20. Griffin
GRIFFIN
A fter our train adventure, Elodie and I arrived in St. Moritz with just enough time for me to be fitted with my spy gear.
A nearly invisible earpiece that makes me feel like I have a mosquito permanently lodged in my ear canal.
Agents Bruderlin and Showalter are in a secret room guiding me through tonight’s events along with a professional poker player named Victor Hahn.
“Ready?” Elodie asks, adjusting my bow tie. She’s acting far too familiar for my taste, but I suppose that’s the undercover ruse.
“As ready as a goalie facing a five-on-three power play,” I mutter.
She smiles like she understands the reference, but I know she doesn’t. “Remember, I’ll be right beside you. Your lady luck.”
Our tournament is in a private room in the Casino St. Moritz. Two men guard a set of mahogany doors. They check our invitations, then step aside to let us enter.
The space is intimate but imposing. Dark wood paneling, plush carpet that swallows sound, and at its center, a sunken area with a large oval table covered in green felt. A bar wraps along the far side.
A man in a tailored suit approaches us. “Mr. McGregor, we’ve been expecting you. I am Joseph, the floor manager. The game begins in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” I say as Joseph directs us farther into the room.
My earpiece crackles to life. “Testing, testing. Griffin, this is Agent Showalter. Can you hear me?”
I give a subtle nod, hoping the camera they’ve told me about catches it.
“Good. Don’t respond verbally unless you’re alone. Just scratch your chin if you understand.”
I reach up casually and scratch my chin.
“Perfect. We’re all set. The cameras are operational.”
Eight players are already seated, each with a small mountain of chips before them.
And there, at the far end, sits Malcolm Chase, looking like the cat that ate the canary, washed it down with cream, and is now eyeing the goldfish.
His silver-flecked hair is slicked back, and his eyes narrow when they land on me.
He adjusts his gold cufflinks and gives me a smile laced with vitriol.
“Ah, McGregor,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, channeling every ounce of confidence I’ve ever felt making a save in overtime.
The floor manager gestures to the one empty chair. “Mister McGregor, if you please.”
Elodie gives my arm a squeeze. “For luck,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my cheek that feels like a branding iron.
To Malcolm’s right sits a Middle Eastern man with a beard trimmed like a topiary. He nods at me with cool assessment.
Next to him is the only woman at the table. A statuesque blonde with ice-blue eyes. She wears a simple black dress with a diamond choker. She kind of reminds me of Uma Thurman.
“That’s Katarina Volkov,” whispers the voice in my ear. “Russian oil heiress. Don’t let her looks deceive you.”
On my left, a young Korean man is lounging back in his chair, thumbs flying over his phone’s screen.
“The man on your left is Ye-jun Song. Social media influencer. All he does is travel around the world playing in poker tournaments. That’s pretty much his full-time job.”
A gaggle of young Korean women (probably his entourage), watch him from across the room. Also glued to their phones.
And then, I notice the man taking his seat across from me looking impeccably British in a tailored suit.
He’s the guy from the gala who danced with Anika.
The one who took off with her and sent her through that secret passageway.
He catches my eye and gives me a barely perceptible nod. I don’t like him. Not one bit.
Joseph, the floor manager, begins his spiel.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the game is no-limit Texas hold ’em. Five communal cards, two in the hole. Buy-in has been confirmed at ten million euros per player.”
Ten million euros. Right. Totally fine. With nothing but plaques and chips stacked up in front of me, I can just pretend it’s not real.
Joseph presents himself on top of the landing. “The banker, Monsieur Gerhardt, represents Credit Suisse and will be holding the stakes in escrow.”
A thin man with wire-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding a sleek metal briefcase.
“Good evening. I will be overseeing the funds for tonight’s game.
” He places the briefcase on a small table beside the floor manager.
“Each player has deposited ten million euros. Additional buy-ins of five million will be available by electronic transfer only. The funds will remain in escrow until the winner enters their password into the secure terminal.”
He opens the briefcase, revealing a computer screen and keyboard. “The winner’s funds will be transferred to any account of their choosing upon verification of their personal password.”
He turns to the table. “We will proceed alphabetically. Mr. Chase, please be the first to enter your password.”
Malcolm stands and approaches the briefcase. Gerhardt turns it away from prying eyes as Malcolm types. I catch a slight smirk on his face as he finishes.
“Monsieur Durand,” the banker calls next.
The man who danced with Anika stands up.
So that’s his name. Unless he’s operating under a secret cover.
