Washington Dulles International Airport, Virginia Sunday, November 16, 10:17 P.M.

"Just one more second and we should be done," the gray-haired, plump female American Airlines desk agent said helpfully, smiling as she tapped keys on the computer terminal. "You really should consider joining our frequent-flyer program. It keeps all your information handy to speed up this process. Plus you get miles toward trips, so as you zip right through the process, eventually you'll travel for free!"

The woman looked up and smiled broadly at the nicely dressed young woman with the pleasant face, intense green eyes, and, under a GEORGETOWN HOYAS ball cap, chestnut brown hair that fell softly to her shoulders. There was a backpack hanging by one strap over her right shoulder.

Will you please just hurry up and get me on the plane!

"Perhaps later," the young woman said.

The agent nodded, then turned her attention back to the computer terminal.

I wonder what she'd say if she knew I'm a platinum-level member and have enough miles banked in my account for probably ten first-class tickets.

"You also should seriously look at getting yourself a passport," the desk agent added helpfully. "It's not required for Saint Thomas-your valid driver's license is all the ID you need-but it does speed the process, too."

Got one.

But sirens would probably go off if you scanned it.

"You're just going to love the Virgin Isles," the agent went on. "Hurricane season is as good as over, and you're there right before the high season starts, mid-December, when it gets really expensive."

I know. I was just there for two weeks.

"Do you like living in Philadelphia? So much history."

And crime. Can't forget that.

Just like our nation's capital.

The young woman looked as if she were trying to be patient. But the talkative agent, who seemed to be attempting to single-handedly deliver friendly customer service for the entire airline, unfortunately was coming across as increasingly annoying.

Okay, I'll play along.

"I prefer living here on the Hill much better," the young woman said. "I don't know what I'll do when my internship ends, but Georgetown Law sounds like it might work."

"Politics. Now, that must be exciting. You know this airport was named for John Foster Dulles, who was secretary of the State Department."

Now she's giving a history lesson? Ugh.

Can I just get my ticket, please?

I guess she means well.

Well, except for when I told her I needed the card to sign declaring that I'm checking a firearm.

She about wet her pants. "You have a pistol? And you travel with it?"

Then it really made her mad when I corrected her by quoting the regulations, telling her it was okay to have both the unloaded gun and its ammo in the same bag, as long as they were in a locked case.

"I looked it up on the Internet."

She practically hissed, "Well, we'll let our friends at TSA clear that."

She wasn't quite so chatty after hanging up with them, having learned that I was right.

The American Airlines desk agent held out a paper ticket.

"Okay, you're all set," she said, her tone now professional. "Your first leg, I have you ticketed to Miami on flight six-eight-eight with a connecting flight, five-oh-four, the first flight out to Saint Thomas. I have your bag checked all the way through to your final, SST." She pulled back to show the back of the ticket. "I've stuck your bag tag here, on the back of your ticket. And your inbound"-she paused and glanced at the young woman-"that's your return flight, I have you booked for next Thursday."

"Thank you very much," the young woman said, smiling warmly as she took the ticket. "You've been most helpful. I do appreciate it."

The desk agent smiled back.

"And here's your ID and debit card," the agent then said, her tone again cheerful. "Have a nice vacation."

Well, that seems to have mended the bridge.

"Thank you again very much," the young woman said.

"Oh, and by the way: Happy birthday, Miss Stewart!"

The young woman looked up. "Excuse me?"

"That's okay. I see you're being shy. But celebrate life! Congrats on turning twenty-one last week. It should be a happy, exciting time!"

Yes, it should, she thought, carefully placing the ID and prepaid Visa debit card in her leather clutch near the zippered pocket that held the IDs and debit cards of two other young women.

I'd share that with Alexis Stewart, if she hadn't stumbled back to Mary's House and overdosed last month, having never gotten over those years of being raped in foster care.

And with Krystal and all the others...

"Well, thank you," the young woman said, forcing a smile. "It is. This trip actually is a birthday gift. I'm just a bit harried right now."

"Don't you worry. You'll figure out this travel stuff soon enough. You're young. Have a nice flight."

[FOUR].

Southwest Chop House Two Yellowrose Place, Dallas Sunday, November 16, 9:30 P.M. Texas Standard Time "We can structure the funds, base them anywhere from Delaware to the Cayman Islands," Miguel "Mike" Santos, chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners, said, looking between Rapp Badde and Bobby Garcia. "Our preference, of course, having the majority of our investment products there, is the Caymans."

They were in the posh high-ceilinged lounge of the five-star restaurant. It was about half full, but there was high energy coming from the lively crowd.

Ten white-linen-covered tables with deep, high-backed, U-shaped leather seating, each capable of holding six or eight comfortably, lined the walls on either side of a black marble-topped bar in the center of the room. A grand piano was in one corner. At the table nearest the piano, Santos sat opposite Rapp Badde, Santos with a view of the entryway between the bar and restaurant and Badde with a view of the nice-looking crowd-mostly women, including the three who had floated past the SUV-ringing the bar. Bobby Garcia sat between them, with a view of both.

