“Ah. I remember: talking turkey! How much you make for this job?”
It was twenty thousand dollars.
Marty Harmon was wealthy by Ferrington standards, but his company was a start-up and had yet to make a profit. Since the products he was making were intended mostly to improve Third World living conditions, Shaw had signed on. Also, he liked the challenge of the job.
He said nothing.
“Tell you what I give you.Fiftythousand. You want gold, you want Bitcoin, you want Doge? Mix and match, you want. Even green money. But what bastards want that today?” He frowned. “Rubles? Oh, I make you millionaire with rubles. How about Gazprom stock? Always good.” A bright smile, then back to the serious visage. “One. Hundred. Thousand.” His index finger rose and fell with each number.
So, his employer was in Moscow, probably, rather than Minsk or Kiev. Given the rubles.
“What’s your name?” Shaw asked.
“Name? Name?” A roaring laugh. “My name is John F. Kennedy. No, I am lying. It’s Abraham Lincoln. There. That’s my name! One fifty. Cannot be more.”
“Well, listen, Abe,” Shaw said. “It’s not for sale.”
“I was thinking that would be answer. I was sure. Well, don’t worry, no, no.” He held his hands up. “No shoot-out at high noon. I know you have gun. I saw, I peeked. A little one—malen’kiy pistolet.”
Yes, Russian.
The man said, “Okay.Twohundred.”
So itcouldbe more.
“No.”
“Fuckish.”
Not a word that Shaw was familiar with and in his reward business he’d collected a sizable vocabulary of street terms.
The Slav could see the discussions were winding down. His eyes narrowed. “Too bad. Too bad for you. Lose all that money.” He tapped his head. “I’ll have to think of something more cleverer.”
Delivered not with the tone of threat, though threat it was.
Shaw reciprocated, less subtly. “For your own sake, Abe, don’t follow me. We’re not alone.”
The man’s eyes narrowed further, then he looked around. Finally grinned. “Me? Why would I do that? I’m just tourist here! Hey, you see famous Water Clock?”
“No.”
“Oh, not to be missed, Mr. Colter Shaw. Not. To. Be. Missed.”
Shaw walked past him, continuing up the street, assessing the odds that the Slav would, despite what he’d said, draw his gun and playHigh Noonafter all.
He put it around five percent. Abe Lincoln wasn’t stupid.
But hewasdesperate.
Fuckish...
Okay, maybe ten.
5
At last. His custom-made work shoes...
Jon Merritt closed his eyes at the relief of slipping his feet into what he’d worn on the job—when he had a job. Black leather, insets, lace-up. Steel-tipped toes. Occasionally necessary.