Chapter 17
COLE
Lying in bed with the door finally closed and the curtains drawn, I can almost believe my Georgetown refuge is the same as it’s ever been.
I don’t have to think about Nilsson and Anna in the room off the kitchen, although I hope they’re sleeping well after the uncounted burdens they shouldered on this never-ending day.
I no longer hear Breagha, tiptoeing down the hallway, sneaking toward the stairs and the kitchen and another serving of the peach cobbler she couldn’t get enough of at dinner.
I’m not waiting for the gentle raising of the head or feet on Granny’s hospital bed, proof that the equipment made the journey across the street without damage.
I’m not worrying that Mrs. Watson will feel banished in the den at the end of the hall.
In retrospect, the soundproofing I had installed in this master bedroom suite was the smartest decision I ever made about home ownership.
It’s not that Kate and I have done anything louder than whisper tonight.
We barely kissed each other before I turned out my nightstand light.
But the quiet surrounding us allows me the illusion that we aren’t a family under siege.
My hands are clasped behind my head as I stare at the ceiling.
The only way today’s visit to the Andersons could have gone worse is if Nikolai Tarasov actually launched a direct attack while I was standing on the porch.
I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more I could have done, some magic words I could have said that would have made everything better.
But lying here in the darkness, I can see a roadmap of the past thirteen years.
Early on, there were dozens of off-ramps, places I could have called a halt and admitted to the truth.
The options became fewer and fewer over the years, but some still remained.
Even yesterday, I could have forced an exit from the lies.
I could have sat the Andersons down, admitted all my wrongdoings, explained my mistakes, and begged for their forgiveness.
That option evaporated the instant my name hit the press. Every headline since is another brick in the wall between us. Every time my name is linked to the word billionaire, the wedge drives deeper.
I hurt them. I embarrassed them. And no matter how many times I repeat my justifications to myself in the dark, there’s nothing in the world I can do to make it right.
“Are you awake?” Kate whispers.
I reach a hand toward her, pulling her close to my side.
We managed to find fifteen minutes before dinner tonight, huddled in my office with the door closed.
I told her about the Andersons. She told me about her call with Orla.
And then we pasted smiles on our faces and went into the dining room and complimented Anna on the best Mediterranean grilled chicken with chilled orzo salad we’d ever eaten in our lives.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kate says, her voice so soft it melts into the shadows.
“About?”
“Viktor.”
Her response takes me by surprise. “The software?”
I can’t see her nod in the dark, but I feel her head move as she presses against my body.
“What about it?” I ask.
“You designed it to look like it was breaking through firewalls. But what if we changed the interface?”
“Changed it how?”
“Can Viktor look like a cryptocurrency ledger?”
Her question is trivially simple, but it spins out a universe of options.
I wrote Viktor to snare Pyotr Tarasov. The program is fueled by artificial intelligence.
It’s designed to mimic a wide range of businesses, appearing like it’s giving access to behind-the-scenes data.
Building on itself, it creates increasingly elaborate images of its target.
It learns from every new request for information, storing away both questions and answers.
A crypto ledger—the record of all transactions done with any particular cryptocurrency coin—is a mind-numbingly difficult program to create.
The necessary encryption is on the bleeding edge of coding.
Every purchase and sale requires updating and maintaining a stunning amount of data.
That’s why I couldn’t meet Nikolai Tarasov’s shortened deadline.
But Viktor can.
It will take a few tweaks of coding, but I can already picture the necessary changes.
The user interface will be nearly identical—login at a bank is as protected as login for a ledger.
The output will take massaging. I’ll need to add all the jargon for cryptocurrency, train the AI on various systems currently in use.
“It can,” I finally answer. “With a day or two of work.”
“Less than building out RedBear.”
“I have no intention of building out RedBear,” I say flatly.
Nikolai Tarasov has proven he’ll fight for the results he wants. That was the purpose of today’s leak of the indictment. He’ll play dirty, too, changing deadlines at will. And he’ll forfeit short-term profit—the blackmail payments I could have paid—for long-term gain.
He thinks the fraud charges have me on the ropes—financially crippled, politically neutered, and socially impaired. He thinks I’ll do anything to escape a penalty even worse. I’ll give him RedBear on his insanely expedited schedule. I’ll give him Kate too.
He’s dead wrong.
Losing control over the indictment only makes me more determined than ever to manage the remaining Tarasov threats. I’ll never hand over a cryptocurrency he can use to build unequalled wealth for his criminal empire. He’ll never have my wife.
Release of the indictment didn’t make me afraid. It made me angry.
“But you can deliver Viktor,” Kate says. “Wrapped up in a shiny new package. Prettier and simpler than the version we got Pyotr to use.”
The version she got Pyotr to use. My gut tightens when I think of the video Pyotr Tarasov recorded—Kate writhing on a stained hotel mattress, following his sick commands in exchange for his taking the software.
There’s only one complication. “I don’t want that bastard thinking he’s won.”
“Of course you don’t,” Kate says soothingly. “But think of how sweet the reveal will be when we finally show Nikolai the truth.”
Make that two complications. “He plans to take you, once RedBear is done.”
“He won’t,” she says.
That’s it. Two words. No debate.
