“You’d better hope,” Lockard said. He glanced at Jack as he took the hand and placed it back on the scanner.
Alex took a deep breath as he pressed the button again.
Nobody moved. Nobody uttered a sound.
The green lasers shined and swirled. The glass flashed blue and then green. A few moments later, the voice said, “Second scan complete. Access granted.”
“Son of a bitch,” Burke muttered.
Alex exhaled as the vault clanked open, echoing into the room behind them.
Nothing could prepare a person for the sight of that much cash in one place. Visit the Treasury or go to Fort Knox, and your heart rate would damn sure accelerate in the presence of piles of cash or mounds of gold bars. But with more Secret Service than the presidential detail around, and complex security vaulting systems, the sight of the money was just that. Here, the cash was loose. Unprotected. Free for the taking. Wall to wall, chest high, packed in tight cellophane wrapping, stacks and stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills beckoned them forward. Forget about rising heart rates. This could give someone a coronary.
Lockard pulled the vault door all the way open, and the smell of dirty money wafted out to hit them like the scent of an ex-lover. Powerful, exciting.
Carnal.
Some of the packs had been torn open—no doubt for someone to use a portion of the capital to move and hide it—leaving hundred-dollar bills spilling to the side and onto the floor. There was so much, it overflowed.
They all stood there staring for a good ten or fifteen seconds.
Jack said, “It’s like all the world’s evils are right here in this room.”
Lockard rolled his eyes, then looked at his watch. “Let’s go. The plane is waiting.” He turned to Grant. “Your choice. Which end?”
“I’ll watch the truck,” he said, and walked out of the vault and down the long hallway.
Lockard turned to Burke. “You work with her.” He nodded at Alex, then looked to Wainscott. “And you’re with him.” He nodded to Jack.
Jack said, “That’s why you’ve brought us along? To help move this?”
Stepping to the edge of the vault, Lockard said, “There are new pallets in the truck. Move the cash from one pallet onto a pull cart. You and Burke load it, Jack and Wainscott pull it to the truck and re-stack it onto a new pallet inside, then these two start stacking the next cart. Then repeat. Let’s get started.”
Alex stepped forward and picked up a stack. It felt like forty or fifty pounds. “How much is each—”
“Two and a half million, each pack. There’re fifty-two packs per pallet. Eight pallets is 416 packs total. I figure at two minutes per pack, a minute here and one in the truck, we can be done in just over three hours.”
She did the math. A hundred thirty million per pallet, times eight pallets. “That’s one-point-four billion dollars.”
“And they say girls aren’t good at math.” Lockard waved the gun at her, but he stopped her just as she turned away. “And by the way, no. That’s not the only reason you’re here.”
For the first time yet, she saw Lockard smile.
Lockard stood to the side, poised like a viper as Alex and Burke worked themselves into a sweat. It actually only took two hours to move it all. They’d have moved even more quickly, but Alex had to stop and stabilize her injured shoulder with duct tape. Then Wainscott complained, as it had begun to snow again and she was cold in the truck, so Alex and Burke switched ends with them.
The cold air made her shoulder feel better, and Alex didn’t mind working in the darkness of the trailer. Grant smoked one cigarette after another, and sat in a chair under the back awning, gun trained on her as they worked. He held a walkie-talkie to report their progress to Lockard. Again, since Alex and Jack were separated, she didn’t attempt anything heroic. They were valuable workhorses and safe … at least until the plane was loaded.
The plane. Alex stared at the money. There was too much of it. She knew the weight limits of jets with full fuel tanks, and there was no way this would fit on a charter. She turned to Grant and said, “This is eleven tons of money. I hope you leased more than a G6.”
“Don’t worry yourself with that,” he said, lighting up another Parliament Super Slim. He looked like an aging actor the way he held the cigarette in two extended fingers. Alex wanted to jam the lit end up his—
“Come on!” Burke said, moving another packet.
Right.
