Forty
New York, New York
It took Julian three attempts to knot his tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to do it himself. It had always
been his mother, or Fikret, or whatever nameless aide or PA happened to be in the vicinity. Cafferty had even done it for
him once, as they waited in the lobby of city hall for the reporter from Vogue to arrive.
But not his father. Never his father. In fact, Julian couldn’t even remember the last time his father had touched him, beyond
a stiff pat on the shoulder or a brisk handshake. It might have been the day of Aurelian’s funeral, when he had transferred
Julian’s sobbing mother from his grip to Julian’s. It was incidental, but his arms had come around Julian in a way that was
almost an embrace.
Julian brushed his hair—too long—out of his face. He doubted he would have the opportunity for a salon appointment once they
were officially fugitives. Fikret would land the helicopter on the roof at eight thirty, just after sunset. Then the four
of them would climb in and be spirited away to the compound on Martha’s Vineyard, where Aurelian’s ghost hung in the branches
of every tree.
Simple.
Understandably, Fikret had been surprised to receive his call. The connection had been fuzzy, Fikret’s voice halting, and
briefly Julian had panicked. Everything in his body resisted using the word please, but it only took a glance at Klaudia, tense and frightened in Chane’s arms, for his resistance to wither away.
Please, Fikret, he’d said. I need you.
A pause. And then: Okay.
And please, Julian had added, pulse spiking, don’t tell my father.
If Fikret had refused, Julian didn’t know what else he would have done. Klaudia and the others were relying on him; this was
their only way out. He checked his watch—Aurelian’s watch. Last night he’d finally been able to get it running properly again.
It was already time to go.
As the elevator descended, Julian regarded himself in the mirrored walls. In a perfectly cut tuxedo, he looked almost like
the version of Julian Joyce-Young III that he remembered: the one who had charmed voters at campaign stops, courted donors
at charity galas, and dazzled in even the most unflattering paparazzi photos.
He wouldn’t need to use any of those old tricks tonight. Most of Chane’s guests had probably already made up their minds about
him.
And there was only one person he really cared to impress.
The others were already waiting outside the dining room. Nadiya wore a sheath of black satin that she kept tugging at in discomfort,
and Giselle looked innocent and fairylike in white chiffon. Even Deckard had made a concession to the formality of the occasion
and replaced his typical suit with a tuxedo.
Julian’s gaze slid past them to Klaudia.
She wore a long, strapless gown of silver, fitted to her waist and then ending in a shimmery train. Her hair was gathered
high up on her head, revealing the long, sinuous line of her neck. It also revealed a very elaborate diamond choker, which
glittered like a mass of fallen stars. He had never seen so much of her bare skin before, pale against her black hair. The
curve of her shoulders, the hollow of her collarbones, the swell of her breasts—Julian felt embarrassed for staring at her
so shamelessly, but he couldn’t help it. He was transfixed.
Deckard cleared his throat.
“Chane is glad you’ve come,” he said. “Please continue to make yourselves charming and agreeable. He’ll be taking the stage
at eight.”
Nadiya gave him a dark stare. “Does this mean he’s going to fix your stupid server?”
“If all goes well tonight.”
“Great,” said Nadiya. “So this isn’t just a seduction attempt; it’s a humiliation ritual.”
“You should hope that all humiliation rituals involve dressing up in designer clothes and rubbing elbows with some of the richest and most powerful people in the world,”
Deckard said. A vein that Julian hadn’t noticed before throbbed on his left temple.
For the first time, Julian felt almost sorry for Deckard. Some higher-up at the CIA clearly harbored a grudge against him.
Julian couldn’t imagine another reason why he’d been given the undignified job of babysitting four mouthy teenagers.
He glanced at Klaudia again. Her expression was placid, remote. He’d almost forgotten how good she was at that. Maybe he was
the only one who saw the slight quiver of her chin as Deckard marched them inside.
The dining room had been transformed for Chane’s purposes. Most of the tables had been cleared away and the remaining ones
were arranged against the far wall, leaving the floor open for dancing and mingling. An orchestral song interspersed with
jarring electronic beats poured from the speakers. There was a stage ahead, with a single microphone stand. Empty, but not
for long.
Guests milled around in tuxedos and glittering gowns. Julian recognized several faces immediately: Chane’s old friend Bill
Brooks, leaning heavily on his cane; Erik Mansch, House Speaker and record holder for the most DUIs ever served to a sitting
politician; and a sweaty, adolescent-looking T. J. Byrne, junior senator from Ohio who had once sent death threats to Julian
via his Aurapix account.