Their waitress, young and attractive, had just delivered their second round of drinks.

Earlier, Badde had been first to order, requesting a Jameson Irish whisky and club soda, and then Garcia and Santos had said yes when the waitress asked if they were having their usual. Badde didn't know what that was, but both of their cocktails were clear liquid with bubbles and a lime wedge. He guessed vodka, or maybe gin, with either tonic or soda water.

"Politically," Badde now said, a bit arrogantly, "it would be a good idea to use Delaware. What with Wilmington being right down the road from Philly."

Santos and Garcia exchanged a glance.

"Well," Santos then said, turning to look at Badde, "you're right. There is good reason why so many-sixty percent, in fact-of Fortune 500 companies incorporate in Delaware. Their laws are better geared to corporations than most other states. But as friendly as Delaware can be, Cayman keeps everything quiet."

Garcia, who was stirring his drink, looked up and added, "That's why it's called the Switzerland of the Caribbean. Its confidential Relationships Preservation Law, Section Five, has criminal penalties-imprisonment and cash fines-for anyone who even attempts to offer to divulge confidential information. They don't so much as report who the officers of a company are, never mind where the money comes from or where it's going."

Santos nodded. "You can't accomplish that anywhere in the States. So we're not being political. We're talking business."

Badde met his eyes, then nodded.

Got it.

And maybe some money can find its way into a confidential account in my name.

"The Caymans have more than five hundred banks," Santos went on. "While financial markets everywhere have been melting down in the last few years, not a single one in Cayman went out of business. In fact, they were providing trillions of dollars in cash infusions to cash-strapped countries."

Badde nodded thoughtfully as he sipped his Irish whisky and club soda.

"Let me ask you this..." Badde then began.

"Of course."

". . . where does Yuri base his?"

Santos raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry. But I'm sure you'll understand that we do not discuss anything about our other clients."

Then why the hell did you bring him up driving here?

"It would violate our client confidentiality," Garcia put in. "Which we're sure you can well appreciate."

"Not a problem," Badde said. "I can ask him."

I can... but I won't.

"What we can tell you," Santos said, "is that our Focused Investment Niche Strategies are Cayman-based funds. They're highly diversified, including many EB-5s. And, as your PEGI records will show, all OneWorld investment vehicles for Diamond Development are FINS."

Why the hell didn't Jan tell me that before I came down here?

I wonder if she knew.

He took another sip of his whisky, then nodded.

"I knew that, of course. That Diamond had FINS. I just didn't realize the fine print of FINS being in Cayman."

Listen to me. I'm already talking like them.

Not bad for the son of a South Philly barbershop owner.

But I'm not really sure exactly where Cayman is. Maybe near Puerto Rico?

Too many little islands down there.

"I know you've heard all this," Santos said, "but please let me just lay it all out."

"That's why I came," Badde said, smiling broadly. "Have at it."

"As I said, FINS is diverse," Santos then began. "We create vehicles-these specialized instruments known as funds-that invest in everything from oil and gas to cruise lines, resorts, restaurant chains, and much more.

"Some domestic money is there, but it's tight. There is, however, significant foreign money out there. For OneWorld, Asian investments right now are biggest, followed by Central and South American monies. Accordingly, that's where the EB-5 monies originate."

The what? "EB-5 Central and South American monies"?

So much for talking like them.

"EB-5?" Badde said. "Didn't you say you have one yourself, Mike?

Santos nodded. "Yes, as you know, the EB-5 is a visa designed for immigrants of serious means. It's nothing like the well-known specialty occupation H-1B and -2 visas, which the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service also administers."

Well, now I know.

And you don't know that I didn't.

"For starters," Garcia said, "while there're only ten thousand EB-5s available each year, the U.S. has never issued the entire lot of them. Compare that to 'specialty occupation' visas. Those are gone by mid-year, and they run in the six figures."

"The H-1B and -2," Badde said.

"Right," Garcia said. "H-1Bs are architects, doctors, engineers, university professors, all sorts of computer types-hell, even fashion models. Their stay is only good for three years, with a three-year renewal. So, six tops. And if they quit their sponsoring employer, or get fired, they have to find another or leave the U.S."

"Not that they always do," Santos added. "Plenty overstay their visas illegally. But then if found, they can be deported. Same with H-2B visas, the seasonal jobs, like agriculture."

"But not EB-5. It's golden," Garcia said, then smiled. "No pun intended."

"You said 'serious means,'" Badde said. "How much we talking?"

"Each EB-5 requires at least a million dollars," Garcia said.

Badde nodded thoughtfully.

"That's the other main difference," Santos said. "You cannot buy an H-1B or -2. But, as long as you meet the requirements, a foreigner can buy as many EB-5s as he can afford."

"Up to ten thousand," Badde said, a little loudly.