When she gazed up at the mirror over the bathroom sink, she muttered, “Shit.”

I’ll have time to put myself together when I get home. I’m not leaving New York looking like this.

She gathered her large purse, put on her shoes, and made her way down to the second floor. The entire floor was empty. It felt strange to her. There had been so much commotion, so many men moving around, arriving, leaving, and now nothing.

She really didn’t care. Where was Manny? She needed her car keys. And she had to convince him she was just going home to change and sleep and wait for whatever they wanted her to do.

She went down the back stairs looking for Manny, thinking about how to play it just right. What to say about the money. Something along the lines that she was glad she could help them stick it to Markov. Don’t even bring up the topic of how much of it they were going to give her. Let him think she didn’t care. That she trusted him and Beck to do the right thing by her. Yes, she’d caused them a huge amount of trouble, but in the end it had paid off.

She found Manny in the small bar kitchen, sitting at his old wooden table. He had a black coffee in front of him, two cubes of brown sugar on the table next to the coffee.

“Cousin Manny.”

“Novia. Sit.”

“I’m exhausted. I gotta get home. I gotta change, clean up, get some sleep.”

“Sit,” he repeated.

It was at that moment, the way he said that one word, that Olivia Sanchez knew he knew. Her plan of eight years, all her maneuvering, all her machinations had come down to this moment. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing was going to stop her now.

“Do you have my car keys?” she asked as she moved toward the table.

Manny motioned with his head toward a key rack next to the side door. She saw the keys to her Porsche. She took them off the rack, but made note of the fact that he didn’t tell her where the car was parked. It can’t be too far away, she thought. I’ll find it.

She dropped the keys into her purse, as she sat down across from Manny. She left the purse unzipped, resting in her lap.

Manny took a sip of the black coffee. Placing the cup down, warming his hands on the mug, he stared at Olivia, studying her face. His expression gave away very little, but Olivia knew.

“You can’t go, Olivia.”

“Why not?”

“James says you lied to me.”

She tried to look surprised. Confused. “About what?”

“About everything. He says you and Crane were after the money all along.”

“How can he say that?”

Manny answered with a shrug.

“Manny, that’s ridiculous. I don’t have the money. Crane doesn’t have the money. James has it. Where is he? Ask him. He has the money, not me.”

“Doesn’t matter. James says you and Crane were after the money.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t want to believe him,” said Manny.

“Then don’t. It’s not true.”

“So, when James gets back, you can explain it to him. And to me. Prove to him it’s not true. And to me.”

Her hand was in the purse now.

“When is he coming back?”

“Not too long.”

“So you want proof.”

“I want proof.”

“And you’re going to make me wait here.”

“Yes. I want to know for sure.”

Before he finished the sentence, Olivia pulled out a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver and shot Manny Guzman dead center in his chest.

The smoke and flame and roar of the small pistol stunned her. But she pulled the trigger again. And again.

The sound of the gunshots faded. She sat blinking at the gun smoke surrounding her, confused, her heart beating, her ears ringing, unable to comprehend the fact that Manny Guzman sat across the table, unmoved, staring at her.

She had expected the bullets to knock him off his chair. She had expected blood. A cry of pain. But Manny continued to sit across from her, silent, staring at her, unmarked.

And then Olivia Sanchez saw something she never imagined. Manny Guzman was crying. There was little expression on his stolid face, but tears were slowly rolling down his craggy cheeks, dripping off his jaws.

He sniffed and wiped the tears away angrily.

Olivia looked at the smoking gun in her hand. She looked at Manny. What had happened? Why was there no blood?

Then she saw the compact, deadly Charter Arms revolver pointed at her. Manny was still crying when he shot her.

This time, there was blood.

86

Beck told Markov everything that Olivia and Crane had done. Markov listened without interrupting. When Beck finished his careful explanation, he pulled a flash drive out of his shirt pocket and held it up for Markov to see.

“The details of the transfers are on this drive, in case you need further proof.”

“All right,” said Markov. “Now what?”

“Now I explain to you my fee and my expenses.”

“Your fee.”

“Yes. I intend to get paid for returning your money to you.”

Markov frowned.

Beck continued. “Here’s how it’s going to work. At one-fifteen, after Milstein’s conversation with the bank, I reset all the IDs and passwords on the account. On this flash drive is also information on how to access an encrypted Web site. On that Web site, midday Monday morning, all the information you need to take control of your money will be displayed. Today is Friday. You’ll have a nice relaxing weekend, and then on Monday your money will be there for you to do what you want with it.”

“I see. And your fee?”

“Twenty percent. Nonnegotiable.”

“Expenses?”

“Let’s call it two hundred thousand.”

Markov continued to stare at Beck. “You want twenty-three million, four hundred thousand.”

“Twenty-three million, four hundred eighty-five thousand, four hundred, thirty-four. You want the thirty-four bucks, call it twenty-three, four eighty-five, four.”

Markov kept his unwavering gaze at Beck. “Why don’t you just kill me and keep it all?”

“First of all, because I doubt all that money is yours. I got a feeling whatever branch of our government you’re running arms for has a good chunk of their money mixed in that account. Maybe it’s money they paid for future purchases. Maybe it’s operating funds. Who knows? But I’d rather not have to worry about some clandestine wing of the U.S. government coming after me for their money.

“Second, like I said, I’m not a thief. It’s not my money. Two people at Summit conspired to steal it. I’ve already explained how. I got it back for you. So I earned a commission.

“Lastly, I’m going to go on the assumption that when this all started, you would have preferred not to kill me. You could have shot me up at Crane’s loft, but you didn’t. My take is you fired those shots to keep me from leaving, but not to kill me. Am I right?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you are. I wanted to question you. That’s why I had Crane taped to his table. To show you what I would do to you.”

“And I’m assuming once I put down those two men of Kolenka’s, Kolenka decided I had to go.”

“Yes. And truthfully, I didn’t try to change his mind.”

Beck said, “You couldn’t have. So, do we have a deal?”

Markov asked, “You aren’t worried I will try to have you killed?”

“Will you?”

“No. Same reason as you. I don’t know who would come after me. You obviously have a lot of men. How else could you wipe out Kolenka and his crew, and Gregor and his men?”

“So, we’re agreed. You pay me my commission and costs. I give you ninety-two million and change, which is a hell of a lot more than you have right now. You don’t send any more people after me. And I don’t kill you right here and now.”

Markov inclined his head toward Beck and gave him a knowing look. “What does that mean? That you will kill me someplace else, later?”

Beck said, “No. I won’t kill you now, or later.”

Markov smiled, and let out a short laugh. He shook his head, muttering in Russian. He stuck his meaty hand out to Beck and said, “Take your expenses out of the twenty-three fucking million dollars, and we have a deal.”