Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  A moment later, Monica Franklin began to moan. Her groans grew until they reached screams.

  In a voice loud enough to be heard by any eavesdropping equipment, Drew said, “Don’t worry, Honey. The ambulance is on its way.”

  “I’m not due for another month . . .” She hyperventilated, just as they had taught her at Lamaze class. “These aren’t labor pains, are they?”

  “No, Sweetheart, but everything’s going to be fine.”

  Drew reached for the telephone and dialed. “Kate,” he said a moment later, “Monica’s in some kind of severe pain. We’re on our way to the hospital. Could you meet us? She’ll feel better knowing you’re nearby for support.”

  Kate agreed and Drew went back to his suffering wife.

  As the couple stood just inside the open front door, Monica doubled over while Drew attended to her like a concerned husband. The sounds of a distant siren grew stronger. Less than five minutes later, a noisy ambulance, with a handsome expectant couple in the back, sped through traffic to Scripps Hospital and a well-guarded room.

  Across the street from Drew and Monica’s apartment, a sniper watched through the scope of a rifle and seethed at his bad luck.

  Jason Ayers phoned Stenman in her limo and gave her the location of the meeting. “You are to get the room number at the front desk after you arrive...”

  With that call out of the way, Ayers paid a visit to the Tiger Lily Restaurant. When he entered, he could tell that Sarah Guzman and Carlos Nuñoz were surprised to see him. When he slid along the well-worn Naugahyde booth-seat across from them, Sarah said, “I thought you were going to phone me.”

  “Morgan wanted us to meet. She’s nervous about cell phone calls.”

  Ayers gave Sarah her instructions. “Go to this section of beach.” He described the exact spot. “A beach chair, an umbrella, and a blue windbreak are in place, reserved for you.”

  He then told her about the first packet. She was to remove her sunglasses if the delivery came off as promised. “You will receive a second delivery, several minutes later. After that second delivery, phone Mauritius Trust Bank at this number, ask for this man—” he put a slip of paper on the table “—and read him these instructions.”

  He pointed to a brief statement and two bank account numbers. “Morgan has put Peter Neil’s five million into one of your new accounts. If the materials are complete and sealed as promised, you are to transfer the balance from your account to Peter’s.” Ayers’ finger tapped the bank account number he identified as Peter’s. “We’re using the new voice recognition technology to make the transfer.”

  Sarah frowned. “Why bother paying Neil anything?”

  “It’s only five million, and Morgan wants to make certain this goes smoothly. After the delivery, she has arranged a nearby boat to transport you and the papers to your villa in Ensenada. You should be in Mexican waters within an hour of receiving the final delivery. Now,” Ayers continued, “I must go meet with Peter and Morgan. I hope all goes well.”

  “You did me a favor many years ago, Jason.” Sarah’s voice carried an unmistakable threat. “I have never forgotten that. But this had better be the last inconvenience.”

  “I’m certain it will be,” the attorney said, his voice strong and clear. “In a few hours, everything will be just perfect.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MILLIONAIRE DEVELOPERS NAMED AND ESTABLISHED THE LA JOLLA Beach and Yacht Club in 1927. After going through an early bankruptcy, the property sold several times before the name changed in 1935 to the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club. Since that time, the resort has become a popular spot for sports, entertainment, corporate, and political luminaries. The club’s mission architecture consists of adobe-style walls, red-tiled roofs, and sweeping archways leading from one courtyard to another. Gardens, fountains, and a man-made lagoon, all set across twenty acres, give the famous facility an old-world ambiance.

  In addition to local members, the facility caters to vacationers. A two-story row of hotel rooms lines the esplanade and looks down at a quarter mile of shining beach. With immense picture windows and full beach and ocean access, it is one of the most sought-after locations in California, or the world, for that matter.

  A mile north of the club is the Scripps Institute of Oceanography. The stretch of beach between the club and the Institute is open, public, and crowded. Peter had considered this factor in selecting the site.