They loaded the last of the packets onto the truck and Grant said into the radio, “What about the rest of the Nobel?”
Lockard’s voice came over in static. “We’re leaving it.”
Grant nodded, clicked off, and turned to them. “All right, then. Back in the vault. We’ll need to brief you before we leave.”
Alex was too damn tired to argue. They trudged down the hallway and into the vault, where Jack and Wainscott both sat in the corner drinking bottles of water. Burke wiped his forehead with the tail of his shirt and sat next to his wife. Jack held up a bottle for Alex.
“Before that,” Lockard said, joining Grant. “A little housekeeping.”
And suddenly facing Alex and Jack, they had their pistols drawn. Grant pointing at Alex, Lockard pointing at Jack.
Too late for heroics now, Alex reached for Jack’s hand, closed her eyes, and braced for the impact.
But instead, she heard both Burke and Wainscott’s screams match the staccato shots echoing through the vault.
Blood seeped from holes in the center of Burke’s and Wainscott’s foreheads as they slumped. Gray matter and bone splattered the wall behind them.
Lockard bent and picked up the bottle of water that had fallen from Jack’s hand. He threw it to Alex. “Drink it on the way.”
Thirty-Eight
Alex and Jack were locked in the trailer, backs pressed against a pallet of cash, while Lockard and Grant rode in the truck’s cab. It was cold and damp and they were still drenched in sweat, so Jack pulled Alex close, giving them both some warmth. The low throttle of the diesel truck overshadowed any conversation Lockard and Grant were having.
Staring into the darkness, Alex tried to soften the question best she could. “So, what happened? To his hand.”
Jack stayed silent for a few seconds and then said, “He broke the rules of engagement.”
“You okay?”
He nodded. “I will be.”
Knowing that meant torture of some sort, Alex let it drop for now.
They sat like that, holding each other in a heavy silence for a good twenty or thirty minutes. The weight of the last few days’ events—the last year’s—hanging between them like a cinderblock, threatening to drag them under a flood of of pent up emotions and fears. Even so, Alex felt no anger at Jack. Yes, he’d lied to her, but she’d lied to him, too. So he was a spy. So was she. There was one little difference between them, though, and if they were going to get out of this alive, they needed to mend their communication now. At least enough to keep going. To fight this battle together.
“About my father…”
Alex paused to clear her throat, and then told him about the confrontation with Moss on the bridge. She relayed what she’d learned about Moss, and kept her report level of emotion when describing how Edgar confronted him. How there was apparently more—much more—to that day her parents supposedly died in Spain. But she didn’t find out what, because the next thing that happened was she’d lost her father in the icy river.
Jack squeezed her hand in a way that said he understood how Alex could be torn between anger and aching. Not really able to grieve the man again after all these years, but still somehow needing to.
“I know you believe I betrayed you,” he finally said. His voice was rough with exhaustion, perhaps something more. “But in truth, if it were anyone I betrayed, it would be Edgar. He warned me not to cross the line with you, and was vexed when he discovered I had. Pulled me right off your surveillance.”
And there it was. Alex thoug
ht he’d just left on his own will. “And London?”
“Edgar’d asked me to convince you to leave. To go anywhere with you, just get you the hell out of London. You were determined to find him, though. Goddamned stubborn. No different than him. Considering that, I told Edgar I’d stay and keep an eye on you.” He shook his head. “But instead, I carried on helping you find him. I suppose it’s my fault he’s now gone for good.”
“Jack. No one could have talked Edgar off that bridge. Stubborn, remember?”
And she felt better saying it. As the silence stretched, the truck thrumming on the wet streets, she thought maybe Jack did, too.
“So,” she finally said. “MI6?”
“Seven years.”
“And under Edgar?”
“Three more—but no official ties to your Langley.”
“You going to tell me where you really learned Savate? You looked more than proficient.”
“Edgar sent me to Lyon for six months. I progressed to silver glove level 2, which is similar to a second degree black belt in Karate, I believe.”
