Chapter 13
COLE
Iboard Trap Prince’s jet at seven in the morning, anxious to fly across country, to meet Jacobson at the Dover airfield and get back to DC.
Billionaire’s Summer Camp has paid off. I’m coming away with a dozen invaluable private numbers added to my contacts list. I signed up four new clients for Lone Wolf.
And Gage Rider facilitated three separate video chats with Jean-Luc Fournier, the owner of the Albany Empire.
As Rider promised, Fournier is a highly motivated seller. He’s been shopping the team around for a while, but everyone is afraid of the short-term losses the Empire will generate.
I’ve sent basic information to my lawyer and my accountant, pressing them for rush reviews. Fournier and I have agreed that our next step is to meet in person; there’s only so much trust we can build online. We’re looking at dates in the next two weeks.
The other members of the Diamond Ring seem to have been similarly successful at making deals in Sun Valley. Instead of the usual boisterous chat, everyone is settled in a leather chair, staring at a computer or phone, quietly intent on getting back to whatever made each of us a billionaire.
I wait until we’re somewhere over Iowa before I make my way over to Sawyer Best. The former soldier sits straight in his chair, eyes laser-focused on the computer in front of him.
He makes a point of blacking out the screen as I sit beside him, but I don’t take offense.
In his line of business, lives weigh in the balance.
Which is exactly why we need to talk.
“Got a minute?” I ask.
“Of course.” When he takes a sip of coffee, the white mug frames the stump of the missing joint on his left pinky.
“Jacobson’s been providing twice-daily reports on security back home,” I say.
Best waits.
“Our Russian friend hasn’t been seen anywhere near the premises.” There’s no reason to believe anyone on this plane is doing business with Nikolai Tarasov. But there’s also no reason to say the pakhan’s name out loud.
Best waits some more.
“But somehow he knew I was in Idaho.”
Best nods. “The most common way for intelligence threats to gain personal information is to hack into online systems. Video doorbells. GPS. Online calendars, even.”
I eye him levelly. “He didn’t hack my network.”
Best doesn’t take offense. We’re talking because of his expertise on the matter. I just reminded him of mine. “There are systems beyond your control. Toll booth gateways. Speeding cameras. Airport manifests.”
I consider the possibility. Hundreds of systems could have picked up my driving from DC to Dover.
Pyotr Tarasov might have been able to hash that electronic data, but he’s now removed from the picture.
I know half a dozen hackers who could have taken on the job, but not one of them would have had the balls to report on Lone Wolf.
“It’s something else,” I say.
“He could have someone on the ground—old-fashioned shoe leather. You could have picked up a tail as you left your house, and they followed you to Dover. Prince has a lot of power at that airfield, but your friend has enough money to bribe someone for a flight plan. Money or some other threat.”
It isn’t hard to imagine a mechanic or someone in the tower, persuaded to hand over seemingly harmless information to spare their own life or someone they love. But I say, “Jacobson drove.”
“Then you weren’t followed.”
“We agree on that.”
Best puts down his coffee cup. “You’re saying Sawgrass is compromised.”
I hate that I’ve reached this conclusion. I’m trusting Best’s men with my life. Even more importantly, I’m trusting them with Kate’s life. I’ve forfeited my freedom, my privacy, and my garage so the Sawgrass team can operate seamlessly. I want to—need to—trust them.
“Give me another option, and I’ll take it.”
“Tony Jacobson is my best man.”
“I believe it.”
“He personally vetted every member of that team.”
I take a page out of Best’s book and say nothing.
The soldier goes very, very still. It isn’t hard to picture him on patrol in some distant desert, frozen under the stars at night, waiting for his enemy to make the first move. The noise of the jet’s engines covers the sound of his breathing. It’s possible he’s turned to stone.
“I’ll look into it,” he finally says.
I don’t bother telling him to move quickly. He understands what’s at stake.
Tony Jacobson is waiting beside the SUV as I stroll across the tarmac in Dover. Best’s had plenty of time to reach out, to share my suspicions, but Jacobson gives no sign that anything’s amiss. He holds my door for me, then stows away my bag in the back.
