"I imagine that's why he's offering you the other hundred thousand reasons to meet with him."

Aaron wonders if Sabato is being straight with him. Lawyers lying to other lawyers is hardly unprecedented, after all.

"Even though that's a lot of money, Roy, I'm still going to decline. Please tell Mr. Garkov that I'm sorry and I wish him the best of luck at trial."

Aaron rises, the universal signal that this meeting is now over. Rather than getting to his feet, however, Sabato instead lets out another sigh. A moment later he stands, but his posture leaves no doubt that he's not going anywhere just yet.

He presses a piece of paper into Aaron's hand.

"Aaron. You need to listen to me," Sabato quietly says. "My marching orders are to get you to Garkov's apartment right now."

Aaron takes a moment to study what Sabato has given him. As promised, it's a cashier's check in his name for one hundred thousand dollars.

"I'm not sure if you're bribing me or threatening me at this point, Roy."

"Aaron, believe me when I tell you that I don't know what the h.e.l.l is going on here, but Garkov told me that . . . if the check wasn't enough to convince you . . . then I should tell you he has some very damaging information you do not want to find its way to the press . . ."

Sabato comes to a stop and shakes his head mournfully before continuing. "Please listen to me about this. I've represented some real animals in my time, but I've never met anybody who comes close to this guy. If I were you, I'd be at his place, p.r.o.nto. Go tell him to f.u.c.k himself if he's bluffing, but, seriously, it would be a huge mistake to risk that he's not."

Roy Sabato's usual press conferenceslashcourtroom tough-guy swagger is nowhere to be seen. To the contrary, he actually looks frightened.

Aaron has played this out long enough. He's known for the last five minutes that he is ultimately going to meet with Nicolai Garkov. Ever since Sabato uttered the name Faith Nichols.

5.

Rachel London's office is one of the small partner ones, sandwiched between two a.s.sociate offices on the building's south side. The office decor captures the conflicted nature of its occupant-the sleek furniture shows that she's serious about work, but her niece's crayoned artwork taped to the walls suggests there's more she wants out of life than her career.

Her office was one of the few things that changed when Rachel made partner. Well, that and her compensation. But the hours continued to be just as crushing and the work was largely the same, second-seating someone more senior, which more often than not amounted to taking notes in the important meetings and supervising the grunt work done by the a.s.sociates.

Rachel joined Cromwell Altman seven years earlier, when she was an idealistic twenty-six-year-old, ready to save the world, which made her just like the fifty-nine other lawyers in the incoming Cromwell Altman cla.s.s. Back then, the firm distributed a book with head shots of the new attorneys, with a short narrative indicating the department to which they were a.s.signed, where they hailed from, and the schools they'd attended. Picture after picture of fresh-faced overachievers, all of whom graduated at the top of their cla.s.s at a first-tier law school.

Fast-forward a decade and she's the only one left. The big-law equivalent of The Hunger Games.

To survive, Rachel has worked nonstop, missing more birthday dinners and holidays than she could count. And while the financial rewards are plentiful, she has little on which to spend her mid-six-figure income. Her two-bedroom apartment has one more bedroom than she actually needs, and she wouldn't know what to do with a home in the Hamptons or a Porsche. She'd like to travel, but putting aside the problem of not having anyone to go with, the partners never take vacations because G.o.d forbid a client needs to reach them when they're not in the office.

So for better or worse, for the past decade, Cromwell Altman has been her entire life. At least she's good at it. Her gambit of bringing Aaron in to talk some sense into Joe Malone is a case in point. Sure, Peter Hahn read her the riot act after Aaron left, telling her in no uncertain terms that he'd never work with her again, but to Rachel that was more of a prize than a punishment. Besides, so long as Aaron has her back, she isn't concerned that Peter Hahn can inflict any damage to her career.

True to form, Hahn was still being something of a pa.s.sive-aggressive jerk about it, making her call the prosecutor to discuss the plea, so that he could, in his words, "wash his hands of the whole debacle." Once again, however, Hahn was actually doing Rachel a favor. At least this way, the negotiations might actually end up getting somewhere.

