Man in the Middle (47 page)

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.

 
O
LIVER
D
AWSON
,
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.