  Their meeting would take place in a second floor, three-bedroom suite at the northernmost end of the hotel. From that suite’s living room, he, Ayers, and Stenman—along with Stenman’s armed escorts—could look down on the beach where Sarah Guzman would be seated on a towel, fighting sunburn, waiting to receive her deliveries.

  Peter arrived at the brick-faced entrance of the club by taxi. He tossed two twenties into the front seat, indicating he didn’t need change. He pulled open the door alongside the curb and took the deep breath of a man preparing to dive under pounding surf. Taking the time to collect his thoughts, Peter watched the cabby nod thanks and speed off.

  Fifteen minutes before one o’clock, he entered through the double doors that led to the hotel registration desk. He filled out his forms, paid cash, and clutched the room key.

  “Do you need directions, Mr. Neil?” the check-in clerk asked.

  Peter said “no” and proceeded through the courtyard leading to the beach-access. Once he reached the red clay esplanade, he turned right and faced north. The room was a fifty-yard straight shot from where he stood. He continued down the walkway, past the men’s locker room, then the women’s. First-floor hotel suites, some with doors open to enjoy the breeze, flanked his right. Peter felt the jagged edges of the room key dent his flesh.

  He reached the room a minute later, made himself at home, and waited.

  Twenty minutes later, Stenman arrived with three thickly torsoed assistants. All wore identical gray suits and identical aviator sunglasses. A search of the room, using sophisticated debugging technology, followed, as did a strip search of Peter’s body cavities. Satisfied, Peter and Stenman sat while her guards stood, flanking them in a triangle.

  “Where will Sarah receive her deliveries?” Stenman asked.

  “Here,” Peter said.

  “To this room?”

  “Not exactly. If you can manage to wait a little longer, you’ll understand.”

  Not long after, Ayers arrived. “I see everyone’s comfortable,” he said, sounding upbeat. “I expect Ms. Guzman shortly.”

  Stenman looked between the two men, and said nothing. Peter admired her lack of curiosity.

  Peter saw Sarah first. Carlos, now looking like a joke, trailed behind her, struggling through the sand in his charcoal suit coat and dress shoes, his head in constant side-to-side surveillance. He appeared angry enough to pull the gun he undoubtedly had strapped somewhere to his body and shoot random sunbathers.

  “There,” Peter said, pointing. “We’re ready.”

  Sarah Guzman, wearing a floppy straw hat, took up her designated spot on the beach, thirty yards south of their hotel room. A slanting windbreak blunted the brisk wind skating off the Pacific, less than twenty feet from her position. As if she felt Peter’s gaze, she spun her shoulders. Even though she did not know they were watching, her remarkable face froze in his direction. Dark glasses hid her eyes, but not her intentions. Peter knew that somewhere in Sarah Guzman’s poisoned mind, she had already planned his death. Carlos sat along the beach wall, close enough to react, if needed.

  The raked sand gleamed, and the warm weather had attracted a healthy crowd of sunbathers. Exactly as Peter had hoped. Plenty of space, lots of witnesses, very public.

  A short time later, Peter spied a man in thick black shoes and white overalls struggling down the beach, looking for the blue windbreak and petite blond. Peter nodded to Ayers.

  “Excuse me,” Ayers said. “I need to relieve myself. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  Ayers went to the back
of the suite and entered a bathroom. Nobody noticed or cared. As he locked the door, he pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket. The bathroom was the size of a normal bedroom, with an oversized tub, shower, and brass fixtures. He balanced on the edge of the tub and made his call.

  “This is Jason Ayers. I wish to make a transfer of one-hundred-ten-million dollars from Stenman Partners’ Swiss National account number four, two, four, seven, one, one . . .” He gave the numbers precisely, then continued: “ . . . to Stenman Partners’ Swiss National account number three, one, nine . . . .” The second account was Peter’s and Stenman’s joint escrow account. Ayers intended to feed into it as much money in as short a time as he could.

  Ayers waited for confirmation. He planned to make four additional large transfers and figured he had at most three minutes before Stenman would miss him.

  A bank representative’s voice came on and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but your voice wasn’t verified. The transfer didn’t go through.”

