Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

49

By the time Beck had made his way back to the bar, Manny, Ciro, and Demarco had assembled around the big petrified wood coffee table on the second floor. Joey B remained downstairs watching the street.

Manny and Demarco had their shotguns within reach. Ciro had a semiautomatic version of the M-16 assault rifle, a weapon designed to fire bullets at very high velocity.

Alex Liebowitz sat at the other end of the loft, eyes glued to his computer monitors. Apparently Alan Crane was back at work.

Beck asked. “Where’s Olivia?”

Manny answered. “She’s keepin’ to her room. When are we going to move, James? Sitting here waiting for the shit to fall on us is a bad idea.”

“The list of shit about to fall is going to take me some time to explain. Let me talk to Alex, first.”

Beck headed to the other end of the loft. Liebowitz leaned back in his desk chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half closed staring at the computer monitors in front of him. Each monitor was divided into four segments, so Alex was watching eight different images simultaneously.

“Your hack is working?”

“Not exactly a hack. I’m not controlling anything. Yet. But the malware I implanted is humming along nicely.”

“So I was only half-listening to you last night, what exactly did you end up doing with Crane’s setup?”

“I spent a chunk of time in the cellar tracing his phone wires. His Internet connections, luckily, ran through the basement, too, instead of just along outside walls. They wired the whole building when they renovated it. But his wiring is special. He’s got a full 4nx T-1 line in there. No fractional. Plus, four different phone lines. Plus…”

Beck interrupted, “So did you get everything done you wanted?”

“Close enough. Hard to tell when you don’t know everything he has in that apartment.”

“What happened with his computer?”

“After I disabled and rerouted all his alarm shit with some routing boxes Ricky lent me, which are tricky because you have to get all the interfaces wired in before you reroute…”

“Uh-huh.”

Alex could tell Beck was being patient, so he tipped forward in the chair and tried to be more specific, but he just couldn’t avoid talking about relays, codes, information packets, Internet protocol, radio frequencies, access controls, identity management, and alarm systems.

Beck gave it a minute, then carefully interrupted and said, “So, Alex, did you get what we needed to find out about what Crane is doing and where he has the hedge fund money?”

“Yeah. As far as it goes.”

“What do you mean, as far as it goes?”

Liebowitz talked to Beck while glancing intermittently at the images on the computer screen.

“Like I said, after I overrode all the alarms and security, I went up into the apartment. His computer was on, but of course access had shut down and I didn’t have time to get through his pass code. I suspect he has at least two layers. Long story short, I just bypassed everything and copied the entire hard drive.”

“And?”

“And I’ve been spending the last six hours unbundling everything, while I’m key-tracking everything he’s doing when he’s online. I’ve got just about everything opened. But, it’s only current from the time he shut down last night. He started up again about a half-hour ago. I’m still catching up.”

“And you can do that how? The short version, Alex.”

“Short version, I loaded a sniffer program into his computer. Routed it through his T-1 line to a VPN connection that is hooked into this computer which is maybe an hour from being a full twin of the one in his apartment. Mostly. Whatever he does on that computer, he does it on this computer.”

“Okay.”

“Thing is, I can see what he’s doing, but that doesn’t mean I completely understand what I see. He places his trades through a very high-end platform. It’s been customized a hell of a lot.

“From what I’ve tracked so far, he has four or five different accounts in his fund that he trades through leased servers. Those servers connect to six or seven electronic exchanges. He routes every trade into the exchange that gives him the best price, so it’s a lot to keep track of.”

Beck nodded. Alex had spoken rapidly, but he still thought he had absorbed the gist of it. “Okay, so how long before you see everything?”

“About an hour to get one hundred percent tracking. But it’s like he’s fluent in a language that I only know the basics of. I guess I can just follow along with his trades until the money starts getting assembled. But I’d like to know exactly what he’s doing, you know, what trading strategy he’s executing so I can get out far enough ahead of him to set up a snatch.”

Beck nodded. “You really think you’re going to figure out his strategy?”

