Among Thieves (51 page)

One more step, thought Olivia. One double cross, and I'm done.

 

82

“Oh really,” Crane said, pointing his Beretta at Markov. “
You're
going to decide if
I
live.”

Markov turned to Ralph Anastasia, who was sprawled out on Crane's couch. Harris sat at the battered dining room table, hands folded, just waiting. Williams, the South African, stood by the windows looking out onto Hubert Street as if he had nothing to do with any of them.

Anastasia raised a hand and said, “Our contract with you ended when Mr. Crane finished his job. He finished. You paid us. We're done.”

Markov squinted at Crane, looked back at Anastasia. “How much did he pay you?”

“Quite a bit more than you, Mr. Markov.”

“To do what?”

“That's between Mr. Crane and us. Like I said, our contract with you has ended.”

Markov looked over at his pistol on the worktable near Crane's computers.

“Don't even think about it, Leonard,” Crane said as he came out from behind his kitchen counter and casually walked to the table. He picked up the revolver and slipped it into his back pocket. Crane then placed his gun on his desk within reach, and sat down.

“Come on, Leonard, you didn't think I was going to shoot you, did you? But just so you understand that I'm not the source of your fucking problems, how about you take a seat and answer a few questions?”

Crane motioned for Markov to sit at the worktable. Markov complied.

“So, here's how it goes. If you think I had anything to do with taking your money, you're crazy. But let's examine the possibility.

“
I
know I didn't take your fucking money. So let's start there. If I didn't, who did? Well, there aren't a whole lot of choices, are there? At the top of the list is that fucking whore Olivia Sanchez. So first question, did you kill her like you were supposed to?”

Markov glared at Crane.

“I take that as a no. Which means you didn't kill her protector James Beck, either. Did you?”

Markov said nothing.

“What the fuck have you been doing while I was in here busting my ass to save your money? I thought you had an army of assholes led by that maniac Gregor. You fail to do what you're supposed to, and you blame me?”

Markov said nothing.

“What about Kolenka?”

Finally Markov spoke. “He is dead. And many of his men. And Gregor. And many of his men are dead, or captured by police. It's been all over the news for hours.”

“What? How?”

Markov leaned forward. “Never mind. I want to know, if you didn't take my money, how did they? You are the one who controls everything. It's your computer. Your brokerage firm. How can they do this?”

“Jeezus Christ, Leonard, I understand your concern for the money, but aren't you worried more about Beck?”

“Never mind Beck. How did they get my money?”

Crane turned to his computer, talking to himself. “Shit, even with Olivia Sanchez helping him, I don't know. I have to figure this out. You're sure the bank isn't just fucking something up?”

Markov picked up his cell phone to call the Cayman bank again.

Crane started shutting down all his programs. Then he rebooted his computer. He listened carefully to Markov pressing the bank officer. When he paused, Crane asked, “What is the bank saying?”

“They say it's impossible to transfer out that much money without anybody knowing it. He swears it has to be in the bank. They're tracing it. What the hell is going on?”

“If I knew I'd tell you. Since I haven't been near a phone or a computer or a fax since I gathered everything in your account, clearly I can't tell you what's going on.”

Crane started a scan with his security software programs, but when the program tried to go online to first update, he couldn't connect. “What the fuck?”

He stood up, walked over to the shelf where his router sat, and rebooted it. Once it cycled through the reboot, he was able to get back online.

“I don't understand this.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Crane yelled, “Maybe if I figured it out, it would help the bank.”

Markov yelled back, “Figure out what?”

Crane started following the fiber-optic cables that connected his modem. He'd play this out. Tell Markov he had to check the transponder connection in the basement. That would give him the evidence that somebody, presumably Beck, had compromised his Internet connection. Which in turn, would give Crane a way to explain how somebody, presumably Beck, had tapped into his computer and taken Markov's money. More important, it would provide him an opportunity to get Olivia's text and start the process that would get Markov's money out of the Belize bank to his and Olivia's account in Switzerland.

He'd sit with Markov long enough to show him the evidence that Beck had his money, send him after Beck, and then get the hell out of town with his newly hired bodyguards making sure nobody stopped him.

In twenty-four hours, he and one of the hottest women he'd ever met would be in Geneva, rich enough to disappear, travel the world, fuck in the best hotels ever built, and indulge whatever desire that might interest them for the rest of their lives.

 

83

Olivia didn't have to fake being exhausted.

She had concentrated on filling out the last fax that would wire transfer the final block of money from the Cayman bank to the Belize bank. Then she sat back and watched Beck carefully fax the order to the Cayman bank while he talked it through with the Krebs bank vice president in Belize in charge of Summit's affairs. The Krebs VP promised to follow through with HSBC in Cayman.

When he was done, she gave Beck a wan smile and let out a long slow breath of relief. At that moment, they were the only two people who knew the account number and passwords for the Belize bank account. The money was safe.

Beck nodded his acknowledgment.

Olivia felt the attraction that had existed between them like an electric current. She wondered if Beck would survive Markov's next attempt to hunt him down. This time Markov would have even more motivation.

“I'm fried,” she said. “I've got to lay down. I don't care where. Anywhere is fine.”

“Use my bedroom,” said Beck.

“What are you going to do?”

“Finish up and crash on one of the couches.”

Olivia resisted the urge to invite him upstairs. She nodded and headed for the stairwell.

When she got to Beck's bedroom, she closed the door behind her. Then for added security she went into his bathroom and locked that door. While writing out the last fax, she'd copied the bank account number, customer ID, and access codes of the Belize bank account on a separate piece of paper, which she'd slipped into her back pocket. Now she texted them to Alan Crane's phone.

She had no idea if he had freed himself from Markov and his guards, but he soon would. From then on, it was up to him to get the money out of Belize and into the Swiss bank account they had set up two months prior.

