Читать книгу Final Deposit - Lisa Harris, Lisa Harris - Страница 9

Whoever said that love of money was the root of all evil had never experienced the financial benefits of working a long con.

Leaning against the light post outside his London flat, Abraham Omah nodded at the familiar face of a woman as she jogged past, iPod on her arm, Windbreaker zipped up to block the April chill. She smiled at him as he took a drag off his cigarette, and then flicked the ashes onto the sidewalk. She was definitely worth pursuing, but she’d have to be a prize for another day. He had more pressing things to consider at the moment.

His lips curled into a grin at the thought of George Taylor. Contact with Mr. Taylor had grown into daily online chats, e-mails and even an occasional phone call charged to the American’s bill. It continued to amaze him how trusting people could be. Throw out the tempting lure of easy money and watch the gullible jump headfirst into the game.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. Anyone that naive deserved what they got.

A taxi driver blared his horn as he sped down the narrow roadway congested with other cars, buses and bikers. Abraham tossed his cigarette onto the sidewalk and then sprinted up the flight of stairs to the two-bedroom flat. He loved the noise of the city, the heavy scent of exhaust from the morning rush hour that mingled with a hint of curry from the Indian restaurant across the street, and even the unpredictable spring weather. He’d come a long way from the slums of north London where he’d grown up.

He slammed the front door shut, then settled in at his computer with a cup of hot coffee and a slice of leftover pizza. The way things were progressing with Mr. Taylor, he’d soon be able to invite Miss iPod to dinner at the Crowne Plaza to celebrate. He clicked open his e-mail, anxious to read Mr. Taylor’s response to his latest request, this one for seven thousand dollars to be wired to Abraham’s account to cover the remaining transfer fees the bank had imposed. A final payment, he promised.

He scanned his in-box.

Nothing.

Abraham frowned. Normally George Taylor was prompt in his replies. If he’d decided to pull out…

Abraham gripped the edges of the keyboard and fought to stop a wave of panic. No. He would stay calm and wait—years of training had taught him that. It took months to gain people’s trust so that they were willing to mortgage their homes, take cash advances off their credit cards, sell their cars and even steal. He just needed to be patient.

Abraham blew out a long, slow breath. He had to reassure Mr. Taylor that everything was still on track, and that his help was essential to the success of the deal.

The retired Dallas engineer had already wired him thousands of dollars to cover various bogus transaction fees. Abraham had assured him that paying these fees would release assets worth millions once belonging to a dead government official from West Africa. The deal would go through, Abraham told himself—Mr. Taylor had invested too much to simply back out now.

He began drafting another e-mail. The con was far from over. Mr. Taylor deserved the chance to see the money himself. Soon, it would be waiting in a hotel room in London in a silver suitcase, with hired guards on each side. Abraham’s smile returned. Thirty-one million dollars in cash wasn’t all that would be waiting for George Taylor.