Man in the Middle (48 page)

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, they 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.

 
T
HE 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.”

“Ayers already informed me,” Sarah replied, making no attempt to hide her irritation.

“I think we will pass on the boat ride,” Carlos said to the man. He put a hand on his hip, making it clear he was ready, if necessary, to access weaponry in a split-second.

“This is what Ms. Stenman wants,” the man said. He remained calm, as if he had expected resistance.

“Then let Señora Stenman take the boat,” Carlos said.

“Miss Guzman, it is imperative that we move quickly. There’s too much risk traveling by land. And Ms. Stenman doesn’t want those documents destroyed until she’s had a chance to analyze them. I’m certain you understand why.”

“No,
Tia,
” Carlos said. “We do not know this man.”

The stranger matched Carlos’ deadly stare with one of his own. Clearly, he, too, was no stranger to violence and would not back down. “If this were a setup,” he said, “there’d be a hundred agents on this beach, kicking your ass and grabbing those documents.” The undercover agent waited for the logic to sink in, then said, “We need to get you into Mexican waters. If you’d rather drive your own car, wait an hour in line at the border, risk the highway patrol, and take chances you won’t be searched, then go ahead. But,” he continued, addressing only Sarah, “I’d leave ugly-puss behind.” He then shifted his gaze and looked straight at Carlos. “If I were an immigration agent, zipper-face would be the first
gilipollas
I’d stop.”

“
Chupamela, cabron.
” Nuñoz’ breathing came in rapid pants.

“No thanks,
marico
. I prefer women. Are you ready to leave, Ms. Guzman?”

Carlos took a step forward, his hand on the gun strapped to his hip. Sarah shook her head. Carlos’ skull might just as well have been made of glass. His deadly thoughts were transparent.

“How long before we are out of U.S. waters?” Sarah asked, resignedly. The documents she held in her hands had the power to destroy her and everything she had spent years building. Not just that, but she had skimmed enough of the papers to realize that Hannah Neil’s handiwork also implicated and named many clients. She and Morgan needed to go through these papers thoroughly. Because of all these things, Sarah Guzman would take this opportunity to escape. She had already decided, quite simply, that she had no other choice.

And although these current arrangements did not sit well with her, she had confidence in Morgan Stenman and in the safeguards put in place. Peter Neil, her biggest concern, was vulnerable—Morgan would make him pay if this did not go according to plan. People like Neil didn’t have the balls to screw them over. Only fools dared try, and Neil was no fool. Yes, she told herself, this will not become a problem. Having convinced herself, she turned her attention back to the man who would take her to safety.

“I asked you how long before we are in Mexican waters? Answer me.”

“Forty minutes, maybe less,” the man said. He did not take his eyes off of Carlos. “We’ll take that outboard to the cabin cruiser.” The man pointed to the boat-launch a few yards beyond the north end of the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club.

A moment later, Sarah Guzman allowed herself to be escorted down the beach while Carlos, his shoes filled with sand, unhappily followed.

Stenman stared as Sarah Guzman and Carlos Nuñoz climbed into a small motorboat waiting at the boat-launch, just below their window.

“Whatever’s happening, nobody is forcing them,” Stenman said, more a spoken thought than anything she wished to share.

Stenman turned and searched the room with roaming eyes. Peter followed her gaze to the front door. It was open and Ayers had disappeared. “Where is Jason Ayers?” Stenman barked to her guards.

“He left just this minute,” one answered.

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to go.”

“You.” Stenman pointed to one of the men. “Get him and bring him back.” Her voice was husky, and darkness engulfed her face. “If this is what I think, Peter, you are dead.”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up!”

Stenman gave a subtle nod and one of the remaining two guards gave Peter a full-assed cold-cock. Peter fell, not quite unconscious, but close. Under the circumstances, the floor felt better than a feather bed, and he elected to remain down. His cheek grew hot, and the deepness of the bruise pulsated against his skin, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he had expected to get pummeled. So long as Stenman didn’t give another of her silent cues and have one of these thugs pull out a gun or a knife and finish the job, he was happy to have been right-crossed. That this part of his plan was working— his still being alive—came as a pleasant surprise. So far so good, and he reckoned he had less than half an hour for the rest of his plan to play out. Not too long to withstand the suspense, he thought to himself.

This bit of internal banter was fleeting, however, and replaced by a hailstorm of thought. He didn’t want to die, not before he had another chance to see Kate. Had he ever told her he loved her? No. He never had. It was a thing he needed to do, and that desire filled him with resolve. He
would
survive. He had to.

While Peter remained floor-bound, Stenman, intent on following each of Sarah’s footsteps, leaned forward, practically imprinting her nose onto the window pane. “She is being taken to that cabin cruiser. What is happening?” she asked, a tinge of panic lacing her hard-bitten voice. Peter assumed it was a rhetorical question. He stretched his mouth and moved his jaw side-to-side. It hurt, but his bones had apparently weathered the knockdown.

The hotel phone rang while Peter struggled into a sitting position. His head still spun but he had the sharpened attention of a person listening for footsteps in the dark. Stenman picked up the handset on the second ring, listened for a few seconds, then said, “You’re telling me you just received a fax from Dawson granting immunity to Sarah Guzman? Allows what?”

A moment later, Stenman slammed the phone into its cradle. “Get up, Peter.”

A giant hand pulled him to his feet.

“Sit him over there.” Stenman pointed. The bodyguard threw Peter onto a sofa as if he were no more than a bag of air. Stenman stood over him. “Sarah Guzman has been granted immunity. She has been given the ability to move assets into the U.S. unencumbered. Jason Ayers has disappeared. I want answers.”

“I don’t have any idea what’s going on. I did my part. I wanted to get paid for those papers—that’s it.”

“Bullshit. You, Ayers, Guzman, set me up.”

“That makes no sense,” Peter said, looking frightened, which was easy for him under the circumstances. “Sarah Guzman tried to have me killed. She was responsible for murdering my mother. You think I’ve hatched a plot with her, of all people?”

Stenman’s expression indicated she did not. The phone rang again. Again, Stenman answered. This time she placed the caller on speaker. It was the Swiss National branch manager.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for the last fifteen minutes . . .” said the manager. He explained his concern over the transfer of $800 million out of five accounts and the rapid movement of those funds to Mauritius Trust Bank. “I know what you do is none of my affair, but I decided to call and—”

“Are you suggesting that I am missing close to a billion dollars?” said Stenman. “This had better be a bad joke . . . Who authorized the transfer?”

“I’m not supposed—”

“Who authorized the goddamn transfer?” she repeated, her voice full of death.

“Your attorney. Mr. Ayers. Just a while ago. At first there was a problem—something about the acoustics in a bathroom—but then things cleared up. This isn’t our fault, ma’am. Mr. Ayers has authorization to move funds from one account to another. You and a Mr. Peter Neil then authorized the final transfer from your joint account.”

Stenman vibrated. Peter tried hard to look shocked. “I . . . I’ll move the money back,” he stammered. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Here.” Stenman handed Peter the phone. “Make the damn call and get me my money back. Now.”