  Ayers’ chin dropped. “Not verified? The equipment must not be working.”

  “The equipment isn’t the problem,” the bank executive said. “Perhaps the phone line is unclear.”

  Something else, Ayers knew. What? He considered the possibilities.

  “The acoustics,” he blurted. His voice echoed off the porcelain fixtures and tiled walls in the bathroom. The reverberations had altered his voice.

  “Hold on,” Ayers instructed the bank employee. “I’m going to change rooms.” Standing, the gun in his jacket pocket jabbed his ribcage. Ayers reached into the pocket, rearranged the weapon, and prepared to exit the bathroom.

  He had already wasted at least a minute and, suddenly, his bad case of nerves got worse. Opening the door, he looked into the master bedroom. During the search for eavesdropping equipment, the room had been ransacked. Stenman’s men had pulled the bed sheets and rearranged the furniture. Ayers looked across the mess to a side-wall and the sliding glass door leading to a balcony facing north. He crossed over and went onto the porch. Satisfied that he could not be seen, he crouched and spoke into the phone. He repeated the fund-transfer instructions. Instantly, the confirmation came through. Ayers read off a series of additional instructions, transferring funds to Peter and Stenman’s joint account, number 3199216948.

  That accomplished, Ayers’ confidence grew. Peter just might get this done. It didn’t mean the boy would live to see the fruits of his labors, but he just might stick it to these murderous financiers. With a few more carefully orchestrated moves, a lot of the bad people’s money would soon vanish.

  And, he knew, that was when the real war would begin.

  Ayers said it would take less than four minutes to complete the money transfers. Peter noted the time, and time was up. He mentally crossed all his fingers and toes and hoped nobody missed Ayers.

  Peter joined Stenman and her entourage as they followed the progress of the courier, who repeatedly glanced at the small slip of paper Peter had given him. Once the courier found and approached Sarah Guzman, the envelope tucked under an arm, Stenman leaned over her cane and into the plate glass window. Peter watched her watch Sarah as Sarah examined the registered envelope, broke the seal, and spilled out the contents. It looked to be some fifty pages. Sarah Guzman then spent several minutes in examination.

  When Sarah took off her sunglasses, signaling that everything was as expected, Stenman straightened herself and said, “Where’s Ayers? Anthony,” she addressed the man nearest the far door, “find out what is keeping him.”

  Anthony nodded. Just as he spun to investigate, Ayers appeared through the door. “Shall we make Peter’s transfer?” he asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  OLIVER DAWSON, EVEN WITH POWERFUL BINOCULARS, COULDN’T SEE THE concerned faces, or sense the razor-edged tensions, in the hotel room above – too many reflections off the room’s main window. Too bad, he thought. He wondered, half-seriously, when he’d hear the gunshot blowing Peter Neil’s head off his neck.

  The boat rolled an inch and Dawson braced himself. Even a heavy dose of Dramamine hadn’t done him much good. He swallowed, hoping to keep his stomach from erupting. He didn’t even dare drink Diet Coke for fear of an instant revisit.

  Despite the suffering, Dawson was ready. Dry static filled the air, and seemed close to sparking. For Dawson, it felt good. These events would mark his career denouement. No matter how it ended, he’d go home in a few days, hero or goat, and begin loving Angela Newman in public. They’d get married in a month or two. Start a family.

  Suddenly, the boat ceased rocking.

  With a moment’s relief, he re-imagined the activities inside the hotel room. Peter would be going over final details with Stenman. Reaching into his pocket, Dawson clutched his phone and began to input the numbers that would transfer his voice across the country. It took one ring. “Is that you, Dawson?”

  “Of course.” Dawson answered.

  Dawson had phoned Ranson earlier in the day, and had imagined the man experiencing an early-stage heart attack. Then, when Dawson had said he was close to consummating a deal, the director’s assistant choked, sounding as if he had a mouth full of his own shit.

  Now, Dawson enjoyed jerking Ranson’s chain. “We’ve got our connection,” he said. “She’s on board.” As the boat rocked, he thought: no pun intended.

