He’d stay awake the rest of the night, he’d go see the man in the morning, and he’d get his ticket out of town.
And then he would run like hell.
52
The sleek white Hendley Associates Gulfstream G550 landed in Bucharest at nine-twenty a.m. and Captain Helen Reid taxied the aircraft to the customs ramp. Before Country could lower the hatch, however, a customs officer came over the radio and told them the inspector would follow them in his truck to their FBO, where he would do a complete physical inspection of the deplaning passengers’ luggage.
Normally when they traveled in the business jet, the men of The Campus could clear customs and immigration upon landing, with a customs official coming on board to visually inspect their luggage and documents. Then they would taxi from the customs ramp to the fixed-based operator that would store the aircraft during its time in country, and here the men on board could gather their belongings and deplane. This afforded the American operatives the opportunity to open hidden compartments on the jet and remove sensitive items like firearms and high-tech surveillance gear.
But things didn’t go well in Bucharest. The overly officious customs inspector had the pilot shut down the engine, then the four men in the back of the plane were asked to remove their luggage and come down the stairs. They were led to a table, and here the man took his time as he silently checked each piece of luggage over carefully.
The three operatives kept their cool, because they had nothing to hide. And Gavin kept his cool because he had no real suspicions that anything out of the ordinary was going on. The three operators had left their weapons on board, but they did bring out two large Pelican cases of surveillance gear for the customs inspector to gawk at. He asked them what the goods were for and Jack produced commercial invoices along with a story that they were here in town to bid on a government security contract on behalf of a company Hendley Associates had just purchased in the United States. Satisfied, and somewhat embarrassed by his lack of understanding of some of the explanation of how the items worked, the customs man just pulled a couple cameras and spotting scopes out of their foam storage slots, looked them over to match item numbers up with those on the commercial invoice, and then gave the men a curt nod, letting them know they could seal everything up.
Despite the air of gravity to the situation in the end, the official stamped the men’s passports and welcomed them to Romania.
—
The four Americans were met inside the FBO lounge by Felix Negrescu, a sixty-one-year-old bear of a man with a huge salt-and-pepper beard that made him look like a character from a Harry Potter novel. He welcomed them to Romania much more sincerely than the customs officer, with a wide grin and firm handshakes, and he insisted on taking more than his share of bags out of the FOB to his rented gray minivan in the parking lot.
Once they were all inside the vehicle with Negrescu behind the wheel, Chavez said, “Well, Felix, we have a problem right off the bat. Our firearms are still on that plane. We didn’t see a way to get them past customs. Any way you can help us find some small arms, just for defensive purposes?”
Felix gave a low, gravelly chuckle from behind the wheel. “Have you tried the local brew?”
Neither Chavez nor Jack knew what Felix was talking about, but Midas said, “Are you talking about the MD 2000? Yeah, that’ll work, if that’s what is easiest to get hold of.”
Felix said, “I can find you others, but those are the most plentiful. We can make one quick stop on the way to the safe house I’ve arranged and I will pick up one for each of you, along with ammo, magazines, and holsters.”
Chavez said, “I’ve never heard of the MD 2000.”
Midas said, “It’s a knock-off of the Baby Eagle. A nine-millimeter double-stack semiauto.”
Chavez nodded now. “Okay, the Israeli pistol. Does the Romanian version run?”
Midas said, “It will get the job done. Sidearm of the national army here.” He turned to Jack. “You know the weapon?”
“No, but if I can figure out which end the bullets come out of, I’ll be fine.”
Chavez said, “Don’t worry about Jack, he can shoot, and he can shoot under stress.”
“That’s good to know.”
—
They parked in an alcove near Bucharest North Railway Station at ten a.m. Chavez gave Felix a wad of U.S. dollars, and Felix instructed the Americans to wait in the car. Once he was out of sight Chavez said, “Mr. C. vouches for this guy, but I’m not one to sit around in a car while a dude I just met leaves my sight to talk to dudes I’ve never met about a weapons deal.”
The door of the van opened and all the men climbed out, taking up positions within view of the car on the street, but not making themselves such an easy target inside.
Their fears proved unfounded fifteen minutes later when Felix appeared at the hood of the van, carrying a backpack and scratching his beard, looking around at the street and wondering where his new friends had gone.
Chavez appeared inches behind him, startling him with his words. “Everything go okay?”
Felix jumped in surprise, and then laughed as he walked around to the driver’s side. “No problems. They even threw in this shitty backpack for free, although they didn’t cut us the best deal on the pistols. They were one thousand each, with all the trimmings.”
Chavez was unfazed. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers, and if it turns out we need them, it will have been money well spent.”
Felix passed out the pistols to Midas, Jack, and Ding. As the van rolled through central Bucharest the three men function-checked their new sidearms, loaded their primary and spare magazines, and stowed the guns in their waistbands.
While this was all going on, Gavin Biery sat in the very back and pouted.
He wanted a pistol like the other guys.
