The Bad Beat

14

Check fraud used to be the most popular form of financial malfeasance for low-level crooks with high-level ambitions. The easiest way to perpetuate this crime involved rental properties. A person would put on a nice outfit, rent a Mercedes, maybe even bring along some arm candy with a fake wedding ring to fill out the picture, and then the con man would make deposits on several medium-priced rental properties in a weekend, but only those that were being shown by the owners, not by real estate agents, so that no one would bother to check his credit. This was back when people assumed that if you had a Mercedes you had a good credit score.

It also used to be harder for real people to check someone’s credit or even a person’s simple identity. It took time and money, not like today where a simple Google search can usually reveal enough about a person for one to decide whether or not he’s a dirtbag. A savvy con man would pony up a check for the security deposit and the first month’s rent, maybe even a pet deposit, and hand-deliver it to the owner on a Saturday at four p.m. Everyone would shake hands. The owner would run off to his bank and deposit the check, only to learn on Monday that the new renter’s mother had died, or his wife had died, or maybe the renter himself had suddenly developed terminal cancer, and thus would ask to get his money back. Normal people have a hard time saying no to death and/or terminal cancer. The owner of the property would promptly write a check to the mournful owner, they’d shake hands and the owner would walk back into his home feeling like he’d done the right thing.

Of course, the con man’s check hadn’t cleared yet, probably wouldn’t clear for five to seven days, since if the con man was really smart, his stolen checks were from out of state, which would cause a longer hold and a longer processing time, all to figure out that the check was a fugazis all along. But the empathetic homeowner wouldn’t know that for many days.

The con man would take the owner’s check directly to the owner’s bank, cash it, and be off into the world, thousands of dollars richer.

It was a solid con for a very long time. Until people stopped writing checks. Until people started checking the identities of not just people they were doing business with, but every person they encountered, usually out of simple interest. Meet a person on the street, find them interesting or alluring, and two clicks later you’re looking at their vacation photos on Facebook, know where they went to kindergarten, elementary school, high school, junior college, college and whatever other clickable institution of learning one can imagine. In short, an entire involuntary database that can tell you whether or not the person you’re interested in is to be trusted with even your phone number.

So the world has become more cautious and, for the most part, no one accepts a check for a large purchase without first getting a DNA swab from the inside of your cheek, at least metaphorically speaking.

Except for charitable organizations. Charitable organizations accept checks every single day because they are created to be generous and forgiving. If you write a bad check to a charity, your karma suffers, but they usually won’t have you arrested. It just isn’t a charitable thing to do.

And when you show up with a cashier’s check for a million dollars, they tend to really turn on their warm and caring side. Or at least that’s what I was hoping would happen when I walked into the Moldovan Consulate with that check in my hand. Plus, warm and caring people tend not to blanch when you ask them to take you on a tour of their facility, even if they’re preparing for a black-tie gala.

So after Barry came back with the cashier’s check for me, I brought Sugar back to my loft and called Sam to let him know that I’d need a chauffeured ride over to the Moldovan Consulate. Preferably a chauffeur with a gun, if need be.

“What kind of car?” Sam asked.

“Big and American,” I said. “Something we can all fit in tonight.”

“Mikey,” Sam said, “you realize that the potential for snafus tonight is high.”

“I realize that,” I said.

“So, in that light, what are you going to do with Sugar?”

“I thought I’d have him sit in the car with the engine running,” I said.

“I like that idea,” Sam said. “You’re not thinking of arming him, are you?”

I was in my kitchen and Sugar was sitting at my counter watching YouTube videos of people getting smacked in the groin.

“No,” I said. I smiled at Sugar and then walked outside to my landing, where I wouldn’t have to hear Sugar’s cinema verite. “What do you have on Drubich and his ties to Moldova?”

“My sources tell me his mother is actually from there,” Sam said, “and that while he is Ukrainian he keeps a vacation home in beautiful Chisinau, where he regularly spends his afternoons reading Tolstoy in Stefan cel Mare Central Park.”

