скачать книгу бесплатно
“Are we going to find some big deposits there?” Forte asked.
“If he’s involved, I don’t think Harry would be stupid enough to do something like that,” Conte said. “It’s your move, Harry. Make my money come back. Four days.”
One of Conte’s men opened the door. As Sherman stepped through and the door began to close behind him, he heard Conte speaking again.
“Not you, Lemke. We have a lot more to discuss...”
Sherman made his way to his office, ignoring the other members of the department. He stepped inside, closed the door, sat at his desk and was suddenly overcome with a feeling of utter loneliness. In a building full of people he was totally on his own, with the clock already starting its slide to zero.
The only thing Sherman knew for certain was that he had not taken Conte’s money. Sol Lemke had fingered him to pull the heat off himself; a seemingly smart move that backfired on the man.
Conte was suspicious, even though he had cut Sherman a break. He was giving him the opportunity to return—or try to return—the missing cash. Sherman knew that even if he succeeded in retrieving the money it was not going to erase what had happened. He was under no illusions as to his eventual fate.
In the end Conte would be considering only one thing: the money. That was the single most important factor in Marco Conte’s life. He didn’t give a damn about anything else.
Once the deadline was reached, successful or not, Harry Sherman would become a target. He was sure the ink was already drying on his death sentence. Conte was not going to risk leaving Sherman alive. That the theft had happened was already a black mark against the man. Conte was going to do all he could to let the east coast mob know that he did not allow such transgressions to go unpunished. Sherman visualized the terrible sight of Sol Lemke—bloody and broken, with more of the same to come.
Sherman would be next. He would be another example of how Marco Conte dealt with anyone who stole from him—because stealing from him meant stealing from the organization, and that was not to be tolerated.
Harry Sherman was walking a tightrope suspended over a drop into Hell.
* * *
FORTE LEANED OVER to hear Conte’s whispered words. The casino boss had made up his mind about Sol Lemke.
“Take him out of town,” Conte said. “Have a couple of the boys work on him until he gives. I don’t give a shit what they do. That turkey knows what this is all about. That’s why he was packed and ready to skip town when the boys picked him up. I want to know who he’s working with.”
Forte nodded. He stood and moved toward one of the hardmen. Lemke picked up on what was being said and jerked upright, staring at Conte.
“I told you how it is, Mr. Conte. It’s Sherman who’s fucking with your money. Not me. That mother has jacked your money. I had nothing to do with it.”
His ranting increased and the accusations poured from his bloody mouth, adding other names to his litany of blame. The shrillness rose as he pleaded for his life.
Conte eventually tired of hearing it. He made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand. Behind Lemke a pistol rose and fell, the solid blow rendering him unconscious.
“Get that piece of trash out of my office,” Conte said. “The back way. Stuff him in the trunk and drive into the desert. You know where. If I didn’t need him able to speak, I’d say cut out his tongue to shut him up. Hell, once he spills what he knows, you can cut it out. Make him eat it before you make him dig his own grave and bury him in it.”
Lemke was dragged from the office through a back door that led directly to the basement garage.
After he had dismissed everyone except Forte, Conte asked for a drink. He sat toying with the thick tumbler.
“Do you believe Harry?” Conte asked.
Forte shrugged. “I can’t decide. He’s always been a straight kind of guy. Boring. But I never would have had him down as a thief. Hell, Marco, how do we know? Working with all that money every day. Moving it around. It would be a hell of a temptation. Even a guy like Harry Sherman could be tempted.”
“I always liked Harry,” Conte said. “He kept the accounts straight. Never caused any problems.” He swallowed the contents of the tumbler and held it out for a refill. “Lemke made a good case against him. But the way Harry reacted... Jesus, Milo... I can’t pin it down one way or the other. And Lemke started to lose it. He was ready to drag in any name he could think of at the end.”
“If Harry’s in on it, he has the chance to make it right,” Forte said. “He must know you don’t mess around. You gave him four days. If it’s not done by then, he knows he’s a dead man. I mean, what’s he going to do? Run and hide?”
That made Conte think. What would Sherman do?
If he was in with Lemke, all he had to do was to keep playing the game until the nine million had been hidden away where it couldn’t be found. Then make a run for it.
If Sherman had been set up by Lemke, he would do his best to get the money back before the deadline. If he succeeded, or failed, he would have realized he was on the edge. He could easily fake the figures to get Conte to back off and then make a run for it.
However the dice rolled, one thing was certain. Marco Conte was going to get a hard time from Serge Bulova. The east coast head honcho would be determined to put the hammer down hard—and Conte, the man on the spot in Vegas, would be the choice to catch the flak. Bulova would see this as Conte having taken his eye off the ball. The Russian wouldn’t give a damn how it turned out. Money back or not, Bulova would make his displeasure known.
“Okay, put someone on Harry,” Conte said. “I need to know his moves. If he steps out of line, he’s finished. And when Harry’s four days are up, I want him dead if he comes through or not. I have to show we don’t let ourselves be played for suckers. We clean up. Make certain we’re covered. Right now I got to call back east and tell Bulova we have a problem.”
“He isn’t going to like it.”
Conte managed a mirthless smile. “You think I do, Milo? There’s no easy way around this. Sooner I call Serge the better. Yeah, he isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. He’ll want to send that prick Danichev to stand watch over us while we sort out this mess. You know, Milo, I hate that smart-ass son of a bitch.”
Conte reached for his phone and hit the speed dial number.
