10. CARSON

The Regent is a boutique hotel on the Upper East Side that never advertises, has no listing online, and is always full.

Basically, if you don’t know someone who knows someone, you’re better off not even knowing it exists, because you’ll never get in. And if you do get in, you won’t see a price anywhere, because the kind of people who hang out here never see their own bills.

I take a sip from my glass and savor the smooth, rich smokiness of the 1926 Macallan single-malt scotch. The décor in the Regent’s bar looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1920s; it’s just been maintained like new. It’s all ebony and leather, with white highlights like lace tablecloths and giant ostrich feathers in gold vases.

I’m wearing a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo and I still feel underdressed.

The second my appointment walks in, I know exactly who she is, because she looks right at home. A full-length red dress hugs her curves and the room’s discreet lighting turns her long blonde curls into spun gold. She sashays straight to my table and sits down before I have a chance to fully stand up.

“We can dispense with the formalities,” she says with a smile. Her voice betrays just the slightest hint of an accent. “No need to be out in the open any longer than absolutely necessary, given the nature of our discussion. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” I say. I feel like I’m in a scene from some old noir movie with Humphrey Bogart.

The waitress arrives and silently places a double martini with three olives in front of my companion. She’s obviously a regular here.

“Maksim – ”

She arches an eyebrow and raises a red-tipped finger.

“No names,” she says. “If you say another, I’m afraid our time here is done.”

I nod in apology. I’m not used to being chided, not anymore. It’s almost… tantalizing. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Our mutual acquaintance says you are looking to become part of our friendly little game.”

Friendly little game. That description makes the whole thing seem even more lewd, if that’s even possible.

“I am,” I say.

“The buy-in is twenty, due in full before the twenty-seventh of this month. You will be given instructions on the transaction.”

I assume that means untraceable Internet transfer, possibly Bitcoin. I can do that. I have a couple hundred million in a slush fund that I use for purposes that might not meet the approval of my accountants. Twenty million would be a full ten percent of my rainy day fund, gone in an instant.

“That’s a serious amount of money,” I say.

Her smile widens and she places her hands on the arms of the chair to stand.

“It was very nice to meet you,” she says sweetly, and suddenly I see everything falling apart.

“Wait,” I say. “That was incredibly crass of me. I apologize.”

She returns to her seat as if nothing happened, but I definitely know where I stand now. A tingle runs down my spine. The way my body’s reacting is confirming what I already knew – this “friendly little game” is going to be exactly what I needed to recharge myself.

“Upon acceptance, you will be given a dossier with information on your quarry. No names, obviously, or physical characteristics. Just enough about the quarry’s habits, environment, and background for you to create a profile.”

Quarry. That’s even more lewd. Enough so that I actually feel a twitch under my tailored slacks.

“The Chase will begin at midnight on July 30 and continue until midnight on August 13, or until the quarry is caught. Capture automatically ends the Chase for all competitors. No second place; winner takes all.”

“How many others am I competing against?”

She smiles and takes a sip of her martini. I guess that answers that question.

“Each competitor will be given the key to a room in this hotel,” she says. “If and when you believe you’ve located the quarry, you will give her your key. If she is, indeed, the one, she will accompany you to the room to complete the game. If she is not, the Chase is over for you.”

Wow, that really is winner take all. I mull it over as I finish my scotch.

“What’s in it for her?” I ask.

“Money,” she says with the look of a mother indulging a toddler.

“A small fraction of what your associates will net, I’m sure.”

Another smile. “Wealth is relative.”

“So what stops her from just holing up somewhere for two weeks?”

“She – and the competitors – will be closely monitored. Any deviation from the rules will be dealt with immediately and decisively. My associates pride themselves on the integrity of the Chase.”

Jesus. Suddenly this is becoming real. Do I really want to be that involved with a Russian mobster? And drop twenty million in the process? Am I really that bored?

The answer, absolutely, is yes. This isn’t so much about completing the game, as she puts it, but the game itself.

“What can you tell me about the, uh, quarry?”

She tilts her head and brings her palms together, clasping them like a chef describing a particularly rare feast.

“I’m delighted to say that, just last night, we secured our most challenging lady yet. Her curriculum vitae includes one of the South’s top military colleges as her alma mater – graduating top of her class after only three years – and almost a decade of counter-intelligence and black ops fieldwork for off-the-books agency branches.”

Hello.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’m willing to put up a small fortune.

“One more thing,” my companion says with a leer that inspires a little blood flow in my nether region. “I’ve seen her, and she is truly stunning.”

“As stunning as you?” I say automatically. Apparently, I just can’t turn it off anymore.

She flashes me a sweet smile as she stands up. “You flatter me. But I’m afraid fraternization is strictly against the rules. You understand.”

I understand that I can’t remember the last time I was turned down by a woman. It feels oddly exhilarating. At once a challenge and a warning.

“You will be contacted shortly with more information,” she says, draining her martini and gathering up her purse. “Please be prepared.”

I stand to see her off. “I will,” I say. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”

“And you. Good luck.”

With that, she’s gone.

I sit back down and wave to the waitress for another scotch. She anticipated my order and already has a new glass, which she sets in front of me. I slip her a crisp portrait of Benjamin Franklin – a tip, you never actually see the bill at the Regent – and she leaves me to my thoughts.

Next thing I know, my fingers are tented under my chin and I’m in full analysis mode. Let’s recap, shall we? I need to track down a stunning needle in the haystack of New York City before an unknown number of fellow billionaires with equal, or perhaps ever greater, resources beat me to the punch.

How hard can it possibly be?