“He’ll have plenty of time to read at Leavenworth,” I said. “Where’d you get this?”

“I called the Moldovan Consulate and asked them how they could be so brash as to honor a dirty Ukrainian,” he said. “Except I said it in a really bad Russian accent. They transferred me to a very nice woman in the press office named Reva, who informed me that Mr. Drubich has deep, inalienable ties to the area and that in addition to all the time he’s spent sitting in the park reading, he also found time to meet his wife in Moldova, too, when they were both just children, which is why he’s so committed to the education of Moldova’s young ones.”

“What a heartwarming story,” I said.

“They didn’t mention anything about him earning most of his money selling technology to terrorists, but I thought that was probably just an oversight.”

“Maybe mention that in your speech,” I said. “See if he’s able to pat himself on the back with his arm in a cast.”

It would be harder still in a few days when he was wearing a waist chain, too, if I had any say in things.

An hour later, Sam and I pulled up in front of the consulate building (in a black Navigator Sam assured me was loaned to him by a very close friend who’d parked it in long-term parking at the Miami Airport) and parked in a space that was marked NO PARKING-RESERVED TONIGHT ONLY FOR MR. SIGAL. I was fairly certain that Mr. Sigal, whoever he was, wasn’t going to show up six hours early for anything, so his parking space seemed safe. If you’re important enough to have a one-night-only reserved parking spot, after all, you’re probably the kind of person who shows up right when the Chicken Kiev is being served and not a moment sooner.

“Mikey,” Sam said, “are you sure you should go in there alone?”

“We can’t risk both of us being seen ahead of time,” I said. “Besides, I want you listening in on those bugs I placed in Odessa.”

“Thus far, it’s just been a lot of people remarking on how good the butter cookies are when paired with the Prince Vladimir tea,” Sam said. “Unless that’s someone speaking in code.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I got out of the Navigator and examined the street in front of the consulate. Even though it was hours before the event, already a valet service was getting set up at the corner, which meant it was going to be difficult to have a getaway car parked right where we’d need it, so I had to hope a million dollars was enough to get me a reserved space for the evening.

Unlike the consulates you might see in Washington, DC, or even Los Angeles or New York-the kind of big, ornate structures that announced the presence of an entire country, or at least the presence of a few key government and goodwill officials who were, most likely, spies themselves-the building that housed the Moldovan Consulate was more like a building that happened to house several very nice law firms, which in this case were called the Isle of Man, Morocco, Antigua and Moldova. There was a security presence in the outer foyer where three very large men who looked bored and tired and hot sat stuffed behind a sunken circular desk. All three wore black suits with white shirts and blue ties, and gold name badges, though no actual badges. They each had Bluetooth earpieces and matching BlackBerrys strapped to their belts, but no guns. Surrounding the men in the sunken area were a dozen closed-circuit televisions showing alternating shots of all sides of the building, including one that showed Sam sitting in his new Navigator. There were also several laptop computers open on the desk. One was running a program that controlled the closed-circuit cameras: Three of them showed open Facebook pages, two were on ESPN. com and the other one I could see appeared to be running an in-progress game of solitaire.

Behind the men and the security console was a bank of elevators that were guarded by yet another large, bored, tired, and sweaty gentleman. The only difference I could see between this man and the others was that he had a key card around his neck on a chain, which probably meant he had to scan visitors in who wished to go upstairs to the various consulate offices. That he also was holding a clipboard made it all the more clear that he was a man of terrible importance, at least in this ecosystem.

To the left of the security console, there were several tables being set up in front of the grand entrance to a surprisingly ornate ballroom that I could see was filled with people dressing tables and such. A woman with a walkie-talkie in one hand stood in the middle of the ballroom and barked out orders, first in English and then in Russian and then, for good measure, in Spanish. I couldn’t make out what she said exactly, but the general thrust was clear from the way the workers suddenly picked up their pace. Somewhere in the building food was being prepared. Prime rib. Something made primarily of garlic. A million-dollar meal, no doubt.

