…
CyberGhost: Sorry
CyberGhost: Not in usual place
CyberGhost: Crap connection
MaskedMarauder: U in? For bookie?
…
CyberGhost: Yeah
CyberGhost: I’m in
IceKiller: That’s what I’m talkin about
Shaddow: Say it!!!!
Shaddow: Mask! Say it!!!
MaskedMarauder: Ready to sell your soul for a fortune made of light?
21
COLE
Iwasn’t lying when I told Kate I couldn’t get married on Wednesday. I have an all-day appointment with a dozen other billionaires.
Barry Lynch was hinting about moving assets to Georgia, but there are plenty of other tax havens. Traditionally, money gets hidden in the Cayman Islands, in Switzerland, in Monaco. Oman’s muscling in on the scene, along with Anguilla, Belize, and Montenegro. All of them have billionaire-friendly taxation schemes—low or nonexistent income tax; capital gains tax; corporate, dividends, and wealth tax.
But I keep a lot of my investments substantially closer to home—at Trap Prince’s Diamond Freeport in Dover, Delaware. Once a month, Prince treats his wealthiest clients—the Diamond Ring—to an outing. Activities range from a steak dinner in Prince’s backyard to eighteen holes at Augusta. If any special equipment is needed—skis, crossbows, motorcycles—Prince foots the bill. All we clients have to do is arrive by thetime specified. And hire our own lawyers to handle the contracts for whatever business arrangements come out of the gathering.
So, Wednesday morning, my jet touches down at Teterboro a few minutes shy of nine a.m. We’re twelve miles from midtown Manhattan, but it takes more than an hour for Prince’s limos to get us into the city. I don’t know why anyone chooses to live in New York full time.
I find myself in a car with Sawyer Best. He’s considering buying a new satellite communications startup, a company that will support his Sawgrass Inc. mercenaries in the field. We spend the drive talking about information infrastructure. I’m happy to give him an hour of free consultation. Most of my Diamond Ring gambles like that have paid off.
It’s mid-morning by the time all the cars pull up in front of the Javits Convention Center. Marquee signs announce that the New York International Auto Show begins on Friday. Prince hands out lanyards branding each of us as Industry Professionals, with full access to the show. He’s commandeered a suite and lined up a small army of private chefs so we can help ourselves to lunch whenever we’re hungry. He tells us to be back at the limos by six, so we can all head out to dinner.
The crowd of grown men runs for the doors like kids set loose in a toy store. Correction: Twelve men run. One woman accompanies us—Fiona Moran, Queen of the Boston mob. She’s wearing a suit that looks like it cost a thousand dollars and red-soled shoes that probably ran a thousand more, but she beats every one of us to the showroom floor. After all, shedoesown a Formula 1 racing team.
I take my time, wandering past some concept cars and exotics. There’s an “experience”, a hands-on display using artificial intelligence to design a new car, and I play around with it for a few minutes, purposely giving it specifications destined to fail.
I’m not car-crazy like most of these guys. I’m content with my classic Jag, a Bentley Flying Spur, the Camry I drive out tothe Andersons, and a Mercedes I picked up a couple of years ago, cheap, from a recently deceased member of the Diamond Ring. That’s plenty of money sunk into automobiles, but nothing like the garages these other guys maintain.
Maybe that’s because I grew up sneaking my way onto city buses and jumping subway turnstiles. Transportation was something I stole, like most of my other possessions. I didn’t dream about cars; I just wanted to scrounge enough food for Shannon and Nutmeg.
Nutmeg.
It’s been ten days since I last saw her. She vowed to keep in touch, but her promises have a way of evaporating like spilled water in the Sahara. Still, I want her to know I’m getting married—even if that wedding is a loveless business transaction with a woman who despises me.
I’m sure Megan has an email address; it’s impossible to live without one. But I have no idea what it is. Four years ago, I forced her to set up an anonymous account to receive texts. The system is simple. I can write to the number she chose. My message floats around in the cloud—a message in a bottle—until she decides to log in and download it.
The only way she’d agree to the account was if I showed her how to route her downloading through multiple dark web servers, hiding her actual location from everyone—even someone with my skills. We’ve never used the system. I have no idea if she still checks it. But every day at noon for the past five days, I’ve fired off a message.
Cole Wolf
Getting married Sunday, 4/13. 2 pm. St. Brigid’s in Baltimore. Will you be my best man?