An army of men guard this house. I can create a computer program to do anything under the sun. We have lawyers to protect us, and even in my soon-to-be-impoverished state I can come up with enough cash to buy politicians, to tangle the bratva’s businesses for a lifetime.
Despite all that, Nikolai Tarasov remains a threat. The only rules he follows are the ones he makes. Through charm or intimidation or raw, ruthless power, the bratva pakhan gets what he wants.
“You won’t let him,” Kate says. That’s the simple, absolute faith of a child.
I want to be the man who keeps her safe. I need to be her hero. And the first step down that road is retooling Viktor to masquerade as RedBear.
I kiss the crown of Kate’s head before I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“Where are you going?” she asks, sitting up in protest, gathering the sheet close.
“To my office,” I say. “It’s time to get to work.”
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m sitting at my desk.
I meant to get a jump on reworking Viktor, but instead I’ve spent two hours trying to total today’s financial ruin.
Half my clients on retainer signed my basic contract without making any changes.
I get to keep the money they’ve paid for this month’s services, even if they’re firing me for all work going forward.
The other half, though, insisted on adding a morals clause to my standard document. They get their money back if I take any action that might reflect badly on their business—such as pleading guilty to multiple counts of fraud.
It doesn’t matter that I was a kid. It doesn’t matter that I only pled to keep Shannon out of jail. It doesn’t matter that the indictment was supposed to be sealed forever.
The bloodbath has been even worse than I expected. The story has been picked up by every major news outlet in the United States, the Gulf States, and Europe. The basic facts are deadly for my reputation, but rampant speculation about my supposed ongoing crimes makes it far, far worse.
As the clock strikes twelve, I stare at the carnage.
My hospital client in Quebec hasn’t fired me yet.
I still work for a couple members of the Diamond Ring, including Fiona.
Kate’s father, up in Baltimore. There’s a handful of smaller accounts.
A few have promised they’ll circle back after the fire dies down, once they convince their directors and insurance companies that I’m worth the risk.
I probably still have some of the clients who hire me piecemeal instead of keeping me on retainer.
But my projected income for August is a mere five figures. And my tax bill comes due in September.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I’ve long since turned off all alerts from email or texts. But there’s one address I never block, one person I haven’t locked out.
Megan
Call me
I’ve never seen the phone number she leaves, but I type in the ten digits before she can change her mind.
“Hey, Cocoa Puff,” she answers quickly.
“Nutmeg.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“None of this is your fault.”
“It was Tarasov, wasn’t it?”
“The father. Not the son.”
“But it’s because I brought Pyotr to your house.”
It is.
And it isn’t.
It’s because of choices I made a lifetime ago. Choices Shannon made. Choices Kate made, when she slashed a scalpel through Pyotr Tarasov’s femoral artery.
It’s because Nikolai Tarasov is a fucking monster who needs to be put down like a goddamn rabid dog.
“Cole?” Megan says, and I realize I’ve taken too long to respond.
“It’s okay, Nut,” I say. “I don’t blame you.”
“What are we going to do to make things right?”
We. Despite everything, my shoulders start to relax.
Megan says, “We could set up a three-card monte table on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. There are plenty of tourists stupid enough to drop a few twenties. I’ll let you keep the whole haul.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh.
“Or maybe we can run a poker game at the Four Seasons,” Megan says. “The last time I was there, I made friends with some waiters on the loading dock. One of them can sneak us into a room.”
“Well, that would guarantee neither of us is ever allowed past the lobby again,” I say, without any heat.
“I’ve always wanted to do a lottery fraud! How hard can it be to buy off the guys who choose the numbers?”
“For you?” I ask. “Not hard at all. You’re the best who’s ever played the game.”
“Aw, shucks,” she says in a fake drawl. Then, “Seriously, Cole. I’m sorry. This never should have happened to you.”
I make a noise that sounds like a shrug.
“And when you’re ready to go after the son-of-a-bitch who released that indictment, I’ll help you can his ass.”
They’re brave words, coming from a woman who is never certain where her next meal is coming from. “Thank you,” I say.
“So what do you think about my coming over? I can stay in one of your guest rooms for a couple of weeks. Keep an eye on that Finnish Lapphund you keep in the gardening shed.”
“Nilsson is Swedish.” As she knows very well.
“And he’s my chief of staff, not my gardener.
And no.” Despite my sister doing her best to cheer me out of my despair, there is no way in hell I’m letting her past the gate.
The journalists camped outside would have a field day if they discovered one hundredth of the cons Megan has pulled.
“One week?” she asks.
“No.”
“Tonight?”
“No, Megan.”
“Thank God,” she says, with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “If you’d given in, I would have known they really broke you.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Really?”
“Thanks for calling, Nutmeg.”
“You called me.”
“Thanks for reaching out.”
“Is Kate there?” Megan asks, surprising me.
“She’s upstairs. Asleep.”
“Then you should go upstairs too. Wake her up. Don’t ride this out alone.”
Megan is my little sister. She’s a thief and a con artist and a wild force of chaos. And just this once, she’s right.
“Goodnight, Nutmeg.”
“You know how to reach me if you need me.”
She hangs up before I do. I push back from my desk and head upstairs to find my wife. Viktor can wait until tomorrow.