Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

81

Alex Liebowitz slapped the enter key for the last time and closed his eyes. The exhaustion crashed down on him. He realized his jaws were so tight that he had to slowly open his mouth wide, close it and open it a few times. He tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. The tension had stiffened and immobilized him. Even if he had wanted to, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything on his computer for some time.

“That’s it,” he said. “I gotta figure you have at least a half-hour head start, minimum. More likely a couple of hours. How many accounts do you have left to close behind me?”

“Three,” answered Olivia.

“Okay,” said Beck. He grabbed the back of Alex’s desk chair and slowly wheeled him away from the computer keyboard. He gently lifted Alex onto his feet and said, “Go sleep. Nobody else could have done that. It’s over.”

Alex mumbled something unintelligible. He had to concentrate on walking to the stairwell leading to the bedrooms on the third floor. He had to actually pause once on the stairwell to get his breath. He turned into the first bedroom, and had just enough energy to remove his shoes before he laid back and more passed out than fell asleep.

Beck waited while Olivia recited instructions and authorization to the bank officer about closing another set of accounts. And for her to call back in and go through the process one more time. When she finally finished and took off the phone headset, he said to her, “Okay. Time for the last step.”

“Right,” said Olivia.

She took Alex’s place at the keyboard.

Beck, Alex, and Olivia had talked over various ways to get the money to a place where only they controlled it. Moving tens of millions of dollars between banks would set off too many alarms, mostly having to do with money laundering.

Olivia had come up with the solution, as Beck figured she would. As of now, all the money was in accounts they controlled, but all those accounts were still connected to Markov and Summit. Everything appeared to have been done from Summit’s offices, which was why all the transferring had gone so smoothly. It had all been done inside the HSBC branch Summit used in Cayman.

When they discussed how to get that money out of the Cayman bank, Olivia told Beck that traders running money often set up discrete accounts in order to segregate proceeds from various funds they might be running. She suggested they use one of the offshore banks that Summit already used for such accounts: the Krebs Bank in Belize. Belize was one of the banking centers Summit used for accounts they wanted as far off the radar as possible. It was even more discreet than Cayman banks.

She knew all of Summit’s account-opening procedures. And she knew Summit’s contact at the Belize bank. He had no idea she no longer worked at Summit, and was happy to hear from her and open a new account. The day before, Olivia set up a holding company called Montana Investments Series XI, an account only she and Beck knew existed.

It could be months before anybody at Summit realized the account existed, if ever. But setting up a hidden Krebs account inside Summit made it easy to wire transfer Markov’s money out of Summit’s HSBC account.

It also eliminated triggering any alarm bells because although the amounts transferred were in the tens of millions, the money was still technically inside Summit.

Olivia watched the clock as she prepared the wire transfer orders. They knew that the Cayman bank bundled their transfers twice a day: midday and just before bank closing hours at three o’clock. It was only eleven-fifteen. Plenty of time to get the wire transfers in place. But actually they worried it was too much time. They didn’t want the wire transfer orders sitting in a pile where someone might find them if Markov tried to get the bank to shut down any wire transfers while he tracked what happened to his money.

In the end, Alex had convinced Beck that hopscotching and waterfalling dozens of different amounts through the fifteen accounts made everything exponentially confusing. And then to transfer out the money to Belize in several different amounts from two different accounts would sufficiently camouflage the move. Olivia convinced Beck that the bank wouldn’t jeopardize alienating all the clients who were transferring money that day for the sake of one client.

Finally, they also spaced the time between orders so that their transfers would be mixed in with others.

Olivia finished faxing the last wire transfer order at 11:50 a.m. just under the noon deadline.

The last question was posed by Beck.

“If somebody at Summit suddenly noticed a hundred million plus on their books that wasn’t there before, how long would it take them to find the Montana Investments Series XI account?”

Olivia said it would be days or weeks. She knew it would take much less time, but she also knew she was going to mitigate that risk. As soon as she could, she would text the Krebs bank account number, ID, and password to Crane. As soon as he got free of Markov, he would arrange a transfer to their bank in Switzerland, almost certainly before anybody at Summit saw the money.

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.”

That did it. Milstein sat up straight and yelled, “Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here giving me orders. Giving Pearce orders. Running an account up here. I should have you arrested.”

Beck had to work hard to contain his fury. He picked up the Browning, racked a bullet into the chamber, and aimed it at Milstein’s head. Milstein flinched and put up a hand.

Markov grimaced and pushed back his chair a foot.

Beck spoke quietly, his voice constricted with rage and disgust. This pompous little man had caused him immeasurable trouble, starting with lying to him, setting him up to walk into an ambush at Crane’s, sending the cops after him and his men in an attempt to have them killed or sent back to jail. Through clenched teeth he uttered one word: “Leave.”

