“You have to help me. You have to, James. I won’t survive this without you.”
“I know.”
38
The clock next to Walter Pearce’s computer said 11:52 p.m. The caller ID on his ringing cell phone said MILSTEIN.
“It’s me. What have you been doing all day? Have you found Beck for God’s sake? I need results, Walter.”
Walter had no intention of telling Milstein what he had spent most of his day doing.
After he had dropped off the material on Beck and Baldassare, Walter had intended to catch up on his sleep. But he thought of a way he might find Beck, so he’d sat in Milstein’s lobby using information from Beck’s trial records to locate Beck’s law firm, which turned out to be a mostly one-man operation run by a lawyer named Phineas P. Dunleavy. He called the office, explained to the woman that answered that he had urgent correspondence for one of the firm’s clients, James Beck.
The woman told him all correspondence for Mr. Beck came through their office. Pearce told her he needed to get an envelope to James Beck by end of day.
The secretary responded that their messenger service could guarantee delivery by end of day for a $150 express-delivery fee, if Pearce could get the envelope to her by three o’clock.
That confirmed that Beck was somewhere in the Tri-state area. Pearce agreed to the price of delivery and said he would have the material in Dunleavy’s office in time. It was just after 2 p.m.
Pearce walked over to the Staples on Lexington and prepared an envelope. He picked one that was a distinctive color, green, and big enough to spot from a distance, ten-by-fourteen inches. He filled it with meaningless papers, drove to Dunleavy’s office in Lower Manhattan, and parked at a hydrant across the street.
He was up to Dunleavy’s office and back in his car before anyone had time to ticket him. He waited behind the wheel of his nondescript Toyota Camry. A half-hour later, a messenger entered Dunleavy’s office building. He came out carrying the green envelope.
The messenger jumped in a cab, and Walter fell in behind it, tailing as closely as he could. The stop-and-go traffic made it easy to follow the cab.
What Pearce didn’t know was that as the cab pulled away, Phineas P. Dunleavy stood at the window of his office watching Pearce’s Camry slip behind the messenger’s cab. Despite being just past sixty years old, Dunleavy had excellent eyesight. From the second floor he was able to see the license plate on the Toyota, noting it down on a yellow legal pad, wondering what fool was trying to find James Beck with one of the oldest tricks in the book.
Dunleavy frowned at the departing car. He had given the messenger an address in the opposite direction of Beck’s location, a restaurant on City Island up in the Bronx.
Dunleavy was a sturdy man with a head of thick white hair and a booming voice made pleasant by the hint of an Irish brogue. He was well practiced at playing the role of a friendly scoundrel who loved his Irish whiskey. But underneath the hale-fellow-well-met act, Dunleavy was a shrewd, tireless, implacable advocate for his clients.
Watching the clumsy ruse set against Beck made Dunleavy more than slightly angry. Angry because one of his clients appeared to be in some sort of danger. But even more angry because whoever was behind this thought Dunleavy was stupid.
The lawyer set about finding out who owned that car. He didn’t intend to take long doing it, or in letting Beck know what was afoot.
Nor did it take Walter Pearce much time to realize after following the messenger for nearly an hour that James Beck had no connection whatsoever with a City Island lobster restaurant shut down for the winter.
Beck had already made him feel incompetent and ashamed. Being sent on a wild-goose chase had only added to the sting. It made him more determined than ever to find James Beck. The minute he got home, Pearce immediately got on his computer and his phone searching for James Beck, only stopping when his phone rang.
Milstein’s rude insistence only increased Walter’s anger. There was no way Walter was going to tell him that he’d wasted most of a day on a wild-goose chase. Instead he answered, “I spent most of the day following a lead that went nowhere. I’ve been working nonstop. I’ll call you when I find something.”
“No. You pick me up at seven tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I want a full report on everything you’ve done. I have to make some decisions. Fast.”
Walter didn’t have time to protest or answer before Milstein hung up on him.
* * *
Pearce’s failure stood in contrast to Redmond’s success. Within two hours after Markov’s request to find Olivia Sanchez, he called Markov’s secure cell phone line.
“We’ve located the individual. We have her credit card charged for two nights at the Four Seasons Hotel in New York, starting tonight. I went ahead and found out her room for you. Four-zero-zero-one.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. I knew I could rely on you.”
“You also e-mailed me that you want to contract a team with black-ops capabilities.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sending you encrypted information on that. I suspect you want a standard team of three?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me what it’s for. Discuss it with their representative. I’m sending you information on one source. The best. The man you call will go over backgrounds and capabilities. These men are very, very serious. Don’t compromise them. Don’t renege on your agreement in any way. Don’t fail to pay them in full. Any misrepresentations or failure on your part will reflect badly on me, and result in serious consequences. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I hope so.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It means I know you. Pay the price they ask. Don’t try to bargain. And don’t ask them to do anything more than you agree on.”
“All right. Of course. How soon can I get them?”
“If you need someone who can be at your location quickly, make that a requirement.”
“Right.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Redmond.
