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“You what?”

“There was nothing very interesting, but we haven’t finished. We also checked your phone records. Your mobile phone received a call from an untraceable number whilst in New York City fewer than twenty-four hours ago. The call originated from London.” He put out his hands, palms up. “And now you are here. With us.”

“Thorough,” Myron said.

“We try to be.”

“So you know why I’m here.”

“We do.”

“And?”

“I assume you are working for the boy’s family?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. We do rescues, of course. It is all a matter of profit, to tell you the truth. I learned this from the great Eshan, who had a religion—you’d call it a cult—outside Varanasi in India. He was a wonderful man. He spoke of peace and harmony and charity. He was so charismatic. Teenagers flocked to him and gave his temple all their earthly possessions. They lived in tents on well-guarded barren land. Sometimes the parents wanted their child back. The great Eshan would accommodate. He wouldn’t ask too much—never be too greedy, he would say—but if he could receive from the parents more than he could make from having their child work or beg or recruit, he would take the money. I am no different. If one of my workers makes the most contribution working sex, that is what he or she does. If the worker is best suited for robbery, as our friend Garth attempted with you, that is where we place him.”

Man, this guy liked to talk.

“How much?”

“One hundred thousand pounds cash for each boy.”

Myron did not reply.

“This amount is nonnegotiable.”

“I’m not negotiating.”

“Wonderful. How long will it take you to raise this sum?”

“You can have it immediately,” Myron said. “Where are the boys?”

“Come, come. You don’t have that kind of cash on you.”

“I can get it within an hour.”

Fat Gandhi smiled. “I should have asked for more.”

“Never be too greedy. Like the great Eshan said.”

“Are you familiar with Bitcoin?”

“Not really.”

“Doesn’t matter. Our transaction will be via cybercurrency.”

“I don’t know what that is either.”

“Get the cash. You’ll be instructed what to do.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Fat Gandhi said. “I will call you and set it up.”

“Sooner is better.”

“Yes, I understand. But you should also understand, Myron. If you try to circumvent our arrangement in any manner, I will kill the boys and they will never be found. I will kill them slowly and painfully and there will not be an ash left. Do I make myself clear?”

An ash? “You do,” Myron said.

“Then you can go.”

“One thing.”

Fat Gandhi waited.

“How do I know this isn’t a scam?”

“You question my word?”

Myron shrugged. “I’m just asking.”

“Perhaps it is a scam,” Fat Gandhi said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t bother coming back tomorrow.”

“I’m not trying to play chicken here. You”—Myron pointed at him—“you are smart enough to get that.”

Fat Gandhi stroked his chin and nodded.

Psychos, Myron knew, fall for flattery almost every time.

“I just think,” Myron continued, “for that kind of money, a little evidence would be nice. How do I know you have the boys?”

Fat Gandhi raised his hand again and snapped his fingers.

The documentary disappeared from the screen.

For a moment, there was only black. Myron thought that maybe they had shut off the television. But no, that wasn’t it. Fat Gandhi moved toward a keyboard and slowly started tapping the brightness button. The screen started to light up now. Myron could see a room with concrete walls.

And there, in the center of the room, was Patrick.

His eyes were black. His lip was swollen and bloody.

“He’s being held off-site,” Fat Gandhi said.

Myron tried to keep his voice steady. “What did you do to him?”

Fat Gandhi snapped his fingers again. The screen went dark.

Myron stared at the blackness. “What about the other boy?”

“I think that’s enough. It is time for you to leave.”

Myron met his eye. “We have a deal now.”

“We do.”

“So I don’t want anyone touching either one of them. I want your word.”

“And you won’t get it,” Fat Gandhi said. “I’ll contact you tomorrow. Now please get out of my office.”

L
ast time they were in London,
Win had put them in his favorite suite, the Davies, at Claridge’s Hotel on Brook Street. That trip had ended poorly for all of them. This time, maybe to change it up a bit, Win chose the more boutiquey Covent Garden Hotel on Monmouth Street near Seven Dials. When Myron got to his room, he used a throwaway phone Win had given him to call Terese.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know.”

“There’s been too much of this in our past.”

“I agree.”

“We wanted to put this all behind us.”

“We did. We do.”

“I don’t do the wait-and-worry wife well.”

“Nice alliteration. The two
D
’s and then all those
W
’s.”

“Years of being a top-rated news anchor,” Terese said. “Not that I like to brag.”

“Alliteration is only one of your many skills.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Love me for all my faults.”

“What else is there? Okay, so fill me in. And please don’t make the obvious double-entendre joke using my ‘fill me in’ opening.”

“Opening?”

“I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Myron said.

And then he told her everything.

When he was done, Terese said, “He likes being called Fat Gandhi?”

“Loves.”

“It’s like you and Win live in an old Humphrey Bogart film.”

“I’m too young to get that reference.”

“You wish. So you’ll be doing the ransom drop?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” Myron said.

“Uh-huh.”

“About the families, I mean. The parents, mostly.”

“You mean Patrick’s and Rhys’s.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“And,” she said, “you want my expert opinion on the matter.”

Terese had lost a child many years ago. It had nearly destroyed her.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Wrong response,” she said. “If you tiptoe around it, it’s much worse.”

“I want to start a family with you.”

“I want that too.”

