Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“Wire transfer room,” Marjorie Harris said.

“Yesterday I gave instructions for a transfer to Saint George’s Bank in the Caymans,” Marie-Thérèse said. She gave the woman the account number.

“Oh, yes,” Marjorie replied, checking the number on her computer. “That went out first thing this morning. It should be in your account now.”

“Thank you,” Marie-Thérèse said, then hung up, feeling better. She finished her breakfast, then drew a bath and got in. Where would she go? she asked herself. The world was her oyster now. Even the countries where she had been a fugitive were now open to her, as long as she had a good European Union passport, and she could manage that in a day. She thought about England: perhaps a nice, little Queen Anne house in the country, not too far from Heathrow. The Cotswold Hills were appealing, and she liked the irony of living in Sir Edward’s own country. The thought made her laugh. Some shopping before leaving New York would be in order.

Marie-Thérèse was trying on a dress in the Armani shop a little after two, when her phone rang again. Finally. “Yes?”

“It’s Dr. von Enzberg. I’ve had notification from Saint George’s Bank that no funds were received into your account from Manhattan Trust.”

“They’re certain?”

“I asked for confirmation and received it. What are your instructions?”

“None,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I will handle this myself.” She closed the phone. “I’ll take this dress and the tweed jacket,” she said to the saleslady.

“They’ll both be wonderful for traveling,” the woman said.

“Oh, I’m not traveling just yet,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I have a few things to do in New York over the weekend, before I leave.” Clearly, the phone number for Manhattan Trust was manned by someone from British Intelligence. They would not fool her again.

Just at closing time, a cleaning woman came into the wire transfer department of St. George’s Bank and made ready to mop the floor. “You going to be long?” she asked the young woman still seated at her desk.

“I’ll be out of your way in a moment,” Hattie replied.

The cleaning woman took hold of the cart that held the fax machine and rolled it away from the wall. A single sheet of paper lay on the floor where the cart had been. She picked it up and handed it to the woman at the desk. “This yours?”

Hattie examined the document. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

“It was under the fax machine.”

“I was waiting for it all morning,” Hattie said, laughing. She checked her watch: after closing time in Switzerland. She typed a message confirming receipt of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust and clicked on the send button. It was Friday night in Switzerland. They would receive the e-mail when they opened on Monday morning.

48

Marie-Thérèse yawned. It was boring, this sort of surveillance, but at the moment, it was her only way to keep track of these people. She had been waiting for nearly two hours in that most anonymous of vehicles in New York City, a black Lincoln Town Car.

“How much longer?” the driver asked. He had been provided by her friend at the embassy.

“As long as it takes,” she replied. “Read your paper.”

“I’ve read it.”

“Then do the crossword.”

“I can never do those things in English.”

“Then shut up.”

He was silent.

They were parked in a legal spot on Third Avenue, near the anonymous building that housed the people she wanted. She had a good view of the front door, and her eyes rarely left it. Then, finally, something happened. Three large, black SUVs with darkened windows passed her car and turned left into the street. They drew up to the front door of the building, and immediately, four men came out the front door and began looking up and down the street.

“Now,” she said aloud. “Wait until the three black vehicles move, then start the car.”

“Right,” her driver replied.

A man and a woman emerged from the building and quickly got into the middle SUV, and the three cars began