Think Twice

“I know you and Win have a past with the FBI, and yes, I know that from Esperanza so you can now turn your head and look at her for confirmation. You have a contact in the FBI. An upper-echelon one, right?”

Myron immediately thought about his old boss PT. “I may.”

“You’re cute when you’re coy. Actually, you’re not. Anyway, please give your contact a call. We need to know what we’re up against. Then please report back to us what he tells you.”

Myron filled Win in on his conversation with Sadie and Esperanza. He understood why Sadie had to be careful about attorney-client privilege, but in the end, there was nothing said in that room that needed to be kept quiet anyway. Not that Win would talk. Not that they could ever get a guy with his resources on the stand. But even if they did, at the end of the day all Sadie wanted to know was what the FBI had on her client. There was nothing incriminating about that.

“I know you already spoke to PT,” Myron said.

“And he made it clear he knows more,” Win said. “No harm in reaching out.”

Win put his office phone on speaker and dialed PT’s number. He threw his feet up on the desk as the first ring trilled. Myron sat across from him and waited. On the third ring, the familiar gruff voice came through.

“Is Myron with you?” PT asked without preamble.

Myron said, “I am.”

“Lunch at Le Bernardin. Just the three of us.”

He clicked off.

“It’s like he was expecting our call,” Myron said.

“Indeed.”

“What do you make of it?”

Win thought about it a moment. “The FBI must have a hell of an expense account if he’s taking us to Le Bernardin.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

PT was one of those old men who seemed to get stronger with age. He was big, bald, and intimidating. His hands looked like baseball gloves, his fingers thick as sausages. Win’s hand vanished into the baseball glove when they shook. Then Myron’s did the same.

“It’s been too long,” PT said to Myron.

It was an odd comment. Myron hadn’t seen PT in nearly two decades. Even back in the day, PT had mostly been a voice on the phone. There are men who live in the shadows of our government. PT was the shadow. Myron didn’t even know his real name.

“It has,” Myron agreed.

“You look good, Myron.”

“So do you.”

“I hear you got married.”

“We invited you to the wedding.”

“Yeah, I know.”

PT didn’t say why he couldn’t attend. Then again, Myron hadn’t expected him to. Some might think that odd, but a relationship with PT was never a normal one.

They were in a private room above Le Bernardin’s main restaurant. One wall was taken up by a Ran Ortner painting of the ocean. Ortner’s work seemed to be more marine photograph than painting — simplistic and minimalistic in most ways, and yet Myron found it hypnotic, beguiling. Myron took a moment and stared at it. There was something about Ortner’s oceans that slowed Myron’s heartbeat so that it matched the imagined rhythm of the waves.

PT put a hand on Myron’s shoulder. “Good, right?”

Myron nodded.

“Always take that second to appreciate art,” PT said. “Our lives have too much chaos in them as it is. It’s a reminder of why we do what we do.”

Myron smiled. “Aren’t we philosophical today?”

“Comes with age. You happy, Myron?”

Weird question, Myron thought, but: “Sure.”

“Win?”

Win spread his hands. “It’s good to be me,” he said.

PT smiled. “Truer words.”

“Why do you ask?” Win asked.

“Because I changed the trajectory of your lives,” PT said.

Myron never really thought about that, but it was true. PT had recruited them young for a brief and clandestine stint with a subgroup of the Federal Bureau of Investigation under the code name Adiona. There were reasons PT had selected them, trained them, put them out in the field, but that was long ago. Still, PT was right. That was where it started for Myron and Win. It had forged them, made them think they could do this. They had saved many. They had lost some too. Myron flashed back to that tombstone, the name Brenda Slaughter, but then he blinked and moved on. Great competitors had that ability — to move on. To be the best in any sport, you must have the reflexes, the physical ability, the mental attitude, the scary-ass competitive drive — but you also had to hone the simple ability to forget. Did you blow the save? You forget it. Miss the putt? Forget it. Make a big turnover down the stretch? Shrug and onward.

The great ones know how to forget.

“Sit,” PT said.

There was a round table in the center of the room that could probably hold ten, but right now there were only three place settings.

“I took the liberty of asking Eric to order for us,” PT said.

Eric, Myron assumed, referred to Eric Ripert, the co-owner and head chef. Myron didn’t know him. Win did. So, Myron guessed, did PT. A waiter appeared and poured white wine. Myron didn’t like drinking wine during the day. It made him fall asleep. But if PT had ordered it at Le Bernardin, it was probably worth trying.

“What brings you to Manhattan?” Myron asked.