Unlike other countries, with security services clamping down on the immigrant population, Albania had yet to draw the eye of the crusaders, making it a good location for the transfer of weaponry.

Omar remained seated until the flow of people allowed him to exit the plane. He followed the passengers to a waiting bus, then entered the immigration hall and got in line, one of the few times when his queue, as a visitor, had been shorter than the one for citizens. He presented his passport, hiding the trepidation as he had many times before. After a brief exchange, where he explained he was seeing friends, his passport was stamped and he was through.

He hadn’t even had to provide a hotel or show any other proof of his intentions, which gave him comfort that Albania had been the right choice.

Twenty minutes later, in a cab where he’d given up trying to understand the driver’s limited English, he entered the city center. Surrounded on all sides by concrete buildings with a depressing utilitarian bent, it reminded him of Grozny. Well, at least before Grozny had been leveled by the Russians.

The driver pulled over at a traffic circle and pointed across the street, muttering something unintelligible. Above a store selling luggage he saw the small sign of his hotel. He paid the fare and made his way across the street.

The hotel was a ten-room threadbare affair with a faint, musty odor, complete with actual metal keys and a communal bathroom at the end of the hall. He cared not a whit about comfort, only that it was inconspicuous. He paid in cash, thanked the clerk, and climbed the narrow stairs to his room.

He dropped his bag on the floor, then sat on the bed studying a tourist map of Tirana he’d found at an airport kiosk. He memorized his location, then found the restaurant where he was to meet his men. It looked a short walk away, maybe ten minutes, in an area called the Block.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later he was standing on a narrow street called Pashko Vasa, trying to locate an address and having no luck. It had seemed easy on the map, but the buildings were all jammed together with no obvious numbering on the doors or windows.

He could at least read the corner signs. He knew he was on the correct street, and he thought he was at the right location, because his instructions had told him to stop at an Alpet petrol station.

Which was to his front.

He did a slow circle, eyeing the buildings, then heard his name called. He glanced up and saw someone waving from a second-floor window. He recognized Anzor, his friend, then saw the name painted below the window, feeling like a fool. The restaurant was on the second floor, above other businesses.

No wonder you couldn’t find it.

He waved back, then jogged across the street to a stairwell below, seeing a small sign proclaiming, CHEERS FOR BEERS. He followed footsteps painted on the tile, going up one flight and entering the restaurant, an expansive open area clad in warm wood, with two full-length bars lined with beer taps.

The room was empty at this early hour, with only the bartender washing glasses. The far wall had large windows, all swung open to the street below. Anzor and two other men were sitting at a high-top table in the corner, near the windows.

Omar nodded at the bartender, then walked to the table, the men standing and smiling. In Russian, Anzor said, “We were wondering if the famous Omar had lost his navigation skills.”

Omar hugged him, then the other two, pointing at the table, where three pints of beer rested. He said, “Where I come from, that would get you lashed at the very least.”

Anzor laughed and said, “Not from what I remember in South Ossetia.”

In 2008, Russia invaded the country of Georgia, ostensibly to support the breakaway independence of the province of South Ossetia, a Russian supporter. Still in Chechnya at the time, Omar had seen the water begin to boil before the invasion. He’d traveled into Georgia through the Pankisi Gorge, joining a paramilitary unit. He’d fought the Russians in a short, sharp war, at one point risking his own life to attack a prisoner convoy of captured paramilitaries destined for a torturous death. In so doing, he’d saved the three men in the room.

It had nothing to do with Georgian politics. He simply hated the Russians.

Omar laughed and sat down, saying, “Georgia was a long time ago. And a world away from where I am now.”

Anzor said, “I know. We hear the stories about the famous Chechen taking over Iraq, and we laugh about how we knew him when he was but a foot soldier. But we never heard anything about taking over Albania. Why are you here?”

Omar said, “I should ask the same of you.”

Anzor glanced at the two other men and said, “We have business here. Not all of us yearned to fight forever.”

Omar knew not to press, understanding the “business” was illicit, either human trafficking or drugs—neither of which mattered to him.

He said, “Does this business have the ability to procure arms? Do you require protection?”

Anzor glanced at his two friends for confirmation. One nodded. He said, “Yes, Davit can provide the necessary things. Understand, sometimes the police are more trouble than the criminals. Protection is required, if you want to survive.”

Omar smiled, “Of course. As always.”

The one who’d nodded, Davit, said, “How much protection? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here simply for a business transaction, but I’m not at all sure about the integrity of the meeting. It was supposed to occur tomorrow, but the man coordinating the transaction was killed in a crusader air strike. Now the meeting has been postponed to the following day by people I have never met. It makes me skittish. All I want is the same thing you do for your business. Protection while I’m there.”

Omar saw all three visibly relax. He said, “What? Did you think I was enlisting your help for something offensive?”

Anzor laughed and pointed to the third man. “Levan thought you were planning an attack and wanted our help.”

Omar looked at him, and Levan raised his hands. “You have to admit, with your reputation, it would cross my mind.”

Anzor said, “We’re businessmen now, and we can’t get entangled in your politics. We were chased out of the Pankisi because every intelligence organization in the world was hunting men like you. Nobody looks at us here in Albania, but an attack based from this area would change that. It would definitely hurt our business.”

Omar said, “Are you not Muslim? Do you not feel a duty to help your fellow Ummah? Do you not remember the Pankisi?”

Anzor said, “Yes. And we do our part, contributing money to charities that help the cause. In your world, your religion trumps everything. In mine, it’s business. We are opposite sides of the same coin. The Ummah needs your sword, but the edge is kept sharp with money. My money.”

Omar nodded slowly, then said, “It’s just protection for a transaction. I promise. All I need is for you to prevent something from happening that will interfere.”

Davit said, “We haven’t forgotten what you did for us. We all bear the scars. That’s why we answered your call. It’s just . . .”

Omar waved a hand, telling him without speaking he didn’t care about the debt. He opened his knapsack, pulling out his map. He pointed to a huge expanse of green south of the city center and said, “Do you know this area?”

Anzor said, “Yes, of course. It’s Tirana Park.” He smiled and said, “We’ve conducted business there as well.”

“Do you know the amphitheater?”

Anzor nodded. Omar said, “That’s the meeting site. Can it be protected?”

“Yes. It will be hard, but it’s not impossible. There are many ways to escape from that area, and I’ve had to use most at one time or another.”

Omar grinned. “Your business doesn’t sound that different from mine.”