Wine, Tarts & Sex

Thirty-eight

Two other people were monitoring the wire transfer. Dan Wygren and Leo’s inside man at the bank. They both saw the routing number for the New York bank being keyed in and waited for the confirmation that the money had reached Janie’s account.

And waited.

And waited.

And… waited.

Herbie Austen murmured, “Crap,” real softly when he realized what had happened.

Dan Wygren sat openmouthed and ashen.

Herbie didn’t really care one way or another. He didn’t have a piece of this major blunder. He was just the pickup man.

Dan immediately went into survival mode. Not that he hadn’t made previous arrangements for fleeing the country. Working for Leo was not for the faint of heart. Picking up the phone, he rang Leo. “We’re good,” he said cryptically, offering the prearranged signal for a successful transfer. “I’m heading downtown to check on Herbie.” A few moments later, Dan opened the door of his wall safe and swept its contents into a duffel bag. Zipping the bag, he replaced the curio cabinet displaying his accounting diplomas that hid his safe and, walking past his assistant in the outer office, said, “I’ll be gone for the afternoon.”

An hour later Leo had begun pacing, the further confirmation he’d been expecting to receive from Dan not forthcoming. When he called his accountant’s office, Dan’s assistant could only tell him that Mr. Wygren was out for the afternoon.

A call to Dan’s personal cell phone number informed him that the number was no longer in operation.

At that point Leo began to panic.

He called Herbie at the bank, when he knew never to call Herbie at the bank. But fifty million dollars made one break the rules.

Herbie said curtly, “I’m sorry, he’s not here,” and hung up. Not that he didn’t understand why Leo had been so rash as to call. But that didn’t mean he wanted to risk his future.

After Herbie’s brusque dismissal, unable to breathe, Leo collapsed in a chair and struggled to draw air into his lungs. Christ almighty, was he dying? Was he having a heart attack? Gasping for air, he yelped for Ben.

“A shot-of-whiskey,” he panted when Ben appeared.

“Should I call a doctor? You look”-Ben didn’t want to say like you’re dying-“a little pale.”

“Whiskey,” Leo choked out.

Maybe this is the big one, Ben thought, as he walked to Leo’s wet bar. Maybe Leo Rolf was going to pack it in. Fortunately, he wasn’t required to make life-or-death decisions -only take orders. Sliding aside the frosted glass door that concealed the bar, Ben reached for Leo’s favorite single malt, poured half a glass, carried it back, and placed it in Leo’s shaking hand.

“Fifty million!” Leo muttered, trying to get the glass to his mouth without spilling it all over. Fucking fifty million, and he didn’t even know where it had gone.

Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything about fifty million dollars that had damned near iced Leo, but in the end, curiosity overcame him. “Pardon me?” he said, trying to look caring and concerned.

Leo’s steely gaze locked on Ben. “Don’t you have something to do?” he growled.

Ben swiftly exited the office, knowing Leo was on the mend.

No one could deliver evil-eyed malevolence like Leo.

He was back in fighting form.

The banker on the island of Nauru had done a quick double take when the fifty million he was wiring seemed to flicker for a split second in midtransfer. But the visual flutter was gone before he could seriously question it. Some brief electrical malfunction, he decided. Or maybe a momentary glitch at the bank on the other end.

Little did he know that it was Roman’s software program being triggered at the first indication of Leo’s password. Once inside the transmission, Roman’s programed worm monitored the keystrokes coming out of the bank in Nauru. Immediately it recognized Janie’s bank routing number, and the worm simply substituted her previously coded-in Swiss bank account routing number for the New York bank number. The fifty million shifted direction. Seconds later, the money was in Switzerland, the transaction was executed, and the worm deleted itself.