“May I help you?” one of the security guards asked. He had an accent that sounded vaguely British, but not like he grew up in Leeds. His name tag said MR. CHISOLM and beneath that THE ISLE OF MAN. I looked at the other two guards and saw that they were Mr. Plutak and Mr. Reigor, from Moldova and Antigua, respectively. Morocco must have been guarding the elevators.

“Yes,” I said. “My name is Dr. Liam Bennington. I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, but I’d like to purchase a table for this evening’s benefit.”

“All of that is handled by the consulate’s press office,” Mr. Chisolm said. He began clicking away at the computer directly to his left, one of the Facebook-enabled ones, but nothing seemed to be happening, perhaps because it was on a page of photos of a young woman. “I’m sorry, sir. Just give me a moment.” He kept clicking, but all that was happening, as far as I could see, was that he kept letting everyone on the planet know that he was quite fond of a photo of the young woman standing in front of the Empire State Building. “Bloody hell,” he said under his breath.

I pointed at the computer. “Is that your wife?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “That’s the problem, sir.”

“Is it Reva who handles this? If so, I can find my way upstairs while you untangle this.”

“Oh, that would be a relief,” he said. He scribbled my name on a guest pass. “Just show this at the lift.”

I gave Mr. Chisolm a two-fingered salute and headed off to the elevator, where I showed my pass to the guard from Morocco, who barely looked at it before swiping his key card and hitting the UP button.

“Fourth floor?” I said.

“Third,” he said. Morocco had no accent at all and his name badge said CAPTAIN TIMMONS on it. I was right. A man of power. And a man without a country, apparently, since his name badge didn’t actually say MOROCCO beneath his name. What he was the captain of was anyone’s guess. “You are seeing?”

“Reva,” I said.

He finally lifted his head up and I saw that he was older than the other guards-where they were in their late twenties or early thirties, he was clearly in his late forties or early fifties. “Reva is the Mary of Moldova. What department?”

“Press office.”

“Oh, oh,” he said, with a laugh. “That’s Ms. Lohr. Ask for her by that name or else you’ll be greeted by eleven different women.”

“Could be worse,” I said.

“Don’t I know it,” he said. He looked down at my pass. “Dr. Bennington. What are you a doctor of?”

“What hurts?” I said. Another laugh. Just two old friends waiting for an elevator. “I’m a scientist, I’m afraid. I can’t get you any medication but I can get you an excellent deal on a Bunsen burner.”

Captain Timmons slapped me on the back. “Some days, a Bunsen burner would be just fine, if you know what I mean. Place it over one of the fire detectors and get me off early before all the fuss gets started here.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be part of that fuss tonight,” I said.

“Oh, you’re fine,” he said. The elevator doors opened then and I stepped in. “It’s all those Russians with machine guns that make me nervous.”

The doors closed in front of Captain Timmons and for a brief moment I was alone with his final observation. If I were still a spy, a full-time spy, I could have defused this whole situation in a much easier fashion. I would have placed a call to my handler in DC, told him about this poor kid wrapped up in a situation beyond his comprehension, and asked if there wasn’t something that could be done. My handler would call his counterparts in Ukraine and Moldova; they’d both probably be ex-KGB agents grown fat and happy on Yuri Drubich’s graft, but they would be able to see the value in averting an international situation. They would call Yuri personally and ask him to please stop tormenting a child and his crazy father and Yuri, ever the statesman, would say certainly, I will certainly do that, and it would be over.

But what I also knew was that one day Brent Grayson would die in a terrible, unexplainable car accident. Or one day Brent Grayson would be the victim of an apparently senseless home invasion robbery gone terribly wrong. Or maybe it wouldn’t be Brent Grayson at all. Maybe it would be his wife, a woman Brent didn’t even know yet, who would be walking down the street on her way to her job, or maybe she’d be walking her dog, or maybe she’d be pushing a stroller with their baby in it, and then suddenly she’d be on the ground, a bullet in her head. And then she’d be a statistic. An unsolved murder.

I never liked bureaucrats anyway.

