CARLYLE HOTEL
NEW YORK CITY
Igor was lying on his bed, legs crossed. He had on a set of blue silk Derek Rose pajamas. A candle was lit on the mantel, above the fireplace. His right arm was beneath his head. In his left hand was a glass of red wine: Vega Sicilia Unico Gran Reserva, 1992.
Soft music was playing, a sonata by Shostakovich.
Igor stared, transfixed, at the wall across from the bed. Hanging on it was the magnificent Damien Hirst piece that he’d bought at Sotheby’s that day: a ten-foot-tall object that looked like stained glass but was, in fact, dried butterflies, arranged in perfect symmetry, beneath glass.
Igor was considered by those who mattered to be the greatest computer hacker in the world. Yet for someone who had made hundreds of millions by staring at computer screens for days on end, Igor much preferred real life—and those objects of beauty that his vast wealth allowed him to acquire.
“Vam nravitsya?” he said as a woman with short black hair entered from the bathroom, wearing a see-through black teddy.
“Do you like it?”
“Da.”
Igor’s phone beeped and he reached for it. He wasn’t going to answer, but then eyed the screen.
CALIBRISI HECTOR
Igor sat up and put the phone to his ear.
“Hector,” said Igor, his Russian accent thick. “How are you?”
“Fine,” said Calibrisi.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“We have a situation,” said Calibrisi. “We need you to find someone.”
“Who?”
“Can you look at a phone call that’s been heavily sanitized and determine where it was actually made from?”
“Yes,” said Igor, standing up. “Provision me into the trunk and send me the keychain to the call.”
Igor sat down on a white leather Eames chair in front of his desk and started typing.
“How long will you need?” said Calibrisi.
“Not long,” said Igor. “Five, six minutes at most.”
“The person you’re looking for kidnapped the vice president’s son on vacation in Mexico,” said Calibrisi. “Katie is in-theater. When you find something, run it through her.”
“Got it. Shouldn’t be long.”