Morgan da Vinci changed his name. He used to refer to himself as Voltaire, then Morgan Voltaire, then M., then V., then just John. Prior to that he was Archimedes, then the Eastern Minister, then Atlantic Exports, Inc. Prior to that was anyone’s guess. The guy prided himself on relentless anonymity. “I am any of you,” he said to someone somewhere at some point, appearing at private events only when masked and only when everyone else was as well. According to rumors, it was his humble size and benign demeanor that kept him from being recognized. Regardless of what anyone thought, this was the man who controlled the men who controlled half a trillion dollars of Western commerce. With a silk fist.
To get near him, I needed to be someone substantial.
I needed to be Nikos.
Astral helped me rent the right limo. We did it in Jenn’s name, under Jenn’s business account, using Katarina’s stolen cash. Astral met me at a tram station called C. van Eesterenlaan, and, wow, she was dressed to kill. Straight up. If anyone had been watching this girl leave her house today—she clearly looked like she was heading off to please a very high-end client. I didn’t recognize her. Gorgeous. High class. Curved. Breathtaking. I no longer worried about the con we were about to run on Nikos. Little Astral would do the trick.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” she said.
In the limo she and I quietly went over the parameters, reviewing what little info I had to go on. She didn’t say much—agreeing with me that any chauffeur I hired was bound to be networked, watched, checked, scrutinized, monitored, bribed—to relay snatches of any info overheard to whoever was paying for it. All we could do was keep our voices hushed.
Once we pulled up to Nikos’s hotel, I had the valet desk call the phone in his suite—some eight times—before he finally answered. I told him we needed a half hour to drive to the site. I told him it was already getting fun.
“Cool, man,” he said. “Cool, okay, be right down.”
I was dreading the outcome of each of the many, many things that could go wrong tonight but what I feared most was Trevor somehow showing up. I sat in the back of the limo facing forward, sitting across from Astral, who’d elongated herself in her skin-tight cocktail dress that had strategic gaps for side cleavage as well as a lethal slit up the left leg.
“This event isn’t that old, is it?” I asked her. “This . . . this Society?”
She’d only heard vague rumors. “No, the event is new.”
She didn’t believe da Vinci was still alive but if he were still alive, she, too, would want him dead. I asked her if she had the dust ready to go. She did. Nikos got in, looking much better than his usual bland self. Tailored Armani suit, purchased, measured, snipped same-day. Hair groomed by an in-suite service. Clive Christian cologne. Such is the luxury of a nine-zero bank account. He slid in next to Astral, animal mask in hand, which was the one item the Society had delivered anonymously to his hotel.
“Hi,” he said to her.
“Hi,” she said.
“I’m Nikos.”
“Astral.”
“Wow.” He seemed happy with her. He turned to me. “Hey, man!”
The stretch SUV was spacious enough for the three of us to comfortably open a bottle of Armand de Brignac, a crucial element in the plan—my entire future hinging on it—my entire future hinging on everything, really—the limo, the champagne, the tux I rented, the fourteen-centimeter YSL shoes on Astral’s feet, her dress, her laugh, her eyes, and, of course, our dust. It was this particular dust that would spill surreptitiously from a simple bracelet she wore. During round two of the champagne, she’d let her hand casually hover over his second glass. Not his first. People pay attention to the first. I had to hope that nobody would know how to roofie better than a girl who’d been roofied. In fact, on cue, without a hitch, she let her bracelet happen to dip into his glass, while pouring him another sloshing amount of Brignac, then handed him the result while making sure to say something distracting. “Cheers to the hottest new guy in Holland.” Looking directly at him, smiling. Her marksmanship flawless. For all he knew, she was a featured prelude to the elite services ahead.
He was giddy, laughed, drank, chatted her up. My presence must’ve helped his confidence. Somehow her flirtation felt more legit to him with me there, like he’d met a girl who was genuinely into him because, hey, your buddy in the corner isn’t telling you otherwise. Rohypnol takes thirty minutes to slow you down, sixty to put you under. In the initial phases you simply feel drunk and, in Nikos’s case, quite truthful. He slid over to whisper to me loudly, as if Astral couldn’t hear him, “Dude, this is the first time I’ve felt really good about myself.” He patted me on the back. “Seriously, man, thank you.”
“Cool.”
“You’re a good guy. No, I’m really excited about tonight. You were right.”
We were drugging him to keep him from leaving the SUV, which, of course, made me feel like a certified asshole even before he’d begun gushing out that gratitude. Once he finally fell into a full stupor, Astral held his thumb and pressed it against his phone button after checking to make sure the driver remained busily driving. Nikos’s customized entry code would be texted to him in whatever final text he’d get, which would occur maybe fifteen minutes before the scheduled arrival time. So I had to keep that phone screen active until I saw that code.
“Is he good?” I said. I gave him a test pat on the shoulder.
After twenty minutes, he was fully inert.
I convinced myself I was doing him a favor, knowing he’d probably never forgive me. “You don’t want to be part of this, man,” I said quietly to the side of his head.
The limo stopped at the Hotel Oosterdok, where I’d found a decent suite a few blocks from the wharf, having reserved it under Jenn’s name. She’d kill me for doing so, but, realistically, it’d take her at least a week to discover anything. All over town various conference guests were checking into various hotels using her corporate account. The cash our company dished out was staggering, so my grabbing one small suite with it would take weeks for anyone to trace. We drove around town in a giant circle for forty-five minutes, then told the driver our pal was passed out. Astral helped a random valet walk him up to our suite. Nobody in there suspected a thing—not with this arrangement, an incoherent guy guided by a cute young lady—the staff merely chuckling. I watched her disappear around the corner with my limp billionaire under her control. She didn’t wave back to reassure me. She could soon be doing anything to him up there. He’d wake up knowing nothing about her, not even her name. That’s if she even stayed. She could do what she wanted and leave him in shambles.
I’d just placed all my trust in my ability to judge her.
“Sir,” said the driver.
I let the chauffeur close my door and sat deeper in my seat. I read and reread and reread and reread the oddly brief street address in the text messages, then called it out to the driver as he put the car in gear.
“Mercury, 65 Dokken Lane,” I said to him, sliding my animal mask on, staring at my warped reflection in the window as the city began to pass across it. My name: Nikos Dimopolous.