So instead, I would catch Yuri doing what our own government somehow hadn’t managed to do during all the years he’d been in business. I’d set him up for the same kind of bad beat Henry Grayson had taken so many times before: a sure thing, a favorite, that ends up being the worst possible bet. And maybe Yuri would be put away forever. Or maybe he’d have favors to cash in down the line that would set him free, but I’d catch him in such a public forum that it would be impossible for him to ever set foot in America.

And if that didn’t work? Well, I’d let Fiona shoot him. Because if what I was planning didn’t work, that might be our only way out, though the idea of going Old West in a foreign consulate didn’t excite me.

The elevator doors opened directly into the reception area of the Moldovan Consulate. It was an airy and open space-windows went from floor to ceiling and the view stretched all the way to the water, or it would if the afternoon haze hadn’t already begun to roll in-and because Moldova had no natural enemies in the United States, that they knew of, anyway, there was none of the implied military presence (like armed men lingering about doing very little of anything but looking intimidating) that one might find at the Pakistani Embassy.

Instead, there was a reception desk behind which a young woman sat reading a copy of InStyle, the distinctive blue, yellow and red flag of her home country emblazoned behind her in an ornate frame. There was also a framed photo of a man in a suit, who I assumed was the last president of the country, though it could have been anyone, really, since their last elections had been plagued by fighting between upstart Communists and the loose group of opposition parties and had failed to yield a new leader. If this had been a few years ago, I would have known the precise reasons behind all of it. I may have even played a role. These are things I used to care deeply about. Things I just can’t summon any feeling for anymore.

I told the receptionist that I was there to see Ms. Lohr because I was interested in purchasing a table for the evening. The receptionist said, “Yes?”

And I said, “Yes.”

She exhaled through her nose and rolled her eyes ever so slightly as she stood up, as if this was going to be the annoying and time-consuming task of her day. She led me down a brightly lit hallway, past a small cubicle farm filled with young Moldovans who barely looked up as I walked by. The cubicle farm was surrounded by offices, none of which had open doors, which was either a fantastic metaphor for life in Moldova or, more likely, a statement that the leadership keeps its own hours, which was made clear enough by the computer screens I spied here, too, which were largely on Twitter. I had to hope no one would tweet that a burned spy just walked by.

The receptionist, who walked at a pace that would make a slug frustrated if it were following her, finally brought me into a conference room that featured the same framed Moldovan flag and presidential picture as the reception area, only smaller, and an executive-length conference table that was covered in stacks and stacks of programs bearing Yuri Drubich’s face, presumably ready to be taken downstairs, and a water and tea service.

“It will be a moment,” the receptionist said and left me alone for another ten minutes until the woman with the walkie-talkie I saw downstairs ordering the troops about stepped into the conference room and essentially fell into one of the chairs. She was dressed in a finely tailored Chanel skirt suit. It was gray and she wore a white shirt beneath it that was open far enough to reveal a demure single-diamond necklace. Her hair was professionally done, but it was obvious by the way her bangs stuck to her forehead that she was having a long, stressful day.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Dr. Bennington,” she said. “The security, they do not bother to find out where in the building anyone is, so we must go running around blindly half of the day when we have guests.” Her irritation with the guards seemed outsized and apparently she realized that, too, because she quickly added, “I’m sorry. They do a good job. I am at the end of a rope that was already much frayed and you are not here to listen to me complain about having a good job, yes?”

Reva had only a slight Russian accent but still hung on to some of the charms of her language, ending a sentence that was not a question with a rhetorical question no less.

“Why don’t you have a glass of water?” I said. I stood up and poured her a glass and then handed it to her. “Everything feels better once you’ve had a glass of water. My mother taught me that.”

Reva took the glass from me without a word and drank it down and then she smiled, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. Another sign she hadn’t lived in Moldova her entire life. That or her insurance plan at the consulate had a strong dental component. “Your mother is very smart,” she said. Her walkie-talkie squawked but instead of answering it, she set it on the table and made a big show of turning it off. “You are a doctor? Is that correct?”

