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“What do you have for me?” Semenov asked.
“Excellent news, sir. Our informants believe that Damian Losa is sending a representative to Syria.”
“A representative. He’s not coming personally?”
“No, sir.”
“So, good news. But hardlyexcellent.”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“And?”
“The few people Losa has left in Syria are laying the groundwork for meetings that they hope will lead to the presidential palace.”
Losa was undoubtedly aware of the Muslim distribution network that had sprung up in his territory. It was also likely that he’d acquired samples of the new captagon formulation in circulation. Maybe even the ones from the failed shipment to Italy. And if that was true, the Mexican would have many questions about the drug’s chemical structure and how it could be produced profitably.
“So, he wants to join us, does he?”
“He’s likely recognized that competing with an entire country—even a pariah state like Syria—will be extremely difficult. He’d also see his European network as superior to the one we’ve created. His reputation is as a clever businessman who uses violence only as a last resort. Partnership is always more profitable than a war.”
Semenov drummed his fingers on the desktop. Damian Losawasn’t a man to be underestimated, but there was also no reason to mythologize him. He’d built a multibillion-dollar criminal empire and an almost supernatural mystique, but, in the end, he was just a criminal.
“Can we get to this representative?”
“I don’t see any significant obstacles. But do you want to move against him immediately? Or do we want to hear what he has to say first?”
There was no need. In return for a cut of the profits, Losa would offer up his expertise, influence, and access to his European network. Valuable for sure, but nowhere near what Semenov wanted from the Mexican. No, he’d accept nothing less than everything.
CHAPTER 11
OUTSIDE OFPARIS
FRANCE
RAPPwoke to a quiet ping and immediately reached for his phone. Claudia stirred next to him, and he went still until her breathing evened out again. It was just past three a.m., but the lights of Paris were still powerful enough to penetrate the shades and illuminate their hotel suite. Claudia slid closer, throwing an arm across his torso, reminding him how little he wanted to cross into Syria. Particularly in the service of Damian Losa.
He finally looked at the text on his screen.
THERE WILL BE A LIMOUSINE WAITING FOR YOU DOWNSTAIRS IN THIRTY MINUTES.
Rapp managed to ease out from beneath Claudia’s arm and pad silently to the closet. After pulling on a pair of jeans, a cotton shirt, and a stylish pair of boots also provided by Losa’s shoemaker, he retrieved a hanging bag with his dress clothes. When he turned around, Claudia was sitting up in bed, her body silhouetted by the window behind.
“It never lasts long, does it?” she said.
“Once this job’s done, I’ll be in a position to pick and choose.”
“Really?”
“I know you don’t believe me, but all I want to do is stay here a few more days with you and then go back and find Anna that bike I’ve been promising her.”
“Don’t trust him, Mitch. No matter how reasonable he sounds, remember what he is.”
“I don’t trust anybody,” he said, scooping some things off a dresser and into a duffel fitted with backpack straps.
She stood and walked across the room, wrapping her arms around him. “What I hate about this most is that I feel so helpless. There’s almost nothing I can do for you there.”
“You worry too much. The Syrian government wants money and Damian Losa knows how to make it. I’m going to take his jet to Damascus, get wined and dined for a few days, and work out a deal.”
