Ayers said it would take less than four minutes to complete the money transfers. Peter noted the time, and time was up. He mentally crossed all his fingers and toes and hoped nobody missed Ayers.
Peter joined Stenman and her entourage as they followed the progress of the courier, who repeatedly glanced at the small slip of paper Peter had given him. Once the courier found and approached Sarah Guzman, the envelope tucked under an arm, Stenman leaned over her cane and into the plate glass window. Peter watched her watch Sarah as Sarah examined the registered envelope, broke the seal, and spilled out the contents. It looked to be some fifty pages. Sarah Guzman then spent several minutes in examination.
When Sarah took off her sunglasses, signaling that everything was as expected, Stenman straightened herself and said, “Where’s Ayers? Anthony,” she addressed the man nearest the far door, “find out what is keeping him.”
Anthony nodded. Just as he spun to investigate, Ayers appeared through the door. “Shall we make Peter’s transfer?” he asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OLIVER DAWSON, EVEN WITH POWERFUL BINOCULARS, COULDN’T SEE THE concerned faces, or sense the razor-edged tensions, in the hotel room above – too many reflections off the room’s main window. Too bad, he thought. He wondered, half-seriously, when he’d hear the gunshot blowing Peter Neil’s head off his neck.
The boat rolled an inch and Dawson braced himself. Even a heavy dose of Dramamine hadn’t done him much good. He swallowed, hoping to keep his stomach from erupting. He didn’t even dare drink Diet Coke for fear of an instant revisit.
Despite the suffering, Dawson was ready. Dry static filled the air, and seemed close to sparking. For Dawson, it felt good. These events would mark his career denouement. No matter how it ended, he’d go home in a few days, hero or goat, and begin loving Angela Newman in public. They’d get married in a month or two. Start a family.
Suddenly, the boat ceased rocking.
With a moment’s relief, he re-imagined the activities inside the hotel room. Peter would be going over final details with Stenman. Reaching into his pocket, Dawson clutched his phone and began to input the numbers that would transfer his voice across the country. It took one ring. “Is that you, Dawson?”
“Of course.” Dawson answered.
Dawson had phoned Ranson earlier in the day, and had imagined the man experiencing an early-stage heart attack. Then, when Dawson had said he was close to consummating a deal, the director’s assistant choked, sounding as if he had a mouth full of his own shit.
Now, Dawson enjoyed jerking Ranson’s chain. “We’ve got our connection,” he said. “She’s on board.” As the boat rocked, he thought:
“
“Yes,” Dawson answered. “I think I should speak to the director.”
“Director Ackerman isn’t available. Is this contact another law office person?”
“I better not say anything before speaking to Ackerman.”
“Give me the name. I’ll let him know right away.”
“If all goes according to plan, I’ll send you a copy of the immunity agreement—I need to make certain all parties keep their promises.”
“That agreement will be worthless unless Ackerman agrees. I’ll pass the details on to him. Where are you, Dawson?”
“Come on, Ranson. You know better than to ask. I’ll be sending you the agreement by wireless fax as soon as we have Hannah Neil’s documents.”
Dawson hung up. “That should create some additional confusion,” he said to himself.
Squinting at the blinding reflection off the hotel picture window, Dawson gave a hand signal to one of his associates. Three divers, with two hours’ worth of oxygen in their tanks, jumped overboard and disappeared as the boat inched closer to shore.
Peter read the instructions that Ayers handed him: “This is Peter Neil, requesting the transfer of all funds in Stenman Partners’ Swiss National Bank account number 3199216948 to Mauritius Trust Bank account number 7392968127.”
The voice verification system analyzed each syllable and cleared him in less than five seconds. Stenman followed with the exact same instructions. The money then moved at the speed of light from the joint account at Swiss National to Mauritius Trust Bank—from one secure location to another. Stenman assumed it was five million. Peter guessed it was at least a hundred times that much.
As if on cue, a second deliveryman, this one in a white shirt and black pants, came marching through the men’s locker room. He stood on the esplanade side of the low beach wall and searched for a blue windbreak protecting a petite blond. When he stepped over the wall and into the dry sand, he stumbled. Stenman involuntarily exhaled—as if the messenger carried a bomb. On the beach, off to one side, Peter saw Nunoz also bolt upright. Everybody was on edge. Peter hoped that was a good thing.
A moment later, the disheveled messenger handed Sarah the envelope, had her sign a delivery form, then departed. She checked the outside. Apparently satisfied, she opened and reviewed the contents. When finished, she produced a cell phone and began to input numbers, referring to a slip of paper—given to her by Jason Ayers at the Tiger Lily Restaurant— that she balanced on her knee. Carlos Nunoz got up from where he sat and approached her position. While she held the phone to her ear, they spoke. In the middle of saying something to Carlos, she held up her hand, indicating she had made a phone connection.
“What’s she doing?” Stenman said, turning to Ayers.
“Perhaps trying to reach us,” Ayers suggested. “She doesn’t know where we are, only that someone is watching for her signals.”
“That is bullshit. She is not phoning us. And who is
“You asking me?” Peter made it sound innocent.
“I said, who is that?”
“Should I go check, Ms. Stenman?” one of the armed guards asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, her lip quivering. “You are hardly inconspicuous. I hope, Peter, this is not some kind of double-cross.”
“If it is, I’m the one getting screwed.”
“I better get a damn answer,” she said, spinning without need of her cane. She picked up the hotel phone and dialed. “I want Bill Leeman. Now,” she said.
Peter did a double-take. With all that had happened, Stenman was lining up her backup attorney, Ayers’ partner at Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers. “Amazing” was the only word to describe her instincts.
While Stenman finalized her legal arrangements, they all watched Sarah finish her call and put her phone away.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE BAREFOOT MAN WORE A BAGGY SWIMSUIT—BUT LOOKED TOO serious to be a typical nonchalant. He stood as erect as a two-by-four, had Fila shades riding atop his head, and sunshine bouncing off his forehead. He approached Sarah and Carlos as if they expected him and said, in a tone that made it sound as if he were reading from a script, “I am here to escort you to that yacht. Ms. Stenman has arranged your passage to Mexico. She wishes for you to put your delivery in a safe place.”
