A MONTH AGO
Had Rigel Walcott allowed his standards to slip?
He had to admit, it was possible. It was probably hard to avoid when you spent a decade with a corrupt dictator in one corner and the head of his secret police in another. These things had been obvious advantages back in Azerbaijan. They probably wouldn’t have hurt if he’d been able to relocate to Moscow along with the others. But in the United States these last few months, if he was honest, they’d hamstrung him. He hadn’t noticed the full impact at first—he’d been too busy staying ahead of the leeches from the FBI—but his previously legendary attention to detail had been eroded. His sixth sense coated with a layer of rust. That’s how the mistake had been made. How the miscommunication with Madatov had occurred, leading to the raving psychopath’s money getting locked up long term—in what was still a damn good development project, Walcott swore—rather than taking a quick trip around the rinse cycle. And how Walcott had landed in his current predicament.
The signs could no longer be ignored. Walcott realized it was time to raise his game. Starting immediately. With the food. For the occasion he’d transformed the conference room at his office suite into the approximation of a dining room. The Eames chairs had been wheeled temporarily into his office, and a set of knockoff Louis Quatorze carvers he’d gotten cheap on the Internet put in their places. A blue velvet cloth had been laid over the table and the center of the space filled with cheese and cold cuts and seafood he’d ordered in from Eataly. And around the edge, he’d arranged the pièces de résistance: A vat of swallows’ nest soup in honor of his first guest, Zheng Zhi. An ensemble of matsutake mushrooms, which he knew to be Makoto Yamaguchi’s favorite delicacy. Five tins of Kolikof albino caviar, which he was sure everyone would eat but hoped would particularly impress Sergei Sinitsyn. And a generous platter of jamón Ibérico, which he’d heard Iago Asensio was particularly partial to. Looking over the spread before his guests arrived, Walcott was confident that he’d nailed it: Plenty of fillers, and something special for each of the guys who’d benefited the most from his last three money-laundering schemes. How could that level of consideration not lead to a cooperative atmosphere?
Walcott didn’t bring up business for the first ninety minutes. He summoned the last of his patience and let his guests enjoy their food, plus a couple of magnums of Boërl & Kroff champagne. He allowed their conversation to roam free. Then, once the first round of Balvenie had been poured, he opened the left-hand panel in the back wall of the room and took out a stack of slim green leather binders.
“Here you go, gentlemen.” Walcott passed one binder to each guest. “Some food—for thought, this time.”
Silence descended as each man read Walcott’s proposal.
Sinitsyn was the first to finish. “No” was all he said before tossing his copy on the floor.
“No?” Lines creased Walcott’s forehead. “Why not? It should be a no-brainer. My enterprises have worked for you before, haven’t they? You’ve each said you’d be happy to do business together again. All I’m asking is for an advance. One and a quarter million dollars each now, and in return you’ll receive one and a half million dollars’ worth of my services before the end of the year. From your points of view, it’s money for nothing. A quarter of a million mailbox dollars each. How can you possibly decline? Unless that forty-year-old scotch has gone to your heads.”
“It’s a no from me, too.” Asensio handed Walcott his binder. “Not because I think you’re offering a bad deal. But because we know what you want the money for.”
“What difference does it make what I want the money for?” Walcott set the binder on the table. “How I spend what I earn is no one’s business but my own.”
“Not so, my friend.” Yamaguchi shook his head very slightly. “You want the money to settle your debt with the Azerbaijani, Madatov. The man’s a savage. No one’s going to put themselves in the middle of a dispute he initiated.”
Walcott felt his cheeks begin to burn. The last thing he wanted was for his problems to become common knowledge. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not saying I owe Madatov a penny. But even if I did, why would he care where I get the money from? And if he is indeed a savage, that somewhat argues against him being too scrupulous, yes?”
“You owe.” Zheng frowned. “He cares. The word is out. You are not to be helped. You made the bed, you lie in it yourself.”
“You’re all together on this?” Walcott looked at each man in turn, and each one nodded. That was a shame. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to go the other route. Reluctantly he opened the next panel along in the back wall, took out a stack of red binders, and handed them around. “I’ll save you the trouble of reading this time. Here are the details of the last project we worked on together. Minus my involvement, of course, since my proceeds were taken in cash and therefore are untraceable. I’ll be passing a copy to the Feds unless the one point two five each is in my account by close of play tomorrow.”
Yamaguchi sighed. “This saddens me, Rigel. You’re like the sumo who stepped into the ring one time too many.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is a copy of a wire transfer you made to a bank in the Cayman Islands. How long will it take the Feds to connect it to your case against your partner in the development consultancy that collapsed over there?”
For the first time in his life, Walcott didn’t have an immediate retort.
“What you did today was lazy, Rigel.” Sinitsyn got to his feet. “Word is, you have the money to pay Madatov. It’s just not in the United States. Bringing it here might not be easy, but that’s where you should focus your energy. Go to Azerbaijan and carry it home on your back if the banks won’t help. Just don’t try to stiff your friends again.”
Walcott watched his friends file out of the room in silence, then felt a sudden pain shoot up his left arm. It subsided after a moment, so he reached for the whiskey and poured himself a generous measure. It was an exceptionally fine scotch. He let his mind drift for a moment as he savored the soft vanilla sweetness of its finish. The pleasure it brought him was pure and profound. But he’d have happily given up fine liquor for good in return for a call to Ramil Balayev. One phone call, and the knowledge that his enemies would be taken off the board, no questions asked. Just like the old days.