CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gina slipped out of the luncheon in the boardroom and found an alcove that contained a couch and a potted tree. She took out the secure phone for Potemkin. A headache was coming on. It rang once before he answered.

“Gina,” he said. “How is it going?”

“Well.”

“What does that mean? Is Damien Falconi there like you told me last night? He’s not as rich as me, but he’s got a lot.”

“He’s here. I overheard them discussing details this morning. Forester is going to ask Falconi to invest something like several hundred million dollars and loan them even more to start this genomic research center.”

“It’s a smart thing, I hate to say. He will make and sell patents, start new companies. Very wise. So, is the Falconi man interested?”

“It looks like it to me. But Forester only has nine days to seal a deal.”

“Then you must stop this. Do you have a plan?”

She hesitated. “I think I see a way to drown this place in negative publicity. But I’ll have to do something I don’t want to do.”

“You have to kill someone?” Potemkin asked.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”

“Then we’ll get Freddy to do it. He’s no virgin like you.”

Gina considered this. “That won’t work. I’m the best one to do it.”

“Fine, you do it.”

“I want your absolute promise, Mikhail—even if it fails—you will return my daughter.”

He laughed. “I was expecting you to ask for more money. But you do it for your daughter. Dmitry’s spirit is proud.” He quit laughing, and his voice turned sincere. “You have my word. Swear on my parents’ grave. I will be generous to you, regardless of success. Cross my heart.”

“I’m going to need some logistical help,” she said. “I’ll be making my way into the hospital tonight. Can you still access their entire computer system?”

“Of course. You still have that ID badge I gave you?”

“Yes. Can you change the telemetry monitoring in a specific room?”

“You mean those heart machines that go beep-beep? Yes, of course. I could make their clocks run backward if I wanted.”

“Then I will need you to set one monitor on a blind loop so that it looks normal and doesn’t change.”

“Which room?”

“Room fifteen in the new step-down unit on the eighth floor of the north tower. And at the same time, I will need you to set off an alarm in a different room.”

“I will get my people working on this now.”

“And you must erase any segment of me that might be caught on their CCTVs, and any record of when I swipe in using my press badge. Thankfully, they don’t record video in the rooms. And I need an interior map of the building.”

“Yes, of course. I believe this is all feasible. You know, if Forester wins, I will become a ground floor investor in their new research center. One way or another, in ten years I will be the richest man in the world. Other countries will be petitioning to ally themselves with Wiegatesland . . .”

She moved the phone away from her ear. “Mikhail,” she said. He continued. “Mikhail! Enough, please. This is all very . . . inspiring. Just remember your promise.”

Rain pelted the hotel awning under which Gina waited that evening, wind swirling around her legs. Light from the Italian restaurant next door glimmered on the sidewalk. She watched a young couple dash across the street, laughing. The girl ducked inside while the man collapsed his umbrella. Their palpable carefree happiness deepened the dread she felt. Forester’s SUV glided up to the curb, windshield wipers thudding like a heartbeat. She climbed in. He was smiling. It was the most relaxed looking she’d seen him. She asked how things were going with Damien Falconi.

“The signs are good,” he said.

“Even with that problem today?”

“It didn’t seem to faze him.”

“And your brother’s friend,” she said, “is he good?”

“I saw him a little while ago. He’s fine now. Thanks for asking.”

She set her purse on the floor in front of her, which is where she would leave it. They arrived at the restaurant. A young lady led them to a private dining room already full of people. Martin Bentley came up to her. “Ah, Ms. Kovalenko. Glad you could make it.”

A willowy woman walked over and laced her arm around his elbow. Bentley cleared his throat. “Marianna, let me introduce you to my wife. Sydney, this is Marianna Kovalenko from Ukraine, the journalist I mentioned.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “Charmed.” She gave Gina’s hand a limp shake. One of her eyes wandered away.

“Marianna, allow me to get you a drink,” said Bentley.

“Please, not necessary.”

“As long as you’re offering, darling, I’ll take a cosmo,” his wife said. “Do you know what Martin’s middle initial stands for?” Without waiting for Gina to answer, she continued with a giggle. “Ford. His father was a car enthusiast. Get it—Martin Ford Bentley. Martin, as in Aston Martin.”

Bentley frowned. “Are you sure you’d like another drink, Syd?”

She fixed a look at him and arched one of her eyebrows. “Marty . . .” she said. “You’re not being a good boy.”

He sighed and turned to leave.

“Get one for yourself and loosen up,” she remarked to his departing back. Then she turned to Gina. “What on earth would you find to write about in this town? It’s a nest of nincompoops. What’s the word for ‘nincompoop’ in Ukrainian? I have a friend who can say dickhead in Mandarin. It’s hilarious.”

“I am not sure of the translation.”

“How about bastard? Surely you can translate bastard.”

Gina saw with gratitude that Forester was approaching.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said to her. “We’ve saved a seat for you. Shall we?”

“I’ll catch up with you later, my dear,” said Bentley’s wife. “Think dirty!”

Gina’s place was between Forester and Leigh Falconi. A beaming Damien Falconi sat on Forester’s left next to Jan Cummings. The conversation rippled with laughter. Suddenly something vibrated between her breasts. Before leaving the hotel, she’d placed the Potemkin phone in her cleavage. After buzzing three times against her sternum, it stopped. “I must excuse myself,” she said, rising.

She reassured Forester that all was well and stepped out. A restroom wouldn’t be private enough, so she went outside under the portico. The rain had stopped. Potemkin answered immediately. “We are in business, Gina. I can do all that you ask. Call when you are ready.”

She returned. During the meal, Leigh Falconi wanted to chat. Gina deflected her way through several questions about Ukraine, and Falconi’s mother soon turned to her other seatmate.

When the main course was cleared, Gina turned to Forester. “Oh no,” she sighed. “I left my phone in my purse in your car and I need to make a call. So stupid. May I borrow your keys?” He offered to go for her. “No, you stay. I know where you park. I insist. I will be soon back.”

Hands trembling, she opened the rear hatch, lifted the lid on Forester’s emergency kit, and found the vial of ketamine and a syringe. Half an hour later, while Jan Cummings was making some remarks, she leaned toward Forester. “I am getting a headache. I think I will return to hotel now. I will take Uber. No—it’s not too bad. Like usual. I just need sleep. You have been too kind already. I will be working on my article tomorrow in hotel, then leave the morning after. I will say goodbye before I leave.”

At least the part about the headache was true.