Ms. Chang performed the introductions. Popov’s handshake was firm without being blatantly muscular. His eyes searched mine as he smiled and said, “So where’s my twenty bill?”
I must have blanched, because he laughed and added, “I don’t expect it this evening. Relax. Have a drink.” His voice was slightly scratchy, rough, as if his vocal cords had been damaged.
As he directed me toward the bar, Ms. Chang said, “Actually, it’s twenty point six billion. As of the opening of business tomorrow morning.”
Popov shrugged. “Twenty, twenty point six, let’s not quibble.”
One of the dark-suited thugs slipped behind the bar and poured him what appeared to be a tumbler of spring water. Sam asked for a pinot grigio and Ms. Chang ordered vodka, neat. I needed a whisky, badly, but I decided that I should keep my head clear.
“I’ll have the same as Mr. Popov,” I said to the man behind the bar.
He glanced at Popov, who smiled and tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m used to drinking grappa,” he said. “Are you?”
“Grappa?” I asked. “What’s that?”
“It’s the Italian version of acetylene,” Sam piped up. “You can use it to burn through bank safes.”
Popov laughed, a grating, painful sound. “Maybe you’d prefer something else, Mr. D’Argent.”
I settled for sparkling water.
Popov gestured me to a chair by the window. He took the one opposite me while Sam and Ms. Chang nestled in the love seat between us.
He took a sip of his drink. “I need it for my throat. Soothes the vocal cords.”
Or burns them out, I thought. But I kept my thoughts to myself. Sam sat by Ms. Chang’s side, grinning like a schoolboy on a date with the prom queen. The musclemen in their dark suits stayed back by the bar, silent as ponderous wraiths. An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room.
“So,” Popov said at last, “how are we going to resolve this situation?”
“I don’t see how you can expect Rockledge Corporation to pay a debt that Sam’s run up,” I said, as firmly as I could.
“He’s your partner,” said Popov. “You’re legally responsible.”
“We never approved the loan he took from you.”
“Makes no difference.”
“It does, legally.”
“I guess it’s a little unusual for you,” Popov granted, “but it happens all the time in my business.”
“It’s not that unusual in the legitimate world,” Sam said. “It’s the ‘deep pockets’ ploy. Go after the guy with the deepest pocket of money.”
Popov nodded and beamed at Sam like a prospective Godfather-in-law.
“But Rockledge didn’t incur this debt.”
Popov shrugged.
“It would ruin my career if I so much as asked my CEO to pay it.”
He shrugged more elaborately.
“I can’t do it,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” Popov replied. “I had hoped to avoid making a mess.”
“You can’t murder the entire board of directors!” I said. “You’d never get away with it. And what good would it do you, anyway?”
Popov sighed patiently, then ticked off on his fingers, “One: We’ll get away with it. We make a business out of getting away with things like this. Rockets blow up sometimes. It’ll be a tragic accident. Two: Rockledge will have to find a new CEO and a whole new board of directors. Guess who owns enough Rockledge stock to take control, once the old board is out of the way?”
I felt stunned. “You? You wouldn’t! You couldn’t!”
“He would and he could,” Sam said. “Trust me on that.”
“I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw a … a… a herd of buffalos!”
“Now, now,” Popov said placatingly, “let’s not get emotional here. We’re talking business.”
“You’re talking murder.”
“But it’s business, not personal. I’ve got nothing against you, personally. This is strictly business.”
Sam’s face suddenly lit up. “But suppose that, instead of business, we made it a sporting proposition.”
“What do you mean, Sam?” Ms. Chang asked, shifting slightly on the love seat to rub against Sam like a purring cat. It was enough to raise my already high blood pressure an extra few points.
“Uncle Guido,” Sam asked, “have you ever played cards for a twenty-billion-dollar stake?”
“Twenty point six,” Ms. Chang murmured.
Popov stared at Sam as if he didn’t understand what the little devil was talking about. Then a slow smile of recognition crept across his craggy face.
“Double or nothing?” he asked.
Sam grinned. “Why not? What’ve we got to lose?”
Before I could object, the two men shook hands on it.
Popov got to his feet, and the rest of us did, too. “I understand you have a dinner engagement, Mr. D’Argent.”
“Yes, I do, but—”
“Enjoy your dinner.” He turned to Sam. “What do you say to meeting me in Dante’s Inferno at midnight, Sam?”
“Okay by me.”
“Double or nothing,” Popov reminded us.
“Okay by me,” Sam repeated.
Of course it was okay by him! He’d be playing with Rockledge’s money!
Dinner that evening was the longest, dreariest, most nerve-racking meal I’ve ever had. I couldn’t eat a bite, but nobody seemed to notice or care. My wife and Mrs. CEO were seated next to one another and chattered away happily. The CEO himself sat at my other side and made broad hints about how I was about to take a big step up the corporate ladder. Even his wife allowed that if I made it to the board of directors I could sit beside her. I thought to myself that getting higher in the corporation merely gave me more leg room when I hanged myself.
I couldn’t let the board of directors get on that rocket that Popov was going to blow up. It would be easy enough to keep my wife and myself off it; I could always claim that I had some details about the resort to take care of. But how I could keep the CEO and the rest of the board off the rocket without telling them of the fix that Sam had gotten me into? It would be bad enough to confess that I’d put the corporation into this mess, but to admit that it was Sam Gunn who’d led me by the nose into it—that would be unbearable.
And there was Sam, the miserable little rat, with the exquisite Ms. Chang at an intimate candlelit table for two, far on the other side of the restaurant. They seemed totally absorbed in each other.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, I told myself. Excusing myself from the table while the dessert course was being served, I made a beeline for the men’s room. It was positively opulent, but I had no time to admire the faux marble paneling and asteroidal gold plumbing fixtures. Locking myself into a booth, I slipped my phone off my wrist and called Popov.
He was apparently still in his suite, and still in his tuxedo. In the wrist phones minuscule screen I couldn’t see if anyone else was in the room with him.
Popov smiled when he recognized my face. “Mr. D’Argent.”
“I have a proposition for you, sir,” I said, without preamble.
“A proposition?”
I took a deep breath and plunged in. Popov listened in silence. Finally, when I was finished, he nodded solemnly.
“I’m wary of Sam Gunn, also,” he said, in his harsh, painful rasp. “I don’t believe his intentions toward my niece are entirely honorable.”
“He’s about as honorable as Jack the Ripper,” I said.
Popov pursed his lips. “This will break my Ilyana’s heart.”
“Better now than later, when Sam betrays her.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said slowly.
It took several more minutes, but at last he agreed to my proposition. Then I placed a quick call to Rockledge’s legal department, back at corporate headquarters on Earth. The chief counsel didn’t like being disturbed during her dinner hour, but once she heard what I wanted her to do she willingly agreed to do it.