Chapter 21
COLE
Iwasn’t lying when I told Kate I couldn’t get married on Wednesday. I have an all-day appointment with a dozen other billionaires.
Barry Lynch was hinting about moving assets to Georgia, but there are plenty of other tax havens.
Traditionally, money gets hidden in the Cayman Islands, in Switzerland, in Monaco.
Oman’s muscling in on the scene, along with Anguilla, Belize, and Montenegro.
All of them have billionaire-friendly taxation schemes—low or nonexistent income tax; capital gains tax; corporate, dividends, and wealth tax.
But I keep a lot of my investments substantially closer to home—at Trap Prince’s Diamond Freeport in Dover, Delaware.
Once a month, Prince treats his wealthiest clients—the Diamond Ring—to an outing.
Activities range from a steak dinner in Prince’s backyard to eighteen holes at Augusta.
If any special equipment is needed—skis, crossbows, motorcycles—Prince foots the bill.
All we clients have to do is arrive by the time specified.
And hire our own lawyers to handle the contracts for whatever business arrangements come out of the gathering.
So, Wednesday morning, my jet touches down at Teterboro a few minutes shy of nine a.m. We’re twelve miles from midtown Manhattan, but it takes more than an hour for Prince’s limos to get us into the city. I don’t know why anyone chooses to live in New York full time.
I find myself in a car with Sawyer Best. He’s considering buying a new satellite communications startup, a company that will support his Sawgrass Inc.
mercenaries in the field. We spend the drive talking about information infrastructure.
I’m happy to give him an hour of free consultation.
Most of my Diamond Ring gambles like that have paid off.
It’s mid-morning by the time all the cars pull up in front of the Javits Convention Center.
Marquee signs announce that the New York International Auto Show begins on Friday.
Prince hands out lanyards branding each of us as Industry Professionals, with full access to the show.
He’s commandeered a suite and lined up a small army of private chefs so we can help ourselves to lunch whenever we’re hungry.
He tells us to be back at the limos by six, so we can all head out to dinner.
The crowd of grown men runs for the doors like kids set loose in a toy store.
Correction: Twelve men run. One woman accompanies us—Fiona Moran, Queen of the Boston mob.
She’s wearing a suit that looks like it cost a thousand dollars and red-soled shoes that probably ran a thousand more, but she beats every one of us to the showroom floor.
After all, she does own a Formula 1 racing team.
I take my time, wandering past some concept cars and exotics. There’s an “experience”, a hands-on display using artificial intelligence to design a new car, and I play around with it for a few minutes, purposely giving it specifications destined to fail.
I’m not car-crazy like most of these guys.
I’m content with my classic Jag, a Bentley Flying Spur, the Camry I drive out to the Andersons, and a Mercedes I picked up a couple of years ago, cheap, from a recently deceased member of the Diamond Ring.
That’s plenty of money sunk into automobiles, but nothing like the garages these other guys maintain.
Maybe that’s because I grew up sneaking my way onto city buses and jumping subway turnstiles. Transportation was something I stole, like most of my other possessions. I didn’t dream about cars; I just wanted to scrounge enough food for Shannon and Nutmeg.
Nutmeg.
It’s been ten days since I last saw her. She vowed to keep in touch, but her promises have a way of evaporating like spilled water in the Sahara. Still, I want her to know I’m getting married—even if that wedding is a loveless business transaction with a woman who despises me.
I’m sure Megan has an email address; it’s impossible to live without one.
But I have no idea what it is. Four years ago, I forced her to set up an anonymous account to receive texts.
The system is simple. I can write to the number she chose.
My message floats around in the cloud—a message in a bottle—until she decides to log in and download it.
The only way she’d agree to the account was if I showed her how to route her downloading through multiple dark web servers, hiding her actual location from everyone—even someone with my skills.
We’ve never used the system. I have no idea if she still checks it.
But every day at noon for the past five days, I’ve fired off a message.
Cole Wolf
Getting married Sunday, 4/13. 2 pm. St. Brigid’s in Baltimore. Will you be my best man?
My words look pitiful when I reread them—the type of thing I’d expect from a mark in a Catfish scam. Grimacing, I hit Send.
“Jesus. You look like someone just ran over your cat.” Fiona Moran is studying me with an amused smile.
