by Tim Tigner
She soon spotted the shaved head of Kai Basher. He wasn’t with a woman. The other three at his table looked more like bankers. All wore smug expressions as they sipped the wine the sommelier had paired with their foie gras appetizers.
She prayed Bruce wouldn’t march across the floor and slug him in the face. Well, for the most part anyway. Her darker side would be happy to see their nemesis lose a few teeth.
Danica returned her attention to her husband and saw a familiar look on his face. A contemplative look. His gaze was shifting from table to table as if assessing missile strikes. What was he thinking? Surely he wasn’t going to go postal and work out his frustrations on the whole spoiled lot. Had he brought a gun? Was his Glock tucked in the small of his back?
As she reached to check, enlightenment entered his eyes, followed swiftly by a slow nod of resolve and finally the hint of a smile. He had an idea.
Bruce intercepted her hand. Without a word he turned toward the door and led her back beneath the stars.
She said nothing.
He kept walking all the way to their car.
Turning once he’d reached the driver’s side door, he dealt her a second surprise. “Would you mind taking an Uber home?”
Danica was at once relieved and perplexed. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’d never leave you, dear. But tonight, I need to go to Nevada.”
4
Fast Action
San Francisco, California
DANICA EXPERIENCED an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu as she studied her colleagues’ faces across the conference table. They were in her husband’s office. Ground zero. The location where the news bomb had dropped forty-eight hours earlier. The rejection that had obliterated her hopes and dreams and laid waste to the hard work and sacrifices of the preceding six years.
Seb and Webb, AcotocA’s founding engineers, looked the way she felt. Usually quick-witted and chic—at least for geeks—the matched set appeared untidy and downtrodden. Their sandy blond hair was flat, their hazel eyes highlighted by dark, puffy bags, and their faces unshaven. The sight reminded her of a paparazzi picture in which a photographer had captured a vacationing celebrity off-guard.
Although Kai Basher had caused their disaster, Danica was determined to own her reaction. Whereas the men had erupted like Vesuvius, smashing champagne bottles rather than raining ash, Danica had taken the news in stride. She was attempting to focus on the positive. While unpleasant, it wasn’t cancer.
But try as she might, the slow simmer of rage ignited by Kai’s call now had her anger at full boil. She needed to vent that energy. But how? Where?
Bruce’s sudden course reversal at Cinquante Bouches had surprised her, but his subsequent secrecy had not. He’d always been one to contemplate in solitude, emerging only after he’d either fully fleshed out his big idea or rejected it.
He’d called an hour earlier to say that he had a plan—a plan that would both serve justice and restore the fortune Kai had stolen. He’d given no detail, just a request to gather in his office for a momentous discussion.
“We should have seen it coming,” Seb said. “We were naive to think Galantic would play by the rules. The rich and powerful have never done that.”
Webb nodded along. “Why pay us three billion dollars when you can bribe an official for a small fraction of that? I feel like a fool for not anticipating it.”
“And there’s no way we can fight back,” Seb continued, bunching his fists. “Not when their breakeven point is three billion in legal fees, lobbyist contracts and outright bribes.”
“Meanwhile, we haven’t just lost our big payout, we’ve lost our salary,” Webb said. “This is going to crush me. I’ve been anticipating a major cash infusion—and I’ve acted accordingly.”
“Me too,” Seb said. “I’m totally screwed. For the first five years I was conservative. Disciplined. But once the clinical data came in so strong, I jumped the gun a bit. You can’t take it with you, you know? Old and rich is good, but young and rich is better.”
Danica wanted to chastise her colleagues for their shortsightedness. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched was an oft-repeated idiom for good reason. But she understood the temptation. The Bay Area was full of people living large after scoring huge. When you were as smart and hardworking as Seb and Webb, it was natural to feel that you deserved to live like your successful neighbors.
She and Bruce didn’t have credit card debt, but they did have a five-figure monthly mortgage payment. Savings would keep them solvent for a year or so, but it could easily take them longer than that to find acceptable employment. By drawing paychecks from the same company, they had violated conventional wisdom as well, putting all their eggs in one basket.
“So what does Bruce have in mind?” Seb asked, changing the subject.
Both engineers focused their bloodshot eyes on her.
Danica didn’t have the answer. “You know my husband almost as well as I do, and I’ve told you all I know. One minute Bruce was studying Kai Basher and the other smug patrons around his four-hundred-dollar-per-plate table, the next he was headed for Nevada.”
“What’s in Nevada?” Seb asked.
“Beyond Vegas? Not much,” Webb replied.
Danica didn’t find that encouraging. It was practically cliché, the desperado heading to Vegas to roll the dice and either win big or end it all with a rooftop dive. She quickly dismissed the depressing thought. Surely her husband—her brilliant, insightful, courageous husband—was more resilient than that.
“Are you angry?” Bruce asked, walking into the room and catching them all by surprise.
“Yes,” Danica replied in concert with her colleagues, buoyed by her husband’s exuberant tone.
“Are you prepared to take action? To reclaim your rightful rung on the socioeconomic ladder?” Bruce continued, gesturing enthusiastically.
