Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “My Mauritius Island bank account ready to go? The account numbers as I asked?”

  “Just as you requested. And I’ve set you up with a car rental. A blue Celica, parked just where you asked.”

  “Thanks. Did Morgan agree to open a joint account to escrow my payment?”

  “She did. But why do you want to do that?”

  “The account is technically in her . . . what did you call it? Her empire of funds or accounts?”

  “Yes. Her various offshore funds are part of her so-called empire of funds.”

  “And you have the power-of-attorney to move funds from other Stenman Partners offshore accounts, into this new escrow account? As part of your intra-empire fund transfer authority. Right?”

  Ayers said nothing. Peter listened for breathing, but heard none.

  “Jason. You still there?”

  “You’re going to ask me to transfer funds from Morgan’s big accounts to this joint account of yours and hers. Aren’t you?”

  “That’s why I needed to arrange with Dawson for you and your wife to disappear, at least until we get through the fallout.”

  “Peter,” Ayers began, sounding concerned, “you’ll never be able to spend a dime of that money.”

  “I don’t expect to end up with anything. My plan is more complex than you realize. It’s time I explained how all this works . . .”

  When Peter finished, Ayers asked, “You think you can do all this without Guzman or Stenman catching on?”

  “Not sure. A lot has to do with your acting skills. You’re the one who’s got to sell Sarah Guzman. You still game? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  “If this works, it’ll be worth it.”

  “It has to work,” Peter said. “And, Jason, things are going to get hairy tomorrow, and I wanted to tell you one last thing. On a personal level . . .”

  “Personal? It must have to do with Kate.”

  “I know she’s engaged to be married, and I hope she’s happy. But I wanted you to know I love her. I’ll do what I can to keep an eye out for her.”

  “She made me promise not to, but I think I should tell you anyway.”

  “Tell me what?” Peter asked.

  “She broke off her engagement.”

  Before Ayers finished, Peter went from standing to sitting.

  “Peter. Did you hear me?” Ayers asked.

  “Did . . . did she say anything about her feelings for me?”

  “She didn’t have to. She cares, a lot. But she’s afraid you might feel gratitude, not love, in return. You’ll have to win back her trust.”

  “I will. And thanks.”

  A short while later, Peter sat in the back of a taxi, trying to ignore the cabby’s constant chatter. Outside his window, he watched a boy kick a soccer ball up and down like popping corn.

  “Whatcha got going on downtown?” the driver asked. “You’re not dressed like a business guy, but that’s all that ever goes to this Leeman, Johnston law place. Suits and briefcase guys. Y’know the type, stuck up, snooty big deals. Never took a regular guy there before. Y’know, dressed like he’s going to a workout instead of—”

  Peter reached into his wallet and drew out a ten. “I need to think. Mind if I just ride in silence?”

  “Sure. Didn’t mean to yap yer head off. Just trying to pass the time.”

  Peter tossed the ten over the front seat. “Shhhh,” he reminded the driver. “Unless you see someone tailing us, I’d prefer your north and south lips stayed glued.”

  The ten bucks worked. The driver nervously scanned for a tail as the creaking yellow proceeded south on Interstate 5.

  Peter spent the time mentally reviewing every detail of his plan. He realized that if Stenman wanted him dead, he’d have a bullet in the back of his head before he entered the law-office front door. The thought made his skin tingle, as if he had a bull’s-eye hung on his back. The enticement of recovering his mother’s papers, Peter hoped, was important enough to keep him alive for at least one more day.

  Once they reached Front Street and turned towards Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers’ offices, Peter decided to have the driver circle the block before departing. He then asked to be dropped off a block away. Heading down the crowded sidewalk, he tried not to look concerned. At the building entrance, he resisted the temptation to duck and run. Instead, he paced to the elevator, waited for the double-ding of opening doors, and stepped into the lift. No gunshots meant he had survived hurdle one.

  Peter carried a canvas bag filled with the bills he’d taken from Muller’s safe, appreciating for the first time how light a couple of million dollars felt. When he entered the law offices, the receptionist presented a pleasant face. “Good morning, Mr. Neil. I see you’ve changed your haircut and color. It looks good.”

