Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

This was greeted with a roar of laughter from his two listeners.

“And then what?” Lambe asked, eagerly leaning forward.

Blackburn shook his hand and laughed. “I don’t know which was more exciting—the fucking or the fight afterward. Whew, what a wildcat.”

More toadying laughter.

The waiter glided back with the bottle and a fresh glass, and Lambe indicated for him to pour Blackburn a taste. Blackburn swirled the liquid around in the glass, took a quick whiff, swirled again, then stuck his nose in and inhaled the bouquet. Then he sat back, his eyes half closed, appreciating the aroma. After a moment, he lifted the glass to his lips, drew in a small amount, rolled it around on his tongue, then drew in some air through his lips, bubbling it through the wine before swallowing. Ritual complete, he placed the glass down and waved the waiter away.

“What do you think?” Lambe asked eagerly.

“Magnificent.”

They relaxed.

Blackburn raised his glass again. “And, it so happens, I have something to announce.”

Both friends turned to him eagerly.

“Fill your glasses.”

They did so with alacrity.

“As you know, since selling Gramnet for two billion, I’ve been knocking around, looking for some new little thing to mess around with. I believe I’ve found that thing.”

“Can you talk about it?” asked Calderón.

Blackburn enjoyed the long pause.

“It has to do with scanning and searching visual databases on the web.” He smiled. “When I sold Gramnet, I retained the rights to my proprietary image-compression algorithms. I’ll push image content onto everybody’s desktop, and it’ll be content that looks a hundred times better than anything else out there.”

“But Google’s been working on image-matching technology for years,” said Lambe. “They can’t seem to get it right.”

“I’m going to use a different technology: old-fashioned elbow grease. I’ve got thousands of programmers and researchers I can put to work on it, 24/7. I’m going to build the largest online multimedia database on the web.”

“How?”

“Images can be linked just like web pages. People searching images go from one similar image to the next. Don’t analyze the metadata or the images: analyze the links. Once they’re in your own database, you can build on billions, trillions, of user-generated links. Then I’ll grab the images themselves, super-high-res, and use algorithms and mathematical signatures to compress them. I’ve got a dozen server farms, idling, just waiting to be filled with data like this.”

“But the copyrights to the images—how will you deal with that?”

“Screw copyright. Copyright’s dead. This is the web. Information should be free for the taking. Everybody else is doing it—why not me?”

A reverent hush fell on the group.

“And to kick it off, I’ve got an ace in the hole.” He raised his glass and gave a deep-throated chortle. “

And what an ace it is

.”

Then he took a three-hundred-dollar swallow of wine, closing his eyes with sheer orgiastic pleasure.

“Mr. Blackburn?” a low, deferential voice sounded at his elbow.

Blackburn turned, annoyed at having his enjoyment interrupted. A man in a rather indifferent suit stood there. He was short and ugly and had a Boston accent.

Blackburn frowned. “Who are you?”

“Pat Kemper’s the name. I’m chief security officer of the

Britannia

. May I have a few words with you privately?”

“Security? What’s this about?”

“Don’t be alarmed, it’s routine.”

“My friends can hear anything you have to tell me.”

Kemper hesitated a moment. “Very well. Mind if I take a seat?” And glancing quickly around the dining salon, he took a chair at Blackburn’s right.

“My deep apologies for interrupting your dinner,” Kemper said, his Boston accent already grating on Blackburn’s nerves. The guy looked and talked like a cop. “But protocol requires that I ask you a few questions. It’s about the staff member who was first assigned to clean your suite. Juanita Santamaria.”

“The maid?” Blackburn frowned. “I have my own private maid, and she’s supposed to supervise your people.”

“Santamaria cleaned your room twice. The second time was on the first night of the voyage, around eight-thirty P.M., when she went in to turn down your beds. Do you recall her coming to your suite?” “Eight-thirty last night?” Blackburn leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine. “Nobody was there. My own maid was in medical, seasick and puking her guts out. I was at dinner. And on top of that, I gave strict instructions that no one was to enter my suite unsupervised.”

“I apologize for that, sir. But you don’t know of anything that might have happened in the suite that evening? An incident, someone she might have interacted with? Or perhaps she might have broken something, or . . . perhaps stolen something?”

“What, did something happen to her afterward?”

The security officer hesitated. “As a matter of fact, yes. Ms. Santamaria had a breakdown shortly after leaving your suite. She subsequently took her own life. Yet those who knew her, bunkmates and the like, saw no sign of impending trouble. She was, they say, a well-adjusted, religious person.”

