Honeymoon

Chapter 11

OKAY, THIS IS WHERE it gets really tricky.

And also really hairy.

The Tourist sat at the corner table inside a Starbucks on West Twenty-third in Chelsea. Just about every table was in use by slackers and moochers, but the environment felt safe and secure. Probably because there were so many moochers and hangarounds; hell, for three dollars and change you ought to get something with your coffee, some added benefit.

The suitcase he had appropriated outside Grand Central was on the floor between his legs, and he already knew a couple of things about it.

One—it was open, not locked.

Two—there were men’s clothes, mostly wrinkled, and a brown leather Dopp kit inside.

Three—the Dopp kit had the usual shaving crap, but also something interesting: a flash drive, a DiskOnKey—one of those USB external storage devices you can attach to any computer. Costs about $99 at CompUSA. The flash drive was what all the trouble was about, wasn’t it? Ironic—it was smaller than his finger.

But the little sucker could hold a lot of information. Obviously, this one did.

The Tourist already had his Mac out. Now came the moment of truth. If he had the guts. Which, it so happened, he did.

Here we go!

He plugged the flash drive into the Mac.

Why did some miserable fat guy have to die for this on Forty-second Street?

The drive icon appeared—E.

The Tourist began a drag and drop of the files stored on the flash drive. Here we go. Here we go, loop-de-loop; here we go, lu-de-lu.

A couple of minutes later the Tourist was ready to look at the files.

Then he stopped himself.

A pretty girl—only with spiked black and crimson hair—was trying to sneak a peek from the next table.

The Tourist finally looked her way. “You know the old joke—I could show you what’s in the file, but then I’d have to kill you.”

The girl smiled. “What about the joke—you show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”

The Tourist laughed back. “You don’t have a laptop.”

“Your loss.” She shrugged, got up from her table, and started to leave. “You’re cute, for such an asshole.”

“Get a haircut,” the Tourist said, and grinned.

Finally he looked back at the computer screen.

Here we go!

What he saw on the screen made sense—sort of. If anything made sense in this crazy world.

The file consisted of names, addresses, names of banks in Switzerland and the Caymans. Offshore accounts.

And amounts.

The Tourist did a quick tally in his head.

Ballpark figure, but close enough.

A little over one point four.

Billion.