46
COLE
Iget to the Georgetown house shortly after sunset. Nilsson greets me at the door as if I’m returning from a business trip to Geneva, or maybe the Cayman Islands. “Do you have any luggage in the car, sir? Anything for me to bring in?”
“No,” I say, closing the front door on the August heat and humidity.
“And Miss Kate,” Nilsson asks, with a purse of his lips that borders on accusing. He takes her duffel from my hand. “Is she returning this evening as well?”
“She should be here in a couple of hours. She had business to take care of in Baltimore.”
“Very well,” Nilsson says, but I feel as if I’ve done something absent-minded and wrong, like leaving my umbrella on a train. He unbends enough to add, “Anna left supper for you in the kitchen.”
“How did Anna know I’d be back this evening?”
“She has been following the most curious story online.”
“What story?” I ask, even though I’m certain I already know the answer.
He tells me everything—Nikolai Tarasov, confessions to terrible things, a government interview leaked to the public. There was a mob and a chase and Tarasov narrowly escaped on the subway.
“People are posting online,” Nilsson says. “Trying to track him down. Someone saw him on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Someone else posted video from Union Station. They say he was at Dulles Airport, or at a rest stop on 95. Nobody knows for sure.”
“And Anna thought that story had something to do with me?” I ask, doing my best to sound surprised.
Nilsson eyes me steadily. “Call it woman’s intuition.”
I wonder how much Nilsson and Anna actually know and how much they merely suspect. Whatever the answer, I’m certain my secrets are safe with them. “And Mrs. Lynch and Mrs. Watson? Have they been following the same story?”
“Mrs. Lynch took her supper in bed this evening, sir.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.” The last thing Kate needs is to come home and find her grandmother in a crisis.
“I do not believe it is. Mrs. Watson did not seem concerned.”
I nod as Nilsson follows me to the kitchen. “Oh,” I say, as if I’ve just remembered some minor detail. “Good news, Nilsson. Jacobson informed me his team has reassessed the threats against us. It will be safe for everyone to return home tomorrow. We’ll be back to a pair of armed guards at each gate.”
“That is excellent news, sir.” Nilsson’s tone is the same he’d use if I told him scientists discovered a cure for cancer. Or that a meteor would annihilate us by dawn.
I take my plate—cold roast beef, a corn salad, and thick slices of perfectly ripe tomato—into my office. It only takes a momentto confirm the update Nilsson provided on Tarasov. The pakhan hasn’t been located yet, by police, the rampaging mob, or the far more deadly bratva. But it seems inevitable he’ll be found, sooner rather than later.
I keep updates streaming to one of the monitors on my office wall. Settling into my chair, I begin sifting through correspondence that has piled up over nearly a week.
There are a lot fewer messages than I’m accustomed to. My client list is a shambles.
But Gage Rider has written as owner of the Atlantic Aces, inviting me to an off-season dinner he hosts for owners of major- and minor-league hockey teams. The invitation includes a PS at the bottom: “Sending my best to you and Kate. The next time you’re in New York, I’d love to give you both a tour of security updates at the club.”
He’s not responsible for the actions of a madman. But I appreciate his willingness to address the matter head-on. And I wonder if there’ll be a day, even years in the future, when Kate will be willing to set foot inside Kynk again.
My accountant has couriered over a stack of spreadsheets, a thorough analysis of the tax obligations that will come due in a little over two weeks. He’s worked some magic, applying a chunk of the debt I acquired with the Albany team. He’s done more, selling various stocks for an intentional loss. Nevertheless, I’ll feel a bite—to the tune of nearly one hundred million dollars.
I brought that on myself by lying to Alix Key at the freeport. I’m the one responsible.
But the payment won’t come close to bankrupting me. And there’s still a chance I can reduce the hit if I move forward on a foundation with the Andersons. Plus, I took more than sixty-five million from Tarasov today, off the books, completely untraceable.
“You look so serious.”
Kate is leaning against the doorframe. She’s lost weight over the past month. Her cheeks are gaunt, and tendons stand out in her neck.
