The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [51]
“Sure,” I said, glancing at my computer screen for the hundredth time. The red progress icon on the depletion model was still flashing at the same infuriatingly leisurely pace. “Come on in.”
“I have more toast,” she said, setting the plate down on my desk. “You ready for some coffee now?”
The question made me realize how tired I was.
“Please,” I said, stifling a yawn. I washed a bite of toast down with a sip from the mug. My stomach wasn’t any happier, but I needed the caffeine. “Any word from Alex?”
“None. He didn’t answer Lynn’s knock. She’s worried.”
“She tell Walter?”
“She spoke to Susan. Susan promised to talk to Walter.”
Susan was Walter’s assistant.
“I’ll stop by on my way home,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Anything else?”
“Rashid called earlier to set up a meeting between you and someone named Mariano Gallegos. He said not to interrupt you.”
“Good. When and where?”
“Tomorrow morning, nine a.m., at the Turtle Bay Diner on the corner of Forty-sixth and Second. I’m assuming you’ll walk over?”
“Right. Do me a favor and let Reggie know also.” She looked at me curiously, but I wasn’t inclined to explain. “And one more thing.” I scribbled a quick explanatory note and then took the iPod and the cable Kate had purchased from my desk. “Seal these in a Bubble Wrap envelope and have an in-house messenger run them over to Rashid, please.”
“Will do. Also, you got a bunch more inquiries from prospective clients, and about a million calls from reporters.”
Talk of prospective clients reminded me of Narimanov’s offer to buy out my business and employ me exclusively. I didn’t know him well enough to jump to any decision, but it was an intriguing opportunity. The money he’d mentioned would support a major upgrade in our lifestyle. And I could probably work for him from anywhere. New York, London—maybe even San Francisco. I wondered again how serious Claire was about moving, and whether her plans included me.
“Fill out background reports on the potential new clients, please, and e-mail me a list of the reporters.” I needed to get back to the ones I was friendly with, even if I didn’t intend to tell them anything.
“Okay. Also, I spoke to Claire. She ordered a lasagna from Butterfield, and she’d like you to stop and pick it up on your way to the Christmas concert at Sloan-Kettering tomorrow night. You want me to book a car?”
“What time does it start?”
“Potluck dinner at six o’clock and concert at seven o’clock.” She waited for my answer. “Mark?”
My eyes had drifted back to my computer monitor. The progress icon for the depletion model had stopped flashing and turned green.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted me to book a car.”
“That’d be great,” I said, reaching for my keyboard. “Thanks.”
I was working at the big table in the main conference room a few hours later when I heard someone enter. Lifting my head wearily, I saw Walter. I’d had another five or six cups of coffee in an effort to stay alert—my shirt was soaked with sweat, and my nerves were jangling. I was in a bad mood, in part because the results I was examining were so shocking, and in part because I couldn’t figure out whether or not to believe them. If the data were false, someone had gone to a heck of a lot of trouble to make them look real, and to use me in some