“No cat.” I shrug. “I was just inviting someone to my wedding.”
She laughs. “I’ll have to use that one sometime.” She looks closer at me. “Wait. You’re serious. You’re getting married? When?”
“Sunday.”
“This Sunday? Like in four days, Sunday?” I nod, and she says, “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Kate Lynch.”
That sparks another laugh, but she cuts this one off sooner. “My Kate Lynch? The Irish mob princess who threw champagne in your face at my wedding?”
“One and the same.”
“I need to hear this. But hold on,” Fiona says. “I’m starving. Let’s find that suite and eat all of Trap’s food.”
We find the suite. Fiona fills a plate with everything from hand-carved roast beef to delicately rolled sushi, with an omelet, fresh pasta, and crepes in between. I help myself to a trio of spicy tuna rolls.
Fiona and I met at the freeport about a year ago.
She had a painting to sell, one that had clearly been stolen, and I was willing to make the purchase.
The portion of my collection that isn’t kept at the freeport hangs in my Georgetown home, where I don’t have to worry about the prying eyes of law enforcement.
Fiona didn’t know how to negotiate the sale so I helped her, paying several million more than I would have otherwise. She gave me her marker for a favor to be done later. I’m sure I’ll collect it someday.
The truth is, Fiona reminds me of my sister. If Nut and I were the kids of a mobster instead of a con artist. If Megan had chosen a life marginally more legal than the grifting one she opted for.
I tell Fiona about Kate, doing my best to come up with a version of the story that sounds a little less like buying and selling a human being. I’m doing business with Barry Lynch. Kate and I found we had a lot in common. Crazier things have happened.
“But two weeks from meeting to marriage?” Fiona pushes.
I turn the tables. “You’re one to talk.”
“I’ve known Patrick for—”
“What about a honeymoon?” I interrupt, determined to carve out some advantage. “What are you doing with the Diamond Ring when you should still be off celebrating with your groom?”
“We…” She blushes. “We’re going back to the Maldives soon.”
I didn’t know she’d been there before. And something about the color in her cheeks says I don’t know her well enough to ask why she chose the tropical paradise for a little blissful escape.
She clears her throat. “Seriously,” she says. “Congratulations. I’m sure you and Kate will be very happy.”
She can’t quite pull it off. Anyone who has seen Kate and me together knows we’re dangerously close to spontaneously combusting. But I accept Fiona’s good wishes.
“Back to the cars?” I ask, ready to push back from the table.
“Just a second,” she says. “I actually have some business to discuss.”
I ease back into my chair because Fiona and I aren’t just fellow members of the Diamond Ring. Fiona is a Lone Wolf client.
Some women would shy away from difficult conversations. They’d hesitate. Take their time, searching for a gentle way to register a complaint. They’d hem and haw and second-guess themselves for ages.
Not Fiona. She says, “The accountant you assigned the Old Colony Crew isn’t working out.”
I hand-picked Jalen Carpenter myself, right after I hacked my way into a locked-down computer system Fiona inherited when she took over her clan. “What seems to be the problem?”
“He’s not responsive enough. I need to reach out two or three times before he gets back to me. I shouldn’t have to wait forty-eight hours to get a reply to an urgent text.”
“You’re right. I’ll talk to him.”
She shakes her head. “No. I want someone new.”
It’s not an unreasonable request. If Carpenter’s lost her trust, pushing to keep him on the account is just delaying the inevitable.
I pulled the guy out of Winter Reckoning. I know he has the necessary computer skills, but competing in the game doesn’t guarantee he can meet all of a client’s legitimate expectations.
“I’ll get you someone new,” I say. “Can it wait until next week? I’m busy the next few days, planning a wedding.”
She laughs. “I bet you aren’t planning a thing. Just handing over your credit card.”
I shrug. “Guilty as charged.”
“This is where I’m supposed to rant about pig-headed arrogant alphahole men who expect their women to do all the heavy lifting with regard to anything approaching the emotional work required to maintain a relationship.
But why don’t we just skip that part. Get me someone new next week.
And let me beat your ass on McLaren’s Formula 1 simulator downstairs. ”
“It’s a deal,” I say.
I’m doomed. But I follow Fiona out the door.