Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

“I didn’t say that. All I meant was that Viktor Alexandrov wouldn’t be able to tell you the source even if you waterboarded him on a bed of nails,” said Julian. “But there is a way to find out.”

“How?” asked Foxx.

“I would need access to his computer.”

“Easy,” said Foxx. “I can have a search warrant by this afternoon.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “On what evidence, a hacked digital currency transaction?”

“You’re both missing the point,” said Julian. “Alexandrov can’t find out that I’ve accessed his computer. Even if he doesn’t know the origin of the transactions, he can still signal whoever it is.”

“So we need to get you in front of his computer without his knowing,” said Foxx.

“That’s one way,” said Julian.

“What’s another?” I asked.

“I only need access to the computer. That doesn’t mean I have to be the one in front of it,” said Julian. “I don’t need to be in the room.”

“But someone does,” I said. “Right?”

“That gives us some more options,” said Foxx. “Any ideas?”

“Yeah, two,” said my father. “Breaking and entering.”

“Or maybe just the latter,” I said.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Foxx.

I pointed at Julian’s phone and the picture of Alexandrov. He had slicked-back hair and looked like a rich playboy standing in front of what appeared to be an El Greco, given the elongated, almost drippy-looking figures in the painting.

“What else do we know about this guy?” I asked. “His personal life.”

“How much more do you need to know? He’s Russian,” said Julian. “He likes to drink and chase women.”

“Exactly,” I said. “All we need to do is give him a chance to do both.”

“I’ll ask you again,” said Foxx. “What do you have in mind?”

I was already halfway out of the booth. “I’ll let you know in one hour,” I said. “Maybe even sooner if the mayor’s in a good mood.”

Chapter 70

EDSO DEACON stared at me in utter disbelief from behind his desk at City Hall. “You want me to do what?”

“I want you to throw a cocktail party,” I said, handing him a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the guest list.”

Deacon took the paper, clumsily unfolding it. He looked. He squinted. He stared back at me again. “There’s only one name on it,” he said.

“That’s the only name I care about. The others you invite are entirely up to you,” I said.

“Really? I get to choose the rest of the guests at my own party? That’s awfully kind of you,” said Deacon.

As if his sarcasm weren’t enough to convey his annoyance, the mayor looked over at Beau Livingston and rolled his eyes. Livingston, sitting on the couch along the wall, let loose a sycophantic laugh.

“Yeah,” said Livingston. “That’s real generous of you, Reinhart. Do you have another piece of paper with the hors d’oeuvres you wanted served?”

“Caviar, for starters,” said Deacon. “The guy’s Russian. Viktor Alexandrov.”

“Are we supposed to know who that is?” asked Livingston.

“He’s an art dealer,” I said. “That’s why he’s getting the invite. The mayor is interested in diversifying his financial holdings by purchasing a major piece of art as an investment. He’s heard Alexandrov is the man to talk to.”

“Is he actually?” asked Livingston. “The man to talk to?”

“He will be once you tell him he is,” I said. “He’s hardly going to disagree with you, Beau. It’s called an ego. Not that you Harvard boys know anything about that.”

Livingston had his snappy comeback all lined up, I could tell. Probably something about my alma mater, Yale, being his safety school. But Deacon cut him off. “Just for shits and giggles,” said the mayor, “if I did host this party, what’s the real reason you want this Alexandrov guy there?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

If looks could kill. “You’ve got a lot of balls, Reinhart,” he said.

“No, just one big chit I’m cashing in.”

I’d saved Deacon’s life, and he knew it. He also knew the reason I couldn’t tell him about Alexandrov, or at least he had a pretty good idea.

“Does it involve your previous employer?” he asked.

“It might,” I said.

“Then at least tell me it’s a matter of life or death, or whatever they would say at Langley.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t extremely important,” I said. “How’s that?”

The mayor nodded. He was gradually buying in.

Livingston, meanwhile, couldn’t believe it. “Are you seriously considering this?” he asked his boss.

Livingston was only doing his job. He got paid to be the devil’s advocate. There were only two words ricocheting around in his mind: Russian collusion. The last thing the mayor needed was a subpoena from Bob Mueller.

“If I do you this favor, Reinhart, are we square?” asked Deacon.

Powerful men don’t like owing anything to anyone.

“Square as a checkerboard,” I said.

“Okay, then. When do you want to do it? A couple weeks?”

“Actually, it needs to be a little sooner.”

“How much sooner?”

I put my hands over my ears and smiled. If you think I had balls before, Deacon…

“It has to happen tonight,” I said.

Ten minutes later, with the sound of the mayor’s screaming still ringing in my ears outside City Hall, I called Elizabeth.

“Remember those brand-new Louboutins you thought you’d never wear? Get ready to strap ’em on,” I said.

Chapter 71

IT’S GOOD to be the king. It’s even better to be the king of New York. Everyone wants to have a drink with you, no matter how last-minute the invite. I was banking on it.

Livingston called me within the hour to tell me that Alexandrov had said yes, no questions asked. Correction. One question asked. Alexandrov wanted to know if he could bring a date. It figured. He probably wanted to show off to her. Look at me, babe, I’m buddy-buddy with the billionaire mayor…

Livingston made it clear to Alexandrov that there could be no plus-one. That was key. Little did the Russian know I already had his companion for the evening all lined up.

“How do I look?” asked Elizabeth, performing a quick twirl in a little black dress outside the gates of Gracie Mansion. Deacon and his wife, Cassandra, only used the mayor’s “official residence” for entertaining.

“You look positively stunning,” I said. She truly did. Elizabeth had become so adept at concealing her attractiveness for the sake of her career that I almost hadn’t recognized her when she arrived. “I wasn’t sure you actually owned makeup.”

“Ha-ha,” she said. “The makeup is mine. The dress I borrowed from my neighbor. Remind me not to spill anything on it.”

“There are too many other things I need to remind you about,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” she said. Elizabeth extended a leg through the thigh-high slit of her borrowed dress and smiled. “After all, I’m wearing my lucky new shoes.”

Say no more.

We staggered our entrances. I went first. Earlier, Landon Foxx had sent an agent to my apartment to grab one of my suits and a tie, along with a clean shirt and a pair of loafers. The only thing lucky about the shoes he picked was that they matched my suit. Thankfully, the agent knew his way around a wardrobe.

Foxx was also providing temporary lodging for both me and my father, by way of the safe house in Brooklyn. At that very moment, my father was catching up on some much-needed sleep. His jury duty performance was Oscar worthy. One orchestrated ruse, however, was enough for him for one day.