“That’s what they always say about a mass murderer or suicide,” Blackburn said, with a scoff.

“They also mentioned that, when Ms. Santamaria left for work that day, she was in good spirits.”

“I can’t help you,” Blackburn said, swirling his wine and raising his glass to his nose again, inhaling. “Nobody was there. Nothing was broken or stolen. Believe me, I would know: I keep track of my stuff.”

“Anything she might have seen or touched? Something that might have frightened her?”

Blackburn suddenly paused in the middle of the oenophilic ritual, the glass arrested halfway to his mouth. After a long moment he set it down without having sipped from it.

“Mr. Blackburn?” Kemper prodded.

Blackburn turned to look at him. “Absolutely not,” he said in a thin, emotionless voice. “There was nothing. As I said, no one was there. My maid was in the infirmary. I was at dinner. What happened to this woman had nothing to do with me or my suite. She wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Very good,” said Kemper, rising. “I assumed as much, but you know, protocol and everything. North Star would have my hide if I didn’t go through the motions.” He smiled. “Gentlemen, we’ll speak no more about this subject. Thank you for your patience, and have a pleasant evening.” He nodded at each man in turn, then quickly walked away.

Lambe watched the security chief thread his way among the tables. Then he turned to Blackburn. “Well, what do you make of that, Scott old boy? Strange doings belowdecks!” And he struck a melodramatic pose.

Blackburn did not reply.

The waiter glided up to their table. “May I recite the chef’s specials for the evening, gentlemen?”

“Please. I’ve got two days of eating to catch up on.” And Lambe rubbed his hands together.

Abruptly, Blackburn stood up, his chair tilting backward violently.

“Scott?” Calderón said, looking at him with concern. “Not hungry,” Blackburn said. His face had gone pale.

“Hey, Scotty—” Lambe began. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

“Stateroom.” And without another word, Blackburn turned and exited the restaurant.

25

THAT SOUNDS JUST AWFUL,” SAID THE KIND, ATTRACTIVE STRANGER. “Would it help if I spoke to the old lady?”

“Oh, no,” Inge replied, horrified at the suggestion. “No, please don’t. It isn’t that bad, really. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“As you wish. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

“You’re very kind. It just helps to have somebody to talk to.” And then she paused, blushing furiously.

Nothing like this had ever happened to Inge Larssen before. She’d always lived a cloistered existence, been painfully shy. And here she was, pouring her heart out to someone she’d just met half an hour before.

The large, gilt-edged clock on the wallpapered wall of the Chats-worth Salon read five minutes to ten. A string quartet was playing quietly in a far corner, and couples strolled by at infrequent intervals, arm in arm or holding hands. The lounge was lit by a thousand tapered candles, and they freighted the evening air with a mellow golden glow. Inge didn’t think she’d ever been in a place quite so beautiful.

Perhaps it was the magical atmosphere of this place and this night that had helped her let down her guard. Or maybe it was simply the nature of her new friend: tall, self-assured, radiating confidence.

At the far end of the sofa, the stranger languidly crossed one leg over the other. “So you’ve lived in convents all your life?”

“Almost. Ever since I was six. That was when my parents died in an automobile accident.”

“And you have no other family? No siblings?”

Inge shook her head. “None. Except my great-uncle, who was the one who put me in the convent school at Evedal instead of one of the state schools. But he’s gone now. I have some friends from school. They’re almost like family, in a way. And then there’s my employer.” My employer, she thought. Why couldn’t I work for somebody like this?She began to speak, then stopped, feeling herself blushing again.

“You were about to say something.”

Inge laughed self-consciously. “No, it’s nothing.”

“Please tell me. I’d love to hear it.” “It’s just . . .” She hesitated again. “Well, you’re such an important person. So successful, so . . . You’ve heard all about me, now—I was hoping to hear your story.”

“It’s nothing, no big deal,” came the somewhat tart reply.

“No, really. I’d love to hear how you accomplished the impossible and got to be where you are. Because . . . well, someday I’d like . . .” Her voice trailed off as she lost the words.

There was a brief silence.

“I’m sorry,” Inge said hastily. “I had no right to ask. I’m sorry.” She felt a sudden awkwardness. “It’s late—I should really get back to bed. The lady I take care of—if she wakes up, she’ll be frightened if I’m not there.”

“Nonsense,” the stranger said, voice suddenly warm again. “I’d be happy to tell you my story. Let’s take a turn on deck—it’s stuffy in here.”