“Not completely. Unless we can get somebody who knows how he operates. At the very least I’d like to be able to predict a little bit when he’s ready to finish up.”

“Okay, I’m figuring Olivia should get on this with you. She’ll know more about his trading methods than any of us. And what he has to do to get Markov’s positions closed out.”

“That would definitely help.”

“I’ll get her down here, but where is he right now in the process? As much as you can tell.”

Alex leaned forward and grabbed his wireless mouse. After some sliding and clicking and typing, screens of financial data bloomed on yet a third monitor. A desktop trading platform filled the central twenty-seven-inch monitor with a set of preconfigured screens.

Beck leaned forward to watch the blur of action in cyberspace that moved tens of millions of dollars. He saw columns of numbers and currency amounts and symbols. The numbers changed continuously in color-coded columns. It all seemed totally disconnected to the world around him.

Alex answered Beck as he squinted through his black-framed glasses at the screens. He pointed to images on his monitors.

“Okay, Summit Investing runs the fund. Or Crane does. The fund has several brokerage accounts for Markov. All the investment vehicles are in these accounts. As Crane closes out trades the cash goes into various sweep accounts.”

Alex pointed to different segments on the third monitor, pointing out the separate trading accounts.

“But there are also bank accounts, aside from the brokerage accounts. Summit isn’t a chartered bank so there’s tons of money in accounts scattered around in different banks. Some U.S. banks: JPMorgan, Wells, B of A. Also, a handful of offshore accounts. Four of them in Nevis. Two in Isle of Man. Two in Geneva, Switzerland. And four in Grand Cayman. There are probably more. But I only see these accounts when Crane transfers cash into them.”

“How much has he assembled?”

“In cash?”

“Yes.”

Alex leaned closer to the monitor. Moving his mouse. Clicking his keyboard.

“I count just over thirty million. But he’s only closed about twenty-five percent of his positions.”

Beck thought about the amount. Crane had been at this less than a day. If there was another hundred million or so, the pace would have to accelerate very soon.

“Okay, Alex, can you keep going for a couple more hours?”

Alex’s long arm reached amidst the clutter on his desk and rummaged around until he found a small energy drink bottle. Liebowitz gulped it down in one swallow.

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll have Olivia walk you through all the separate accounts and look over the assets. I suspect she’ll know how he’ll sequence his trades to close things out. At least some of it.”

“Okay. But I’ll tell you, from the looks of it, a lot of his trades are automated. Running on bracketed conditional orders.”

Alex clicked through more screens and pulled up a tool that looked like a spreadsheet.

“His trading platform has a function that pulls in algorithms right off Excel. My hope is that even if he’s not running it himself, there’s a bunch of trades that will cycle through and he’ll just sit and oversee it so he can pull out the cash as it comes in. Or bust a trade if he doesn’t like it.”

Beck nodded. “He may have his conditional orders in, but if the numbers don’t hit fast enough, he’ll have to step in and override the orders. He’s got to. I don’t think Markov is going to wait around for his money.”

“Why doesn’t he just move the assets as is?”

“Because Markov can’t manage those investments. He has a very complicated, volatile portfolio.”

“Makes sense,” said Alex. “But remember, once Crane’s got everything assembled, there’s no guarantee I can hack into the bank accounts it ends up in, and take it out. That’s movie stuff. It doesn’t work that way in the real world. The banks will shut down access to accounts if anything starts tickling that money.”

“I know. We’ll do that another way.”

“Really? How?”

“Don’t worry about that now. You just let me know where it is as soon as you can.”

“When he starts to run out of time and starts pulling the plug, James, there’s going to be big tranches of cash flowing in. If I’m fast enough I can see where it goes. But I won’t know what happens to the cash after that. Once it’s all assembled, I won’t be able to track it unless Crane moves it.”

Beck stared at the screen and nodded. “Understood. Just try to get a sense from Olivia when he’s approaching the finish.”

Beck patted Alex on the shoulder and headed up to the third floor.

