“Good morning,” she said with a quick, half-smile.

Her diffident smile seemed out of character. Beck couldn’t interpret it, so he stood in the doorway and asked, “You sleep okay?”

“Not bad.”

“You feel all right?”

She stopped brushing her hair and looked up at Beck still standing in the doorway.

“I guess. I don’t know. I never experienced anything like last night. I don’t know how I feel.”

Beck nodded. “I understand. So, you still ready to help?”

“Of course.”

“We’re into Crane’s computers. Can you help Alex understand what he’s looking at?”

“I’ll try.”

She placed the hairbrush down on the bed, leaving it there as she stood up. She walked toward the doorway where Beck stood. He watched her. He decided that he could spend a lot of time watching this woman and never get tired of doing it. He didn’t move. She stopped in front of him, so close to him that her breasts nearly touched his chest. She looked directly at him. Beck returned the look. Neither of them moved.

And then, suddenly, Olivia stepped into him, grabbed him by the head, and kissed him hard and fast on the lips. Just as quickly as she had done it, she released him and stepped back.

“Get out of my way,” she said, smiling at him as she walked past him.

50

Beck had left Olivia and Alex alone to work uninterrupted for an hour. It was now nearly noon. He couldn’t wait any longer. He stood up from the couch at the west end of the second floor and headed back to speak to them.

As he approached, Alex told him, “He’s moving a lot faster now. He’s liquidated more in the last couple of hours than since he started last night.”

Beck didn’t bother to sit. He asked, “How much?”

“Over fifty million.”

“How much more is left?”

“Depends on how the markets move. About seventy mil. Assuming all the accounts are appearing on this computer. If he hasn’t opened one or looked at one since I rigged his setup, I won’t know what the total is.”

“How much you think isn’t showing?”

Olivia answered. “Not much. Maybe ten million or so.”

“Okay, keep on it. Where is it looking like it’s going to end up?”

Alex answered, “Grand Cayman. He’s sweeping the cash into a Summit account in the Grand Cayman branch of HSBC. That account is actually five accounts, all in the bank, but it looks like one.”

“Why?”

Olivia spoke. “It makes it easier to see which accounts are up or down. At some point Crane will assemble everything in one account at HSBC. That way Markov can transfer it out faster and easier. How are you going to…?”

Beck interrupted her before she could finish the question. “Okay, I got it.”

Olivia dropped her question and said, “I suspect Crane is going to start slowing down a bit soon.”

“Why?”

“He’s going to wait as long as he can before he takes down his options that are underwater. There isn’t much time decay on those contracts. If the underlying stocks pop, he could make a good deal.”

“But what if the market turns against him more?”

“Then he’s just going to lose more. He’ll have stop-loss orders in. But it’s worth the chance in case any of those positions gap up.”

“Okay,” said Beck.

Just then his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID phone number, but answered it anyhow.

“Yeah?”

The sound of a voice talking through a plugged-up nose identified the caller as Willie Reese.

“Beck.”

“What?”

“Just spotted some unfamiliar-looking white dudes who came into the neighborhood.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Thought they might be some hipster types that got lofts or studios around your neck of the woods. But they arrived in a car. A new car. My boys on the street say it’s a rental.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. So I ask myself, what some strange-looking ofays doin’ rentin’ a car to come into this hood?”

“And the answer?”

“Ain’t no answer.”

“Right. How many of them are there and where are they now?”

“Three. They just rolled through the projects. Heading your way on King Street. Looks like they trying to find a place to park.”

“Where are you?”

“Sitting upstairs in a crib across from the park. My boys have been passing them off.”

Beck heard the sound of a cell phone ring in the background.

“Hold on a second.”

He listened to Willie talking to one of his spotters. He came back on the phone and told Beck, “They just got out of their car. Three guys. Average size. They got out and split apart, one walking on one side of King, two on the other. Just about to come out on Van Brunt.”

“How are they dressed?”

“Hang on.” Willie asked his man on the street. “Two dark coats and one wearing like a silver down coat. One of ’em has a beard.”

“Okay, thanks Willie. Good job. Tell your guys to back off. We’ll handle it from our end.”

Beck moved fast. He motioned for Ciro to keep an eye at the window and hustled downstairs into the kitchen.

“Manny, let’s go. Grab a coat.”

Manny turned off the flame under a pot of something, grabbed his Navy-surplus peacoat and followed Beck out to the bar. Beck just motioned with his head for Demarco to come with them. Both men knew by the look on Beck’s face that something was up.

In less than a minute they were out on the street.

51

The point man for the team was Ralph Anastasia. Ex–U.S. Army Special Operations Forces, a man with a long list of military missions, mostly direct-action and counterterrorism, mostly in the Mideast.

Anastasia hadn’t particularly liked serving in the military, but he was proud of his skills. He had been the right type for a Special Forces fighter. Compact. Unemotional. Resourceful, with more endurance that he’d ever actually needed on a mission. He had zero inhibitions about using deadly force. Ralph Anastasia had been told more than once that he lacked empathy, which he took as a compliment.

He also lacked tolerance for the military command structure. The long leash allowed on most Special Forces assignments helped, but there was always somebody above him to answer to. So as soon as it was feasible, Anastasia mustered out with an honorable discharge and went freelance.

He had been quickly hired by private military contractors. At first, most of the assignments were like the ones he participated in while inside the military. The big difference was that Anastasia operated as an independent contractor. He was given an assignment, whatever reasonable support he needed, and allowed to decide how to complete the mission.

He worked in Sudan, Libya, Iraq, and once in Guatemala on an antidrug assignment which did not go well.

After Guatemala, he went with private security companies. He was the leader of his current team, which consisted of Anastasia, an ex–Army Ranger called Harris, and a South African Special Forces brigade member turned mercenary called Williams.

Anastasia didn’t know if those were their real names, and he didn’t care. He knew something about Harris’s training and almost nothing about the South African’s. None of that bothered him. He considered both men about as expendable as paper plates.

Their first assignment on this particular job on this particular winter afternoon was pretty standard stuff. Find a location based on an address he’d been given. Survey the surrounding area. Attempt to find out who was at that address. Lay out attack options. And do it without attracting any attention.

Piece of cake.

But as he walked through the Red Hook neighborhood, Anastasia became increasingly concerned about being spotted. From the moment they parked their rental car, he had an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t worried about being attacked. Any of the locals who might attempt anything along those lines wouldn’t last ten seconds. All three men were armed with Beretta 9-mm automatics, and various other personal weapons. Harris, the Army Ranger, had a supercompact MP5K fitted with a fifteen-round magazine concealed under his winter coat. He also had a spare magazine in each pocket for a total of forty-five rounds, more than enough to shoot their way out of a problem.