"a.s.sistant United States Attorney Stephanie Kessler," comes the voice on the line.

"Stephanie, Rachel London here, over at Cromwell Altman. I'm working with Peter Hahn on the Joseph Malone case."

"Yes, hi. What can I do for you, Rachel?"

"Well, I'm a little out on a limb here," Rachel says, "because the client is adamant about going to trial, but between you and me, I really think that everybody is better off if this ends in a plea, and so I was wondering if we could talk a little about where the floor is on this one."

"I already told Peter that we're willing to be reasonable. Mr. Attias is in his mid-eighties, and we'd rather not put him through the trial if we can get a fair result. But that requires that your guy be reasonable, too."

This is the first Rachel's heard about any flexibility by the prosecutors. Of course, she's not all that surprised that Peter Hahn kept this nugget to himself.

"Here's my problem, Stephanie. Peter's all gung-ho to try the case, and the client won't budge on admitting he did anything wrong. So between them, there's very little interest in our side making an offer . . . but I think I have a way that you and I can break through that."

"Go on. I'm listening."

So far, so good, Rachel thinks. "I'm not going to argue the merits with you," Rachel says, "because this is a cla.s.sic he-said-he-said situation, and so how can anyone know what went on between my guy and Mr. Attias, right?"

"I thought you just said you weren't going to argue the merits."

"Fair enough. I'm just looking for some middle ground here. What if . . . I can get him to make total rest.i.tution? Mr. Attias gets back the art, and the buyers are made whole. Everybody wins. Does that earn my guy a get-out-of-jail-free card?"

"Sorry, no way. Jail time is a deal-breaker for us. Probation sends the message that if you're a purse s.n.a.t.c.her, you go to jail, but when it's a few million dollars in art, you get a pa.s.s."

No surprise there. Rachel knew jail time was going to be non-negotiable. The issue is how long.

"But in a purse-s.n.a.t.c.hing case, you know there's a crime," Rachel counters. "Here, that's still a very open question. Like you said, Mr. Attias is in his eighties. Who's to say what he remembers about gifts of relatively insignificant works he made years ago? Not to mention that I hear his health isn't very good. If he dies before trial, which might still be six months or more away if we try to delay, your case dies with him."

"Come on, Rachel. I know you're repping your client, but jail time is a must for us. Period."

"Will six months do it?"

"Nope. We're not letting this go for less than a year."

Rachel smiles. That's exactly what she wanted to hear. "Does that mean a year might do it?"

"A year, plus a complete allocution of guilt, and he makes full rest.i.tution."

Rachel wants to jump through the phone and shout Yes! but she's got to play this out. "I don't want to mislead you, Stephanie, because that is still going to be something of a sell on my end. But, here's what I want to do. If you're willing to put that on the table, I'll go back to my client and tell him that it's my proposal-so then we'll make that offer to you, and do it on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. What I'm afraid of is that if you made the offer, he's going to want to see how much better than that he can do."

There's a pause on the other end. For a second, Rachel fears that she's overplayed her hand, and now that she's opened the door to a guilty plea, the prosecutor will demand more jail time. But then she hears, "I'm going to take you at your word on this, Rachel. It's a year. Not a day less. You understand?"

"How about if I want a day more?" Rachel says.

"Hah. Sure," Kessler says with a chuckle. It's a quirk of the federal sentencing system that inmates sentenced to more than a year get to serve the last six months in a halfway house. "A year and a day. Final offer."

"Thanks, Stephanie," Rachel says. "I'll get back to you later today, but I'm going to beat the h.e.l.l out of Malone on this end so he takes the deal."

6.

There was a time when the tourists lined up in front of Tiffany on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue, m.u.f.fins in hand, to re-create Audrey Hepburn's famous pose from Breakfast at Tiffany's. Now they're much more likely to photograph themselves in front of its neighbor, Trump Tower, pretending to be fired contestants from The Apprentice.