The knife wound in his left leg twinged with each step up. He emerged on the third floor and walked to the east end of the building. He found her room. The door stood open; she sat on the end of the bed combing her thick black hair. She looked like she had just showered.

“Good morning,” she said with a quick, half-smile.

Her diffident smile seemed out of character. Beck couldn’t interpret it, so he stood in the doorway and asked, “You sleep okay?”

“Not bad.”

“You feel all right?”

She stopped brushing her hair and looked up at Beck still standing in the doorway.

“I guess. I don’t know. I never experienced anything like last night. I don’t know how I feel.”

Beck nodded. “I understand. So, you still ready to help?”

“Of course.”

“We’re into Crane’s computers. Can you help Alex understand what he’s looking at?”

“I’ll try.”

She placed the hairbrush down on the bed, leaving it there as she stood up. She walked toward the doorway where Beck stood. He watched her. He decided that he could spend a lot of time watching this woman and never get tired of doing it. He didn’t move. She stopped in front of him, so close to him that her breasts nearly touched his chest. She looked directly at him. Beck returned the look. Neither of them moved.

And then, suddenly, Olivia stepped into him, grabbed him by the head, and kissed him hard and fast on the lips. Just as quickly as she had done it, she released him and stepped back.

“Get out of my way,” she said, smiling at him as she walked past him.

50

Beck had left Olivia and Alex alone to work uninterrupted for an hour. It was now nearly noon. He couldn’t wait any longer. He stood up from the couch at the west end of the second floor and headed back to speak to them.

As he approached, Alex told him, “He’s moving a lot faster now. He’s liquidated more in the last couple of hours than since he started last night.”

Beck didn’t bother to sit. He asked, “How much?”

“Over fifty million.”

“How much more is left?”

“Depends on how the markets move. About seventy mil. Assuming all the accounts are appearing on this computer. If he hasn’t opened one or looked at one since I rigged his setup, I won’t know what the total is.”

“How much you think isn’t showing?”

Olivia answered. “Not much. Maybe ten million or so.”

“Okay, keep on it. Where is it looking like it’s going to end up?”

Alex answered, “Grand Cayman. He’s sweeping the cash into a Summit account in the Grand Cayman branch of HSBC. That account is actually five accounts, all in the bank, but it looks like one.”

“Why?”

Olivia spoke. “It makes it easier to see which accounts are up or down. At some point Crane will assemble everything in one account at HSBC. That way Markov can transfer it out faster and easier. How are you going to…?”

Beck interrupted her before she could finish the question. “Okay, I got it.”

Olivia dropped her question and said, “I suspect Crane is going to start slowing down a bit soon.”

“Why?”

“He’s going to wait as long as he can before he takes down his options that are underwater. There isn’t much time decay on those contracts. If the underlying stocks pop, he could make a good deal.”

“But what if the market turns against him more?”

“Then he’s just going to lose more. He’ll have stop-loss orders in. But it’s worth the chance in case any of those positions gap up.”

“Okay,” said Beck.

Just then his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID phone number, but answered it anyhow.

“Yeah?”

The sound of a voice talking through a plugged-up nose identified the caller as Willie Reese.

“Beck.”

“What?”

“Just spotted some unfamiliar-looking white dudes who came into the neighborhood.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Thought they might be some hipster types that got lofts or studios around your neck of the woods. But they arrived in a car. A new car. My boys on the street say it’s a rental.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. So I ask myself, what some strange-looking ofays doin’ rentin’ a car to come into this hood?”

“And the answer?”

“Ain’t no answer.”

“Right. How many of them are there and where are they now?”

“Three. They just rolled through the projects. Heading your way on King Street. Looks like they trying to find a place to park.”

“Where are you?”

“Sitting upstairs in a crib across from the park. My boys have been passing them off.”

Beck heard the sound of a cell phone ring in the background.

“Hold on a second.”