  “She? Your contact’s a woman?” Ranson’s words came too rapidly.

  “Yes,” Dawson answered. “I think I should speak to the director.”

  “Director Ackerman isn’t available. Is this contact another law office person?”

  “I better not say anything before speaking to Ackerman.”

  “Give me the name. I’ll let him know right away.”

  “If all goes according to plan, I’ll send you a copy of the immunity agreement—I need to make certain all parties keep their promises.”

  “That agreement will be worthless unless Ackerman agrees. I’ll pass the details on to him. Where are you, Dawson?”

  “Come on, Ranson. You know better than to ask. I’ll be sending you the agreement by wireless fax as soon as we have Hannah Neil’s documents.”

  Dawson hung up. “That should create some additional confusion,” he said to himself.

  Squinting at the blinding reflection off the hotel picture window, Dawson gave a hand signal to one of his associates. Three divers, with two hours’ worth of oxygen in their tanks, jumped overboard and disappeared as the boat inched closer to shore.

  Peter read the instructions that Ayers handed him: “This is Peter Neil, requesting the transfer of all funds in Stenman Partners’ Swiss National Bank account number 3199216948 to Mauritius Trust Bank account number 7392968127.”

  The voice verification system analyzed each syllable and cleared him in less than five seconds. Stenman followed with the exact same instructions. The money then moved at the speed of light from the joint account at Swiss National to Mauritius Trust Bank—from one secure location to another. Stenman assumed it was five million. Peter guessed it was at least a hundred times that much.

  As if on cue, a second deliveryman, this one in a white shirt and black pants, came marching through the men’s locker room. He stood on the esplanade side of the low beach wall and searched for a blue windbreak protecting a petite blond. When he stepped over the wall and into the dry sand, he stumbled. Stenman involuntarily exhaled—as if the messenger carried a bomb. On the beach, off to one side, Peter saw Nuñoz also bolt upright. Everybody was on edge. Peter hoped that was a good thing.

  A moment later, the disheveled messenger handed Sarah the envelope, had her sign a delivery form, then departed. She checked the outside. Apparently satisfied, she opened and reviewed the contents. When finished, she produced a cell phone and began to input numbers, referring to a slip of paper—given to her by Jason Ayers at the Tiger Lily Restaurant— that she balanced on her knee. Carlos Nuñoz got up from where he sat and approached her position. While she held the phone to her ear, the
y spoke. In the middle of saying something to Carlos, she held up her hand, indicating she had made a phone connection.

  “What’s she doing?” Stenman said, turning to Ayers.

  “Perhaps trying to reach us,” Ayers suggested. “She doesn’t know where we are, only that someone is watching for her signals.”

  “That is bullshit. She is not phoning us. And who is that?” This time Stenman faced Peter while pointing to a silhouetted man shuffling towards Sarah from the south.

  “You asking me?” Peter made it sound innocent.

  “I said, who is that?”

  “Should I go check, Ms. Stenman?” one of the armed guards asked.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said, her lip quivering. “You are hardly inconspicuous. I hope, Peter, this is not some kind of double-cross.”

  “If it is, I’m the one getting screwed.”

  “I better get a damn answer,” she said, spinning without need of her cane. She picked up the hotel phone and dialed. “I want Bill Leeman. Now,” she said.

  Peter did a double-take. With all that had happened, Stenman was lining up her backup attorney, Ayers’ partner at Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers. “Amazing” was the only word to describe her instincts.

  While Stenman finalized her legal arrangements, they all watched Sarah finish her call and put her phone away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE BAREFOOT MAN WORE A BAGGY SWIMSUIT—BUT LOOKED TOO serious to be a typical nonchalant. He stood as erect as a two-by-four, had Fila shades riding atop his head, and sunshine bouncing off his forehead. He approached Sarah and Carlos as if they expected him and said, in a tone that made it sound as if he were reading from a script, “I am here to escort you to that yacht. Ms. Stenman has arranged your passage to Mexico. She wishes for you to put your delivery in a safe place.”