53
It is extremely rare that a prisoner, once freed, returns to the prison where he served, and to date Alexandru Dalca had proved to be no exception to this rule. He had not been back to Jilava since that day he walked through its gates, and until early this morning, when he woke up panicked that Chinese intelligence officers were circling him, he’d had no immediate plans to do so. But as soon as visiting hours began today he stood waiting at the visitor admittance, signing the book to request a meeting with a current inhabitant of the drab facility.
He’d texted Dragomir Vasilescu and told him he needed some personal time before coming to work because he had to visit a friend in the hospital. Dragomir had replied with “You have a friend?” and Dalca ignored this. He had no intention of ever returning to ARTD, and that would become clear soon enough to his boss. No sense in continuing with any pretense that he liked or even gave a damn about his boss or his company.
Once through the first set of gates at Jilava, Dalca was thoroughly searched, and his phone, wallet, and car keys were removed. He was handled a bit more roughly than the average visitor, he was certain, because the guards doing the frisking remembered him as a former resident, and they extended him neither courtesy nor respect for now residing outside the prison’s walls.
He was escorted into a gymnasium-sized room and told to wait at a table. This was a familiar place to him. He didn’t have family or friends visit him here during his nearly six years of confinement, but his attorneys had sometimes met with him at these tables. Often it had been crowded, standing room only, as all convicts allowed visitors from the outside did so right here.
But this morning, other than a pair of bored guards in the corner and out of earshot, the room was empty.
After five minutes a barred door opened and Luca Gabor strolled in with his hands in the pockets of his prison-issued tracksuit. He seemed mildly surprised to see Dalca, and not particularly pleased about it. Nevertheless, he walked over to the table with a half shrug, though there was no sense of excitement or urgency.
Gabor had bee
n Alexandru’s mentor in prison. A former intelligence officer, he’d left government service to work as a con man, a thief, and a fraudster, rising to the ranks of the most wanted nonviolent criminals in Europe. He’d been arrested in France, then deported to his homeland of Romania, where he was charged and convicted of espionage and treason.
And he was now ten years into a sixteen-year sentence.
Gabor and Dalca had been constant companions, if not friends, in prison; the older man had taught the younger everything he knew, with the promise the younger man would look after Gabor’s family for the years he was on the outside while Gabor languished in here. But Dalca had done no such thing; he broke his promise as soon as he departed through the prison gates, so he wasn’t surprised that Luca Gabor didn’t seem happy to see him when the older man sat down in front of him at the small plastic table in the center of the otherwise empty common area.
Dalca knew Gabor was about fifty, but he looked much older, with his thin white hair, the gray skin of a man who saw little natural light, and deep-set wrinkles.
Gabor lit a cigarette. “I guessed you missed me so bad you came back after sixteen months.”
“And I guess you missed me so bad you’ve calculated the precise time since I left this shitty place.”
Gabor blew smoke. “I knew you’d need something from me someday. I had a running bet with myself that it would be inside two years.”
“You win, as usual, Luca.”
The older man motioned to the walls of the prison around him. “Yeah, I’m a big winner.” He then said, “I won’t ask what you want, at first. I’ll ask what you will give me for whatever it is you want.”
Dalca could be an incredibly charismatic smooth talker, but he wouldn’t waste his breath on charming Luca Gabor. The man was the one person in the world who knew him inside and out. Instead, he said, “I have money. Enough for your family.”
“You had money within a week of your release. You’re at ARTD, you are their rock star, you drive a new Porsche Panamera Turbo and live in a penthouse apartment in Primăverii.” Primăverii was the most desirable section of Bucharest, overlooking the Dâmboviţa River.
Dalca said, “Yeah, I assumed you had people on the outside keeping an eye on me. Knowledge is power, you used to say.”
“Did I say that?” Gabor smoked in silence a moment. “Well . . . I was full of shit. I have knowledge now, but no power.” He leaned forward. “What the hell do you want, you fucking snake?”
“I want to make you a rich man.”
“Go fuck yourself, I’m not some geriatric in America you called to sell a fake land deal. I know you, Dalca. You will screw me over.”
Dalca shook his head. “I know where your daughter lives.”
Gabor jolted upright, almost lunging forward.
Dalca was not startled. He said, “That’s not a threat, that’s an opportunity. I will go visit her today and give her access to a numbered bank account in Cyprus. There will be one million U.S. in the account.” Dalca smiled. “All for her.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Give me your sales pitch, snake. I’ll listen, because I am a prisoner and I don’t have anything else to do.”
“I need you to put me in touch with the Macedonians.”
Gabor cocked his head. “Which Macedonians?”
“Don’t play games,” Dalca said. “You told me there were men who ran a casino in Macedonia. You said they had tried to hire you many times to work for them. You said you were sure they’d take me when I got out, they’d set me up in the casino targeting guests for schemes. You also told me I should only go with the Macedonians if I was desperate, or if someone was after me, because they were crazy and trigger-happy gangsters.”
Gabor tapped his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. Slowly he broke into a raspy laugh.