He listened to Willie talking to one of his spotters. He came back on the phone and told Beck, “They just got out of their car. Three guys. Average size. They got out and split apart, one walking on one side of King, two on the other. Just about to come out on Van Brunt.”

“How are they dressed?”

“Hang on.” Willie asked his man on the street. “Two dark coats and one wearing like a silver down coat. One of ’em has a beard.”

“Okay, thanks Willie. Good job. Tell your guys to back off. We’ll handle it from our end.”

Beck moved fast. He motioned for Ciro to keep an eye at the window and hustled downstairs into the kitchen.

“Manny, let’s go. Grab a coat.”

Manny turned off the flame under a pot of something, grabbed his Navy-surplus peacoat and followed Beck out to the bar. Beck just motioned with his head for Demarco to come with them. Both men knew by the look on Beck’s face that something was up.

In less than a minute they were out on the street.

51

The point man for the team was Ralph Anastasia. Ex–U.S. Army Special Operations Forces, a man with a long list of military missions, mostly direct-action and counterterrorism, mostly in the Mideast.

Anastasia hadn’t particularly liked serving in the military, but he was proud of his skills. He had been the right type for a Special Forces fighter. Compact. Unemotional. Resourceful, with more endurance that he’d ever actually needed on a mission. He had zero inhibitions about using deadly force. Ralph Anastasia had been told more than once that he lacked empathy, which he took as a compliment.

He also lacked tolerance for the military command structure. The long leash allowed on most Special Forces assignments helped, but there was always somebody above him to answer to. So as soon as it was feasible, Anastasia mustered out with an honorable discharge and went freelance.

He had been quickly hired by private military contractors. At first, most of the assignments were like the ones he participated in while inside the military. The big difference was that Anastasia operated as an independent contractor. He was given an assignment, whatever reasonable support he needed, and allowed to decide how to complete the mission.

He worked in Sudan, Libya, Iraq, and once in Guatemala on an antidrug assignment which did not go well.

After Guatemala, he went with private security companies. He was the leader of his current team, which consisted of Anastasia, an ex–Army Ranger called Harris, and a South African Special Forces brigade member turned mercenary called Williams.

Anastasia didn’t know if those were their real names, and he didn’t care. He knew something about Harris’s training and almost nothing about the South African’s. None of that bothered him. He considered both men about as expendable as paper plates.

Their first assignment on this particular job on this particular winter afternoon was pretty standard stuff. Find a location based on an address he’d been given. Survey the surrounding area. Attempt to find out who was at that address. Lay out attack options. And do it without attracting any attention.

Piece of cake.

But as he walked through the Red Hook neighborhood, Anastasia became increasingly concerned about being spotted. From the moment they parked their rental car, he had an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t worried about being attacked. Any of the locals who might attempt anything along those lines wouldn’t last ten seconds. All three men were armed with Beretta 9-mm automatics, and various other personal weapons. Harris, the Army Ranger, had a supercompact MP5K fitted with a fifteen-round magazine concealed under his winter coat. He also had a spare magazine in each pocket for a total of forty-five rounds, more than enough to shoot their way out of a problem.

Anastasia’s main worry was the lack of pedestrian traffic. They’d passed pockets of black guys near a bodega. And hanging out near a park. But there were almost no people walking on the streets they could blend in with. He had no idea that this section of Red Hook was so industrial.

He’d told Harris and Williams to pair up, and walk together. That would attract less attention than a group of three.

He split off and moved out ahead of them by about a block as he made his way to the location on Conover Street where the target was located. Anastasia walked with purpose, without hesitating or looking around or trying to find a street sign, a sure tip-off that he was a stranger to the area.

*   *   *

Beck walked with Manny and Demarco, north along Conover. He walked slowly and talked softly.

“So our friend Willie Reese spotted some boys who don’t look like they belong around here. Supposed to be coming our way.”

Beck described them and what they were wearing. Both Demarco and Manny were already looking ahead, trying to spot them.