“A scientist,” I said. “My company, InterMacron, will be much in the news soon.”

“Science I was never good at,” she said. “I am a people person, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. But I have always been fascinated with people who understand how the smallest things on the planet can open up the biggest secrets.”

“Like Mr. Drubich,” I said.

“Like Mr. Drubich,” she said. “He is a remarkable man. Have you had the chance to meet him?”

“I am hoping to tonight,” I said, “but I have admired his work from afar for many years.”

“He is most remarkable,” she said, “a man of science but also of great faith and erudition.”

I pointed at the photo on the cover of the program. “And a family man, too,” I said.

“He met his wife in Moldova when they were just children,” she said, “and they’ve been married now thirty years.”

“We should all be so lucky,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” she said. I saw her quickly gaze down at my left hand, and when she looked back up, I was staring directly at her, which made her blush, but I didn’t look away.

“I’ve not been so lucky,” I said.

“Your mother must be upset about that,” she said.

“Among other things,” I said.

This got Reva to laugh again. She was an attractive woman, but she wasn’t Fiona. For the purposes of my needs that day, however, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“I’m sorry,” Reva said. “You must be a very busy man and here I am going on about silly things.”

“Stop apologizing,” I said. “You’ve apologized to me three times and I’ve only known you five minutes. I’m beginning to think this relationship will be built on regret.”

Reva cleared her throat, but that didn’t help her blushing. “I’m sor…” she began, but caught herself just in time. “You wanted to buy a table?”

“I do,” I said.

“For how many?”

I handed her the check. “There will be only five of us, unless you’d like to join our table,” I said, “but I think this should cover it.”

“Dr. Bennington,” she said, “this is a check for a million dollars, yes?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “My company has great faith in Mr. Drubich. We would like, if you do not mind, to present him with a copy of the check this evening.”

“A copy?”

“We’ll have one made that will be large enough for everyone to see when we present it to him.”

“Like,” Reva paused, searching for what this was like. “Like, the Publishers Clearing House?”

“Similar,” I said, “but Ed McMahon won’t be able to make it.”

“And you do not know Mr. Drubich?”

“Not personally. But my company and his company are about to embark on a very significant project together. I have sadly been in Zurich tending to business there and haven’t been able to meet with him, though my people tell me, as you have, that he is a rare human being. Have you been to Zurich?”

“No,” she said.

“We should go,” I said. “It would be good for you. You need less stress. Zurich removes the stress from your every pore.” Reva seemed flustered by all of this- that I was hitting on her as if my name were Sam Axe and also that she held a check in her hand for a million dollars-so I reached over and touched her hand. “I would like to keep this secret until tonight, Reva. Do you mind if I call you by your first name, Reva?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, call me my first name.”

“Reva,” I said, “we’d like this to be a surprise for Mr. Drubich.”

“Of course, of course,” she said. “Is there anything we can do to help facilitate this?”

“It would mean a great deal to me if we could have a table near to Mr. Drubich’s. And a reserved parking spot out front. Will there be press at this event?”

“We’ve invited the local stations and reporters, but I’m afraid what we do here in the consulate is not as exciting as what happens on South Beach.”

“A shame,” I said. “This would be good for Moldova. Particularly in light of your troubled election situation back home, don’t you think?”

Reva considered what I said. “I could make another round of calls, yes?”

“It couldn’t hurt,” I said. “Get your name in the paper back home, perhaps, too.”

“I make my home here now,” she said. “Much warmer than Moldova. I’ve learned that winter isn’t something I need, yes?”

“I agree,” I said. “And the sun suits your skin. And your eyes.”

I let that hang there for a moment.

“I should tell you I’m seeing someone,” she said. She fingered the diamond necklace around her neck.

“That’s good for him. You must make him very happy. Does he let you speak on the phone?”

“No one tells me what I can do,” Reva said.

“I’m happy to hear that. Perhaps then I could call you?” I said. “We could talk about less formal things than money and science.”