She was too tired to shower. She was down to her last change of clothes anyhow. She tore up her notepaper, flushed it down the toilet, washed her hands and face, and settled onto Beck's bed, fully clothed except for her shoes. She checked her watch. Two minutes after twelve. The plane for Switzerland left at 7:10 p.m. She had plenty of time. Grab a couple of hours sleep. Tell Beck she had to go home. She would catch up with him later. Don't ask about money. Don't ask for a cut. Just ask for her car. Say good-bye to Manny. Thank him as if he'd saved her life. Get her Porsche back and leave.

Her bags were already packed. Shower, change, close down the apartment, store the car as planned, take a limo to JFK and meet Alan.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She felt the exhaustion coming over her. She fought it off, reached for her cell phone. Erase the text message, she told herself. Jeezus, don't screw up now.

She erased the entire string to Crane. Set the phone to wake her at 2 p.m. Two hours sleep would have to do. She pictured herself resting in a private pod on crisp white sheets with a fresh pillow in the first class section of Swissair. Sleep came almost instantly.

 

84

Beck was so tired his jaws ached. The local anesthetic on his bullet wounds had worn off and the increasing pain was draining him. But there was no time for sleep.

He thought about taking another bottle of the energy drink, but he didn't think his stomach could take it. For a moment, he thought about closing his eyes for just fifteen minutes. No, no way, he told himself. Have to be awake when Markov calls.

He stood up and went over to the windows facing Conover Street. He pulled the window wide open using just his right arm, but the movement still made his left arm twinge. He stood in the frigid air breathing long, slow deep breaths for a full minute.

He felt better. Awake. Closed the window and began slowly walking around the second floor.

He went through everybody's next role. One by one, he went over it in his mind. All of them would be facing danger, except for him. Now it was Beck's job to make sure this battle would end, that they'd be safe, and that everything they had done was worth it.

His phone rang. Beck checked the ID. Blocked. He took a chance, wanting to gain whatever edge he could.

“Mr. Markov.”

There was a pause, then—“How you know it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“You sent Gregor's man Ahmet to my driver with a message to call you.”

“Yes.”

“I assume it's about my money.”

“It is.”

“You have it.”

“I do.”

There was a pause. Crane had been right.

“Now what?”

“Now we meet.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“So you can kill me, too.”

“If I wanted to kill you, Mr. Markov, you'd already be dead.”

Another pause. “Why do you want to meet me?”

“To finish this.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you meet me face-to-face and hear what I have to say.”

“Where?”

“Milstein's office. Be there at two o'clock. Not a minute later. Don't bring any weapons. Don't bring any thugs, or I guarantee, I absolutely promise—I will kill you.”

“I believe you,” said Markov.

*   *   *

Beck drove the Mercury into Manhattan with both front windows open to keep him awake. Parked it in a garage on Fifty-seventh Street just east of Lex. Made his way to the twenty-eighth floor.

The receptionist was expecting him. She directed him to the main conference room.

It was a large room with a conference table big enough for fifteen people. It offered a view of Manhattan facing south. The day was rather mild for February. And overcast. The view limited by mist and fog.

Beck wasn't interested in looking out any windows.

Near the head of the table sat Markov, looking worse than ever. He was covered with a veneer of sweat. His clothes looked like he had been on the run for a couple of days. Beck could smell the man by the time he reached the middle of the room.

Opposite Markov sat Frederick Milstein in his usual business attire of dress shirt, tie, and suit pants. He sat at the edge of his chair, elbows on the conference table, trying to look like he mattered. The chair next to Milstein was filled by the large bulk of Walter Pearce.

Beck took the seat at the head of the table.

He turned to Walter Pearce. “Are we all set, Walter?”

“I delivered your message, Mr. Beck.” Walter looked at his watch. “At twelve-forty-five as requested.”

He turned to Milstein. “And you spoke to the bank in Belize, Mr. Milstein?”

“Listen, who do you think…?”

Beck raised his voice. “Be quiet. Walter, did it go as planned?”

“Yes. I gave Mr. Milstein the account information; Mr. Milstein gave them the order. The man he spoke to seemed to know Mr. Milstein. Their conversation was on speakerphone.”

“And Mr. Milstein seemed to know the man at the bank.”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Milstein told the Kreb's bank office what, exactly?”

Before Pearce could answer, Milstein said, “Listen. I want to know the meaning of all this. I don't appreciate taking instructions like this.”

Beck held up a hand. He placed his Browning on the conference room table. “If you don't want to answer my questions, just shut up. Mr. Pearce?”

“He told them that a wire transfer request would be coming in today to transfer out the money in that account.”

“Yes.”

“And that the bank should tell whoever ordered the wire transfer that the money would be sent out end-of-day today for deposit. And that funds would be available at the opening of bank hours Monday morning. But, after they told that to whoever ordered the wire transfer, they should ignore that wire order and lock down the account.”

“That was the conversation?”

“Yes. Apparently, Summit has a good deal of money in that bank, so they agreed.”

“Did you have to put a gun to Mr. Milstein's head?”

Pearce smiled and said, “No. Not really.”

Milstein squirmed in his seat, fighting the urge to say something.

Beck took an envelope out of his back pocket. He slid it across the table to Pearce, who picked up the envelope and slipped it into his suit coat pocket without looking at it.

Beck said, “So, we're all settled then.”

Pearce nodded. “Looks that way.”

“I'm sure you have other things to attend to, Mr. Pearce.”

“Catching up on my sleep, for starters.”

Pearce looked at both Markov and Milstein for a beat, pushed back his chair, and lumbered out of the conference room. He didn't look back.

As soon as Pearce was gone, Beck said to Milstein. “Mr. Milstein, you can leave now, too.”