* * *
DESPERATE TO FIND the missing money, Sherman sat at his computer, checking the numbers for the tenth time. He was getting nowhere. As a last hope, he decided to key in a sequence of numbers he had almost forgotten about. Perhaps the money trail could somehow be picked up there.
The commands called up a series of files he had found by accident some months ago. The secret files had come into his possession during a financial data exchange between Sherman and Conte. In his haste, and most likely due to his poor computer skills, the casino boss had unknowingly sent the chief accountant a number of odd files. Sherman had never seen the lines of code before and, more out of curiosity than anything else, had saved them in a folder then deleted Conte’s error.
Immediately following the incident, Sherman had felt a sense of guilt at what he had done. Even so, he’d kept the new files and continued the transfer of accounts to Conte.
Now he opened the saved files and read them one by one. Once his eyes had scanned the first few pages of the lists on his monitor, he was unable to stop. Seeing and recognizing the names, and the payoffs made to those individuals, there was no going back. No erasing the information he had seen. The names and payoffs were in his mind and there was no delete button he could press to wipe them away.
He realized that he was looking at explosive information capable of bringing down powerful people. If this information was made public, a number of influential people were going to fall hard, as would Sherman’s employer and the head of Conte’s organization back east. Sherman had seen the information now. It had the potential to destroy lives, and he would be in the middle of it all.
He decided to save the information on a flash drive. It was all he had; the only insurance policy that might stay Conte’s hand. He only had to figure out what to do with it.
1 (#ulink_cbcdccec-0bbd-5db9-8d27-e91e5011920e)
Washington, DC
Leo Turrin leaned back in his chair, pondering his next move. Once a deep undercover agent for the Justice Department, Turrin had penetrated the closed ranks of the Mafia and become a trusted confederate. Now he was “semiretired” from the mob and worked in Justice’s headquarters in Washington, DC. His current focus was a crime boss named Marco Conte.
A case board covered one wall of the little Fed’s office. The current layout was a montage of information on the Conte organization. Pinned in place were numerous photos of the main players—Conte in a variety of poses, his coterie of lieutenants, lesser men in the group and photos of other criminal figures; some friends, some enemies—as well as images of buildings that included houses and office complexes, and vehicles. The board contained anything and everything relating to Marco Conte’s operation.
Turrin spent a lot of time studying the information, going over what he knew and adding new data whenever it showed up.
He knew that if he got Conte, Justice would have a shot at taking down the head of the organization, Serge Bulova, an east coast crime lord.
All he wanted was the one small sliver of data that might give him his way in.
Finally his patience and dogged persistence had paid off. He’d learned from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.
After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.
He decided to reach out to the man.
Las Vegas, Nevada
INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.
The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.
He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.
The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.
Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”
“Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.
“Help?”
“You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Who says I’m having problems?”
“Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”
A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.
“Do you have a solution?”
“I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”
“Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”
“Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”
“Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”
“So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”
“This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.
“Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”
Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.
“I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.
* * *
TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up, his face registering slight alarm.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”
Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.
“If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”
“You have a cell phone on you?”
“Don’t they provide you with one?”
“It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”
Sherman complied, watching as Turrin opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He dropped the items into his pocket.
Sherman stared at him.
“Calls can be traced. You could be tracked.”
“So now what? I make smoke signals?”
Turrin took out a satellite phone and placed it between them on the table.
“Use this one,” he said. “It’s clean and can’t be traced. My people can track you with the GPS that’s installed. And it has my contact number. If we get separated, you can call me.”
Sherman didn’t touch the phone. He had a look on his face that told Turrin he was unsure.
“Okay, so you’re here. What’s going down?”
Sherman laid it all out, about the missing money, Sol Lemke and the deadline Conte had given him.
“He’ll do it,” Sherman said. “Conte has a simple rule. Do it to them before they do it to you. Old school. He believes in bringing the hammer down if he sees a problem. Right now he doesn’t trust me any longer. Even if I found his missing money, the suspicion would still be there. He gave me a few days. I know I’m reaching the end of my rope here.”
“You’re right about Conte. He’s a low-life thug, and he’ll want you dead. No two ways about it. Come on board and I can set things in motion. We relocate you somewhere safe. New identity. New name. You can rebuild your life.”
“It sounds so easy when you say it. I have family. A sister and her kids.”
“We’ll look after them, too. Harry, I won’t lie. This won’t be easy for you. A lot of things will change. Harry Sherman will disappear. You and your loved ones will get new identities. If you have any doubts, think of the alternative.”
Sherman reached out, picked up the sat phone and dropped it into his pocket, knowing that “Leo” was right. He understood a man like Conte, knew the man’s capacity for revenge, retribution. The man had no conscience. His instinct was tuned toward his own survival. Nothing else mattered to him.
“I have information you can use to nail Conte. I recently discovered it.” Sherman told Turrin what he had uncovered. “Do what you’ve promised and I’ll give it to you when I’m safe.”
“Then let’s get out of here,” the little Fed said, pushing back his chair.
Sherman pushed his seat back and stood. He caught his foot on the leg of his chair and stumbled slightly. It was just enough to take him out of the trajectory of the slug that missed him by inches and slammed into Turrin. The impact shoved the Justice man back, his seat toppling and taking him with it. He hit the ground hard, blood spreading across his shirt from the hole high in his chest.
The other customers panicked as realization hit in the wake of the gunshot. They scattered, Harry Sherman among them, and two more people were hit as the shooter attempted to pin Sherman down.