Inge didn’t think it was especially stuffy, but she said nothing and they made their way to the elevator and rode it four flights up, to Deck 7. “I’ll show you something I’ll bet you’ve never seen,” her new friend said, leading the way down the corridor, past the Hyde Park restaurant—quiet at this late hour—and to a heavy hatchway. “We can step out here.”

It was the first time that Inge had actually been on deck. It was quite chilly, and a wind moaned about the ship, while drifting spray misted her hair and shoulders. The scene could not have been more dramatic. Angry clouds scudded past a pale lemon moon. The huge ship ploughed its way through heavy waves. Above and below them, lights from countless windows and portholes turned the sea spume to molten gold. It was impossibly romantic.

“Where are we?” she breathed.

“The promenade deck. Here, I want to show you something.” And her companion led the way to the aft rail at the very rear of the ship. “On a dark night like this you can see the plankton glowing in the wake. Take a look—it’s unbelievable.”

Holding tightly to the railing, Inge leaned over. It was a straight drop to the sea below, which creamed and boiled around the stern. Sure enough: a billion lights winked in the creamy wake, the ocean alive with phosphorescence, a separate universe of pearlescent life brought temporarily into being by the thrust of the ship.

“It’s gorgeous,” she whispered, shivering in the cold air.

In response, a gentle hand curled around her shoulder, drawing her near.

Inge resisted only a moment. Then she allowed herself to be pulled in close, glad of the warmth. As she stared down at the otherworldly glow in the ship’s wake, she felt another hand slide up and grasp her other shoulder. The grip grew tighter.

And then—with a single, brutal tug—she felt herself lifted into the air and swung bodily over the railing.

A long, confused rush of air, and then, suddenly, a dreadful shock as she hit the icy water. She tumbled and twisted, disoriented by the water, dazed and battered by the impact. Then she fought her way upward, her clothes and shoes like dead weight, and broke the surface, sputtering, clawing into the air as if trying to climb up into the sky.

For a moment, her mind a confused whirl, she wondered how she had fallen—if the railing had given way somehow—but then her head cleared.

I didn’t fall. I was thrown.

The mere fact of it stupefied her. This couldn’t be real. She looked around wildly, instinctively treading water. The great stern of the ship, like a glowing tower, was already receding into the night. She opened her mouth to scream but it was immediately filled with the churning wake. She flailed, trying to remain on the surface, coughing. The water was paralyzingly frigid.

“Help!” she cried, her voice so feeble and choked that she could hardly hear it herself above the rush of the wind, the throbbing engines, the loud hiss of rising bubbles in the wake. Above her, she heard the faint cries of the gulls that followed the ship day and night.

It was a dream. It had to be. And yet the water was so cold, so very cold. She thrashed, her bruised limbs turning to lead.

She had been thrown off the ship.

She stared in horror at the diminishing cluster of lights. She could even see, through the stern windows of the huge King George II ballroom on Deck 1, black moving dots silhouetted against the blaze of light—people.

“Help!” She tried to wave her arm and went under, clawing her way back to the surface.

Kick off the shoes. Swim.

It took but a moment to scrape off her shoes, the stupid, low-heeled pumps her employer made her wear. But it did no good. She couldn’t even feel her feet anymore. She made a few feeble strokes, but swimming was hopeless; it took all her strength now just to keep her head above water.

The Britanniawas starting to fade into the night mists that lay low on the surface of the water. The lights were getting dimmer. The cry of the gulls disappeared. The hiss of rising bubbles and the green color of the wake slowly dissipated. The water turned black, as black as it was deep.

The lights vanished. A moment later, the faint throb of the engines faded to silence.

She stared in horror at the place where the lights and sound had been. All was blackness. She kept her eyes fixed to the spot, terrified to glance away and lose the place, as if somehow that was her last hope. The sea around her was dark, heaving. The moon peeked from a bank of scudding clouds. The mist lay on the sea, momentarily silvery in the moonlight, then it darkened again as the moon slid back into cloud. She felt herself rise on a wave, top it, sink, rise again.

As she strained to see into the misty darkness, a comber broke over her with a hiss, forcing her down. She flailed and clawed. All around her there was nothing—nothing at all; just pitch black and a terrible, implacable cold.

