“You have my assurance this operation will continue without him.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
The man’s gaze slides to me. “I am just a messenger.”
I lean forward in my chair, hands clasped between my legs. “Nicholas was coordinating the deal. Who will oversee it now?”
He barely takes a breath. “I can assure you, oversight remains intact.”
I lean back, folding my arms. “From where?”
He looks back at me but his eyes are hollow, as if devoid of human emotion.
“From the source, of course,” the man replies.
Does he mean Morozov? Surely that would be too easy, and too close to home for the Pakhan. There must be someone else—another middleman between Morozov and Nicholas Parker.
“That’s a little cryptic,” I challenge. I don’t want to make it too obvious I’m there to dig around for answers but thesearethe sort of questions any self-respecting criminal would ask.
He nods once. “The less you know, the safer it will be for all of you.”
Ah, plausible deniability. Helpful if we should ever be tortured.
“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries,” the Brit says. “We need confirmation of delivery windows.”
The forgettable man turns to him. “The shipment cleared Polish transit forty-eight hours ago. It’s already been broken into smaller consignments.”
Fuck. It’s on the move.
The Floridian looks up. “Which routes have been agreed?”
“Multiple. Baltic ports first.”
I bristle. This is where we could be tainted by association. The Cosa Nostra has a presence in those ports, whether we’re directly involved in the deal or not.
“Secondary transfers by road through Romania and Serbia. Final distribution will be handled locally.”
Now that the Russian has gone, it seems everyone is talking. I listen, I catalogue, I memorize it all.
And now, I know.
The Eastern European black market is selling. Specifically, a faceless entity representing suppliers across a number of territories, selling ex-military, surplus stock, private defense assets.
The buyer is a Polish middleman operating on behalf of fragmented cells, among them terrorist groups and cartels.
The Brits and the Floridians are cleaning, handling and moving the cash—because you can’t simply wire fifty million for illegal weapons.
And Turkish intermediaries are handling distribution that has been deliberately decentralized to avoid seizure.
“What about the borders?” Todd asks, his pasty skin evidence he still hasn’t gotten his nerves under control.
The man smiles faintly. “It is all handled.”
I know what that means. Customs are on the payroll.
All I need now is to find out who this man reports to. Who isreallyorchestrating this deal. Nicholas was evidently dispensable, as—I suspect—this man is too. It’s the final piece of the puzzle. If I take the time, the place and the product to the Feds, they’ll shrug. They need a name.
“Anonymous leadership creates instability,” I say calmly. “People like to know who they’re working for.”