  “Thanks,” Peter said. “I’m here to see—”

  “Mr. Ayers and Ms. Stenman are waiting. You are to go back immediately.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your voice,” she said before he departed. “It sounds deeper. Sexy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Peter nodded. Crushed vocal chords, he decided, were an absolute aphrodisiac.

  A moment later, he knocked on Ayers’ heavy door and dove in.

  Jason Ayers greeted Peter. Behind him, leaning on her aluminum cane—an extension of her brittle arms—Morgan Stenman had an almost pleasant expression that unnerved Peter. When Ayers winked, indicating that preliminary discussions had gone smoothly, Peter relaxed.

  Peter endured a few informalities before saying, “Here’s your money, less a few thousand for expenses.” He dropped the bag on the floor next to Ayers’ desk.

  “I will tell poor Howard you returned the funds,” Stenman said. “He will be pleased. But then this money had limited utility for you, didn’t it? Cash leaves incriminating footprints when not handled properly. It is satisfying to me that you have learned at least that much while in my employ.”

  Peter ignored her words. “I want five million. Wired to this account.” He held a piece of paper with his Mauritius account information. “I get my money, you get the registered envelopes, unopened, dated before my mother’s death.”

  Stenman showed no emotion. After asking Ayers to bring in some good strong coffee from a shop in the building, not the “crap you make in pots up here,” Stenman, like a savvy interviewer, deliberately paused. Peter read the tactic and wasn’t fooled—she had already decided what to say, but she wanted to let him hang, maybe get him to reveal something strategic. He didn’t bite. He would not initiate nervous chit-chat, as he’d seen others do in her presence. Nor would he offer new, diluted terms while wallowing in anxiety. In a minor inspiration, Peter asked Ayers if he might have a non-fat latté since they were waiting for a caffeine fix anyway. “And a biscotti, if that’s not too much trouble.” When the attorney cocked his head, Peter understood that his cool had impressed him.

  Ayers sent a secretary down to the ground floor to fill everyone’s order. While they waited for coffee service, the older man made small talk about how this was the best solution for everyone and five million dollars was not a large amount of money. Then, somehow managing to keep a straight face, he went on to say that when this was over, they could all just get on with their lives, as if Peter’s life was worth a drop of toilet water at game’s end. Ignoring her attorney, Stenman lit a cigarette that, Peter thought, couldn’t have been half as hot as her stare.

  When the tray with three coffees and one cookie finally arrived, Peter sipped his latté and chomped on the thick, Amaretto-laced cookie. He did-n’t like the taste of either but enjoyed Stenman’s self-inflicted impatience. He drank delicately and chewed slowly.

  A minute into the beverage charade, Stenman finally stated her position. “The price is agreeable, but do not take me for a fool, Peter.” Granite-faced, she shoved her full cup of coffee to the side. “I will not send you five million dollars of my money in the hopes you will then honor your commitment.” She crushed the tip of h
er cigarette into a crystal ashtray and flung the remains, filter and all, onto the carpet. The grand show had no effect on Peter. He crossed his legs and waited, looking like a bored businessman listening to a salesman’s tired pitch.

  “Jason,” continued Stenman, “has suggested and already set up a joint account, triggered by voice recognition. He deposited your five million dollars this morning. Tomorrow, after the delivery of papers to me, I will call the bank, then you and I will read back the account information, activating a voice transfer of those funds to your account.”

  Peter popped the last morsel of cookie into his mouth. He counted to five, then took a sip of latté to wash it down. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “If I give you the papers, how do I know you’ll honor your commitment?”

  “What do you suggest, Peter?” Ayers asked, on cue.

  “We do this in stages,” Peter said. He took his index finger and mopped up a few crumbs of cookie from his napkin. He delicately licked his fingertip and squinted with pretended thought. Sagely stroking his palm across his chin and mouth, he said, “And we use Sarah Guzman in such a manner as to make certain I can keep an eye on her. I know she was the one who set me up and had Ellen Goodman murdered.”

