Man in the Middle (46 page)

 
C
ARLOS
,
ALONE
,
ENTERED THE
T
IGER
L
ILY RESTAURANT AND LOOKED
around. Sarah Guzman flagged him with a raised hand. He crossed the well-lit room and slid into the bench next to her. He leaned on his elbows, looking ready to explode into a violent rage. Sarah understood his feelings. She disliked having to be a messenger to this transaction.

“What is next?” Carlos asked.

“I expect my phone to ring within the hour.” Sarah glanced at her cell phone resting on the Formica-topped table. Around them, diners began to exit the buffet line, trays piled to overflowing with Chinese. The smell of grease and soy inundated the still air and clung to hair and clothes. “We will be given instructions at that time,” Sarah continued.

“I do not like that we are not in control of this situation.” Carlos’ eyes jittered, as if impatient.

“We have no choice in the matter,” Sarah said. “Morgan wants those documents. So do I.”

“
Tia
,” he asked, “why do we agree to this?”

“Because we failed to take care of Peter Neil.”

“
Suerte. Señor
Neil has
suerte
.”

“Luck? I am not so sure. He has instincts. We are unable to follow him. Muller presents him with what seems to be an insurmountable dilemma, and Neil slices an arm off and throws the appendage into a safe. He is not one to sit back and wait for help. He has changed over these last months: no longer a boy, I think.”

“He is overdue for a mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Sarah said unenthusiastically. “But Peter Neil is unpredictable.”

“We will handle Neil,” said Carlos. “I pledge it on my life.”

“I hope so, Carlos.” Sarah Guzman studied him and nodded.

The minutes they waited seemed long. Her chest heaved, not so much from anger as frustration. She didn’t hate Neil. He was a victim—someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that didn’t change the facts: Peter Neil would be dealt with the moment they had those documents tucked safely away. Nobody survived screwing them over.

“We have people watching Neil’s friends,” Carlos said, interrupting her thoughts. “If anything goes wrong, I shall personally order a bullet put through the pregnant bitch.”

“Nothing will go wrong, Carlos. You will be at my side.”

“
Sí, señora
. I shall make certain we are successful.”

When Sarah Guzman took a sip of tea, it burned her tongue.

“You ready?” Drew asked, leaning into Monica’s ear. “Twelve-thirty— show-time.”

“I think so,” she whispered. “Are you certain this is necessary?”

“Bread says so. After what happened the other day, with you being lured away, our apartment broken into, I agree.”

“What’s Peter up to?”

Drew shook his head. “Don’t know for sure. But Bread says there’s gonna be some heavy fireworks.”

A moment later, Monica Franklin began to moan. Her groans grew until they reached screams.

In a voice loud enough to be heard by any eavesdropping equipment, Drew said, “Don’t worry, Honey. The ambulance is on its way.”

“I’m not due for another month . . .” She hyperventilated, just as they had taught her at Lamaze class. “These aren’t labor pains, are they?”

“No, Sweetheart, but everything’s going to be fine.”

Drew reached for the telephone and dialed. “Kate,” he said a moment later, “Monica’s in some kind of severe pain. We’re on our way to the hospital. Could you meet us? She’ll feel better knowing you’re nearby for support.”

Kate agreed and Drew went back to his suffering wife.

As the couple stood just inside the open front door, Monica doubled over while Drew attended to her like a concerned husband. The sounds of a distant siren grew stronger. Less than five minutes later, a noisy ambulance, with a handsome expectant couple in the back, sped through traffic to Scripps Hospital and a well-guarded room.

Across the street from Drew and Monica’s apartment, a sniper watched through the scope of a rifle and seethed at his bad luck.

Jason Ayers phoned Stenman in her limo and gave her the location of the meeting. “You are to get the room number at the front desk after you arrive...”

With that call out of the way, Ayers paid a visit to the Tiger Lily Restaurant. When he entered, he could tell that Sarah Guzman and Carlos Nuñoz were surprised to see him. When he slid along the well-worn Naugahyde booth-seat across from them, Sarah said, “I thought you were going to phone me.”

“Morgan wanted us to meet. She’s nervous about cell phone calls.”

Ayers gave Sarah her instructions. “Go to this section of beach.” He described the exact spot. “A beach chair, an umbrella, and a blue windbreak are in place, reserved for you.”

He then told her about the first packet. She was to remove her sunglasses if the delivery came off as promised. “You will receive a second delivery, several minutes later. After that second delivery, phone Mauritius Trust Bank at this number, ask for this man—” he put a slip of paper on the table “—and read him these instructions.”

He pointed to a brief statement and two bank account numbers. “Morgan has put Peter Neil’s five million into one of
your
new accounts. If the materials are complete and sealed as promised, you are to transfer the balance from your account to Peter’s.” Ayers’ finger tapped the bank account number he identified as Peter’s. “We’re using the new voice recognition technology to make the transfer.”

Sarah frowned. “Why bother paying Neil anything?”

“It’s only five million, and Morgan wants to make certain this goes smoothly. After the delivery, she has arranged a nearby boat to transport you and the papers to your villa in Ensenada. You should be in Mexican waters 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.”

 
M
ILLIONAIRE DEVELOPERS NAMED AND ESTABLISHED THE
L
A
J
OLLA
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.