Page 10 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"What do you know about cybercurrency?"

"Ransoms are sometimes paid with it, but with all the recent antilaundering laws now, it is extraordinarily difficult. My expert says that you have to buy the currency, put it in some kind of online wallet, and then transfer it to them. It's part of the dark web."

"Do you understand what that means?"

"I told you. I'm an expert in nearly anything."

Myron waited.

"But no, I don't have a clue."

"We may be getting old."

Win's phone buzzed. He checked it. "I'm getting information on our friend Fat Gandhi from a constable friend."

"And?"

"His real name is Chris Alan Weeks."

"For real?"

"Age twenty-nine. The authorities know about him, but according to this, he mostly works on the dark web."

"That term again."

"He dabbles in prostitution, sexual slavery, robbery, blackmail . . ."

"Dabbles?"

"My term, not theirs. And . . . ah, no surprise. He's into computer hacking. His syndicate operates several online money scams."

"You mean like a Nigerian prince wants to give you all his money?"

"A tad more sophisticated, I'm afraid. Fat Gandhi--I prefer his nom de plume if you don't mind."

"I don't."

"Fat Gandhi is good with computers. He matriculated and graduated from Oxford. As we both know, law enforcement hates referring to criminals as 'geniuses' or 'masterminds'--but our cherubic friend seems pretty close to being both. Hmm."

"What?"

"Fat Gandhi also has a reputation for being--and this is their phraseology--'creatively violent.'"

Win stopped and smiled.

"He sounds a bit like you," Myron said.

"Ergo my smile."

"Is he into kidnapping?"

"Human trafficking is slavery for the purposes of sexual exploitation. By definition, that's kidnapping." Win held up a hand before Myron could interrupt. "But if you mean grabbing wealthy children for the purpose of making them sexual slaves, no, there is no indication he does that. Plus, Fat Gandhi would have been nineteen when the kidnappings occurred. By all accounts he was studying at Oxford at that time."

"So any theories about how Patrick and Rhys ended up with him?"

Win shrugged. "Several. The original kidnapper sold them off. The boys could have changed hands dozens of times over the past ten years. He may not be their first predator."

"Ugh."

"Yes, ugh. It could be that Patrick and Rhys were somehow runaways living on the streets. A parasite like Fat Gandhi gets them that way too. Offers them work. Helps them get strung out and thus hooked on drugs, so that they have to earn. There are a dozen ways it could have gone down."

"None of them good," Myron said.

"None that I can think of, no. But as we've learned, people, especially the young, are resilient. Right now, we concentrate on rescuing them."

Myron stared in his beer. "You saw Patrick on the street."

"Yes."

"If he had that kind of freedom--"

"Why didn't he call home?" Win finished for him. "You know the answer. Stockholm syndrome, fear, he could have been watched, or perhaps he doesn't remember his old life. He was six when he was taken."

Myron nodded. "What else?"

"I have people casing the arcade."

"For?"

Win didn't answer. "One of my people will follow Fat Gandhi when he leaves. The money will be arriving in approximately ten minutes. Our rooms are adjoining. When he calls you, we move. Other than that . . ."

"We wait."

*

The call came in at four A.M.

Myron scrambled out of sleep and reached for the phone. Win appeared in the doorway, still dressed. He nodded for Myron to answer and held his duplicate phone to his ear.

"Good morning, Mr. Bolitar."

It was Fat Gandhi. He had done this on purpose, the four A.M. call. Myron understood. He was trying to catch Myron off guard, in the middle of a sleep cycle. He hoped to find Myron disoriented and just slightly off his game. Classic move.

"Hey," Myron said.

"Do you have the money?"

"I do."

"Lovely. Please go to the NatWest Bank on Fulham Palace Road."

"Now?"

"As soon as possible, yes."

"It's four in the morning."

"I am aware. There is an employee named Denise Nussbaum, who will be standing by the door. Go to her. She will help you open an account and make the proper deposit."

"I'm not following."

"You will, if you listen. Go where I tell you. Denise Nussbaum will give you wiring instructions."

"You expect me to wire the money to you before I get the boys?"

"No. I expect you to do what I say. The boys will show up once the account is open. When you see them, you will complete the wire transfer to our cybercurrency account. Then you get the boys."

Myron looked over at Win. Win nodded at him.

"Okay," Myron said.

"What, Mr. Bolitar, you prefer the old-fashioned way? Did you think I would make you use various red telephone boxes and jump on the Underground and perhaps drop the ransom off in a hollow tree?" Fat Gandhi chuckled. "You watch too much television, my friend."

Oh boy. "Are we done?"

"Not so fast, Mr. Bolitar. I have a few more, shall we say, requests."

Myron waited.

"Bring no weaponry of any kind."

"Okay."

"You come alone. You will be followed and watched. We realize that you have some sort of backup in this country. Other people working with you. If we see any of them within smelling distance of this transaction, there will be consequences."

"Now who's the one watching too much television?"

Fat Gandhi liked that one. "You don't want to cross me, mate."

"I won't," Myron said.

"Good."

"But one thing."

"Yes?"

"I know you're scary and all," Myron said. "But so are we."

Myron waited for a reply, but the phone went dead. Myron and Win exchanged a glance.

"Did he hang up?" Win asked.

"Yes."

"Rude."

Chapter 8

They sat in the back of the stretch Bentley. Win had put the money in a rather elegant leather suitcase. Myron read the label.

"A Swaine Adeney Brigg bag for a ransom drop?"

"I had nothing cheaper on hand."

"Do you know Fulham Palace Road?" Myron asked.

"Not well."

"So where should we drop me off so we won't be seen?"

"Behind Claridge's Hotel."

"That's near this bank?"

"No. It's approximately a twenty-to twenty-five-minute ride."

"I'm not following."

"I switched out your phone last night."

"Right, I know."

"When your rotund friend from the arcade temporarily confiscated said phone, he put a tracking chip into it."

"For real?"

"Yes."

"So he's been keeping tabs on my location."

"Well, not yours, of course. I had one of my men bring the phone to Claridge's. He checked into the hotel under the alias of Myron Bolitar."

"Did my alias stay in the Davies Suite?"

"No."

"My alias is used to luxury."

"Finished?"

"Just about. So Fat Gandhi thinks I'm at Claridge's?"

"Yes. You'll go in through the side employee entrance. My man will give you back your phone. He will also place two listening devices on your person."

"Two?"

"Depending on where you go, they may search you again. They probably won't find both."

Myron understood. When Win put tracking devices on cars, he always put one under the bumper--where it could easily be found--and one in a more difficult space to find.

"Use t

he same safe word," Win said.

"Articulate."

"Yes, very nice that you remember." Win turned and looked at Myron full on. "Use it even if you do not believe it will do any good."

"Huh?"

"We've spent the evening with eyes on the arcade," Win said. "Your chum Fat Gandhi has not left. No one matching either Patrick's or Rhys's description has entered."

---