  “If that were the case,” Stenman said, not bothering to hide her impatience, “it was because you disappeared and confronted a certain police detective, asking imprudent questions. Then this unfortunate incident with my ex-CIO Howard Muller. So foolish and unnecessary.”

  “All tough breaks,” Peter said without inflection. “I have an idea about how I can watch her while we complete the trade.”

  Peter outlined his scheme. Stenman, Peter, and Ayers would meet tomorrow, in a place of Peter’s choosing. “Some place that’ll make sure I don’t get ambushed,” he said. “Guzman will then receive the first of the two envelopes.”

  Peter explained that Guzman would open and verify the contents. “With the first delivery, we transfer my five million,” Peter said. “After that, I arrange for the second packet to be delivered. If I don’t live up to my end of the bargain, you’re welcome to have someone put a bullet through my head.” Peter then agreed to remain hostage—at their meeting place—until Stenman verified she had the documents she wanted.

  Ayers nodded. “The plan has enough safeguards, I think. Do you agree, Morgan?”

  Stenman nodded while drawing so hard on her filter tip that teeth outlined against her cheeks.

  “Once you arrive at my designated meeting place,” Peter continued, “you’ll want to check for bugs, mikes, whatever. Check me out too, if that makes you happy.”

  “When will you notify us of the meeting time and place?” Ayers asked.

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” Peter turned to Stenman. “At twelve forty-five, you’ll be in your limo, heading north from your office.”

  “In my limo? This is madness.” Stenman studied Peter’s face.

  “I want you moving in the right direction, but I don’t want you knowing the final destination. That’s for my protection and to make certain there are as few delays as possible. Jason, I’ll phone you. You’ll then phone Morgan’s driver with the information. As far as Sarah Guzman goes . . .” Peter handed Ayers a slip of paper. “Until you call with her instructions, I want her at this location at noon tomorrow.”

  Ayers took the slip and studied the address. “This is a diner in Oceanside. That’s twenty miles north of downtown. What’s going on, Peter?”

  “I want everyone in a different location, moving towards this meeting. Bodies in coordinated motion.”

  Puppets, Peter hoped, coordinated by a puppeteer.

  Ayers shook his head. It was a prearranged protest. “Sarah Guzman will never agree to be a sitting duck.”

  “She doesn’t agree,” Peter said, “then we have no deal.”

  “No deal?” Stenman nearly shouted. “No deal means I initiate some ugly retribution. Somebody better find a goddamn answer.”

  “Okay,” Peter said, rubbing his chin as if he had thought up the solution for the first time. “You,” he faced Ayers, “tell her everything will take place in a public place. She’s welcome to have Nuñoz accompany her. I’m here to get paid, then disappear. Period. That should do the trick, don’t you think?”

  This time Peter faced Morgan. He understood she had to agree. She needed to settle this matter, and Peter’s asking price was so small as to be stupid. She would have paid several multiples of what he demanded.

  “You are a careful man, Peter,” Stenman said, just before agreeing to his terms. “But do not get cute with me.” She might as well have added: or you will suffer like no man has ever suffered before.

  After Stenman left the law offices, Ayers guided Peter to a sophisticated recorder. Peter read a series of numbers and a page of nonsense into a microphone with a wire-mesh pop-filter designed to reduce the effects of breath blasts and air currents. The voice recordings, Ayers said, were of a professional quality.

  “How does this thing work?” Peter asked.

  “In simple terms, we create a voiceprint,” Ayers said. “Most systems require a password of choice, plus three or four words for authorization. Our system requires thousands of samples. That’s why you had to read all this text. The recording you just made consists of a comprehensive combination of sounds that the computer will recognize and match to your voice. Every word and number in the instructions you give over the phone will be scrutinized.”

  “And we’ll be able to set this up in time?”

  “A bank official is ready to input all of the data as soon as we’re finished here today. After that, you and Morgan will have an account in which neither of you can withdraw the money without the other’s verbal authorization. I will arrange for each of you to read precise instructions when the time comes.”

