent became more pronounced the faster he spoke.

“Don't believe me. Just listen to what I tell you. Then you keep me locked up here until you find out I told the truth. Once you know I tell you the truth, you let me go. Believe me, you will never see me again. I walk away. Nobody ever sees me again. For sure not that fucking piece of evil shit Stepanovich.”

Sukol waited but Beck said nothing. Beck wanted to let the man talk.

“Trust me. My best chance to walk away is if Stepanovich is dead. He'll fucking shoot me the next time he sees me just because I've been with the enemy. I'll tell you anything I can to help you kill that fucker. If you have any brains, you kill him the next time you see him. Just kill him. If he gets you, he'll do shit to you you can't imagine.”

Beck laid his head back against the brick pillar. He could feel dried mortar and paint flecks falling against the back of his neck. He waited a full minute before he spoke. It felt like ten minutes to Ahmet Sukol.

“Where can I find Markov?”

Sukol answered without a second's hesitation, eager to prove his worth.

“You can't. You never find him. Not possible. He never stays in one place for longer than one night. Maybe two. He has some apartments and businesses scattered around Far Rockaway, Brighton Beach, but he doesn't use them much. He keeps clothes in these places. Things he needs. He stays in hotels. Usually Manhattan. He always moves around. Has a driver who fetches his clothes, picks him up, and brings him wherever he wants to go.”

“How does he work?”

“Cell phones and computer. Laptop. It's all in his head. Or on his laptop.”

Ahmet waved his hands in front of him. “Or somewhere in the cloud. He doesn't leave a paper trail. He sleeps at night, at daytime. Always with drugs he operates. Always moving. He's not like any human you know.”

“How do you know this?”

“Everybody around him knows this. It's not secret.”

“Why does Markov need someone like Stepanovich?”

“He uses Stepanovich for personal security. Markov is paranoid. He's a drug freak. He lives in his own world. He thinks everybody is after him. Maybe it's true.”

“How does he know a criminal like Stepanovich?”

“How do you think? He sold arms into Bosnia for years. He knew plenty of men like Stepanovich.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long.”

“How do you know him?”

“Who? Stepanovich?”

“Yeah.”

“Mostly his reputation. He has a core of men who served with him. I didn't know him in the wars. Besides them, he recruits whoever he needs. Like me. There are a lot of us around. Russians, Turks, Serbians.”

“Are there any warrants out for Markov in the U.S.?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. He seems safe in the U.S. I hear he runs a lot of arms for the U.S. military. Or the government. Your fucking government is arming half the world. They need guys like Markov.”

“Stepanovich isn't going to protect Markov from a government.”

“You'd be surprised. Getting through Stepanovich isn't easy. Gives Markov time to disappear. He's the kind of guy that can walk out of a room, get on a plane, and be gone anywhere.

“But it's not governments or police Markov worries about. It's competitors. Business rivals. A maniac like Stepanovich discourages competition. Markov is always paying somebody for protection. Or bribing somebody.”

“Like Kolenka?”

“Yes. Kolenka is almost worse than Stepanovich. He will kill anybody. Very fast. He doesn't care. Stepanovich will kill you, but he'll torture you first and try to figure out ways to make pain. He lives on pain. Kolenka don't waste time. With him you are dead before you know it.”

“How many men do you think Kolenka has?”