Her bags were already packed. Shower, change, close down the apartment, store the car as planned, take a limo to JFK and meet Alan.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She felt the exhaustion coming over her. She fought it off, reached for her cell phone. Erase the text message, she told herself. Jeezus, don’t screw up now.

She erased the entire string to Crane. Set the phone to wake her at 2 p.m. Two hours sleep would have to do. She pictured herself resting in a private pod on crisp white sheets with a fresh pillow in the first class section of Swissair. Sleep came almost instantly.

84

Beck was so tired his jaws ached. The local anesthetic on his bullet wounds had worn off and the increasing pain was draining him. But there was no time for sleep.

He thought about taking another bottle of the energy drink, but he didn’t think his stomach could take it. For a moment, he thought about closing his eyes for just fifteen minutes. No, no way, he told himself. Have to be awake when Markov calls.

He stood up and went over to the windows facing Conover Street. He pulled the window wide open using just his right arm, but the movement still made his left arm twinge. He stood in the frigid air breathing long, slow deep breaths for a full minute.

He felt better. Awake. Closed the window and began slowly walking around the second floor.

He went through everybody’s next role. One by one, he went over it in his mind. All of them would be facing danger, except for him. Now it was Beck’s job to make sure this battle would end, that they’d be safe, and that everything they had done was worth it.

His phone rang. Beck checked the ID. Blocked. He took a chance, wanting to gain whatever edge he could.

“Mr. Markov.”

There was a pause, then—“How you know it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“You sent Gregor’s man Ahmet to my driver with a message to call you.”

“Yes.”

“I assume it’s about my money.”

“It is.”

“You have it.”

“I do.”

There was a pause. Crane had been right.

“Now what?”

“Now we meet.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“So you can kill me, too.”

“If I wanted to kill you, Mr. Markov, you’d already be dead.”

Another pause. “Why do you want to meet me?”

“To finish this.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you meet me face-to-face and hear what I have to say.”

“Where?”

“Milstein’s office. Be there at two o’clock. Not a minute later. Don’t bring any weapons. Don’t bring any thugs, or I guarantee, I absolutely promise—I will kill you.”

“I believe you,” said Markov.

*   *   *

Beck drove the Mercury into Manhattan with both front windows open to keep him awake. Parked it in a garage on Fifty-seventh Street just east of Lex. Made his way to the twenty-eighth floor.

The receptionist was expecting him. She directed him to the main conference room.

It was a large room with a conference table big enough for fifteen people. It offered a view of Manhattan facing south. The day was rather mild for February. And overcast. The view limited by mist and fog.

Beck wasn’t interested in looking out any windows.

Near the head of the table sat Markov, looking worse than ever. He was covered with a veneer of sweat. His clothes looked like he had been on the run for a couple of days. Beck could smell the man by the time he reached the middle of the room.

Opposite Markov sat Frederick Milstein in his usual business attire of dress shirt, tie, and suit pants. He sat at the edge of his chair, elbows on the conference table, trying to look like he mattered. The chair next to Milstein was filled by the large bulk of Walter Pearce.

Beck took the seat at the head of the table.

He turned to Walter Pearce. “Are we all set, Walter?”

“I delivered your message, Mr. Beck.” Walter looked at his watch. “At twelve-forty-five as requested.”

He turned to Milstein. “And you spoke to the bank in Belize, Mr. Milstein?”

“Listen, who do you think…?”

Beck raised his voice. “Be quiet. Walter, did it go as planned?”

“Yes. I gave Mr. Milstein the account information; Mr. Milstein gave them the order. The man he spoke to seemed to know Mr. Milstein. Their conversation was on speakerphone.”

“And Mr. Milstein seemed to know the man at the bank.”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Milstein told the Kreb’s bank office what, exactly?”

Before Pearce could answer, Milstein said, “Listen. I want to know the meaning of all this. I don’t appreciate taking instructions like this.”

Beck held up a hand. He placed his Browning on the conference room table. “If you don’t want to answer my questions, just shut up. Mr. Pearce?”

“He told them that a wire transfer request would be coming in today to transfer out the money in that account.”

“Yes.”

“And that the bank should tell whoever ordered the wire transfer that the money would be sent out end-of-day today for deposit. And that funds would be available at the opening of bank hours Monday morning. But, after they told that to whoever ordered the wire transfer, they should ignore that wire order and lock down the account.”

“That was the conversation?”

“Yes. Apparently, Summit has a good deal of money in that bank, so they agreed.”

“Did you have to put a gun to Mr. Milstein’s head?”

Pearce smiled and said, “No. Not really.”

Milstein squirmed in his seat, fighting the urge to say something.

Beck took an envelope out of his back pocket. He slid it across the table to Pearce, who picked up the envelope and slipped it into his suit coat pocket without looking at it.

Beck said, “So, we’re all settled then.”

Pearce nodded. “Looks that way.”

“I’m sure you have other things to attend to, Mr. Pearce.”

“Catching up on my sleep, for starters.”

Pearce looked at both Markov and Milstein for a beat, pushed back his chair, and lumbered out of the conference room. He didn’t look back.

As soon as Pearce was gone, Beck said to Milstein. “Mr. Milstein, you can leave now, too.”

That did it. Milstein sat up straight and yelled, “Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here giving me orders. Giving Pearce orders. Running an account up here. I should have you arrested.”

Beck had to work hard to contain his fury. He picked up the Browning, racked a bullet into the chamber, and aimed it at Milstein’s head. Milstein flinched and put up a hand.

Markov grimaced and pushed back his chair a foot.

Beck spoke quietly, his voice constricted with rage and disgust. This pompous little man had caused him immeasurable trouble, starting with lying to him, setting him up to walk into an ambush at Crane’s, sending the cops after him and his men in an attempt to have them killed or sent back to jail. Through clenched teeth he uttered one word: “Leave.”

The gun paralyzed Milstein. Markov broke in, yelling, “Get out, Frederick. Now. Get out. Do nothing. Do you understand? Do nothing and wait in your office for me. Now.”

Milstein left.

As soon as they were alone, Beck put back the Browning on the table and said, “So, Mr. Markov, about your hundred and sixteen million dollars.”

“Yes.”

“Let me explain a few things to you, starting with the fact that I am not a thief.”

85

The alarm on Olivia’s iPhone had a gentle ringtone. Gentle, but insistent. It awakened her, but it took nearly thirty seconds of steady chiming to pull her out of the deep sleep she’d fallen into.

She felt around on the bed for the phone and managed to turn it off with her eyes closed. She made sure to sit up and get her feet on the floor so that she wouldn’t fall back to sleep.

She forced herself to stand and walk to the bathroom, her gait unsteady.

She rested both hands on the sink basin and let the water run, and rinsed her face with cold water. She felt groggy and numb, but the cold water helped clear her head. She took a deep breath, pushing herself into an alert state.