“Yes,” they all replied.
“Bold action?” Bruce clarified.
“Yes!”
“Decisive action?”
“Yes!”
“Are you prepared to stoop to the level required to win? To get dirty? To take risks? To use every tool at your disposal to outwit the people and the system that effectively just stole the last six years of your life?”
Again, Danica found herself saying, “Yes!” and meaning it, despite the implied element of danger. And criminality.
“Good. Because I’ve figured out how to make us whole.”
All three exhaled in relief before Bruce continued. “But we have to act fast. The moment we need to strike is a mere five days from now. This Friday night.”
5
Big Mouths
Five Days Later
Napa, California
I FELT a funny flutter in my stomach, the kind you get when cresting a hill at speed. But I hadn’t crested a hill. Katya and I were still ascending at a modest 45 mph.
It was nerves.
My body was expressing apprehension about what lay ahead, something it rarely did even under circumstances most would consider far more extreme—like working undercover for the CIA or climbing a cliff without a rope. Funny how those things work.
At the moment, I was facing no imminent physical danger. No significant chance of emotional damage either.
Not really.
I didn’t think.
But there was, of course, some chance. And given the magnitude of the situation, even a small possibility of failure apparently presented as a significant threat. At least as far as my bowels were concerned.
“I know it’s not a picnic, because there’s no way you’d put on a collared shirt and sport coat for one of those,” Katya said. “But given the state of my stomach, and the fact that we’re leaving civilization ever further behind, I’m beginning to wish that was what you had planned.”
She was kidding, of course. Unlike me, Katya had a camel’s capacity to function without food. On the other hand, and again unlike me, she was not good
at delaying gratification when it came to surprises. I’d told Katya that I was taking her someplace special for her birthday and then added to the intrigue by doing something I rarely did. I dressed up.
At least above the waist.
Below, I’d retained my favorite jeans and, of course, approach shoes. One never knew when obstacles would appear and beg to be climbed.
Katya, by contrast, looked like a million bucks with her long, honey-blonde hair coiffed to add curly bounce and her proud Slavic face lightly painted.
“Five minutes,” I said, and rolled down the front windows. “Enjoy the fresh air.”
We both inhaled deeply. Palo Alto was nice enough as far as climate was concerned. We felt privileged to live there. But it was a city, and this, this was God at His best.
“Bozhe moi. Pravda!” Katya said, momentarily reverting to her native Russian out of excitement as my headlights illuminated the polished brass letters on the stone wall just ahead. “You brought me to Cinquante Bouches for my birthday! How did you get reservations?”
“I planned ahead.” I’d set three reminders and an alarm to ensure that I was at my laptop, credit card in hand, when reservations became available two months earlier. I had more than just a memorable birthday planned.
“I’m excited. I’ve heard stories and always wanted to go, but can we afford it?”
Katya made a respectable salary as a mathematics professor at Stanford, whereas my income was more hit or miss, with good consulting income occasionally supplementing the meager sponsorship money I made climbing cliffs. We’d have been relatively well off most places, but the Bay Area is a very expensive place to live. Still, I could afford the occasional nice dinner and, once in my life, a gold ring with a glittering rock. “It’s already paid for. Famous French restaurateurs demand payment in advance.”
She leaned over and gave me a big hug and kiss as I brought the Jeep Cherokee to a crunching halt on the gravel. “Thank you!”
“Wait till we try the food. You never know,” I said with a wink.
As we approached the front door, an attractive couple was exiting a white Audi 7 with a glowing Uber sign in the windshield. The stylish pair appeared to be Middle Eastern, but were conversing in English with British accents. They sounded as excited as we were. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress—or was it a gown? I wasn’t sure of the distinction. It resembled Katya’s except that it was café au lait in color, whereas Katya’s was emerald green. He, on the other hand, had outdone me twofold with both a vest and necktie. We’d see who was happier with his wardrobe choice if a bear wandered in from the woods.
The Uber rider reached the door first and held it open as both ladies walked through. I did the after you gesture, and we approached reception.
“Bonsoir,” a proper French hostess said in greeting. “Do you have a reservation?”
Would anyone drive all the way up here if he didn’t?
“Abdilla, table for two,” the gentleman said.
Rather than consult a computer or list, the hostess simply said, “Right this way.”
She returned a few seconds later and repeated the ritual with us. “Achilles, table for two,” I said.
We followed her into a large, elegant dining room outfitted with a dozen round, white linen-covered tables of various sizes. To my disappointment, most appeared to be occupied by businessmen, rather than couples. In fact, other than the two we’d walked in with, I spotted only one other two-top. It was occupied by a blatantly gay couple, with matching colorful suits and glasses and “I’m with him” neck tattoos. Not the atmosphere I had been hoping for, but one hard to avoid given that Katya’s birthday coincided with the annual J.P. Morgan Healthcare Conference. The invitation-only event took over the Bay Area as the rich industry’s movers and shakers with their financiers and fat expense accounts descended in droves.
