within an hour of receiving the final delivery. Now,” Ayers continued, “I must go meet with Peter and Morgan. I hope all goes well.”
“You did me a favor many years ago, Jason.” Sarah’s voice carried an unmistakable threat. “I have never forgotten that. But this had better be the last inconvenience.”
“I’m certain it will be,” the attorney said, his voice strong and clear. “In a few hours, everything will be just perfect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MILLIONAIRE DEVELOPERS NAMED AND ESTABLISHED THE LA JOLLA Beach and Yacht Club in 1927. After going through an early bankruptcy, the property sold several times before the name changed in 1935 to the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club. Since that time, the resort has become a popular spot for sports, entertainment, corporate, and political luminaries. The club’s mission architecture consists of adobe-style walls, red-tiled roofs, and sweeping archways leading from one courtyard to another. Gardens, fountains, and a man-made lagoon, all set across twenty acres, give the famous facility an old-world ambiance.
In addition to local members, the facility caters to vacationers. A two-story row of hotel rooms lines the esplanade and looks down at a quarter mile of shining beach. With immense picture windows and full beach and ocean access, it is one of the most sought-after locations in California, or the world, for that matter.
A mile north of the club is the Scripps Institute of Oceanography. The stretch of beach between the club and the Institute is open, public, and crowded. Peter had considered this factor in selecting the site.
Their meeting would take place in a second floor, three-bedroom suite at the northernmost end of the hotel. From that suite’s living room, he, Ayers, and Stenman—along with Stenman’s armed escorts—could look down on the beach where Sarah Guzman would be seated on a towel, fighting sunburn, waiting to receive her deliveries.
Peter arrived at the brick-faced entrance of the club by taxi. He tossed two twenties into the front seat, indicating he didn’t need change. He pulled open the door alongside the curb and took the deep breath of a man preparing to dive under pounding surf. Taking the time to collect his thoughts, Peter watched the cabby nod thanks and speed off.
Fifteen minutes before one o’clock, he entered through the double doors that led to the hotel registration desk. He filled out his forms, paid cash, and clutched the room key.
“Do you need directions, Mr. Neil?” the check-in clerk asked.
Peter said “no” and proceeded through the courtyard leading to the beach-access. Once he reached the red clay esplanade, he turned right and faced north. The room was a fifty-yard straight shot from where he stood. He continued down the walkway, past the men’s locker room, then the women’s. First-floor hotel suites, some with doors open to enjoy the breeze, flanked his right. Peter felt the jagged edges of the room key dent his flesh.
He reached the room a minute later, made himself at home, and waited.
Twenty minutes later, Stenman arrived with three thickly torsoed assistants. All wore identical gray suits and identical aviator sunglasses. A search of the room, using sophisticated debugging technology, followed, as did a strip search of Peter’s body cavities. Satisfied, Peter and Stenman sat while her guards stood, flanking them in a triangle.
“Where will Sarah receive her deliveries?” Stenman asked.
“Here,” Peter said.
“To this room?”
“Not exactly. If you can manage to wait a little longer, you’ll understand.”
Not long after, Ayers arrived. “I see everyone’s comfortable,” he said, sounding upbeat. “I expect Ms. Guzman shortly.”
Stenman looked between the two men, and said nothing. Peter admired her lack of curiosity.
Peter saw Sarah first. Carlos, now looking like a joke, trailed behind her, struggling through the sand in his charcoal suit coat and dress shoes, his head in constant side-to-side surveillance. He appeared angry enough to pull the gun he undoubtedly had strapped somewhere to his body and shoot random sunbathers.
“There,” Peter said, pointing. “We’re ready.”
Sarah Guzman, wearing a floppy straw hat, took up her designated spot on the beach, thirty yards south of their hotel room. A slanting windbreak blunted the brisk wind skating off the Pacific, less than twenty feet from her position. As if she felt Peter’s gaze, she spun her shoulders. Even though she did not know they were watching, her remarkable face froze in his direction. Dark glasses hid her eyes, but not her intentions. Peter knew that somewhere in Sarah Guzman’s poisoned mind, she had already planned his death. Carlos sat along the beach wall, close enough to react, if needed.
The raked sand gleamed, and the warm weather had attracted a healthy crowd of sunbathers. Exactly as Peter had hoped. Plenty of space, lots of witnesses, very public.
A short time later, Peter spied a man in thick black shoes and white overalls struggling down the beach, looking for the blue windbreak and petite blond. Peter nodded to Ayers.
“Excuse me,” Ayers said. “I need to relieve myself. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Ayers went to the back of the suite and entered a bathroom. Nobody noticed or cared. As he locked the door, he pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket. The bathroom was the size of a normal bedroom, with an oversized tub, shower, and brass fixtures. He balanced on the edge of the tub and made his call.
“This is Jason Ayers. I wish to make a transfer of one-hundred-ten-million dollars from Stenman Partners’ Swiss National account number four, two, four, seven, one, one . . .” He gave the numbers precisely, then continued: “ . . . to Stenman Partners’ Swiss National account number three, one, nine . . . .” The second account was Peter’s and Stenman’s joint escrow account. Ayers intended to feed into it as much money in as short a time as he could.
Ayers waited for confirmation. He planned to make four additional large transfers and figured he had at most three minutes before Stenman would miss him.
A bank representative’s voice came on and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but your voice wasn’t verified. The transfer didn’t go through.”
Ayers’ chin dropped. “Not verified? The equipment must not be working.”
“The equipment isn’t the problem,” the bank executive said. “Perhaps the phone line is unclear.”
Something else, Ayers knew. What? He considered the possibilities.
“The acoustics,” he blurted. His voice echoed off the porcelain fixtures and tiled walls in the bathroom. The reverberations had altered his voice.
“Hold on,” Ayers instructed the bank employee. “I’m going to change rooms.” Standing, the gun in his jacket pocket jabbed his ribcage. Ayers reached into the pocket, rearranged the weapon, and prepared to exit the bathroom.
He had already wasted at least a minute and, suddenly, his bad case of nerves got worse. Opening the door, he looked into the master bedroom. During the search for eavesdropping equipment, the room had been ransacked. Stenman’s men had pulled the bed sheets and rearranged the furniture. Ayers looked across the mess to a side-wall and the sliding glass door leading to a balcony facing north. He crossed over and went onto the porch. Satisfied that he could not be seen, he crouched and spoke into the phone. He repeated the fund-transfer instructions. Instantly, the confirmation came through. Ayers read off a series of additional instructions, transferring funds to Peter and Stenman’s joint account, number 3199216948.
That accomplished, Ayers’ confidence grew. Peter just might get this done. It didn’t mean the boy would live to see the fruits of his labors, but he just might stick it to these murderous financiers. With a few more carefully orchestrated moves, a lot of the bad people’s money would soon vanish.
And, he knew, that was when the real war would begin.
