CHAPTER FIVE

Edward Brand stood on the balcony overlooking English Bay. The sun had been out since he had arrived in Vancouver three days before, but the weather forecasters were calling for a massive cloud bank to sweep in off the Pacific Ocean in the next twelve hours. Brand knew Vancouver well enough to know the meteorologists were seldom wrong when it came to soggy weather. He sipped his coffee and stared at the bay.

Brand was a charismatic man, the kind of guy people noticed in a crowded room. He was six feet with thick blond hair to the top of his ears and penetrating gray eyes. He had a quick smile and an easygoing nature. There was little body fat on his frame, the results of a good diet and a strict workout regimen. His handshake was as firm as the hand he was shaking, and he was either an intellectual person and a highly interesting conversationalist, or quiet as a hawk circling on the updrafts. He was whatever he had to be. Edward Brand was the ultimate con man.

Every part of him could mutate to fit the moment. If his marks were looking for a man they thought could run a multi-billion–dollar company, he was the articulate and informed CEO, dressed in Armani business casual. When the scam needed him in the pits at a Formula One race, he was there in coveralls and a Ferrari hat. On the beach in Monaco, in a five-star Paris restaurant or braced against the howling Arctic winds at a northern Canadian oil rig—Edward Brand could pull it off. He had grown rich from his talent, but rich wasn’t enough. He was driven, much like the CEOs he pretended to be, to rise above average and reach the pinnacle. Rich was good, but Brand aspired to super-rich. So he continued to take people’s money. Lots of it. The NewPro scam had been his best to date. Now that job was history. He had wrapped it up and flown to Vancouver, a much richer man than a year prior.

In his mind, Vancouver was the most beautiful city in the world. The layout was very similar to San Francisco, but the similarities ended there. The city was built into the heavily wooded foothills surrounding the Fraser River, and right from the start the urban planners had refused to cede to developers by allowing them to overbuild. The amount of green space in the city was staggering, Stanley Park alone covering 1,000 acres of prime real estate. The mixture of mountains, old-growth forests with intimate walking paths and water was almost magic. He loved Vancouver, but not just for its beauty. He loved it because it was in Canada, and if you ever want to leave the United States and not be hassled at a border, head for Canada.

The Canadian authorities were almost British in their politeness. They questioned why he wanted to visit the country, but never asked more than the most perfunctory questions. Then, invariably, they let him enter. When he wanted to leave, they smiled and helped load his bag on the nearest conveyor. God he loved the Canadians.

Although he was American, it was the United States Customs and Immigration officials who worried him most. They were extremely efficient, and since he always traveled with a forged passport, exiting and entering the country of his birth was a harrowing experience. He had been sweating as he departed San Francisco, and he didn’t sweat unless it was a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity. This con had been different. Bigger. Much bigger. And wildly successful. He turned slightly at the sound of another person exiting the house onto the balcony.

“Tony,” he said when he saw who it was. The man leaned on the railing next to him. They didn’t shake hands. “Any problems getting across the border?”

“None,” Tony replied. The newcomer was a tall man, almost six-three, with close-cropped blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. His build matched his height, sturdy and toned. He rarely smiled and when he did it was with his lips, never showing his teeth. He was clean-shaven and the paleness of his skin spoke to his Scandinavian heritage. “Came across in Montreal, then flew Air Canada across the country.”

Brand nodded. “Everything wrap up okay in New York?”

“Without a hitch. We had the offices emptied out by nine and the factory in New Jersey wiped down and locked up before midnight. Joey’s still in New York, and Frank’s already moved on to Mexico.”

“Good. Joey leaves tomorrow?”

“Yup. He’ll be in Rio by this time tomorrow. That’s the last of our New York crew.”

“Excellent job, Tony. Do you know what your final numbers were?”

“Somewhere close to nine million, I think.”

“Over nine. Closer to ten. We got Stilling’s money just before cut-off time. That was almost a million.”

Tony Stevens grinned. A hint of white showed. “Got the fucker. He was so damned tough. I didn’t think we’d see anything out of him or that shrew of a wife of his. Christ, what a pair. He reminded me of a pig farmer every time I saw him. I think it’s because he looked like a pig. Ugly bastard. And his wife, what a total bitch. I don’t think she ever said one nice word to him.”

It was Brand’s turn to smile. “It sounds like you’re happy we got their money.”

“Fucking ecstatic. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer pair of total shitheads.”

“You did well. Ten million.”

“What was the final count in San Fran?”

“Eighteen-five. Most of it from the couple who owned G-cubed.”

Tony whistled. “Eighteen-five. Wow. What was the total?”

“With your extra million coming in just under the wire, about two hundred and twelve.”

Now the man smiled, his teeth visible. They were crooked and the front ones pushed back, like someone had punched him in the face the day his adult teeth came in. “Christ, Robert, we really fucked them, didn’t we?”

“What did you say?” Brand said, his head snapping around, the tone of his voice absolute ice. “What did you call me?”

“Christ, sorry. Edward. Edward Brand. Never our real names. I know the drill. Damn it, that was stupid. Like Mr. Pink and Mr. White and all that shit on Reservoir Dogs. Sorry, Edward.”

Brand cooled. “Okay, Tony. But for Christ’s sake be careful. We use the names until the job is over. It’s the little things that fuck you up. Remember that.”

“Yeah, the little things.”

A silence settled over the balcony, just the slight whisper of wind coming in off the ocean. “Who was your favorite?” Brand asked after a minute.

“What?”

“Reservoir Dogs. Who was your favorite guy?”

“Shit, no doubt about it, Mr. Pink. Loved Steve Buscemi in that movie. Thing about Buscemi I can’t figure out, is why he doesn’t get his teeth fixed. The guy must have enough money by now.”

Edward Brand leaned over the railing and focused on the water. “I liked Mr. Blonde.”

“Yeah, he was cool.”

“They sure fucked up the robbery, though. What a mess. Too much testosterone.”

“And a police informant. That’s where the wheels came off. The snitch.”

Brand shifted slightly and glanced at Stevens. “Yeah, the snitch.” He was silent for a minute, then said, “You know, Tony, we’ve got a lot of people in the know on this one. Crews in New York, San Fran and six other cities. That’s a lot of people.”

“What are you saying?” Tony asked, concerned.

“Nothing. Just wondering how long we can keep expanding before one of our key people is on the wrong side.”

“Shit, that would be bad. Really bad.”

“Yeah. Worse than bad. We’d have to take care of them.”

Tony Stevens wasn’t smiling now. “Kill them?”

Brand finished his coffee and looked north to the mountains. The view from the upscale neighborhood of Kitsilano was stunning. The skyline of Greater Vancouver was framed against Mount Seymour and directly across English Bay was Stanley Park, lush green resting on the tranquil waters of the Pacific Ocean. He took a deep breath and tasted the salt air. When he answered the other man’s question, it was in a soft voice, but one that was unmistakably serious.

“Yes, Tony. We’d have to kill them.”