Harlan Coben - Home

After a full minute of standing like a dope, Myron’s cell phone rang. The number was blocked, but it had to be Fat Gandhi. Myron picked it up, put on a bad fake British accent, and intoned in his best Alfred the butler, “Wayne Manor. I’ll summon him, sir.”

“A Batman reference,” Fat Gandhi said with a chortle. “Who was your favorite? Christian Bale, right?”

“There is only one Batman, and his name is Adam West.”

“Who?”

Today’s youth.

“Do you see the gray car with the tinted windows?” Fat Gandhi asked him.

“The Peugeot,” Myron said, showing off his new car knowledge.

“Yes. Get in.”

“What about Denise Nussbaum at the bank?”

Fat Gandhi hung up.

The car pulled up. The thin black guy from the arcade’s back room opened up the back door and said, “Let’s go, mate.”

Myron checked the car. One driver. One thin guy.

“Where are the two boys?”

“I’m taking you to them.”

Thin Guy slid over, making room for Myron. Myron hesitated but got in. Next to him, the thin black guy was on a laptop. “Give me your phone,” he said.

“No.”

“It won’t do you any good anyway.” He smiled widely. “I got your cell jammed.”

“Pardon?”

He smiled at Myron. “This here laptop? I’m using it to scramble your signal. So like yesterday, when you had all that data going back and forth between you and whoever was listening? Well, he can’t hear you anymore. Oh, and if you put any kind of wire or listening device on yourself? Same thing.”

“Just so I’m clear,” Myron said, “your laptop is cutting off all signals?”

The guy’s grin grew. “Exactly.”

Myron nodded. Then he slid open the car window, snatched the laptop from the skinny guy’s hands, and tossed it out the window.

“Hey! What the-?” He looked out the back window to where his smashed laptop lay, guts split open. “Are you for real? Do you know how much that cost?”

“A billion pounds?”

“This ain’t funny, mate.”

“I’m sure it’s not. Now, enough games. Call Fat Gandhi.”

The kid looked as though he might cry. “Ah, you didn’t have to do that,” he said in a high-pitched whine. “I was just doing what I was told.”

“Now do what I’m telling you. Call Fat Gandhi. Tell him I got the money. I want the boys.”

His shoulders dropped. “You know how much that laptop cost me?”

“I don’t care. If you piss me off again, I’m going to throw you out that window. Now, call him.”

“No need to call.” He pointed toward the front windshield. “We’re here. Couldn’t you have just been patient?”

Myron looked out the window. That same arcade was up the block.

The Peugeot cruised to a stop. Myron got out without bothering to apologize. Two guys in camouflage pants opened the door. The skinny kid followed, pleading his case. “The bastard threw my bleeding laptop out the window!”

It felt as though someone had pulled the plug on the entire arcade, which, for all Myron knew, was exactly what had happened. No sounds, no lights, no movement. The entire arcade, so bursting with furious light and color a few hours ago, seemed shades of gray now. With all the machines off, their shadowy outlines felt odd, menacing, grotesque. There was an almost postapocalyptic feel to the whole place.

“Let’s go,” Pants One said to Myron.

“Where?”

“Back room.”

Myron didn’t like this. “The place is deserted. We can make the exchange out here.”

“That’s not how it works,” Pants Two said.

“Then I think I’ll leave.”

“Then I think”-Pants One crossed his arms and tried to flex his biceps-“the two of us will beat the hell out of you and take the money anyway.”

Myron’s grip on the bag tightened. He could take them both out, no problem-he was actually rehearsing his first strike in his head-but then what? For better or worse, he had to play it out. So he followed the same path he’d taken the last time he was here, when Dog Collar was with him, and stopped at the exit door.

There was the surveillance camera by the door again. Myron looked up, gave it a bright smile and cheery thumbs-up. Mr. Confident. Rule 14 of ransom drops: Never let the bad guys see you worried. The door opened. The Camouflage Pants Guys emptied Myron’s pockets. The wand found the listening device on his chest.

They were about to take the device off him when Fat Gandhi opened the door to the back room, stuck his head out, and said, “No weapons?”

“None.”

“It’s fine, then; let him keep the rest.”

Myron didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

He entered that same room with all the computers and flat-screens. The skinny black kid was already back at his station. “He broke my bleeding laptop!” he cried out, pointing at Myron. “Just threw out it out the window like it was last week’s rubbish.”

Fat Gandhi was resplendent in what looked to be a yellow zoot suit. “The cash is in that bag?”

“It isn’t in my underwear,” Myron said.

Fat Gandhi frowned at the joke, which was fair.

“There is someone listening on the other end of your phone,” Fat Gandhi said.

Myron didn’t bother denying or agreeing.

“There is only one entrance into this lair,” Fat Gandhi said. “Do you understand?”

“Did you just call this a lair?”

“We have cameras everywhere. Derek and Jimmy, raise your hands.”

Two guys staring at their monitors raised their hands.

“Derek and Jimmy are watching the surveillance cameras. If someone tries to get in, we will see them. The two doors you entered to arrive here are steel reinforced, but you probably know that already. In short, there is no way anyone could get into this room in time to save you, even if they were fast and heavily armed.”

No fear. Show no fear. “Yeah, okay, cool. Can we move this along now? You said something about cybercurrency.”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t say-”

“It makes no sense, Mr. Bolitar. You’d have to get the Bitcoin or more fashionable assorted cybercurrency in the first place. Then I would have to give you a long public key address, which is basically the equivalent of a unique bank account. You would then transfer the money via a network, and, poof, gone. That was how I originally planned to make the exchange.”

“But not anymore?”

“No, not anymore. See, it works fine for small amounts, but something this big, well, it would be tracked. Cybercurrency is too public nowadays. You want to know the truth?” He leaned in as though to whisper something conspiratorial. “I think cybercurrency has turned into a giant sting operation so law enforcement can gather intel on the black market. So I started thinking. Why do Somali pirates always demand cash?”

He looked at Myron as though he expected an answer. Myron figured that if he didn’t reply, maybe the guy would stop talking.

“Because cash is easiest, simplest, and best.”

Fat Gandhi reached out for the bag.

“Hold up,” Myron said, “we had a deal.”

“You don’t trust my word?”

“This is how it will go,” Myron said, trying to take some semblance of control. “The two boys leave here. They go outside. Once they are outside, I give you the money.”

“Go where outside?”

“You said you knew someone was listening to us.”

“Go on.”

“He knows where I am. So he’ll pull up in a car. The boys go in the car, I give you the money, then I leave.”

Fat Gandhi made a tsk-tsk noise. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told you something of an untruth.”

Myron said nothing.

“Your friend is not listening to you. All devices, including our own cell phones, are jammed right now. That is how this room is designed. Just to be completely safe. Our advanced Wi-Fi is working, but it’s password protected. You’re not on it, I’m afraid. So whatever devices you may have hidden in whatever crevices are completely useless.”