“I don’t want to take them out. I want to see what they’re here for. It’d be best if we got behind them. They should be crossing onto Van Brunt around now. D, you head over to Van Brunt and hang out by the pharmacy or a little south and see if any of them pass you by. Then fall in behind and see if they keep heading toward our place.”

Demarco drifted left on Coffey Street, while Manny and Beck continued up Conover.

Beck said, “Manolito, let’s split up. You take the other side of the street. If they show up, let ’em pass between us. Then I’ll figure out what to do from there.”

Manny nodded.

Under his peacoat Manny wore his apron and work clothes. Beck watched him slip his Charter Arms Bulldog into his right coat pocket. If it came down to it, he knew the gun’s short four-inch barrel would mean Manny would have to get close to make sure he hit his target. Beck also knew that Manny wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.

The heat of the kill fairly radiated off Manny. He’d been seething for days.

Beck blinked, tensing up. If the men Reese had spotted were here to attack Beck’s bar, he knew it would get very bloody, very fast. They’d walk into shotgun blasts from Joey B and a steady stream of rifle fire from Ciro. And if they tried to escape from that, Beck knew they’d be running into Demarco and Manny, and himself.

But that didn’t mean Beck and his men would escape unharmed. The last thing Beck needed was gunfire and dead bodies. That would bring cops. And cops would mean endless trouble.

He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on finding out who these men were, and what they wanted.

52

Walter Pearce walked through the familiar doors of One Police Plaza. He’d been in the building enough times to know his way around. Other than promotion ceremonies, it wasn’t a place that any cop really wanted to be. One PP was the house of the bosses. And no cop in his right mind wanted to be around the brass. Not much good ever came from it.

He showed his identification, checked his gun, went through security, and got a visitor’s badge at the reception desk. He was four minutes early for his appointment, but as he turned from the desk, he noticed a young woman dressed in a conservative skirt, jacket, and white blouse waiting for him. A civilian.

She smiled and explained that the chief would be meeting him on the third floor.

Walter smiled back. They rode the elevator to the third floor and she escorted him to a small conference room.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

Walter could have used more coffee, but he was unaccustomed to being treated like a guest at One PP, so he declined.

She left him sitting in a small meeting room with space for a table and four chairs.

He patted his jacket pocket and pulled out the information he had on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare. He wondered how this was going to go. He told himself that he should stop worrying so much. This wasn’t his idea. He was just the messenger.

Bureau Chief Martin Waldron appeared suddenly at the doorway of the small room. An aide was right behind him, a young man in a brown suit who looked even younger than the woman who’d escorted him.

Chief Waldron had the look of a lifelong NYPD cop. He was stuffed into his dress white shirt and black tie, the shirt decorated with collar bars and a badge plate with all his decorations.

Waldron looked annoyed. Clearly, this meeting was not something he wanted to be doing.

He dropped a thin manila folder on the table and sat across from Walter. He turned to his aide and said, “Come back and get me in ten minutes, Ernie.”

The young man left without a word.

Waldron turned back to Pearce and said, “Why am I here?”

Walter suppressed the urge to say, If you don’t know, why the fuck should I? He dropped his paperwork on the table.

“I work for a man by the name of Frederick Milstein. He’s runs a small brokerage firm.” Walter pushed the paperwork he had for James Beck toward Waldron. “This is information on a man named James Beck. He assaulted Mr. Milstein in Central Park Tuesday night. He threatened him and tried to extort a large sum of money from him.”

“How large?”

“Over six hundred-thousand dollars.”

Waldron squinted at Pearce. “Who did you say did this?”

Walter pointed to the folder. “Name is James Beck.”

“How the fuck did he expect to get six hundred grand from, what’s his name?”

“Frederick Milstein. He claimed it was compensation for a woman that Milstein fired. He threatened to kill Milstein if he didn’t pay.”

“Who can corroborate that?”

“I was there, but they were too far away for me to hear the threat. Mr. Milstein will testify on the extortion, plus he’ll testify that the man choked him until he nearly passed out and threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay. You’ll note that James Beck was incarcerated for killing a police officer.”

