Chapter 20
COLE
By Tuesday afternoon, I’ve completed the rebuild of Viktor. The work was less extensive than I feared it would be. The artificial intelligence base is so solid, it’s easy to adapt to new needs. After running my final shakedown test, I open my office door.
The house is different, with so many people living inside.
Breagha is laughing in Kate’s office, a joyous, uncomplicated sound.
I can just make out Anna talking to someone in the kitchen; it takes a moment, but I realize she and Granny are deep in conversation.
Another voice chimes in, and I know Helen Watson is with them.
Stretching my neck enough to make it crack, I return to my desk. I’ve let emails pile up over the last three days. Anything truly urgent would come to me by text. And the reality is that I have no client emergencies. Even the accounts that haven’t fired me seem to be lying low.
By reflex, I glance out the window. The throng of reporters has thinned considerably; only five or six remain at the gate. That’s the benefit of starving them entirely. No one has come in or out of the house since I returned from the Andersons.
But total isolation has its costs as well. Jacobson hasn’t had a chance to feed information to his men on an individual basis. Eight days after learning we have a traitor in our midst, we’re no closer to identifying a specific man.
Every cell in my body rebels against the need to wait, but patience was the first lesson I learned at Shannon’s knee. Pounce too quickly, and a tentative mark is sure to bolt. The secret is moving slowly, precisely, never letting them see the hook you’re setting.
Christ, what a thing to teach a kid.
I pull up a waiting email, swiping with one finger to send it to the viewing screen on the far wall.
Too late, I remember the monitor array is ruined.
Nilsson swept up the glass within half an hour of my losing control.
It will be another two weeks before the bespoke equipment I require for replacements can be delivered.
The messages are easy enough to sort on my computer. My lawyers are monitoring publications for libel, in light of the tsunami of bad press over the indictment. Seven different reputation management firms are making pitches for my business, promising to redeem my tarnished name.
My accountants are increasingly nervous about the tax payment we’ll owe in September.
My billions aren’t kept in neatly bound stacks of cash, ready to access in a heartbeat.
Most of my wealth is tied up in non-liquid assets—real estate and my plane, corporations I own and stock that would generate its own capital gains nightmare if I tried to sell quickly.
On paper, it should be easy to satisfy the IRS. In reality, it’s increasingly unlikely I’ll survive the attempt.
But buried in all the bad news is an email from Jean-Luc Fournier.
The owner of the Albany Empire reached out on Saturday morning, the day after the indictment exploded.
He wrote again last night. Both messages are short and to the point.
He remains interested in our potential transaction, but in light of my current distractions, he wants to meet in person as soon as possible.
He doesn’t come out and say it, but if he doesn’t like what he sees, he’ll find another suitor, even if it costs him money.
I call the phone number at the bottom of his most recent email, and he answers on the second ring. I apologize for my delay in responding, and we settle down to real business.
“I can come to DC,” he says. “If that would help us find a time more quickly.”
I think about the reporters still guarding the front gate.
Anywhere we meet in Washington will be swarmed before Fournier and I finish shaking hands.
I don’t want to negotiate my purchase in public.
And I definitely don’t want to bargain with other buyers in the mix, ones who scent my blood in the water.
“No need to bring you to the swamp here in summer. I can come to Albany.”
He sucks air through his teeth. “Not a good idea. My general manager is trying to push through three off-season trades. I don’t want to fuck up his options by parading a potential purchaser around.”
I want to know more about those trades. My goal, at least in the very short term, is to make some bad deals. I might want to get stuck paying off some other teams’ contracts.
But I can’t see Fournier’s cards before I show him my own. “What about New York City?” I propose.
“That’ll work,” he says. “I have a community outreach thing here in Albany all day tomorrow—a kids’ cancer charity.”
“And I’m out of pocket all day Thursday.” I’m not, but I want the opportunity to tear Viktor apart one last time before I deliver the code to Tarasov.
“I’m having lunch with the mayor on Friday,” Fournier says. “He’s doing everything he can to make sure the team doesn’t leave town.”
“Friday night?” I counter.
“I can do that.” And then he laughs. “Hey, Gage Rider is the matchmaker here. Why don’t we make him play host?”
And that is how I schedule my most important business meeting of the year at Kynk, in Brooklyn.