“So how do we do it?” Myron asked. “When you love something that much. How do you live with the fear that they can be hurt or killed at any time?”

“I could tell you that that’s life,” Terese said.

“You could.”

“Or I could point out, what choice do you have?”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Myron said.

“You do. But I think there’s another answer, one that took me a long time to understand.”

“And that is?”

“We block,” Terese said.

Myron waited. Nothing. “That’s it?”

“You expected something deeper?”

“Maybe.”

“We block,” she said, “or we would never be able to get out of bed.”

“I love you,” he said again.

“I love you too. And so if I lose you, I will experience crippling pain. You get that, right?”

“I do.”

“If you want to experience love, then you have to be ready for
pain. One doesn’t come without the other. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t have to worry about losing you. If you want laughter, expect tears.”

“Makes sense,” Myron said. Then: “You know what?”

“Tell me.”

“You’re worth it.”

“That’s the point.”

Myron heard the key in the door. Win stepped into the room. Myron said his good-byes and hung up the phone.

“How is she?” Win asked.

“Concerned.”

“Let’s hit a pub, shall we? I’m famished.”

They started down toward Seven Dials.
Matilda the Musical
was playing at the Cambridge Theatre.

“I always wanted to see that,” Myron said.

“Pardon?”

“
Matilda.
”

“Now doesn’t seem the time.”

“I was joking.”

“Yes, I know. Your humor is your defense mechanism. It’s a very engaging personality quirk.” Win started to cross the street. “And the show is eh.”

“Wait, you saw it?”

Win kept walking.

“You saw a musical without me?”

“Here we are.”

“You hate musicals. I even had to drag you to see
Rent.
”

Win didn’t reply. Seven Dials was, per the name, seven roads converging clocklike, producing seven corners around a circle. There was a sundial column maybe three stories high in the
middle of the circle. One corner housed the Cambridge Theatre. A small pub called the Crown was wedged on another. That was where Win entered now.

The Crown was old-school, complete with a polished bar and dark wood paneling and, despite having about three feet of throwing space, a dartboard. The place was cozy and cramped and packed with standing patrons. Win caught the barman’s eye. The bartender nodded, bodies parted, space cleared, and suddenly there were two stools open. Two pints of Fuller’s London Pride awaited them on beer coasters.

Win sat on one stool, Myron on the other. Win raised his stein. “Cheers, mate.”

They clinked mugs. Two minutes later, the barman threw down two orders of fish and chips. The smell made Myron’s stomach rumble with joy.

“I thought this place didn’t serve food,” Myron noted.

“It doesn’t.”

“You’re a beautiful man, Win.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

They enjoyed the dinner and drinks. Whatever else Win had to say could wait. Somewhere along the way, they finished the fish and chips and ordered a second round. There was a rugby match on the television. Myron didn’t know much about rugby, but he still watched the screen.

“So our friend Fat Gandhi,” Win said. “He saw your documentary on ESPN?”

“Yes.” Myron turned toward him. “Have you seen it?”

“Of course.”

Dumb question.

“I’m curious, though,” Win said, “about your reaction.”

Myron shrugged into his beer mug. “I thought it was accurate enough.”

“You gave them an interview.”

“Yep.”

“You never did that before. Talked about the injury.”

“True.”

“You wouldn’t even watch replays of what happened.”

“True.”

It had been too overwhelming to watch. Normal, right? Your dream, your life goal, everything you ever wanted—it’s there, in your grasp at the age of twenty-two, and snap, lights out, buh-bye, it’s over,
nada mas.

“I didn’t see the point,” Myron said.

“And now?”

Myron took a deep swill of the ale. “They kept saying that this injury ‘defined’ me.”

“At one point, it did.”

“Exactly. At one point. But not anymore. Now I could finally watch Burt Wesson slam into me, and I felt little more than a ping. The stupid narrator. He kept saying the injury”—Myron made quote marks with his fingers—“‘destroyed my life.’ But now I know it was just a fork in the road. All those guys I started out with, all those superstars who made it and had successful NBA careers—they’re all retired now. The light went out for them too.”

“But in the meantime,” Win said, “they scored boatloads of chicks.”

“Well, yes, there’s that.”

“And the light didn’t snap off for them. It dimmed.”

“Slowly,” Myron said.

“Yes.”

“Maybe that makes it harder.”

“How so?”

“You rip off the bandage all at once versus slowly peeling it away.”

Win took a sip of his beer. “Fair point.”

“I could also add the cliché about being thrown into the deep end. The suddenness forced me to act. It made me go to law school. It made me become a sports agent.”

“It didn’t ‘make’ you,” Win said.

“No?”

“You were always a competitive—nay, overly ambitious—son of a bitch.”

Myron smiled at that and raised his mug. “Cheers, mate.”

Win again clinked his glass, cleared his throat, and said, “
Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.
”

“Wow,” Myron said.

“I taught myself the Yiddish,” said the blond-haired, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon. “It does wonders when I hit on Jewish chicks.”

Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.
Translation: Man plans and God laughs.

Man, it was good to be back with Win.

They both went quiet for a moment. They were both thinking the same thing.

“Maybe the injury isn’t such a big deal anymore,” Myron said, “because I know there are a lot of worse things in life.”

Win nodded. “Patrick and Rhys.”

“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.”