Once we’re on the road, Jacobson provides a report, summarizing the usual functioning of my household—Nilsson and Anna reporting for duty, mail delivery, package delivery, the comings and goings of every one of my neighbors.
He concludes: “As previously reported, Ms. Lynch has made no meaningful attempt to leave the house since Tuesday morning.”
We complete the trip in silence.
Arriving home, I have no idea what I’ll encounter inside the house. I half-expect Kate to have acted out her frustration at being held under lock and key. She could savage my artwork. Pry up the floorboards. Scrawl obscene messages on the walls in dripping red paint.
But that was the old Kate, the feral woman I dragged out of her parents’ home.
The new Kate is more likely to be waiting for me in the dungeon or—given the failure of our last games there—in the privacy of our bedroom.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she uses sex to show her displeasure, refusing my direct commands, thinking she can issue some of her own.
It only takes me a moment to check both downstairs and up. No Kate.
She isn’t in the kitchen, although I take a moment to give a civil greeting to Anna. She isn’t in the mudroom or the sitting room, the dining room or my office.
That means there’s only one place she can be, and it’s where I should have looked the first time.
She’s settled in her own office, slouched in the over-size leather chair with her feet balanced on her desk.
Her yoga pants have ridden up around her ankles, and she’s chewing on the cord of her hoodie.
A plate sits beside her with the dried-out remains of a sandwich that she apparently forgot after one bite.
She’s staring at her computer with an intensity most people reserve for a total eclipse of the sun.
She taps one key. Waits. Taps another. Leans closer to the screen, as if she can peer between the molecules of glass. Finally, finally, finally she taps a third key. And when she sits back, finally seeing me, her smile is brighter than all the gold in Fort Knox.
“You’re home!” she says.
“You’re working.”
“It’s a new idea I’ve had.”
“Something you want to share?”
Her face softens into an expression I’ve never seen on her before. She’s bashful. “Not yet,” she says.
I’m more curious than ever about what she’s doing, but I nod acceptance. Before I can say anything else, though, my phone buzzes.
I take it out by reflex. I’m home from my meetings. I’m back on the clock.
The message shimmers on the screen like a dirty joke.
Nikolai Tarasov
Now you are home
RedBear
Tomorrow noon
Or else
Friday morning, I awake at five, no better rested than if I skipped my four hours of sleep. I forwarded yesterday’s texts to Best, who confirmed receipt but said nothing more of his investigation into which of his men has worked a deal with the devil.
I could spend the next seven hours trying to patch together a crypto scheme that will fool Nikolai Tarasov. But there never was a way for me to complete a month of work in a week. Whatever I create is doomed to fail.
So I spend an hour in the gym on the second floor, destroying a speed bag and leaving my knuckles red and aching.
I take a long shower, relishing the triple wall jets and the rainfall shower head.
I drag the comforter off Kate’s shoulders and whisper a command in her ear.
I accept her refusal, allowing her to take her own shower and retreat to whatever she’s building in her office.
I take Nilsson up on his offer of an omelet, instead of my usual protein smoothie.
I read every article I can find about Jean-Luc Fournier, about the Albany Empire, about the ins and outs of owning a minor league hockey team.
At 11:55, I take my phone out of my pocket and wait for a text.
At noon, there’s nothing.
12:15.
12.30.
At 12:32, the landline rings. I answer too quickly. “Wolf.”
“Is this Cole Wolf?” asks a stranger—a woman, not Tarasov.
“Yes.”
“Cole Plutus Wolf?”
A shudder runs down my spine, as if I already know what’s coming next. “Yes.”
“I’m Mara Baker, from The Financial Times.”
I wait, because I’m certain she’s not calling about my subscription.
And finally, she says: “I’m checking to see if you have any comment about a document that has just come into my possession. It’s a criminal indictment handed down by a grand jury thirteen years ago, charging you with seventeen counts of fraud.”