The Boss.

May of 1992.

New York City, USA.

Randolph Meyer was a businessman.

If I had come into this meeting knowing nothing about him, that would be the first thing I recognized. He sat, posture relaxed, in a high-backed leather chair, bathed in the light of the windows completely wreathing his penthouse office. He squared his jaw when he looked at me, attempting disinterest, but there was no hiding that money-hungry stare.

But I did know who he was, and because of that, I knew where I was. We were in New York City, in a skyscraper owned by the man sitting in front of me. He was a tire tycoon – or that was what the public thought he was. Larry always said the best businessmen have a public job and a private job, and most of their money comes from the private job. His private job was the precious metal trade in some very unstable countries. His dealings with Iran had turned a magnifying glass his way. What I had said to Sam about pulling a thread was right on the money.

"I heard you wanted to meet with me," Randolph Meyer said, sipping from a glass of water, his eyes never leaving me. He was pale, with balding red hair, and sharp eyes. He reminded me of a cheap comic book villain.

I was exactly where I wanted to be, at last.

"I'm glad to finally get that chance," I said, slipping effortlessly into my father's accent. I was in a chair in front of him, untied for once, but with goons standing behind me. "Billy Fields."

"Do you know who I am?" Meyers asked.

"I do have the pleasure. I had a feeling, once I saw what kind of resources you were throwin' into this endeavor. I understand you're interested in acquiring some information."

Meyers smiled, and narrowed his eyes, "I paid the asking price already, and now I find myself out of ten thousand dollars, and with no more knowledge than when I started."

"I understand that. I understand that you're frustrated. But what you're charging for is kid stuff. Once my acquaintance knew what you were after, he wanted to make extra sure you were getting everything you wanted. What we put up was just a sampler."

"I want what I paid for."

"I know that. I get that. But you settled for a scramble of information. What I'm offering you is hand-picked documents. If you start a relationship with my acquaintance, you'll have everything you want to know at the drop of a hat. No need to go through all these unpleasant channels. Chat rooms are just unbecoming of a man of your… status."

Meyers sighed, "You talk a lot."

"I have a job to do here, Sir, and I do it well. I connect people. Let me make this connection."

"I want what I paid for," Meyers repeated. "And I will go through you to get it."

He gave the signal, and one of his guys grabbed my arm. I dropped the passive act and vaulted out of my seat, twisting and getting both hands on his forearm. Before he could slip away, I pulled him to me and jerked his arm backward against my chest, breaking it at the elbow.

I let him hit the ground, cradling his arm, and sat back down.

Meyers waited, having sat still through the exchange.

"I hate using violence, Sir, I really do, but I was sent to make this deal, and my boss does not enjoy failure and he does not enjoy delays. I really do need us to hammer this out. If you want the information that I have, then we can go into business. If not, I'll refund your money and you can look elsewhere for what you need. It really is that simple."

I had only done a little negotiating in my time as a spy, but I had watched Larry seemingly miraculously avoid violence by talking people out of and into deals. It was one of the most potent weapons in my arsenal – my big mouth.

Meyers sort of smiled, seeming irritated, and intrigued. He wrote a telephone number and some other digits – including C6-78S, which Sonny had asked me about – on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. "You look like shit. Go find your boss and tell him we can do business. Call me when you're ready to talk again."

He let me go.

I was escorted to the lobby, but I walked freely out the front door. It was sunny outside, pleasantly warm, with a cool breeze coming down the road. His building was in a business district, not far from Park Ave. I had managed to keep my limping to myself in the building, but the moment I hit the sidewalk my feet burned like I was walking on hot coals. It was a grueling walk to the nearest payphone, even worse because I had to shake the two guys following me. I wove between buildings, went into a few venues and snuck out, and went way out of my way to make sure that no one saw me slip into the subway.

I called collect, using a number I had been forced to memorize, and a special assignment code that would take me to a message machine only one man could access.

I left a short message.

"Found a thread leading to Randolph Meyers. Going to stay at the Marriot Essex House."

Tom Card would be the one to get the message, and before long a new file would open up at the CIA questioning the involvement of one Randolph Meyers in the assault of a US diplomat. When he called me back – if he called me back – I would have to tell him how all of this had started. I doubted the kid would face charges, but his father was also culpable for letting the information be leaked. I could only hope the government was more interested in investigating Meyer than prosecuting a sixteen-year-old for treason.