But even as she struggled, the fierce chill seemed to ease slightly, replaced by inexplicable warmth. Her limbs disappeared. As the seconds passed, her movements grew slower, until it took an effort of immense will just to move. She made a ferocious effort to stay afloat, but her whole body had turned into a sack of useless weight. She began to realize she wasn’t in the sea at all, but asleep in her bed. It had all been a nightmare. She felt flooded by relief and gratitude. The bed was warm, soft, pillowy, and she turned over and felt herself sinking into the black warmth. She sighed—and as she did so, she felt something solid and heavy on her chest, like a huge weight. A glimmer of understanding forced its way back into her consciousness: she was not in her bed after all; this was not a dream; she was truly sinking into the black bottomless depths of the North Atlantic, her lungs at their last extremity.

I was murdered, was the last thought that went through her mind as she drifted down, and then she sighed once again, the last of her air escaping her mouth in an eruption of silent horror more intense than the wildest cry.

26

IT WAS ELEVEN-FIFTEEN WHEN KEMPER WALKED INTO THE SHIP’S central security station. The door was half open, and he could hear boisterous chatter and what sounded like a low cheer from within central monitoring. He put his hand on the door and eased it open.

Hundreds of video screens lined the walls of the circular room, each showing a closed-circuit feed of some place on the ship. The security officers of the watch were all crowded around a single screen, laughing and talking, so engrossed they were unaware of his entrance. They were bathed in a bluish light from the many flickering monitors. The room smelled of old pizza from a stack of greasy boxes shoved in one corner.

“Oh, yeah, grandma, take it

all

!” one cried.

“To the

root

!”

“It’s the little old lady from Pasadena!”

A

Whoo-eeeh!

came from the group, mingled with catcalls and laughter. One officer swayed his hips lasciviously. “Attaboy! Ride ’em, cowboy!”

Kemper strode over. “What the hell’s going on?”

The men jumped away from the closed-circuit security screen, revealing two overweight passengers in a dim, remote hallway having vigorous sex.

“Jesus Christ.” Kemper turned. “Mr. Wadle, aren’t you supposed to be the supervisor this shift?” He looked around at all the officers, standing ridiculously at attention.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ve got a missing passenger, a suicide on the crew, we’re losing thousands in the casino, and you’re busy watching the Viagra Show. You think that’s funny?”

“No, sir.”

Kemper shook his head.

“Shall I—?” And Wadle indicated the switch to turn off the monitor.

“No. Anytime a camera is shut off it’s logged, and that’ll raise questions. Just . . .

avert

your eyes.”

At this, someone stifled a laugh, and Kemper, despite himself, couldn’t help but join in. “All right, all right. You’ve had your fun. Now get back to your stations.”

He walked through the monitoring station to his tiny back office. A moment later his intercom buzzed.

“A Mr. Pendergast here to see you.”

Kemper felt his mood sour. A moment later the private investigator entered.

“You here for the show, too?” Kemper asked.

“The gentleman in question has studied the Kama Sutra. I believe that position is called ‘the Churning of the Cream.’ ”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Kemper replied. “We’re down another two hundred thousand in Covent Garden so far tonight. I thought you were going to help us.”

Pendergast took a seat, throwing one leg over the other. “And that is why I’m here. May I have photographs of tonight’s winners?”

Kemper handed him a sheaf of blurry photographs. Pendergast flipped through them. “Interesting—a different group from last night. Just as I thought.”

“And what’s that?”

“This is a large, sophisticated team. The players change every night. The spotters are the key.”

“Spotters?”

“Mr. Kemper, your naïveté surprises me. While the system is complex, the principles are simple. The spotters mingle in the crowd, keeping track of the play at the high-stakes tables.”

“Who the hell are these spotters?”

“They could be anyone: an elderly woman at a strategically placed slot machine, a tipsy businessman talking loudly on a cell phone, even a pimply teenager gaping at the action. The spotters are highly trained and quite often masters of creating an artificial persona to cover their activities. They count the cards—they don’t play.”

“And the players?”

“One spotter might have two to four players in his string. The spotters keep track of all the cards played at a table and ‘count’ them, which usually involves assigning negative numbers to low cards and positive numbers to tens and aces. All they have to remember is a single number—the running count. When the ratio of high cards to low cards remaining in the deck grows beyond a certain point, the odds shift temporarily in favor of the players; high cards in blackjack disfavor the dealer. A spotter who sees a table shift in this way sends a prearranged signal to one of his players, who then sits down at that table and starts betting heavily. Or, if the player is already at the table, he will suddenly up his bets. When the ratio slips back to normal or below, another signal from the spotter tells the player it’s time to leave, or to drop back to smaller bets.”

Kemper shifted uneasily. “How can we stop it?”

“The only foolproof countermeasure is to identify the spotters and give them the, ah, bum’s rush.”