Alas, four of the obnoxious sort were seated just behind me, apparently already drunk. Their leader, a big blond fellow with a perfect part and over-bleached teeth, seemed to be confusing Cinquante Bouches with the dining room of the fraternity he’d undoubtedly run. Given the half-full crystal bottle of amber liquid on the table between Chip or Skip or Biff or Trey and his friends, I wasn’t expecting their behavior to improve with food. Fortunately for them, I had plenty to occupy my mind.
“It’s beautiful,” Katya said, spinning around to take in the entire scene. “The attention to detail. I love how the number of candles coincides with the number of guests. And the way they lit each work of art. They even have Hillary Hahn playing Bach sonatas in the background. Thank you, Kyle.”
Katya rarely called me by my first name. Nobody who knew me did. I took it as a sign that she was pleased, a sign confirmed a second later when she gave me a kiss before taking her seat.
So far, so good—obnoxious bankers aside.
As Bernard, the waiter, laid the napkin in my lap, I reached into my pocket for the ring.
I didn’t find it.
While Bernard poured the champagne and placed puffy ping-pong ball-sized appetizers before us, my fingers continued to fumble without success. I was trying to operate under the radar of my hopefully soon to be fiancée, both in my actions and in my expression. This was supposed to be the moment. That memorable, magical experience every child anticipates at some point in his or her life.
In preparation, I had confirmed that champagne would indeed accompany the meal, and the hostess had clarified that it was served with the welcoming hors d’oeuvres. I had it all planned out. And then—what? Had the ring somehow snagged on the cuff of the cursed shirt? Was there a hole in my new jacket? Would my homeowner’s insurance cover the ring’s loss? Was this really happening?
“Bug bite?” Katya asked, mistaking my fumbling for scratching.
Not wanting to lie, I raised my champagne, “Happy birthday, Katya. I hope the memory of tonight will make you smile for years to come.”
We clinked and sipped and savored our hors d’oeuvres. For the few seconds it took me to chew the small but sumptuous treat, I almost forgot my distressing situation. But the swallow came all too soon, and I was face-to-face with my costly blunder again.
Looking around, I saw that all the waiters had disappeared. No doubt the next course would soon be forthcoming. I ran my hands down my sides and over both pockets as if stretching. This was my final attempt to find the ring before excusing myself to the bathroom for a strip search.
I felt it!
The bulge wasn’t at the bottom of my pocket, but rather further up. My fingers found it inside a tiny pocket within the pocket. As the knots in my shoulders released, I speculated that the inner pocket was intended for business cards.
Pinching the ring between the fingers of my left hand, I again raised a champagne flute with my right. Once Katya raised hers, I brought the ring into view.
Her eyes went wide.
I was about to slide out of my seat and onto my knee when an atmospheric disturbance pinged my radar.
I redirected my attention toward the source of the disturbance and watched two masked people clad in black walk into the room, H&K MP7s raised. “Everyone stay in your seats!”
6
Acoustic Camouflage
Napa, California
GASPS ERUPTED as the assailants positioned themselves at opposite sides of the room. One was obviously a woman. Neither moved like a skilled combatant, but then it didn’t take a lot of skill to kill with submachine guns in a crowded room.
“Everyone put your hands behind your heads, and plant your faces in your plates,” the man commanded in a menacing monotone.
As the diners glanced about, struggling to comprehend the inconceivable, he shouted, “Now! Do it now! If I don’t see your nose touching your plate, I’m going to put it there. And no talking!”
I put on a calm and confident expression, met Katya’s eye, and nodded for her to comply. As she did so, I made two subtle moves. I slipped the ring into my mouth and flipped my soup spoon, creating a c
onvex mirror.
“Good. Now stay that way—still and silent,” the attacker added, his voice more moderate. “If everyone plays along, nobody gets hurt.”
It was a good tactical play. Start with shock and awe, instilling all kinds of fear, then offer a sense of security tied to complete cooperation. I made a note that the team was strategically savvy, even if operationally inexperienced.
The spoon helped, but it was no crystal ball. It only gave me views of objects high off the ground and on my flanks. Kinda like the side view mirrors on a car when angled upward. I could augment my field of vision with subtle head movements, but I wanted to minimize those. My goal at this early stage was to blend into the crowd.
I did, however, reach a foot across to stroke one of Katya’s calves. I couldn’t be particularly tender with my shoe on, but I did my best to deliver a soothing touch.
“Now, anyone in possession of a weapon, raise your left hand! You will be searched shortly, and if a weapon is found, it will be used on you, then and there, without hesitation or question.”
I didn’t detect any movement. Not surprising since my fellow patrons were likely big city bankers and pharmaceutical company executives. Most had probably flown to the Bay Area for the conference.
“Last chance. You have been warned.”
Still no movement.
I had a 9mm with me, but it was holstered under the steering wheel of my Jeep.
After a few seconds of silence, the woman moved in my direction but stopped at the table with the gay couple. “You two, on your feet.”
She marched the men in the direction of the front door, where the intervening partition would have hidden them from sight even if I were free to watch. As their footsteps faded, another unexpected event occurred. Music started playing. And not just any music—jazz music. Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”