Judge Mendelsohn had granted Nicolai Garkov's bail request that he be confined to his home as he awaited trial. There was quite a lot of outrage over that at the time, with every TV news report about the case shot in front of Trump Tower and making repeated references to Garkov's twenty-thousand-square-foot apartment's being the only five-star prison in the world. Now there's speculation in the press that Mendelsohn's Alzheimer's had something to do with the tone-deafness of his ruling.

Trump Tower's public s.p.a.ces are clad in Breccia Pernice, a pink, white-veined marble, and mirrors are seemingly everywhere. The five-level atrium has a waterfall, various shops, at least three cafes, and a pedestrian bridge that crosses over the waterfall's pool. This morning it is also teeming with people, most of whom are speaking a language other than English.

Aaron walks past the kiosk hawking Donald J. Trump's signature clothing line to a booth marked CONCIERGE. He tells the white-gloved attendant that he's here to see Nicolai Garkov.

"The private elevator is down the end of the hall," the attendant says. He points to the back of the s.p.a.ce. "Go through the doors, and you'll see it."

Through the door, the pink marble stops and is replaced by something much more industrial: a flat-weave, gray carpet. Two uniformed police officers and a man in a dark suit sit behind a metal detector.

"I'm here to see Nicolai Garkov," Aaron says. "I believe he's expecting me."

The man in the suit picks up a clipboard. "What's your name, please?" he asks.

"Aaron Littman."

"Yup. You're here. Mr. Garkov's ten o'clock."

Aaron grins at the thought. "Does he get many visitors?"

"You'd be surprised. The terms of his confinement are that he's only allowed to see immediate family, doctors, and lawyers, but somehow at least two of every type seem to show up each day. Which category do you fit in, Mr. Littman?"

"I'm a lawyer."

"Do you have any identification?" Aaron hands over his driver's license but immediately knows from Clipboard Man's frown that that's not going to suffice. "Anything to indicate you're a lawyer? A business card will do."

Aaron reaches back into his wallet, wondering why a business card is satisfactory proof that he's a lawyer, when anyone could have one printed up. Clipboard Man studies the card carefully, even though the only information on it is Aaron's name and the firm's name, address, and telephone number.

"Okay," Clipboard Man finally says, looking back at Aaron. "Please remove your coat, your suit jacket, your shoes, your belt, the contents of your pockets, and anything metal. Also, you're going to need to leave your phone, laptop, and anything with a camera in it."

Aaron doesn't have a laptop, but he dutifully hands over his phone for inspection. Then he places his belt, shoes, cuff links, and watch in the plastic bin and watches the accessories go through the X-ray machine.

After Aaron walks through the metal detector, the older of the two uniformed police officers says, "Please follow me, sir. I'll accompany you to Mr. Garkov's apartment."

Inside the elevator, the cop uses a key, rather than pressing a b.u.t.ton. The lights above the doors don't go on until the fiftieth floor.

"I thought the Donald lives in the penthouse," Aaron says.

"He does. Mr. Garkov has the four floors below that."

Sure enough, the elevator doors open at the sixty-fifth floor. Aaron expects the cop to lead him out, but instead he gestures that Aaron should exit alone.

Two more police officers and another man in a dark suit await him. They sit at a desk with two computer monitors facing them. Even though Aaron doesn't get a clear look at the screens, he sees enough to know that they are transmitting video from inside the apartment.

Just like downstairs, the man in the suit has a clipboard. "Identification, please," he says.

Aaron mentally sighs and reaches back into his wallet. This time he pulls out his driver's license and a business card. This clipboard man spends much less time looking at them than his lobby counterpart.

From over Aaron's shoulder, one of the police officers says, "Please hold your arms out." He traces over Aaron's body with an electric wand, like they use at the airport. It rings at his belt, his cuff links, and his watch, but the cop doesn't seem to care.

"Visitor," he calls out while simultaneously knocking hard on the door with his fist. Without waiting for an answer, the cop opens the door and motions for Aaron to enter.

