Page 30 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"What about her?"

"Do we tell her about the text exchanges?" Myron asked.

"Not yet."

Myron remembered her reaction in London to not being told about the emails Win had received. "She'll be angry you're holding out on her again."

"I can live with that," Win said. There was a pause. "Are we done, Myron?"

"I think so."

"Good, I need to go."

Chapter 21

The team name popped up just as Myron was noting that Cousin Brooke would be angry that I was holding out on her again.

SHARK CRYPT I.

"I can live with that," I tell him, completely distracted now. It is time to get off the phone. "Are we done, Myron?"

"I think so," Myron says.

"Good, I need to go."

I end the call before Myron replies. I am in that same back room with Carlo, Renato, and Giuseppe. They are all still geared up, but their mood is more serious today, more somber, as the Muzzles of Rage challenge has begun. My plan is a simple one: Draw out Fat Gandhi.

From everything I know about him, Fat Gandhi is a competitive bastard in this techno-video-whatever world. His biggest rival is ROMAVSLAZIO, which is, thanks to my anonymous largesse, hosting this brand-new prestigious event. The question we need to answer: Even if Fat Gandhi is somewhat underground, even if he is at least temporarily in hiding, will he come out if challenged to a high-stakes, heavily sponsored quasi-military first-person-shooter tournament?

The answer, I now know, is yes.

I point to the new name, SHARK CRYPT I, on the leaderboard. "That's Fat Gandhi," I say.

"You can't tell," Carlo shouts at me, still clicking the keyboard. "He hasn't started to play yet."

"But once he plays for a few minutes, we'll know," Renato adds. "Half hour tops. He's got a distinct style of play. He never uses machine guns or automatic weapons--only a sniper rifle, and he never misses."

"There's always a distinct system," Carlo says.

"Like any sport, you don't have to see the face to know the players," Renato agrees.

"Don't wait," I say. "That's our target."

"How can you be so sure?"

It is simple, really. "Shark Crypt I" is an anagram of "Patrick Rhys."

My plan here is obvious. The challenge for ROMAVSLAZIO has nothing to do with winning the Muzzles of Rage championship. The challenge for them is to pretend that there is a match so that they can figure out via some hacking method I have no interest in understanding exactly where Fat Gandhi is currently residing.

Referee Giuseppe says, "Let's go, boys. Find him."

My car and private plane are at the ready. I have the pilots and a key associate waiting. The moment they find Fat Gandhi's location, whilst the Muzzles of Rage contest continues, we will speed to the location and take Fat Gandhi down.

At least, that is the plan.

"I still don't know if we should do this," Carlo says.

Again he is facing one wall, Renato the other.

"Me neither," Renato agrees.

"We aren't cops."

"You heard Mr. Lockwood," Giuseppe says. "The man pimps out underage boys."

"How do we know he's telling the truth?" Carlo asks.

"Yeah," Renato adds, turning to Win, "how do we know you're not the pervert?"

"You know," I say, "because you already researched it."

Silence.

Then Carlo says, "We researched you too."

"I'm sure you did," I say.

"You're rich."

"I am."

"They also say you've gone crazy. They say you're a weird recluse now."

I spread my arms. "Do I look like a recluse?"

"So why do they say that?"

"I made it up."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because," I say, "some bad people have been trying to kill me."

"So you've been, what, hiding?"

"Something like that."

"So why are you here now?"

"We've rescued one boy," I say. "I need your help to rescue the other."

That seemed to satisfy them.

"It shouldn't be hard," Carlo says. "To join the game you have to log in to our server."

"This will give us his IP address."

"Damn," Carlo says, "he's using a VPN."

"Of course he would," Renato replies, "but we can get around it with . . ."

They slip back into Italian, which is fine with me. I don't speak tech-ese anyway. Their voices are loud and angry. They start cursing at each other. I hear the names of players on Roma and Lazio and I'm certain now that they are starting with the team-rival insults. That, Giuseppe warned me, was how they worked.

"The angrier they get," he assures me, "the closer they are to getting you an answer."

So I wait. They are trying, it seems, to keep up with both the game on their screens and finding the location of SHARK CRYPT I.

"You're right," Carlo says to me, still typing furiously. "It's Fat Gandhi."

"He's trying to cover up," Renato adds.

"Hide his identity now that we know his moves," Carlo says.

They start screaming again in Italian. Ten minutes later, I hear a cheer. Giuseppe nods at me as a printer starts whirring. He heads over and picks up a sheet of paper. "The address," Giuseppe says, handing it to me.

I look at it. The location is in the Netherlands.

"How much time do I have?"

Carlo takes that one. "If we try our best, we will be done in about two hours."

I start for the door. "Then don't try your best," I tell him.

*

Myron pulled up to the aging split-level home.

He had been raised in this dwelling. Well, more than raised. He had lived here with his parents up until, well, recently. In fact, when his parents, Ellen and Al ("People call us El Al," Mom would explain, "you know, like the Israeli airline?"), finally decided to sell the house and retire to Florida, Myron had purchased it from them.

In the old days, whenever Myron would be dropped off or pull into the driveway, his mother would run out the door and throw her arms around him as though he were a just-released hostage she hadn't seen in five years. That was her way.

It had, of course, embarrassed him. And then--equally, of course--it pleased him to no end. When you're young you don't get how great it is to be loved unconditionally.

Now, as the front door opened, Mom's steps were a slow shuffle. Dad helped her, holding her by the elbow. Mom, the still-fiery feminist, shook from the cruelty of Parkinson's. Myron waited a moment in his seat, letting her get closer to the car. She finally shrugged away Dad's hand, not wanting, he knew, for her son to see that she was older and frailer.

Myron slid out of the car as Mom reached him. She still threw her arms around him as though he were a just-released hostage. He hugged her back. Dad came up behind her. Myron kissed his cheek. That was how he greeted his father. With a kiss. Always.

"You look tired," Mom said.

"I'm fine."

"Doesn't he look tired, Al?"

"Leave him alone, El. He looks fine. He looks healthy."

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