Steve's anxiety began to ease a little as he watched Yushenko gulp down five hundred dollars worth of vodka in one swig. The man then banged down his glass and left the table. They were to break for fifteen minutes. Nobody talked to Steve, which suited him just fine. He had one goal for tonight and that was to stay alive long enough to see this coming sunrise. Him and his stupid goddamned mouth. Never in a million years would he have imagined Yushenko taking him up on his challenge. He'd always known there was something shady about the poker tournament the man hosted each year, but ho-lee crap. For years the Russian's multi-billion-dollar empire had been one margin call away from collapsing like a sand castle under an ocean wave. Only now was he seeing for himself the audacious juggling act that went on behind the scenes. A favor here, a contract there, a promise to pay later and when later came, a new promise of something else.
Maybe that was how everything worked right at the top, the pinnacle of all that wealth and power. If you knew the right set of people and were fearless about credit, you could build on nothing and have nothing, but look like you owned it all. Those conspiracy nuts raving about the Federal Reserve had a point; cheap borrowing was the fuel and Yuri Yushenko and all his cronies and business contacts held the matches. If they wanted to they could burn down the world.
While he swirled the remains of his rye and ginger, he wondered who was in what game. Some of these were real players with an aim to win, surely. They couldn't all be crooks.
A shadow flashed in his peripheral vision; people were starting to return, looking only a teensy bit more rested than they had twenty minutes earlier. Mr. Benson, one of only three remotely attractive people sitting around the game table along with Steve himself, now sported a bruise under one eye. A purplish splotch was forming on his sharp cheekbone. He'd changed his shirt too, but hadn't had time for a shower, and blood-stained sweat dribbled down his temple. The skin around his knuckles was raw and a layer or two of skin had been chafed off. The man flashed a friendly smile at Steve, then darkness came over his face like a coming storm cloud and his eyes dropped to Steve's shoe.
He strained his ears and thought he could hear a faint clicking noise. Time to break the silence. "So, uh, what part of England you from?"
"Luton." The man looked smooth and slick enough to run a hedge fund, only this guy didn't work in the finance industry. Steve could practically smell those types in a room. This wasn't the time to question him though. Luton. Steve had never heard of the place. He'd always assumed every town in England had a cheese named after it if it wasn't famous for some historical site or ancient cathedral. Nor did the man seem to be interested in any form of small talk; he was too busy sizing up Steve, who was doing his best not to flinch under the steely, blue-eyed gaze.
The man kept his attention on Steve's foot and he'd be having to press that button soon. He twisted around in his seat and looked up toward the bar. Yushenko was shaking hands with someone being introduced to him as Herr Burkhard's wife. Not Fraulein; she had a noble pedigree like a lot of people in here. Excusing himself, Yushenko dodged around the tubular railing and trotted down the three steps.
"Why you not drink?" Yushenko slapped Steve's back as he sat back down.
"I will once we're started up again," he said, a fresh shot of adrenaline surging in his veins. If that Benson guy didn't quit staring at his feet, Yushenko was going to start staring too. The entire idea was retarded – surely Eric and Henry would already be watching through the cameras and could alert the guys in the safe room some other way. The odds of their security hack getting exposed were a lot more likely than him winning this tournament by a long shot.
To settle his nerves he kept his gaze ahead. He fixated on a shiny pendant that dangled from Madame Nemours' neck. The center diamond was larger than her thumbnail and surrounded by clusters of green, blue and red gemstones, the whole thing set in gold filigree. It was a gaudy thing style-wise, but that one piece probably cost more than his Manhattan condo.
"What's wrong with your foot?" Yushenko asked.
A chill raced up his spine and he forced a mantra into his head: show no fear, show no fear, show no fear, show nothing. "Nothing," he said, "Just an itch is all. Got a bug bite earlier when I was at the pool."
The dealer cleared his throat and the remaining players returned to their seats. Steve uttered a quiet prayer to himself and pressed the sides of his feet together.