Dalca was frustrated by Gabor’s lack of response. “Why do you pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
The older man got control of his laugh now. “I was genuinely confused. You said ‘Macedonians.’ The men I told you about do own a casino in Macedonia, in Skopje, and they do have the ability to employ and protect someone with skills like ours, just like I said. But they aren’t Macedonians. They are . . .” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Albanian.”
Dalca slumped back in his chair. “Shit. You never told me that.”
“Didn’t I?” Gabor asked, enjoying the look of dread on Alex’s face. “Scary fuckers, Alexandru. But if you are in the shit, and let’s not kid ourselves, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t in the shit, then you want some scary fuckers on your side.”
Dalca considered this. He was afraid of Albanian gangsters. Everyone in this part of the world knew about their danger and reach. Still, Dalca felt like this might be his only way to safety, considering his predicament.
In the end it was an easy calculation for him to make. Treacherous Albanians who would pay him and protect him were vastly preferable to dangerous Chinese who would torture him and kill him.
“All right, Luca. I’ll give your daughter one million for you to arrange an introduction between these Albanians and me.”
Gabor puffed on his cigarette and answered through the haze of smoke. “You already owe me that million for everything I taught you. You owe me another million in penalties for breaking our deal when you got out of prison. The third million you are going to give to my daughter for my introduction to the Albanians.”
A vein throbbed on Dalca’s forehead. “No. No way. You must think I’m insane.”
Gabor smiled. “Good-bye, Dalca. And good luck, because I get the feeling you’re gonna need it.” The raspy laugh came back.
“I’m out of here.” Dalca started to stand from the table, but then he thought of his dreams, the panic he woke with, and he sat back down. “A million five.”
“Three million.”
“Don’t be a fool, Luca. You can set yourself, your daughter, and your grandkids up for life!”
“Believe me, I intend to. With three million dollars.” When Dalca made no reply, Gabor said, “I see it in your face. Your terror. Your desperation.”
“I don’t have three million.”
“Bullshit. Whatever has got you this scared, it was something you did that got you paid. You wouldn’t take such a risk for chicken feed. If you are offering me one million out the gate, that means you have, at least, ten.”
Dalca had eleven, exactly, and he marveled at Gabor’s deductive reasoning while simultaneously wanting to rip his heart out.
He said, “I’ll give you two, but no more.”
Now Gabor stood, turned for the barred door. To the guard standing there he shouted, “I’m ready.”
“Enough with the theatrics, Luca. I know you won’t walk away from two million.”
“And I know you won’t give up your life for one million more.”
Dalca rushed up and grabbed him by the arm. “Fuck! All right. Three million. I hate you!”
“You hate everyone. It’s coded into your DNA.”
Dalca ignored the comment. It didn’t offend him in the least, he was still thinking about the money he’d have to pay, and the logistics of getting everything together. “Look . . . I have to go into work, but I will visit your daughter this evening.”
Gabor nodded. “I will be ready with the information. Will you need help getting out of Bucharest?”
“I . . . I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“Well, prepare yourself for any eventuality, because I can’t get you out till tomorrow. Come back here in the morning and I will have everything set up for you. That is, provided that my daughter contacts me to tell me about her sudden windfall.”
Dalca wanted to leave today, but things were more complicated than he’d anticipated. “Fine.”
As the older man turned awa
y, Dalca realized something. “You never asked me what was going on. What I am running from.”
Luca Gabor didn’t stop walking, but just shrugged as he continued to the door. “Why should I? That’s your problem, not mine.”
—
Alexandru Dalca climbed into his Porsche and drove to work. He hadn’t planned on going in at all. The Chinese could easily be watching ARTD, so every time he went to the building on Strada Doctor Paleologu he knew he was rolling the dice.
But now he needed to take a chance, because he knew he just had to stay safe for one more day, and he’d earn the three million he owed Gabor by finishing his last targeting packages for the ISIS guys. This would still leave Alexandru with eleven million.
His greed had overpowered his fear, but it had been a very close competition between the two.
54
At eleven a.m. the Campus men and their fixer carried their gear up four flights of stairs to a small, dusty, nearly empty apartment in a gray, communist-era building on Strada Uruguay. They dumped their gear on green military cots Felix had brought in the night before, and then they followed their handler as he stepped into a common hallway and headed down to the opposite side of the building. Here Felix used a key to enter a small, narrow hallway, which was lined with doors on both sides. “The apartments in this building weren’t built with much in the way of closets. Back in the communist days, we didn’t have so much extra stuff. Apparently the people who own the building now couldn’t get renters because of the lack of closet space, so they sectioned off one of the upstairs corner apartments into storage units.”
The lighting was bad in the hall, but Felix found a key on his keychain and opened up one of the doors. Inside was a four-by-six-foot space, with a table and chair up against the wall in front of a large window that had been covered by wooden planks. Felix reached across the desk and removed one of the planks; clearly he’d loosened it before the Americans arrived, and the hole revealed a triangular intersection.