NICOLAI GARKOV IS APPROACHING seven feet in height, which makes him the tallest man Aaron's ever encountered. Garkov's hair is a straw-colored blond that can only be found on a Russian, and he has clear blue eyes that invoke Caribbean water.

If it weren't for the view of midtown Manhattan, Garkov's home could easily pa.s.s for a medieval castle. Tapestries cover the stone walls and all the fixtures are gilded.

Garkov is one of a growing breed in the financial world: Russian billionaires who made their fortunes in hazy ways and spend them ostentatiously. Latter-day Jay Gatsbys. The purported source of his billions is a hedge fund, although all that really means is that he has ama.s.sed a lot of money. Where the money came from, how he invested it, and where it went from there were likely known only to Garkov himself.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Littman," Garkov says with only the subtlest accent.

"It didn't sound like I had much of a choice," Aaron replies coolly. "Here's my first bit of advice for you, Mr. Garkov: blackmail is not the best way to earn the trust of someone you want to retain as your lawyer."

"Ends and means, Mr. Littman. Ends and means. You've read The Prince, I a.s.sume?"

"Yes. And you're not the first person in your situation to recite that line to me. But I have to tell you, I've never found it to be a particularly persuasive defense. I'm more of a categorical imperative kind of guy."

Garkov smiles. "I'm going to enjoy working with you, Mr. Littman. I consider myself something of a student of political theory-it's not every day someone invokes Immanuel Kant. I'm impressed."

"Don't get too enamored with me. I doubt very much that I'm going to stay long."

"Then we should begin right away," Garkov says.

He leads Aaron into the apartment. An enormous fireplace in the shape of a roaring lion is the focal point of the room, with a four-foot-square opening for the lion's mouth, inside which a fire crackles. They sit on sofas positioned on opposite ends of the fireplace, staring at each other.

Aaron's first impression is that Nicolai Garkov is every bit as intimidating as his reputation suggests. Ironically, it's Garkov's calmness that's so disconcerting. It's as if he could snap your neck without his heart rate changing.

"Aaron. May I call you Aaron? And please, you need to call me Nicolai. I think we've gotten off to such a good start because we chose not to underestimate each other. Please don't deviate from that now. We both know why you're here and that you are going to stay."

Aaron looks to the ceiling. Garkov must understand what he's thinking, because he says, "Not to worry. The surveillance is video-only when it's a lawyer visit. Attorney-client privilege and all that. No one will know what we're going to discuss, if that's your concern."

Aaron's tempted to say that he has no concerns, but that would be exactly the type of underestimation Garkov warned him to avoid. Instead he says, "But you could be recording it yourself, for your own use later."

Garkov nods, indicating that he understands the point. "Yes. Yes, I could. I could tell you that I'm not, but I appreciate that you're not inclined to trust me. At least not just yet. So, allow me to prove it." Garkov waits a beat. "I, Nikolai Garkov, am guilty of the crimes for which I've been accused, and of many crimes for which I haven't. Specifically, I received one hundred million dollars from a Russian named . . . let's do first names only, because we're still getting to know each other . . . one hundred million dollars from a Russian named Yuri, and he is quite well-known in certain radical circles. In turn, I sent that money to a myriad of accounts that I control, and after considerable financial machinations, I arranged for those funds to wind up under the control of Arif Chedid."

Aaron is well aware that if Garkov is recording this as leverage for later, he could erase his confession and then digitally manipulate whatever remained as he saw fit. Nevertheless, Garkov's statement certainly evens the scales a bit, in that it ties him to the reputed mastermind of the Red Square bombing. Besides, Aaron isn't in any position to dictate terms, and so, like it or not, they are going to talk.

"Okay. Get to the point, Nicolai," Aaron says.

"Of course," Garkov says in an overly solicitous tone. "As I'm sure you're by now aware, Judge Brian Mendelsohn has withdrawn from my case, and he has been replaced with Judge Faith Nichols."

Garkov comes to a full stop. His only communication now is a sinister smile, which Aaron has the urge to smack off his face.