“Can’t do that.”

“No doubt that’s why they’re here and not Las Vegas.”

“What else?”

“Combine the cards into eight-deck shoes and then deal only a third of the shoe before reshuffling.”

“We deal out of a four-deck shoe.”

“Another reason you’ve attracted counters. You could stop them cold by instructing your dealers to shuffle up every time a new player sits down or when a player suddenly ups his wager.”

“No way. That would slow play and reduce profits. Besides, the more experienced players would object.”

“No doubt.” Pendergast shrugged. “Of course, none of these countermeasures solve the problem of how to get

back

your money.”

Kemper looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. “There’s a way to get back the money?”

“Perhaps.”

“We can’t do anything that would involve cheating.”

“

You

can’t.”

“We can’t allow you to cheat either, Mr. Pendergast.”

“Why, Mr. Kemper,” Pendergast responded, his voice full of hurt, “did I say I was going to

cheat

?”

Kemper said nothing.

“A characteristic of card counters is that they stick by their system. A normal player will quit if he’s losing heavily—but not a professional card counter. He knows the odds will eventually come around. That’s to our advantage.” Pendergast looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. That leaves three hours of prime play ahead. Mr. Kemper, be so kind as to extend me a half-million line of credit.”

“Did you say half a

million

?” “I’d hate to find myself short just when things got going.”

Kemper thought hard for a minute. “Are you going to get back our money?”

Pendergast smiled. “I shall try.”

Kemper swallowed. “All right.”

“You’ll need to have Mr. Hentoff warn your pit bosses and dealers that my play might be eccentric, even suspicious—although it will always remain within legal bounds. I’ll take my seat at first base—on the dealer’s left—and I’ll be sitting out about fifty percent of the hands played, so please tell your people notto move me if I’m not playing. Hentoff should instruct his dealers to give me the cut at every normal opportunity, particularly when I first sit down. I’ll appear to be drinking heavily, so make sure when I order a gin and tonic I’m brought only tonic water.”

“All right.”

“Would it be possible to lift the maximum wager at one of the high-stakes tables?”

“You mean, no upper limit to a bet?”

“Yes. It will ensure the counters mark that table, and it will make taking the money back much more efficient.”

Kemper felt a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. “We can do that.”

“And finally, please have Mr. Hentoff staff that table with a dealer with small hands and thin fingers. The less experienced, the better. Have him or her place the end-of-play card high up in the shoe.”

“Do I dare ask why?” said Kemper.

“You dare not.”

“Mr. Pendergast, if we catch you cheating, it’s going to be extremely awkward for both of us.”

“I will not cheat—you have my word.”

“How can you possibly influence play when none of the players ever touch the cards?”

Pendergast smiled enigmatically. “There are ways, Mr. Kemper. Oh, and I shall need an assistant, one of your cocktail waitresses, someone invisible, discreet, and intelligent, who will bring me my drinks and be on call for some—how shall it put it?– unusualassignments I may suddenly give her. They are to be performed unquestionably and without hesitation.”

“This had better work.”

Pendergast paused. “Naturally, if successful, I shall expect another favor in return.”

“Naturally,” said Kemper. Pendergast rose, turned, then glided through the office door into the central monitoring room beyond. Just before the door closed, Kemper could hear his honeyed southern voice raised. “My word, now it’s the apadravyas position. And at their age!”

27

THE ELDERLY WOMAN IN STATEROOM 1039 TURNED SLIGHTLY IN HER bed, mumbling in her sleep.

A moment later, she turned again, the mumbling growing fretful. Something was interfering with her slumber: a rapping sound, loud, insistent.

Her eyes opened. “Inge?” she croaked.

The only reply was another rap.

The woman raised one gnarled hand, grasping a steel bar that ran across the length of the headboard. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position. She had been dreaming; a rather lovely dream involving Monty Hall, door number 2, and petroleum jelly. She licked her desiccated lips, trying to recall the details, but they were already fading into a fog of elusive memories.

“Where is that girl?” she mumbled, feeling a twinge of fear.

The rapping continued. It came from somewhere beyond the bedroom.

From beneath countless layers of satin and sea-island cotton, a withered hand emerged. It plucked dentures from a dish on the bedside table, seated them over anemic gums. Then it reached out—flexing, grasping—until it closed over the handle of a cane. With a series of groans and imprecations, she raised herself to her feet. The ship was rolling noticeably and she kept one hand against the wall as she moved toward the bedroom door.

“Inge!” she called.