Reva didn’t answer right away. Probably because she actually loved the man who gave her that lovely necklace. And probably because she wasn’t used to someone being as direct as I was being. Or maybe she just liked my Hugo Boss suit. “There is nothing wrong with talking, yes?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

Reva took out a pen and wrote her phone number on the back of her business card. Her official title was director of international media affairs. A good job title. One she would probably lose for all of this.

She excused herself for a moment and came back with a stack of papers for me to fill out. The first was just the names of those who’d be attending the event that evening and the rest were more formal documents, namely those the Treasury Department would want to see when their full investigation began.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I should have my CFO handle all of this. I am good with science but lousy with tax ID numbers.”

“That is not a problem,” Reva said. “Bring them back tonight.”

“You should deposit the check, however,” I said. “That would be an expensive piece of paper to lose track of.”

“Oh, we will, certainly,” she said. “I will take it to the bank personally and immediately draw a check for Mr. Drubich’s trust.”

It was certain, then, that she’d lose her job.

“Reva,” I said, “have you ever thought of working somewhere other than the consulate?”

“Are you offering me a position with InterMacron?”

“No, no,” I said. “No business and pleasure. But you should see about other opportunities. You’re better than this job.”

Her hand went up to her throat again, to that necklace, which made me wonder if maybe the man who gave her the diamond also gave her the job.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course,” I said.

She got up then and closed the door to the conference room and then sat back down and scooted her chair closer to mine, so that she was only inches from me.

“I have always wanted to model,” she said. “Do you think I could model?”

And suddenly Reva Lohr, the director of international media affairs for a foreign government, was just like every other woman in Miami. Every woman who wasn’t Fiona, at least.

“You could be on runways in Milan tomorrow,” I said.

“My boyfriend, he says, ‘You are professional, why do you want to be a walking doll?’ And I say, ‘I want to be admired, just like anyone.’ And clothes, I could make clothes, too. Be a model who designs. And I would also like to be on a reality show. The one with Mr. Trump. I saw him once at a restaurant here. So smart, that man.”

I smiled at Reva. It hurt to do so. It made me wonder how Sam did it on a daily basis just for drinks and chicken wings. I decided to go all in.

“Don is a personal friend. I’ll see what I can do.” I stood then and so did Reva. “One other thing, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Would it be possible to get a private room downstairs to prep our surprise prior to the event?”

“Of course,” she said. “Yes, yes, of course. We have a salon you could use. Just tell the security guards when you arrive and they will show you to it. And I’d be happy to provide any kind of, how do you say, concierge service you might need.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I said. I took Reva’s hand in mine and raised it to my lips and kissed it lightly. “It was my pleasure to meet you today. I feel it was fated.”

When I made it back to the Navigator a few minutes later with an envelope filled with paperwork that I would need Barry to forge, Sam had an earplug in and was writing notes furiously on a pad.

“You got something on the bug?” I said.

“Yeah, Mikey, it’s alive in that place right now,” he said. “I now have a complete recipe for what are supposedly the best cream-cheese-and-bacon sandwiches the Red Hat club of Coral Gables has ever had. You fare any better?”

“We’ll have our own parking space,” I said. “And you’re going to get to hand-deliver a huge replica check to Yuri Drubich.”

“I may wear Kevlar tonight,” he said.

“Might be a good idea.”

As we pulled away, I took out my phone and made a call to Monty. “It’s set up for tonight,” I said.

“Excellent,” he said. “And will Mr. Grayson be taking Mr. McGregor up on his offers?”

“Number ten for sure,” I said. “The rest, I can’t tell you.”

There was silence on the line for a moment and then Monty said, “It’s a very generous offer. He would be silly not to take it.”

“He’s not like you and he’s not like me,” I said. “Though I understand he does appreciate a nice hot stone massage.” Not a sound escaped from Monty, so I said, “Do you have an account where Yuri’s money can be safely wired?”

“Yes,” he said after a while. “You will be doing this or will Barry?”

“Barry,” I said.

“Iceland is fine with him?”

“Indeed,” I said and he gave me the information.

