“Zwei mélange, bitte,” a gruff voice said from behind the waiter. Bronislava lumbered up from behind him and took a seat across from Natalie. The waiter nodded and disappeared.
“Shannon said you’d meet me. Odd. We do enjoy our coffee klatch,” Bronislava said in Russian.
Natalie did her best to look confused by the large woman’s choice in language.
“Let’s drop the act, little one. When you made your toast at the hotel you spoke with a Vladivostok accent. That was no accident and I assume that’s where your teacher is from,” Bronislava continued in Russian. “So let’s talk like cultured people, yes?”
“As you like,” Natalie said in Russian. Shannon had said one of Bronislava’s representatives would handle the trade-off; she hadn’t said anything about meeting Bronislava herself, or making small talk.
The Russian woman leaned against the table and looked to her right.
Natalie took the envelope from her jacket and slid it under the table. It left her hand with a smooth tug. What had she just done?
The waiter returned with two glasses, coffee topped with steamed milk and shaved chocolate and croissants. He set the drinks in front of them and left; Natalie saw the corner of the payment envelope disappear under his vest. So the waiter worked for Bronislava.
“So nice to see a new face in this business. After a while everyone becomes known — it gets boring.” The Russian stirred her coffee and took a sip, looking Natalie over as if she were something that could be bought at a bargain.
“It’s exciting. Better than a brokerage in Manhattan. If you have your documents, then I can be on my way,” Natalie said. Sitting across from Bronislava made Natalie feel like she was a sailor in a life raft while a school of sharks circled.
“No, we wait. You are new. Shannon asked me to tutor you a bit,” Bronislava tore the tip from her croissant and dipped it in the coffee. “The… items… you gave me are registered with a trusted third party. The third party confirms what you paid, and we go forward.” Natalie didn’t want to know what would happen if the “third party” took issue with the payment.
“They don’t strike me as being very liquid,” Natalie said. She wanted to take a sip of her coffee, but her hands were shaking beneath the table.
“No, they’re not. The third party will exchange them for the liquid asset of one’s choice. I prefer American dollars, but that’s just me. You understand why we use the registered items?”
“Liquid assets,” Natalie said, afraid to say dollar bills, “in that volume would be hard to transport inconspicuously.” Bronislava nodded as Shannon continued. “Bank transfers leave a trace.”
“Shannon said you were smart,” Bronislava said.
“It is funny. I invest all my money in the American real estate market. So many bargains after the bubble popped. It is like you are a stimulus package all by yourself.” Bronislava chuckled at her own joke.
“Is everything acceptable?” the waiter asked, his English suddenly perfect.
Bronislava tapped the table twice, and the waiter set a leather bill folder on the table and left. Bronislava pushed the bill toward Natalie. Inside were a forty-euro bill and a micro SD card, the size of her thumbnail.
“Transponder identification. Ship information. Manuals. Launch codes,” Bronislava said. “The ship will transport your purchase to any port you choose. You’re responsible for customs issues.”
“We’ll put our own security on the ship immediately,” Natalie said. That was the one thing Shannon had told her to pass on.
“We have our own men on board. Nothing to worry about.” Bronislava took a swig of her coffee and almost finished it.
“Not negotiable,” Natalie said. Having a stare down with an international arms dealer over coffee wasn’t how she’d thought her afternoon would play out.
Bronislava shrugged. “Your expense. I’ll pass on instructions for them to stand down when you arrive.” She swept her croissant around the edge of her cup and took another bite. She burped and tapped her chest with her fist.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Bronislava stood up and left Natalie with the bill.
Club Sprockets pulsed with dubstep music churned out by a DJ wearing nothing but a green bodysuit. Patrons, most of them fresh off work from Vienna’s financial district, preferred Sprockets for its incredible view over the Danube and the high-quality ecstasy and cocaine brought in from Amsterdam.
Shannon despised the place the moment she stepped inside. The music sounded like someone was torturing a dial-up modem, and two men approached her and asked how much her company cost before she’d made it past the bar. This was just the kind of sleazy place Ari loved.
Getting past the bouncer at the velvet rope leading to the upper level cost a hundred euro note and a pouty lip. Semicircular booths extended across the floor, and all were canted toward the dance floor below. You came up here to be seen.
Shannon found Ari four booths down, a champagne bottle on ice in front of him and a bronze-skinned and scantily clad woman on either side of him, snuggling against the arms dealer and giggling sweet nothings into his ears. One had her hand in Ari’s crotch, a table thankfully blocking the full view.
“Shannon? I didn’t think this was your kind of place,” Ari said. His eyes lingered over Shannon without shame.
“Oh, I like her. Can she join us?” one of the girls asked.
“Bitches leave,” Shannon said.
Ari shoved the girls off him and tossed bills onto the table.
“Go get a drink. Daddy has some business to do,” Ari said. The girls snatched the money from the table and scurried away.
Shannon slid into the booth and gave Ari a smile that was anything but genuine.
Ari dug through his jacket and pulled out the table the vampire clamp Natalie had used. He flicked it at Shannon and it clattered over the table top. Shannon let it tumble to a stop in front of her but didn’t touch it.
“Thought you might want that back,” Ari said.
“We need to talk business,” Shannon said.
“Why, you want to resell it? You know my top price, and you aren’t the type to lose money on a deal so quickly.”
“I need your government to acquire a package. In return, I’ll cover your expenses and give you the Club K,” Shannon said.
Ari licked his lips.
“Your government can’t do this?” Ari asked. He was testing her with his question, trying to elicit just a little more from her.
“I don’t work for a government, Ari. You know that,” Shannon gave him another empty smile.
“What is the package? And what makes you think we can do this for you?”
“Nothing that Israel needs or wants and nothing that will cause any blowback so long as I get it. You have a hostage-rescue team in Nairobi posing as an import/export business that can do this. Do you want their names and phone numbers?”
Ari sneered at Shannon and shifted in his seat.
“Come on, Ari. Aren’t your handlers just a bit pissed you bungled getting the Club K? This is a bargain, and you know it.”
“You cheated.” Ari pointed to the clamp.
“Aww.” Shannon frowned. “Poor baby.”
Ari crossed his arms and snorted. “I need to make a call.”
“I’ll wait.”
Chapter 5
Ritter and Mike sat in the humid Nairobi afternoon, sweating through their khakis, in front of a run-down café. A waitress brought them a plate of mahamri, lumps of fried dough that smelled of coconut and cardamom, and two cups of hot water with plastic envelopes on the saucers.
Ritter picked up the envelope and tossed it back on the table in disgust.