  Once they finished, Peter left, opting for the stairs. He exited through a rear door and began to run. He took a route through alleys and around buildings until he arrived at a bus stop, more than a mile from the office. He rode one bus north, then a second east. A short cab ride followed another mile of circuitous running. A sudden cab-stop in mid-block preceded more running and then a second cab. Ten minutes later, Peter picked up his rental car from an outdoor parking lot.

  Peter drove the Celica several miles in the wrong direction, intending to lose the tail he was certain had tried to keep pace with him from Ayers’ office. An hour later, he reached Carlsbad and removed the registered mail. He took the first envelope to Speedy Delivery Service in Fallbrook, twenty-five miles north and east of where he planned to meet Stenman and Ayers tomorrow. He gave the man delivery instructions: “Tomorrow. Exactly one forty-five p.m. You approach from the beaches north . . .”

  He took the second package to Always Reliable Delivery Service in El Cajon, twenty miles south and east of tomorrow’s rendezvous. He told them: “Tomorrow. Exactly two p.m. Through the men’s locker room . . .”

  From there, Peter went back to his hotel room, turned on the television, and tried to relax, but couldn’t. Beginning at dawn, he would either take the first step on the road to salvation, or the last step to perdition. At this stage of the game, he wouldn’t have wanted to make book on which.

  At nine, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CARLOS, ALONE, ENTERED THE TIGER LILY RESTAURANT AND LOOKED around. Sarah Guzman flagged him with a raised hand. He crossed the well-lit room and slid into the bench next to her. He leaned on his elbows, looking ready to explode into a violent rage. Sarah understood his feelings. She disliked having to be a messenger to this transaction.

  “What is next?” Carlos asked.

  “I expect my phone to ring within the hour.” Sarah glanced at her cell phone resting on the Formica-topped table. Around them, diners began to exit the buffet line, trays piled to overflowing with Chinese. The smell of grease and soy inundated the still air and clung to hair and clothes. “We will be given instructions at that time,” Sarah continued.<
br />
  “I do not like that we are not in control of this situation.” Carlos’ eyes jittered, as if impatient.

  “We have no choice in the matter,” Sarah said. “Morgan wants those documents. So do I.”

  “Tia,” he asked, “why do we agree to this?”

  “Because we failed to take care of Peter Neil.”

  “Suerte. Señor Neil has suerte.”

  “Luck? I am not so sure. He has instincts. We are unable to follow him. Muller presents him with what seems to be an insurmountable dilemma, and Neil slices an arm off and throws the appendage into a safe. He is not one to sit back and wait for help. He has changed over these last months: no longer a boy, I think.”

  “He is overdue for a mistake.”

  “Perhaps,” Sarah said unenthusiastically. “But Peter Neil is unpredictable.”

  “We will handle Neil,” said Carlos. “I pledge it on my life.”

  “I hope so, Carlos.” Sarah Guzman studied him and nodded.

  The minutes they waited seemed long. Her chest heaved, not so much from anger as frustration. She didn’t hate Neil. He was a victim—someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that didn’t change the facts: Peter Neil would be dealt with the moment they had those documents tucked safely away. Nobody survived screwing them over.

  “We have people watching Neil’s friends,” Carlos said, interrupting her thoughts. “If anything goes wrong, I shall personally order a bullet put through the pregnant bitch.”

  “Nothing will go wrong, Carlos. You will be at my side.”

  “Sí, señora. I shall make certain we are successful.”

  When Sarah Guzman took a sip of tea, it burned her tongue.

  “You ready?” Drew asked, leaning into Monica’s ear. “Twelve-thirty— show-time.”

  “I think so,” she whispered. “Are you certain this is necessary?”

  “Bread says so. After what happened the other day, with you being lured away, our apartment broken into, I agree.”

  “What’s Peter up to?”

  Drew shook his head. “Don’t know for sure. But Bread says there’s gonna be some heavy fireworks.”