It was a long walk to the Marriot from the Meyer Tower, longer because it was warm, and I was starving and thirsty, and I had barely slept in days. I dragged myself along, drinking from a public bathroom sink, combing my hair down with my fingers. I had chosen a hotel with a view of Central Park, right on the fringe of the business district. Larry always said that spies were supposed to live like kings wherever they stayed, to be close to the rich and powerful.

I was running on empty when I made it to the lobby. Everyone inside was dressed nicely and I got some strange looks as I carried myself, tattered, dressed for snow, to the front desk. I said my name and the receptionist fell over herself to call someone over.

"Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Westen, I'll have someone get your bags right away."

"No bags, just me, for now."

One of the only luxuries that spies enjoy is the rare instances where their travel and accommodations are supposed to be high class. Some spies spend their lives in the gutter, gathering intel from the poorest people in the poorest countries, doing their best to blend in as just another downtrodden local, but others spend their time in 5-star hotels, elite restaurants, and black-tie parties, bumping elbows with the richest people in the world.

I was on the right end of the spectrum right now.

I found a fresh black suit hanging in my room and a message waiting for me on the answering machine. It was cryptic, a few short phrases that meant something to me and to no one else. It told me that my message was received, and help was on the way.

Larry showed up four hours later.

I was lying across the bed, drifting in and out of a nap, when he knocked. I knew it would be him, but I still jumped up and grabbed the nearest heavy object before I checked. He was smirking into the eyehole, wearing his own slate gray suit.

"Hey, kid." He strolled inside, drawing a Glock from his jacket and handing it to me. "Heard you were in a bind. Brought you a present."

"What are you doing here?" I asked before I'd even shut the door.

He snorted, "I was invited to find you when the grunts lost contact – and then you dropped a hell of a name. So, now I'm here. You know, I left a margherita in Boca for this."

I joined him at the table.

"I need to know what you know," Larry said.

"What about the SEAL team?"

"On the way as we speak. Go on, give me the rundown."

I had given reports to Larry before, but I had never been interrogated by him. He wanted to know every minute detail, from the moment I arrived in Poland to the moment I opened the door for him. He was particularly interested in the Belcher family. I reluctantly told him what part Luca played in this whole situation.

"He was just being a dumb kid."

"Yeah, a dumb kid selling government secrets."

"He didn't know the gravity-"

"Ignorance of the law, kid. No excuses." Larry crossed his arms. "Keep your bleeding heart off of this, please. Our focus is on Meyer right now. Some smaller fish will deal with the kid."

"Deal with him?"

Larry groaned, leaning back in his chair to snatch a tiny bottle of scotch from the mini-fridge built into the dresser. "Keep going, before I start crying."

I did not shy away from details of my interrogation in the basement.

"You were in Philadelphia, as far as we could tell." Larry downed his little bottle in one gulp and grabbed another. "A Russian person of interest booked a black flight at a tiny airport outside of Berlin, bound for South Jersey Regional. The CIA was informed the travelers appeared to have 'human cargo,' and when the flight landed, there was a team there to capture footage. They caught you landing and being put into a vehicle headed toward Philly. I was there, poking around, when you got a call out to your handler."

It was naïve of me to be grateful that he had gone to such lengths to try and find me. In the back of my mind I recalled all the things that I knew about Larry that he could not risk getting out. He was just protecting himself.

"I was just being a good friend and mentor, until you namedropped Meyer. Now I'm officially part of this mission."

"What mission is it, exactly?"

"Well, you managed to divert this whole thing over to the US. Belcher and his family were put into protective custody for the time being but the threat over there seems to be resolved. Now we're charged with finding out exactly what Meyer wants to know and why."

"What do we know about him?"

"I know a whole hell of a lot." Larry grabbed a third bottle, considered it, and toyed with it instead of drinking. "This'll be my third mission involving Meyer. Years ago, he was into precious metals in Iran – though you probably know about that one. He was also on the short list of people believed to be responsible for the sabotage of a diamond mine in Angola – a mine owned by his main competitors, Orson Affiliates. One of his subsidiaries was briefly investigated for funding terrorist operations in South Africa, but that mission was called before I got to the bottom of it."

"Why?"

"Big money, kid."

"The government took hush money from Meyer?"

Larry shrugged. "I do what they tell me to do. Right now, they want to know what he wants with government secrets. And you have an in with him."

He had a laptop computer with him. He set it up on the table and showed me how to flip through a few documents.

"We can request documents here. I asked for C6-78S."

It turned out to be a trade deal between the US government and South Africa, somewhat related to the sale and transfer of precious metals obtained from 'government sanctioned' mining operations. It was hundreds of pages long.

"Whatever Meyer wants out of this, we can find it here. Get to reading, kid."