The gun paralyzed Milstein. Markov broke in, yelling, “Get out, Frederick. Now. Get out. Do nothing. Do you understand? Do nothing and wait in your office for me. Now.”

Milstein left.

As soon as they were alone, Beck put back the Browning on the table and said, “So, Mr. Markov, about your hundred and sixteen million dollars.”

“Yes.”

“Let me explain a few things to you, starting with the fact that I am not a thief.”

85

The alarm on Olivia’s iPhone had a gentle ringtone. Gentle, but insistent. It awakened her, but it took nearly thirty seconds of steady chiming to pull her out of the deep sleep she’d fallen into.

She felt around on the bed for the phone and managed to turn it off with her eyes closed. She made sure to sit up and get her feet on the floor so that she wouldn’t fall back to sleep.

She forced herself to stand and walk to the bathroom, her gait unsteady.

She rested both hands on the sink basin and let the water run, and rinsed her face with cold water. She felt groggy and numb, but the cold water helped clear her head. She took a deep breath, pushing herself into an alert state.

When she gazed up at the mirror over the bathroom sink, she muttered, “Shit.”

I’ll have time to put myself together when I get home. I’m not leaving New York looking like this.

She gathered her large purse, put on her shoes, and made her way down to the second floor. The entire floor was empty. It felt strange to her. There had been so much commotion, so many men moving around, arriving, leaving, and now nothing.

She really didn’t care. Where was Manny? She needed her car keys. And she had to convince him she was just going home to change and sleep and wait for whatever they wanted her to do.

She went down the back stairs looking for Manny, thinking about how to play it just right. What to say about the money. Something along the lines that she was glad she could help them stick it to Markov. Don’t even bring up the topic of how much of it they were going to give her. Let him think she didn’t care. That she trusted him and Beck to do the right thing by her. Yes, she’d caused them a huge amount of trouble, but in the end it had paid off.

She found Manny in the small bar kitchen, sitting at his old wooden table. He had a black coffee in front of him, two cubes of brown sugar on the table next to the coffee.

“Cousin Manny.”

“Novia. Sit.”

“I’m exhausted. I gotta get home. I gotta change, clean up, get some sleep.”

“Sit,” he repeated.

It was at that moment, the way he said that one word, that Olivia Sanchez knew he knew. Her plan of eight years, all her maneuvering, all her machinations had come down to this moment. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing was going to stop her now.

“Do you have my car keys?” she asked as she moved toward the table.

Manny motioned with his head toward a key rack next to the side door. She saw the keys to her Porsche. She took them off the rack, but made note of the fact that he didn’t tell her where the car was parked. It can’t be too far away, she thought. I’ll find it.

She dropped the keys into her purse, as she sat down across from Manny. She left the purse unzipped, resting in her lap.

Manny took a sip of the black coffee. Placing the cup down, warming his hands on the mug, he stared at Olivia, studying her face. His expression gave away very little, but Olivia knew.

“You can’t go, Olivia.”

“Why not?”

“James says you lied to me.”

She tried to look surprised. Confused. “About what?”

“About everything. He says you and Crane were after the money all along.”

“How can he say that?”

Manny answered with a shrug.

“Manny, that’s ridiculous. I don’t have the money. Crane doesn’t have the money. James has it. Where is he? Ask him. He has the money, not me.”

“Doesn’t matter. James says you and Crane were after the money.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t want to believe him,” said Manny.

“Then don’t. It’s not true.”

“So, when James gets back, you can explain it to him. And to me. Prove to him it’s not true. And to me.”

Her hand was in the purse now.

“When is he coming back?”

“Not too long.”

“So you want proof.”

“I want proof.”

“And you’re going to make me wait here.”

“Yes. I want to know for sure.”

Before he finished the sentence, Olivia pulled out a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver and shot Manny Guzman dead center in his chest.

The smoke and flame and roar of the small pistol stunned her. But she pulled the trigger again. And again.

The sound of the gunshots faded. She sat blinking at the gun smoke surrounding her, confused, her heart beating, her ears ringing, unable to comprehend the fact that Manny Guzman sat across the table, unmoved, staring at her.

She had expected the bullets to knock him off his chair. She had expected blood. A cry of pain. But Manny continued to sit across from her, silent, staring at her, unmarked.

And then Olivia Sanchez saw something she never imagined. Manny Guzman was crying. There was little expression on his stolid face, but tears were slowly rolling down his craggy cheeks, dripping off his jaws.

He sniffed and wiped the tears away angrily.

Olivia looked at the smoking gun in her hand. She looked at Manny. What had happened? Why was there no blood?

Then she saw the compact, deadly Charter Arms revolver pointed at her. Manny was still crying when he shot her.

This time, there was blood.