She felt another wash of fear. She hated being dependent, truly hated it, and she was scared and embarrassed by her frailty. All her life she had been independent, and now this rotten old age, this horrible dependency on others.

She turned on the light and looked around, trying to master her fright. Where was that damn girl? It was outrageous, leaving her alone. What if she fell? Or had a heart attack? Take pity on a girl, bring her into your service, and how did she repay you? With disrespect, disloyalty, disobedience. Inge was probably out carousing with some low element of the ship’s staff. Well, this was the last straw: as soon as the ship was docked in New York, she’d send the vixen packing. No notice, no recommendations. She could use her charms—the tramp—to work her way back to Sweden.

Gaining the doorway, the old woman stopped to rest, leaning heavily on the frame. The rapping was louder here—it came from the main door of the suite: and now she could hear a voice as well.

“Petey! Hey, Pete!” The voice was muffled, coming from the corridor beyond. “What?” the woman cried. “Who is that? What do you want?”

The rapping stopped. “Pete, come

on

!” the slurred voice replied. “We aren’t going to wait all night.”

“Hey, Petey-boy, get your ass out here!” said another drunken voice from beyond the door. “Remember those babes we met in Trafalgar’s tonight? Well, after you left, they came back to the club. And we’ve been sucking down champagne ever since. Now they’re back in my room, shit-faced. Come on, bud, it’s your chance to get laid. And the tall blonde one’s got a rack that—”

The old woman began to tremble with rage and indignation. She took a fresh hold on the doorframe. “Leave me alone!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Get out of here!”

“What?” came the first voice, a little bewildered now.

“I said, go away!”

A pause. Then a giggle. “Oh,

shit

!” came the second voice. “Rog, we fucked up!”

“No, man, I’m sure he said 1039.”

“I’m calling security!” shrilled the old woman.

From the corridor beyond the door there came an explosion of mirth, then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Breathing heavily, the woman pushed herself away from the doorframe and surveyed the room beyond, leaning on her cane. Sure enough: the couch hadn’t been slept in. The clock above the couch read half past eleven. She had been abandoned. She was alone.

Turning slowly, she made her painful way back into the bedroom, her heart pounding. She eased herself onto the bed, laid the cane carefully beside her. Then, turning to the nightstand, she picked up the phone and dialed zero.

“Ship’s operator,” came the pleasant voice. “How may I help you?”

“Get me security,” the old woman croaked.

28

ANH MINH SAW THE HIGH ROLLER IMMEDIATELY UPON HIS ARRIVAL at the blackjack tables of the Mayfair Casino. Mr. Pendergast, that was the name Mr. Hentoff had given her. He looked like an undertaker in his black tuxedo, and she felt a little shiver as he stopped in the doorway and cast his pale eyes about the dim, elegantly appointed room. He must be a very high roller indeed for Mr. Hentoff to assign her solely to him as a cocktail waitress, and she wondered about the odd instructions that went along with the assignment.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” she asked, approaching him.

“Gin and tonic, please.” When she returned with the drink—tonic water only, as instructed—she found the strange-looking man over by the high-stakes tables in conversation with a very nicely groomed young blond gentleman in a dark suit. She went over and waited patiently with the drink on her tray.

“. . . And so,” the high roller was saying—in a completely different accent now—“I gave the guy twenty-two thousand six hundred and ten dollars, cash on the barrelhead, counting it out by hundreds, one bill at a time—one, two, three, four, and when I hit five, up came a twenty, and that’s when I realized I’d been cheated. The brick of hundreds had been plugged in the middle with twenties! Hell, was I pissed. Twenties, along with tens and even some fives and ones.”

“Excuse me,” said the young man, suddenly angry, “I couldn’t care less about your hundreds or twenties or whatever the hell it is you’re talking about.” He moved off quickly, scowling, his lips moving as if thinking furiously to himself.

Pendergast turned to Anh with a smile. “Thank you.” He lifted off the drink, dropped a fifty on the tray, his eyes roving the room once more.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“Yes, you can.” He gestured faintly with his eyes, his voice now low. “Do you see that woman over there? The overweight one in the muumuu drifting among the high-stakes tables? There’s a little experiment I’d like to conduct. Change this fifty and bring her a mess of bills and coins on your tray, telling her it’s change from the drink she requested. She will protest that she did not buy a drink, but you will pretend you don’t understand and start counting out the money. Just keep counting, reciting as many numbers as possible. If she is what I think she is, she may become angry like that young man I was just speaking to—so keep your cool.”