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“Then you haven’t given it enough thought. Why, a couple years ago, did my investment bank close its Moscow operations, even before Putin went loopy and invaded Ukraine?”
“Because of the sanctions?”
“Exactly. What does that tell you about who we were working with? Who I was working with?”
The obviousness of it had been lost on her, because she didn’t think about money or investments the way he did. She thought like a person who used the coupons she got from the supermarket cashier, and recycled her Diet Coke cans for the nickel deposits. “You were working with Russians on the sanctions list,” she said, her voice lowered in dismay.
“Yup. When the bank closed the Moscow office, some of our clients there still needed to skirt the sanctions, which only got worse when Putin went full-on Stalin. So, now we help them a little with our crypto. Launder it. And if you’re going to provide a safe harbor for Russians, why not the Mastaba?”
“Are you insane?”
“Look, some of our names are controversial, but—”
“Names like Rory O’Hara?”
“Yup. Rory. His…type. Dude can be a pussycat one minute, and crazy as hell the next. But he’s still a guy with his own jet and a big stake in our place in Grand Cayman. Looks like a five-star hotel, but it’s just our playhouse. Our club.”
“Crazy as in violent—that being the opposite of pussycat?”
“Little bit.”
The words echoed in her mind. Little bit.
“Are you in danger? Am I putting my daughter at risk?”
“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t endanger you or Marisa or my own kids. Never. That would be fucking crazy. The new Mastaba is not the old Mastaba. It’s more like a conglomerate than a crime family.”
“Are you sure? I need to know: are you one hundred percent sure?”
“Yes. I am as sure of that as I am of just about anything in business. I mean, no investment is foolproof. Think of the SEC disclaimer: past performance is no guarantee of future results. Of course, I wouldn’t say something like that around any of our friends from California or Grand Cayman. Not polite. Not good politics—and we have some very good political clout.”
“Who?”
“A congressman. Excuse me, a congresswoman.”
“That lunatic, Erika Schweiker?”
“That lunatic, as you call her, is going to be a U.S. senator come November. She will kick John Aldred’s ass. And she is firmly in our camp—unlike that puff pastry on the other side of the aisle.”
“Is she part of the…the Mastaba?”
“Nah. But people in the syndicate give generously to her campaign, and she owns a lot of Futurium. We have each other’s backs. If you’re gamblers, always take the Mastaba.”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Isn’t that your sister’s thing?”
She almost slapped him, but he must have seen the fury in her eyes, and put up his hands and laughed. “It was a joke! Look, I told you, Futurium is more clean than not. It’s why the Mastaba wanted in. And as for the Russians? We got a U.S. representative who will soon be a U.S. senator on our side.”
“Tell me again: there is no danger.”
“None.”
“Say it.”
“There is no danger.”
“And there is no legal jeopardy?”