Byrne caught his eye, and his nostrils flared. He elbowed the man next to him and they began to whisper frantically to each
other, lifting their heads every so often to stare at Julian.
Almost by instinct, Julian pressed closer to the group, his shoulder brushing against Nadiya’s.
She met his gaze and gave him a single, silent nod.
Then she pointed with her chin to something behind him.
Julian turned to see one of Chane’s security guards, now dressed in a tuxedo but still obviously wearing a bulky Kevlar vest underneath.
He had placed himself covertly among the stretching fronds of a palm plant.
The rest of the guards were posted around the room in similarly unobtrusive places.
A quick glance about and Julian counted twelve.
All part of the plan, Julian thought. But his palms were slick.
“Go on,” Deckard said. “Mingle.”
The four of them shuffled around, so that Nadiya and Giselle were standing together and Klaudia was at Julian’s side. All part of the plan. His mouth felt dry.
“See you on the other side,” Nadiya said. There was a slight catch in her voice.
“See you on the other side,” Julian echoed.
“It’s just a bit of socializing,” Giselle said, a little shakily. “Nothing we can’t survive.”
“As long as we’re not doing it alone,” said Klaudia. Was there a tremor in her voice, too?
Klaudia smiled a slight, rare smile, and Nadiya and Giselle slipped off. Julian watched them until they vanished into the
crowd. This, too, was part of the plan, but splitting up made him nervous. Somewhere along the way he had come to believe
that the four of them were stronger together. It seemed Deckard had made a team of them after all—only not for the purpose
he had hoped.
Satisfied, Deckard left Julian and Klaudia and wandered over to the bar. Julian couldn’t blame him for wanting a drink.
“Twenty-three minutes,” Klaudia murmured.
Julian turned back to her. “What?”
“That’s how much time we have before Chane goes up onstage,” she said. “How much time we have to cause as much commotion as possible.”
“How did you . . . ,” Julian started. And then he realized that the sleeve of his jacket had gotten snagged up, exposing his
watch. Now Klaudia was looking down at it. “Oh.”
“It’s a nice watch,” she said.
“It was my brother’s,” Julian replied. He didn’t know how the words had snuck into his mouth, or how they had flowed out so
easily. He hadn’t spoken about Aurelian to anyone outside of his immediate family in months, not even a passing mention. “It’s
nothing compared to that necklace, though. You look—”
Whatever strange force had made him mention Aurelian now made him suddenly fall silent. As if he hadn’t complimented dozens
of girls before, as if he didn’t know how to make them swoon and blush. But with Klaudia all his instincts felt wrong. He
felt like she deserved more than what he had given those other girls before.
Klaudia lifted a hand to touch the necklace, worrying the central diamond between her finger and thumb. “I didn’t wear it
by choice.”
Julian was confused until he followed her wandering gaze. She was staring across the room at a small crowd of guests, gathered
in front of the stage. They were circled around Chane, who was wearing his tuxedo with a pair of black-and-neon-orange sneakers.
He gesticulated wildly, while his audience tittered and laughed.
“Chane gave that to you?”
Klaudia nodded. “He has as much charm as you would expect from someone with thirteen children and not a single publicly acknowledged
relationship.”
Julian laughed, just as much out of amusement as relief. Not that he really believed Klaudia could ever be taken in by someone
like Chane, but still—his stomach settled.
And then it soured again. If Chane had given her the necklace, had he given her the dress, too? The dress that made her look like that? Panic and jealousy at the thought overwhelmed him. He had never been the jealous type before, and that overwhelmed him,
too. Klaudia always seemed able to make him question things about himself he thought he knew.
He cast about for more words, but Klaudia was looking over his shoulder, gaze fixed on someone behind him. “Who is that? He’s
staring at you.”
Julian turned. A familiar man with slicked-back silver hair and a jowly face was indeed staring at him, his eyes like daggers.
Immediately, Julian’s stomach dropped.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What?”
“That’s Holden Granston,” he said. “He’s a lobbyist. He works for tech firms and oil companies, and sometimes foreign dictators.
Cafferty had me meet with him a couple times, to make it look like I was friendly to big business, even though I was running
a progressive campaign. But, uh . . .” Julian paused, heat rushing to his face. “I might have slept with his wife.”
Klaudia’s eyes grew wide. Julian felt like shrinking into the floor.