“But you’re not going to.”
“I will. But not just yet.”
“Do you realize how idiotic that sounds?”
Beck didn’t answer.
“Will you make sure to take the antibiotics I’m leaving for you?”
“Of course.”
Wright started to say something more, but lapsed into silence. He shook his head in frustration.
Beck sat down slowly in the chair opposite Brandon Wright on the other side of the dining table.
“Brandon, you’ve kept all of us alive, and risked going to jail for it. There’s no way I can express my gratitude, except to assure you without any doubt or hesitation that nothing we are doing, nothing I am doing is being done without it being absolutely necessary. We all risked dying tonight. You think I do that casually? Recklessly?”
Brandon Wright raised his hand. “All right. All right.” The doctor paused. “Can you tell me one thing?”
“What?”
“How much longer will this go on?”
Beck looked at his watch. “It’s a matter of hours. You have something that can help keep me going?”
“Absolutely not. In your situation there’s nothing safe. The last thing you should do is stress yourself with amphetamines. Or unnecessary pain meds. Try coffee. Keep those wounds clean. Sleep. Get out from under this as soon as you can. I don’t want to go to your funeral.”
Beck nodded. He didn’t press it.
The doctor stood, rolled his neck, flexed his big hands, stretched. He helped Ruth pack up the remaining supplies and instruments, grabbed his Carhartt coat off the back of a chair, and left.
Beck watched the tall man walk across the second floor and disappear down the back stairway without another word, including good-bye.
Beck took a deep breath, exhaled, carefully stood, bent his arm, lifted his leg, testing the feel of the new sutures, hoping he wouldn’t have to do anything to make them open and bleed for the next few days.
This was the endgame. Better get to it. He checked his watch. The market would open in a half hour. Time enough to have the conversation with Manny Guzman that he had to have.
As if on cue, Ricky and Jonas Bolo appeared, coming up the steps with Olivia. They’d probably passed the doctor on the way up.
Good timing, thought Beck. Better she didn’t see all the blood and wounds.
Beck wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He just nodded at the Bolos and said, “There’s coffee and food in the kitchen.”
To Olivia he asked, “Did you eat?”
“I will.” She looked at Alex, then back at Beck. “Anything important happening?”
“Check with Alex.”
Olivia nodded and headed toward the desk and computer monitors. Beck noticed she was beginning to look a little haggard. But as usual with her, it just made her appear attractive in yet another way.
She wore the jeans she’d been wearing, but now instead of the black knit top she wore a striped formfitting shirt. She hadn’t tucked in the shirt so it hung outside her jeans.
Seeing her reminded him of the half hour they’d spent in bed together. How long ago was that? Twelve hours? It seemed like twelve days.
Beck followed her over to Alex and as she took a seat next to him he asked, “You ready, Alex?”
“Ready.”
He said to Olivia, “We’re getting set up for the end. Alex, how many accounts you got set up inside that HSBC Cayman Bank?”
“Fifteen.”
“How long will it take you to move the money around?”
“Only as long as it takes me to type and click. It’s all internal. It should happen right away. Seconds.”
“And the wire transfers?”
“Nobody guarantees anything except same business day. But we’ve got it covered.”
“You do?”
Alex paused. Beck watched him go through it, rehearsing it in his mind. They both knew how complicated their next moves might be.
“Yes.”
“Are we ready with Belize like we planned?”
“Yes.”
“You have the SWIF numbers and all the routing stuff you need?”
This time Alex stopped answering Beck. He gave Beck a look that said he was too tired to answer him. He simply couldn’t waste the energy.
Beck nodded, said, “Don’t start the snatch until I tell you, okay?”
And then Beck went to Manny Guzman and said he had to talk to him. They headed for the downstairs kitchen and the most painful conversation of Beck’s entire life.
75
Even though Alan Crane had secretly sold his loft, the presence of Markov’s mercenaries sleeping on his couches and bed, heating up takeout food in his kitchen, stinking up his bathroom, made him want to set fire to the place.
And now Markov had arrived, looking as bad as Crane had ever seen him. He clearly hadn’t changed his clothes in a long time. He stank of a weird smell that Crane was convinced had to do with the drugs he imbibed.
The first thing Markov did when he stepped off the elevator was hand three envelopes, clearly stuffed with cash, to the mercenaries. For a moment, Crane wondered if his murder was included in the payment. He immediately dismissed the thought. This next hour or so was going to be crucial. He had to put everything out of his mind and execute his plan.
Crane smiled. Nothing like the possibility of snagging a hundred million or so to focus the concentration.
Markov dragged a chair from the dining room area over to Crane’s computer desk.
Crane cringed as the chair scraped across his precious Calamander wood floor. Still not saying a word, Markov set the chair next to Crane and tried to set up his laptop computer on Crane’s desk.
The stench of the man was bad enough, but having him try to crowd into his work space was too much.
“Leonard, please. Don’t put that there. I need room.”
“I want to watch.”
“Fine, have your men bring a table over for you. Sit where you can see, but you can’t be on my desk. It’s too distracting. Come on, the markets are about to open.”