“This account will be locked by tomorrow at six a.m.,” Monty said. “And I will be gone shortly thereafter. I need all of Mr. Grayson’s answers well before that time.”

“You’ll have them,” I said.

“And Mr. Westen? Mr. McGregor instructed me that he’d prefer cash for the debts owed by your brother.”

“Tell him to call me, then,” I said and hung up.

I made one last call, this one to Odessa, which I put on speaker. “Mr. Drubich, please,” I said to the woman who answered.

“There is no one by that name here,” she said.

“Tell him it’s Big Lumpy’s people and make it fast, honey,” I said. Instead of hanging up on me, the woman put me on hold and for the next few minutes I was serenaded by Neil Diamond welcoming me to America. Just when I was thinking that the irony of his Muzak system would be forever lost on Yuri, he picked up the line.

“You have two minutes,” he said, so I did the only reasonable thing and hung up.

“Short conversation,” Sam said.

“He’ll call me back,” I said.

“I thought I was Big Lumpy now,” Sam said.

“You are,” I said, “physically.” Sure enough, my phone began to ring. “I just thought I’d cover the intimidationby-phone angle, but if it means that much to you, go right ahead.”

“Nah, Mikey,” he said. “You know I like to hear you outsmart people until they get so frustrated they order out hit squads. It’s one of my small pleasures in life these days.”

I answered the phone by saying, “I’m sorry. We must have had a bad connection. I couldn’t make out what you said before.”

“I know your organization,” Yuri said. “I know your reputation and it means nothing to me. Do you understand that?”

“That’s great,” I said. “I have the technology that you want and I have the boy and I have his father. Do you understand that?”

“I want the boy dead,” he said.

“Well, then, you’re going to be out a bunch of money for nothing, because I won’t let you kill him. What I am happy to do, however, is get you some death certificates for both of them if it would help you with your investors. I’ve got the information you need, all of the specs you’ve asked for and more. You’ll be running bandwidth over the wind in three months. Bedouins will think you’re some kind of god. They’ll probably erect statues of you all over Chad. But you’re not killing a kid. I just won’t let that happen. Now he’ll apologize, and you’ll get to meet his crazy father, too, but I’m not having you chopping off his head just because he’s smarter than you. You want to pretend to kill him, I have the ability to make that happen.”

Sam looked at me like I was nuts, and on the other end of the line, Yuri Drubich must have thought the same.

“What is the price of the technology?” Yuri said finally.

“Six million, American.”

“That is insane without a working model,” he said.

“Mr. Drubich, you’re a smart person, so I’m going to make this simple for you. If there were a working model, you wouldn’t have to pay six million dollars for this information. You’d be able to drive out to some wind farm and see it with your own beady eyes and then the technology would be worthless. You don’t trust my information, I say God bless you and have a great day and I’m sorry a nineteen-year-old boy took you to school. You do trust me, we’ll make this happen tonight.”

“Tonight,” he said, “is no good.”

“Tonight is all you have,” I said. “Tomorrow I could be dead. I’m a sick man. Maybe you heard.”

“Maybe you heard that your errand girl broke my wrist,” he said. “I spend all morning at hospital and tonight I have… it doesn’t matter. Tonight is no good.”

“Seven thirty at the Moldovan Consulate. The salon beside the ballroom. Wear something nice,” I said and then rolled down the window in the Navigator and threw the phone into the street, where it was promptly run over. If Yuri was trying to run a trace so he could activate his hit squad, it would be a bit more difficult with the phone in a million little pieces.

“How you planning on getting those death certificates?” Sam asked.

“I thought we’d call your friend Marci,” I said.

“You ready to drive down that road?” Sam asked.

“I think I can handle her,” I said.

“What about Fiona?”

“It will just be dinner,” I said.

“Mikey, I’ve had dinner with her. It’s a full-contact sport. Tore my meniscus last time.”

“I’ll brace myself,” I said.

Sam shook his head, but made the call. When I heard that high-pitched squeal again, I thought once more about how much easier life was when I was just a spy.