Among Thieves (28 page)

Beck trailed off for a moment.

Olivia watched him shake his head and sit back in his chair.

“Why are you…?”

Beck interrupted her. “Why am I what?”

“Telling me all this.”

“So you understand how dangerous this is for you. And us. For all of us.”

“If you're trying to terrify me, you have.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“So you understand.”

“You already told me I can't.”

“I want you to try.”

Olivia fairly shouted, “Try? I can hardly fucking breathe I'm so scared. What am I supposed to do?”

Beck leaned forward again, sitting on the edge of his chair again, speaking low and fast and hard as he stared into her eyes.

“You know what you have to do. What we have to do.”

“What?”

“We do exactly what Markov fears we will. We steal his fucking money. The only way we survive this is to take control of that money. The only edge we have is to make him choose between us and his money.”

Olivia stared at Beck. “How?”

“We'll figure out how.”

“No, how is that going to stop him? That will make Markov want to kill us all the more.”

“No. He kills us, he loses the money.”

“You think if we make some sort of deal he'll agree? Walk away?”

“You leave that up to me. Right now, the thing you have to do is help us get control of Markov's money. Can you do that? Can you help us?”

Olivia answered without hesitation. “Of course I'll help you. I'll tell you whatever I know. I'll do anything I can.”

Back sat back in his chair, nodding. “Good.”

Suddenly, Olivia slid off the end of the bed and sat down on her folded legs in front of Beck. She wrapped her arms around his legs, holding on to him tightly. Beck felt her breasts pushing into his knees. Her face was nearly level with his. Less than six inches separating them.

He could smell that feminine soapy scent she had. He thought about her bare skin under her crisp white shirt. He stared into her gold-flecked brown eyes. They seemed luminous. Her closeness, her completely unchecked, uninhibited hold on him made the moment feel incredibly erotic.

“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 mostly, 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.