The End Game

Since the Web site with the video was a closed circle, it was easy for Walt to put the code inside the video player once he was able to slide past the security checkpoints, which Sam figured he did about midway through a mouthful of hash browns, and find out who else was viewing the site apart from Gennaro… Or at least where they were viewing it from.

“Can you give me an idea what I’m looking at here?” Sam asked.

Walt exhaled hard through his mouth, which sounded like the opening strains of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” as it whistled through his gum line. “You’ve got three users on this Web site,” he said. “Four counting us.” He sounded frustrated, like Sam should have been able to figure that out on his own, which maybe he could have if he’d not bothered to have a life all these years. That was one other thing about working with these ex-NSA computer guys, Sam realized; they used their geek factor against you. “Two of them are in Miami using the same wireless IP. One of them, the person actually maintaining the site, is smart enough to use a proxy server, but not smart enough to use a good proxy server.” He typed a few things into the laptop again and then smiled. “Corsica. The other person is in Corsica.”

Mounting an armored assault on the island of Corsica didn’t seem like a real possibility, so Sam chose to focus on the two people in Miami.

“Can you pinpoint where, exactly, the people in Miami are?”

Walt sighed, like he couldn’t believe Sam would ask him such a stupid question. He had a lot of ego for a guy with no teeth, but a few seconds of clicking delivered Sam the answer he was afraid of. “This is the IP for the Setai Hotel.”

A part of Sam sort of wished it was Madonna who was putting the screws to Gennaro, but he had a pretty good idea that the Material Girl wasn’t in the kidnapping business. But then he couldn’t imagine anyone else with the cash to stay at that hotel who would be, either.

“One other thing,” Sam said. “In light of the recent information here, and as it relates to the safety of Moldavia, could you sweep into the Setai’s reservation system and get me a list of names of the people staying there?”

“That’s illegal,” Walt said.

“No, no,” Sam said. “This has all been cleared by the top levels of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard. We have nothing to worry about. So quick like a bunny, before the princess dies, get me that list, will you?”

A few seconds later, and after much heavy breathing from Walt, as if he were really exerting himself and not just typing, Sam had a list of more than a hundred names open on his computer, along with all of their salient information. He recognized a few names-Madonna was staying on the eleventh floor and had ordered a lovely lobster ravioli for lunch; Al Pacino was on the fifteenth but was checking out this afternoon, which was good since he was already three hundred dollars in the red on valet fees; and Carson Daly was staying on the twenty-first, which seemed silly compared to the relative fame of the others, but Sam figured maybe Daly required less oxygen to survive-but no other names jumped out directly. He’d get a buddy at the FBI to run the list, anyway, see if anyone showed up as wanted for anything interesting.

He wasn’t even sure who he hoped to find on the list, since it’s not as if there were bands of famous kidnappers floating around. Sam couldn’t even think of anyone who did it regularly and with much success apart from, well, Hezbollah, but he didn’t think they were in the market for Italian heirs.

He scanned back over the list one more time and landed on one curious name: Nicholas Dinino, Gennaro’s father-in-law. Nicholas was staying in the other penthouse suite just adjacent to Gennaro’s, which made sense. It didn’t mean anything insidious. They were family, after all, but in the scope of the information Walt had just delivered, it felt… curious.

“Quid pro quo,” Walt said, and Sam immediately cursed the existence of that Hannibal Lecter movie that taught everyone the term quid pro quo. More than fifteen years later, and half the universe was still tossing it around like it meant something. Combine that with “Man up!” and “Wassup?” and “You go, girl!” and Sam was pretty sure that most of the people he came into contact with only said things parroted from morons and beer commercials. Not that there was anything wrong with beer commercials conceptually, just that they weren’t especially deep with philosophical thought and nuance.

“Sure, Walt.”

Walt smiled, which made Sam recoil. Man, those teeth looked strange. They were just too white, and his gums were too pink and his tongue, well, his tongue was too gray. Sam made a mental note that when he retired he was going to brush his teeth three times a day, just to make up for whatever karmic tarnishing was going on this day. “You think you could take out my neighbor’s parakeet? It chirps all night long and keeps me up like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’m not in the assassination business,” Sam said, and Walt seemed disappointed.