“Yes. Your shipment is leaving in seven hours. Arrival at the agreed-on place approximately fifteen hours from now. Have your people in place for transit to wherever you want the shipment to go.”
“They already are.”
Redmond cut the call without further conversation.
Markov checked his watch. Nearly ten-thirty.
So, first the woman. She was smart to hide in a hotel. But not smart enough. He would call Gregor, tell him to take one of his men and meet Kolenka’s men outside the hotel.
By this time tomorrow his shipment for Redmond would be completed. Beck and the woman would be history. Which would certainly help motivate Crane.
Markov heard his computer sound a tone that signaled an e-mail had arrived. A series of letters, numbers, and symbols appeared when he opened the e-mail.
He used the encryption code Redmond had given him and a single phone number emerged with a name. Wilson.
He checked his watch again. First, get Gregor and Kolenka’s men going. Gregor plus one of his, and Kolenka’s two. That should be more than enough for one woman. Then hire the contract team.
They were usually ex–Special Forces, of some country or other. He knew he would have to carefully plan the negotiation for the black-ops team. What exactly did he want? Foremost above anything, he needed protection for Crane. Gregor would not agree to watch Crane. He probably preferred beating Crane to death after what had happened to his two men. Gregor was now completely focused on eliminating Beck and the woman. Good. But if something happened to Crane, none of it would matter.
Markov also knew that at some point there was going to be a war. There might be a way to use their military skills, at least at the planning stage. But Markov had to be careful. He knew hiring such men would be very costly. He knew he couldn’t involve them in anything that would cause trouble for Redmond and jeopardize that relationship.
But most
ly, he had to get them on board quickly.
Markov dialed the phone number of Wilson.
A recorded message started abruptly, stating, “Please leave a clear recording stating the following: number of personnel, time and dates of employment, place of employment, skills required. Also, leave a secure contact number. If we can fill the requirements, you will receive a callback within thirty minutes, confirming personnel and price. Thank you.”
Markov had been jotting notes. When the electronic tone beeped, he cleared his throat and recited the information in order, “I need three men, starting as soon as they can arrive in New York City, until approximately 4 p.m. Friday. I need experts in surveillance and personal security.”
Markov gave his cell phone number, hoping he hadn’t been too vague. If they wanted more details, he would just emphasize they would be guarding one man who was working for him. He couldn’t think much beyond that.
He had completely sweated through even his underwear. His empty stomach grumbled. He reached for his attaché case laying on the bed and removed a gram of cocaine from the lining. He snorted a small pile into each nostril from his thumbnail. He sniffed at the sting in his nose and the back of his throat and blinked away the tears that filled his eyes.
The cocaine picked him up considerably, but it would be wearing off soon. He rummaged around in the side pocket of his attaché case, looking for his Adderall. He would be working for a few hours more, at least.
39
Olivia continued to stare at Beck, unblinking, with such intensity that it sparked something in Beck beyond desire.
Power.
She was making him feel incredibly powerful. As if he had total dominance and control over her.
Until that moment, he had not fully understood how dangerous Olivia Sanchez could be. Or how devious she actually was.
The temptation to exercise control over such an astonishingly alluring woman actually made it difficult for Beck to breathe. Beck’s eyes narrowed. He let the fear of how much control she was about to obtain over him penetrate into his gut, actually feeling his stomach tighten.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t waiver.
She continued holding on to his legs, pressing herself into him, staring at him.
Beck pictured what would happen if he simply reached out and touched her, ignited the fire by making her believe he was comforting her.
They would be on each other in a heartbeat. A literal heartbeat.
She still wore nothing under her white shirt and jeans. It would take seconds for her to be naked. Beck pictured her standing in front of him without clothes. Without guile. He felt his erection grow, adding an excruciating insistence.
He imagined the feel of her bronze, flawlessly smooth skin. Even smoother and softer over her breasts. He had stared at them long enough when she was clothed to be able to imagine them uncovered. Full, perfect teardrops. Perfect. The thought of cupping those beautiful breasts, feeling them, running his hands around to her back and down to her ass, around her hips, in between her legs; feeling for the wetness made him clench his jaws, but he didn’t back off from the fantasy.
That was the thing. The intriguing thing about her body. Full breasts and rear, but long limbs with fine wrists and ankles. And the skin, that amazing skin. And her mesmerizing eyes. And a mouth he wanted to feel against his. Passion he wanted to experience as he slid into her. Feeling the silky tightness. Hearing her gasp. He was actually sweating slightly under the sexual tension. The offer of sex, the contest of power and control, the temptation to say fuck it to everything to experience her—he was in a battle of wills he was losing.
Christ, Christ, stop it, he told himself. What a fucking disaster.
He swallowed hard. He forced a mantle of deception over himself. He continued to look into her eyes, intent on preventing her from deriving any satisfaction from making him look away. He leaned forward in the chair, using the force of his larger physical presence to impose on her.