Alex smiled in the dark. Intensive study and submersion. That was Edgar.
And it could make all the difference for them today. Lockard and Grant had guns and knives, but Jack had already injured one of them. Alex thought of the way Lockard had looked at her—before shooting a similarly oily look at Jack—and she couldn’t say she liked their chances of winning this one. But she’d choose Jack in this fight over either of those backstabbing crooks.
She’d choose Jack, she suddenly realized, over anyone.
Jack squeezed her hand as the truck slowed for one last wide turn, and even as they pulled to a stop she managed a ghost of a smile. He chose her as well.
Alex and Jack climbed to their feet and waited until the doors were unlocked and the latches unhitched. A blast of cold air hit them along with the sight of Grant and Lockard, pistols already drawn. Behind them were the skeletal insides of an aircraft hangar, and the surreal gleam of a white Boeing Business Jet.
Sure, Alex thought. The largest heist in history practically required escape via the finest luxury jet known to man.
“Ever see one of those before?” she asked Jack.
“Not from the inside.”
Neither had she. It was nearly the size of a 737, far larger than the Gulfstream she’d expected. This thing could swallow the billion dollars whole.
“Hurry up.” Lockard motioned to them with the gun. “We leave in ninety minutes.”
Alex glanced at Jack. Ninety minutes—was he kidding?
“We just lost half our workcrew to your trigger finger, Boss,” Alex said, but before she could ask if he and Grant planned on chipping in with the manual labor, Lockard pointed to the forklift.
“You’ll operate this while those two load the plane.”
She said, “Let Jack run the forklift. I’ll can move the packages with Grant.”
Lockard shook his head. “You need to conserve your energy.” Then he walked away.
It took ten minutes per pallet, from forking it in the truck, raising it, and for Jack and Grant to load it into the cargo hold. Most of it, that was. Even the enormous jet couldn’t transport that much cash in its belly, and half the pallets had to be stuffed into the cabin. When finished, Lockard led Alex and Jack up the stairs to the plane, and sat them on a leather sofa facing a widescreen television.
Hundreds of millions of dollars scattered them. Under the seats and tables, around and above them. Alex felt like a modern-day pirate…one who was about to walk the plank. Lockard planned on killing them soon. She doubted he’d dump them in the hangar, though. That would raise too many alarms, questions as to where the plane had landed next.
“I need to call Customs,” Grant said, as if reading her mind. “Get our final clearance straightened out.”
And that was his value. Lockard got the cash out of Iraqi sandland via Draganic. Draganic used his money-laundering contacts and knowledge to open the bank in Isle of Man, entering the cash into the financial system. It was actually brilliant—until the greed kicked in. Now Lockard had to physically remove the cash from the system, and the only way to get it out of the UK was through someone who could bypass Customs and Immigration on the premise of a classified operation.
Grant headed to the cockpit to make his call while Lockard kept his HK pointed at Alex and Jack as he struggled with his own phone. Using his mangled hand, he speed-dialed a number, placed the call on speakerphone, and set it on top of a leather seat.
After a few odd-sounding rings, a man answered in Spanish, “First Security of Santiago. Agostin Herrera speaking.”
“Agostin, es Evan Lockard.”
“Good afternoon, sir. It is a pleasure to hear from you. When shall we expect you?”
Lockard answered in Spanish, a language Alex was familiar with in numerous dialects. “We arrive in three and a half hours.”
“Excellent. We will have our trucks waiting for you at La Gomera Airport.”
So Grant’s contacts extended to the autonomous Canary Islands. Interesting, though Alex guessed that wasn’t the last stop for Lockard. No, he’d take off for a far-away paradise once the cash was reentered into the world’s banking system, he’d take off for a far-away paradise. Maybe Fiji or Easter Island.
Lockard suddenly switched to English, presumably to elevate his authority. “That’s good, Agostin, but I’m reconsidering the price you quoted. Fifteen-point-six million seems steep for a transaction like this.”
