Beck checked his watch. Two-twenty in the afternoon. The foreign exchange markets were winding down in New York, opening in Europe. Alex Liebowitz was probably checking the price action. He had taken over the management of Beck’s portfolio, which meant the management of the finances for all of them.

“Alex.”

Alex Liebowitz looked at Beck over the two monitors and asked, “What’s up?”

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to trade currency pairs.”

“Intervals?”

“Fairly long. Between two and fifteen minutes. Although I doubt I’ll get confirmation any sooner than two minutes. So let’s say five to fifteen.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

In the middle of the second floor, Manny and Olivia sat opposite each other at the long rectangular dining table that occupied a good deal of the space opposite the open kitchen.

Past the dining room, at the far end of the floor, Ciro Baldassare sat on one of the couches reading the New York Post, his feet up on the coffee table, moving only occasionally to turn a page.

Beck looked at Olivia. Her lustrous dark hair was loosely piled on top of her head, making her look younger than when he’d last seen her. She wore blue jeans, leather sneakers, and a crisp white shirt, everything quite simple.

As he stepped toward Olivia, Beck imagined her walking into a party looking the way she did at that moment, and effortlessly attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

Beck nodded in their direction, pulled out his cell phone, and walked into the kitchen area where he began loading the coffeemaker with one hand while talking on his phone with the other.

He finished his call. Shoved the cell phone in his pocket. Pulled open the double doors on his refrigerator. He was hungry. Actually, he was hungry to the point of feeling deeply depleted. He had expended an immense amount of energy fighting for his life. And he was still burning energy.

From the refrigerator, he pulled out sliced turkey, Jarlsberg cheese, bread, mustard, romaine lettuce, tomatoes. He didn’t bother to make a sandwich. He just assembled food on a plate and poured himself a mug of coffee, not bothering with milk or sugar or anything that would soften its taste.

He stood at the counter, his back to everybody, and ate. More refueling than eating. He washed the protein and carbohydrates down with swigs of hot coffee. Nobody in the loft said anything, the silence broken only by the occasional mouse click or keystrokes from Alex, sitting in his own world, staring at computer screens.

Finally, Beck left his food, refilled his coffee mug, and came over to sit with Manny and Olivia.

Manny sat in his infinitely patient way, saying nothing. Olivia took his cue and remained silent.

Without preamble, Beck said to Olivia, “Do you know a tall guy, bald, looks Eastern European? Name is Gregor.”

She answered, “No,” without hesitation.

“How about a heavyset man? Maybe five six. Dresses well. Gray hair. Cut to a stubble. He strikes me as Russian, but who knows, could be Ukrainian, Turkish, probably been in America for a while?”

“No. Why?”

Beck stared at her for a moment. It felt like she had answered too fast. And he didn’t like that she’d answered his question with a question.

“Okay, let’s go a little slower here. Listen to me carefully. The people I just described were in Crane’s loft waiting to kill me when I arrived.”

The word kill startled Olivia. It certainly caught the attention of Manny and Ciro. There was no perceptible reaction, but their focus intensified.

Beck continued. “It would be very reckless and very stupid if you didn’t understand that you are next on their list.”

Beck waited for a response from Olivia. She stammered, “I, I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean? What happened?”

Beck paused. Concentrated on being precise. “When I arrived, there were the men I described, plus two others. The heavyset man was in charge. I’m assuming that was Markov. The other three were fighters. Probably ex-military. Lean. In shape. My impression is they were Eastern European. Slavic. The tall, bald guy was their leader. He was very fast, without any fear, and able to take an enormous amount of punishment. The other two also took a great deal of damage, and none of them quit. Men like that are very dangerous and very rare.”

Beck paused, watching Olivia, carefully gauging her reaction.

“They were, what? You say they were waiting for you?”

“Yes.”

“What about Crane, was he there?”

“Yes, but forget about him for now. What I’m trying to tell you is that if they tried to kill me, we have to assume they’ll try to kill you, too. Two of the three are too damaged to come after you. But don’t think for a minute that there aren’t more ready to take their places. Are you listening?”

Olivia seemed frozen in her seat, her brow furrowed in concentration. Beck and Manny were on the same side of the table, so Beck couldn’t see him, but he knew that Manny would be watching Olivia as carefully as he was, and at the same time watching him to make sure he didn’t go too hard at his cousin.

Olivia answered, “Yes. Of course.”

“Good. So, I’ll ask this a different way. What is Markov’s connection to men like that? Does Crane know? What’s going on?”

Beck continued to carefully watch Olivia. She sat quietly, pursing her lips slightly, looking down.

Beck saw that Ciro had put down the paper and was also waiting, listening. Ciro was like Manny. Generally extremely calm and contained. But unlike Manny, when Ciro Baldassare moved, there was no going back. There was nothing between static and full blast. If Ciro suddenly went after Olivia, nothing was going to stop him. Not Manny, not Beck, not anything or anybody within ten miles of Red Hook.

Beck also caught the motion of Manny crossing his arms. He could feel the tensions rising.

Finally, Olivia spoke. “I told you before that the kind of people who have money invested with Crane were … were not legitimate.”

Beck interrupted her. He did not want her to go off somewhere she could hide out. He wanted the truth. He spoke slowly and quietly.

“Let me repeat back what you told me when we first met. Or, at least my impression. You described the people who would invest with Crane as unscrupulous, as people who wouldn’t give a shit about Crane manipulating the market in order to bring down investments he’s shorted. You didn’t say they were killers.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Beck leaned forward. “But you told me that Crane threatened to kill you. You described it word for word. I couldn’t see how some hedge fund asshole would be capable of actually following through on a threat like that. So when I pressed you on it, you told me about Markov and about him being an arms dealer. I got the feeling Crane knew Markov had men who would be capable of killing. Do you know anything about these people? We need to know, because now we have a much bigger problem than Crane and Milstein and your job. These people with Markov, they will kill you in a fucking heartbeat, Olivia. Who are they?”

“All right.” She said the words abruptly. In a way so that Beck would stop talking about men who wanted to kill her. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know who they are exactly.

“I told you yesterday, I’ve only heard vague references about Markov. I’ve heard that he is some sort of arms dealer. And yes, he’s Russian. And yes, a connection to Eastern Europeans seems possible. But I’m just speculating. Wall Street money managers don’t give out information about their clients. I don’t know where Markov made his money. Could he have connections to ex-military types? I would think that’s possible. Do I know who they are? No. I don’t. I know he’s not wanted for any felonies. I know there aren’t any outstanding IRS cases against him.”