The moment passed. The power of her seduction, her intensity, were diverted into a part of Beck that nobody could touch. A part that had emerged in the hard, cold hell of his incarceration. Something that he shared with Ivan Kolenka, and Gregor Stepanovich, and Manny and Ciro and Demarco. A part that even the power of Olivia Sanchez couldn’t penetrate.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He reached out and took hold of her forearms, firmly, with purpose. He slowly pulled her arms away from him.
He stood and lifted her to her feet. Holding her forearms, controlling her, he pivoted quickly, like a boxer who had been maneuvered into the corner of the ring, slips a punch and twists away, exchanging the cramped, tight area of confinement for the open space that allows maneuvering.
He let go of her and sidestepped deftly to the other side of the room, leaving her alone near the end of the bed. But he had done it with such agility and quickness that she couldn’t pretend he was fleeing from her. He had achieved a separation from her completely on his terms.
Just then, his cell phone rang.
At one o’clock in the morning, Beck knew there was very little chance this would be good news.
He answered quickly. “Beck.”
It was Nydia. “Yo, I was you I’d get the fuck out of that room. Hard guys on their way, man. Two coming at you, two down here covering both ends of the elevator bank.”
“Fuck! Do what you can to help when we get to the lobby.”
Beck shoved the phone in his pocket. Olivia had heard him. It immobilized her.
“Quick, Olivia—we have to get out of here.”
For just a beat, perhaps two seconds, Olivia didn’t move, trapped in fear and confusion. And then she reacted with surprising speed. She didn’t say a word, no questions, no comments. She moved fast toward the head of the bed, picked up her bag from the floor, ran to the bathroom without hesitating, and pulled her underwear off the shower curtain rod.
She was at the doorway grabbing her coat from the closet before Beck had on his own coat.
He opened the door. Checked the corridor. Motioned her out of the room. She followed with her bag over her shoulder and her black underwear clutched in her hand.
He moved cautiously out into the hall, peering around, standing in front of Olivia until he saw that the hallway was empty. He quickly tried to locate the stairs, but gave up on the idea. He didn’t want to set off any alarms, or be trapped in a stairwell.
He hurried toward the elevators, sensing more than seeing Olivia behind him.
He pulled out his Browning Hi-Power, racked a bullet into the chamber and released the safety, holding the automatic pointed down next to his right leg.
Beck thumbed both the up and the down elevator buttons. Whatever elevator came first, they were getting on it. Hopefully, not the one bearing the hard men coming for them.
40
Nydia Lopez had returned from a quick meal of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee eaten at the counter of a diner down the street near Lexington. But when she had left the hotel for the diner, she’d made sure to stop and speak to the doorman on duty.
The fact that he was Hispanic helped. The fact that underneath the tattoos and rough clothes Nydia Lopez had a killer body and sharp, attractive features helped more.
“Yo, homes,” she had said. “What up?”
For a moment, the doorman hesitated, as if he were deciding whether or not to acknowledge being referred to as somebody’s homeboy while on duty at the prestigious Four Seasons Hotel. But then Nydia flashed a smile accompanied by a sly wink that said volumes.
The doorman, Caesar Gascon, melted. He smiled back.
“What’s up with you?” he said, posturing a little, his macho side coming out.
Nydia shrugged. “Not much. I’m taking care of a white lady up on the fortieth floor.”
“Taking care how?” asked Caesar.
Nydia pulled back her jacket and turned just enough so that Caesar could see the butt of the Smith & Wesson tucked in at the sm
all of her back.
“You know,” said Nydia, as if she didn’t need to explain it to him, making Caesar a coconspirator.
“I didn’t see that,” said Caesar.
“No doubt,” said Nydia. “But you see anything, you know, like any nefarious types hanging around, you let me know, huh?”
“Yeah, sure. Where you going?”
“Got to eat. My partner is upstairs covering until I get back. Watch things for me for a few, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Nydia placed a forefinger under her eye, then pointed around, and flashed her killer smile as she slid into the revolving doors.
When she returned, Caesar quickly opened the front door for her and said, “Check out the front desk. Four guys, only one big rolling bag? Don’t feel right.”
Nydia muttered, “Thanks,” and focused instantly on the men at the top of the landing. They had their backs to her, taking no notice of her in the huge, multistoried lobby.
The four stood in pairs of two.
Nydia didn’t have to look at them for more than a second to know they were trouble. She angled to her right, quickly stepped up a half flight of stairs, making sure to stay far enough away so she wouldn’t catch their attention. She pulled out her cell phone and slid into a chair, keeping the men in her peripheral vision.
One man stood talking to the hotel clerk at the main desk. He was tall, bald, and looked ready to kill someone, perhaps because someone had recently broken his nose. There was adhesive tape across the bridge and both eyes were blackened. On his left, stood a man with a large rolling duffel bag.
Two others stood as a pair off to the right of the bald man talking to the clerk. They both wore dark overcoats, good shoes, dress pants. One of them leaned in between the bald man with the broken nose and the hotel clerk to ask something. She pointed toward the rear of the hotel. Both men peeled off, leaving others with the rolling bag at the desk.
Among Thieves Page 22