Agostin hesitated before saying, “One and one half percent of the total to be invested is standard for a transaction of this magnitude. In most other cases, it is two to three percent.”
Lockard remained silent, a tried and true negotiation tactic.
The only thing that kept Alex from rolling her eyes was the HK pointed at her chest. A billion dollars in an illegal transfer of funds, one hidden from international banking disclosures, and this macho tool was negotiating for a lower fee.
Agostin finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “I tell you what, my friend. What do you say to us splitting the difference? A one-and-one-quarter-percent fee for thirteen million?”
“Done.” Lockard hung up.
The testosterone-soaked billionaire had saved himself two-point-six million dollars.
Jack said, “Being Christmas and all, perhaps you should donate a portion of your savings to charity. Perhaps the Mental Health Foundation, seems a worthy cause.”
“One more word, sweetheart,” Lockard said, looked Jack up and down and continued, “and I’ll finish what the two of us started yesterday. You can watch.” He glanced at Alex.
Jack’s jaw tightened and his back arched in response. Jesus.
Seeing it, Lockard puckered his lips and kept the pistol trained on Jack’s face. Alex wanted to charge him. Fuck reason, she’d make an unholy mess of things if he shot Jack. What she didn't quite understand was why was he even keeping them around this long?
Grant exited the cockpit. “We’re all set. Have you got that duct tape handy?”
Lockard pointed his pistol at the seat behind him, and nodded to Jack. “Close the cabin door.”
Jack reached for the handle slowly, angled in a way that left only half his body exposed to the outside so that he couldn’t be pushed out the door, away from Alex.
It was exactly what Lockard wanted. He grinned as he pointed his gun at Jack. “For this,” he said, raising his wounded hand.
Then he shot him in the leg.
Alex had no recollection of reaching Jack. She had her palm pressed to his leg, but it was still flowering with blood. He was going to pass out if it kept up like this. Jack moaned as she pressed her other palm to the side of his thigh and tried to stem the bleeding.
Lockard said, “Relax. He’ll live. I missed the femoral artery.”
Grant grabbed the roll of black duct tape. “Right, then. Pants off, then lie back, put your foot up on the seat.”
Alex helpe
d Jack undress. The bullet had torn right across the upper thigh muscle, though not through the leg. Lockard hadn't only managed the perfect immobilizing shot, he’d made sure the bullet had continued out the door and into the hangar.
No damage to the aircraft.
Alex squeezed Jack’s hand to keep him from passing out, as Grant used a towel to cleaned off the thigh so that the tape would stick. He applied a short strip across the wound, then wrapped the thigh so tight that he nearly cut off the circulation completely.
Gritting his teeth, Jack said to Lockard, “You’d do well to ensure your little helpers keep their mouths shut. Because I’m coming to find you.”
“You mean from beyond the grave?” Lockard shrugged. “Okay.”
Grant picked up his pistol. “Let’s go, mate,” and ushered Jack to the aft of the plane.
Lockard puffed out his chest as they passed.
“We’ll see about that,” Jack said, purposely bumping the other man.
“Enough.” Grant pushed Jack past the television and around the mounds of cash, then stopped him next to a teakwood conference table at the plane’s center. Another built-in table sat against the jet’s wall. “Sit there, arms behind your back.”
Grant zip-tied Jack’s hands around the table’s thick steel leg and pulled the straps tight. “There we are, then. Well done, everyone.”
As Alex was wondering why they didn't zip-tie her also—again, why they were even still alive—Lockard shoved his mangled hand in her face. “This way, Alex. Thanks to our mutual lover over there, you’re now our pilot.”
After Jack had distracted Lockard with the threat of coming to find him, then bumping into him, and before Grant had ushered him away, Jack had slipped his other hand behind Lockard’s back. A simple flick of Jack’s finger, and a straight pull, had yielded Lockard’s knife.
He stumbled to to hide the maneuver—not hard given his throbbing leg—and managed to hide the blade at the small of his back.
The Shadow Artist Page 28
