Kill Squad. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ We’ll be checking your account, as well.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