That got Waldron’s attention. “What?” He grabbed Beck’s folder and started skimming through the pages.

“He was eventually found not guilty, but the fact remains, he killed one of ours.”

“Who the hell is this guy?”

“He’s someone associated with known felons.” Walter pushed the second folder across the desk. “Including this man. Name’s Ciro Baldassare. He’s organized crime. Record goes back to when he was a teenager. He held a gun on me while Beck threatened Milstein. Told me he’d blow off my head if I moved. He’s a convicted felon. Long record of assaults and weapons charges. He can go right back to jail just on possession of a firearm. I’ll testify to that.”

Waldron was still thinking about Beck.

“What the fuck is a cop killer doing out on the streets?”

Walter shrugged. “Like I said, his conviction was overturned. Brady due-process stuff. Apparently, not only did the DA’s office withhold exculpatory evidence, they actually suppressed a witness. Plus, the judge overreached on the jury instructions. It was a manslaughter charge. A bar fight. Beck didn’t know it was a cop. They took it to trial. Nailed him, but his lawyer got the conviction overturned. Beck did eight years of hard time before he was released.” Walter decided not to mention Beck’s successful lawsuit against the city.

Waldron squirmed in his chair. He frowned, stared at the documents on the table.

“We have warrants?”

“Milstein’s lawyers already got it done with Central Warrants.”

Waldron watched as Walter laid the arrest warrants on the room table as if playing his final cards.

“You know why I’m talking to you?”

Walter shrugged. “Milstein said somebody in his law firm is a friend of yours.”

“Not anymore he ain’t. Dumping this crap on me. All right, stop bullshitting me…” Waldron squinted at Walter’s visitor’s pass. “… Pearce. What the fuck is really going on here? And what’s your involvement? You retired as what, detective?”

“Yes. Three years now. My involvement is simple. I work private security. I’m Milstein’s driver/bodyguard.”

“Why’s some Wall Street hump need a bodyguard?”

“He doesn’t. At least not until now. He just likes the idea of someone with a gun driving him around. This is the first time anything like this has happened to him since I’ve been working for him. My two cents, these assholes are bad guys and it’s a good thing you got an excuse to put them back in jail.”

“We got plenty of bad guys we can put in jail.”

“So these two made it to the top of the list. But no bullshit—they aren’t choirboys. I saw them operate this extortion. They worked it smoothly. So I wouldn’t plan on just knocking on their door and bringing them in. I’d be prepared.”

“That’s what you think?”

Walter gauged Waldron’s comment for animosity and didn’t quite know how much was there. The chief seemed to be a man who was perpetually pissed off. He answered simply, “Yes, sir.”

Waldron softened. He seemed to have realized he was going to have to take care of this and figured he’d better get what he could from Pearce.

“So you wouldn’t recommend this just be a regular Warrants Squad.”

“No, sir. I would plan on more than that.”

“Fuck.”

Walter was about to say more, but he kept his mouth shut.

The chief checked his watch, gathered up the documents, and stood up to leave.

“Both of them are at this address.”

“That’s how it looks.”

“How it looks?”

“That’s where Beck lives. I’m pretty sure you’ll find Baldassare there, too. And there’s a good chance a few others that you can arrest.”

“Tell your boss we’ll serve the warrants. If they’re at this location, we’ll arrest them. If not, tell him he can go fuck himself.”

Walter ventured a question.

“When do you think you’ll do it?”

“What? You pushing me now?”

Walter shrugged. “I just need something to say to Milstein. He’ll be pushing me for an answer.”

Waldron looked at his watch again. “I don’t want this hanging over me. I’ll put the word out now. We’ll do it wee hours of the morning, Friday. Hopefully these knuckleheads will be tucked in sleeping.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Milstein.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

Waldron left without another word.

Walter decided he’d call Milstein from where he sat, then get a steak downtown somewhere. Have a couple of glasses of wine, go home, and sleep. It was out of his hands now.