Not that it matters to me. Whoever he really is will have the pleasure of getting acquainted with my fist later tonight.
I shoot laser eyes into the back of his head as he hunches over to type in his password.
Elodie takes her place behind my chair, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. Her perfume is too strong for my taste. I prefer a woman with a natural scent.
My mind flashes to Anika. How her eyes crinkle when she laughs, how she brandished that trout the first time we met. What would she think if she could see me now?
“Mr. McGregor,” the banker announces, snapping me back to reality.
I approach the briefcase, staring at the keyboard. What would a super-spy use as a password? What would be impossible to guess?
“Remember, something you can recall under pressure,” Showalter whispers in my ear.
My fingers hover over the keys. Then I smile, thinking of Anika and type: H-O-P-P-S-C-H-W-I-I-Z
“Password accepted,” the banker confirms.
I return to my seat, my heart hammering against my ribs like a slap shot. The chips in front of me represent more money than I’ve ever seen in one place. And somehow, I’m supposed to win it all while pretending I know what I’m doing.
“Breathe, McGregor,” Showalter says. “We’ve got your back.”
Once all the players have entered their passwords, the dealer announces, “The game will commence momentarily.”
“Remember,” Elodie whispers in my ear, her breath warm against my skin. “Everyone has a tell. Find it.”
“The man to your right is Cletus Beauregard,” Showalter informs me through the earpiece. “A Texan business mogul known for aggressive betting when he has middle pairs.”
I glance at the stern-faced man with a Stetson cowboy hat, who nods curtly.
Then the dealer begins to shuffle.
“Blinds, please,” the dealer announces. “Small blind, five thousand. Big blind, ten thousand.”
I glance down at my chips, stacked in neat columns.
“Don’t worry,” Showalter says. “We’ve got eyes on everyone’s cards. Just follow our lead.”
The dealer slides two cards face down in front of me.
“Good luck, gentlemen,” Chase says, raising his glass of scotch. “May the best man…or woman…win.”
Or the man with the best surveillance equipment, I think.
“Play conservatively,” Victor, the poker expert instructs. “Fold early. We’re establishing your pattern.”
I peek at my cards: seven of clubs, two of diamonds. Garbage.
“Fold,” Victor confirms.
I toss my cards face down before the betting even reaches me. Durand studies me briefly, then returns his attention to his own hand.
The next hand brings me a queen and a jack, both hearts.
“Call the big blind, nothing more,” Victor says through the earpiece.
I push forward chips worth one hundred thousand euros. The flop comes: Ten of hearts, Ace of spades, Three of diamonds.
“Check and fold if there’s a raise.”
I check. Katarina bets two hundred thousand. I fold, even though I had a potential straight draw. The woman smiles thinly at me.
“Good,” whispers Victor. “Let them think you’re cautious.”
The dealer shuffles the cards and deals again.
I lift the corner of my cards just enough to see an Ace of hearts and a King of diamonds.
“Big slick,” whispers Victor in my ear. “Raise three times the big blind.”
I push forward a stack of chips. “Thirty thousand.”
Malcolm’s eyes flicker to mine, assessing. The Russian heiress folds immediately. The Middle Eastern man calls. Malcolm raises to fifty thousand.
“Call,” the voice instructs. “Don’t show too much strength yet.”
I match Malcolm’s bet, and we watch as the dealer lays down the flop: Queen of hearts, Jack of hearts, Seven of clubs.
“You’ve got a straight draw and a flush draw,” Victor says. “Check and see what Chase does.”
I tap the table. Malcolm bets seventy-five thousand.
“Call again. You’ve got too many outs to fold.”
The turn card is the Ten of Hearts. I now have a royal flush draw. The best possible hand if another heart comes, or a King or Ace.
“Check again,” instructs Victor. “Let him hang himself.”
I check. Malcolm pushes forward a stack of red chips. “One hundred fifty thousand.”
“Raise to three hundred thousand,” says Victor. “Show some aggression.”
I count out the chips and slide them forward. Malcolm’s eyebrow twitches. Oh! That’s the first tell I’ve seen from him.
The river card is the Nine of Hearts.
“Call,” the voice says without hesitation.
I push my chips forward. “I call.”
Malcolm studies me for a long moment, then folds his cards face down. The dealer pushes the pot toward me, and I rake in the chips, trying not to smile too broadly.
“You’re doing great,” Elodie whispers, her hand squeezing my shoulder. “Keep it up.”
That’s when the room seems to shift on its axis.