I am alone in my gym, so I take off everything but my underwear—a boxer-brief hybrid for those who must know—and start running through a few traditional katas. I move fast. Between sets, I work three-minute rounds with the punching bag. Best cardio conditioner in the world. In my youth, I trained five hours a day. Now I still go a minimum of an hour. Most days, I work with an instructor because I still thirst to learn. Today, obviously, I do not.
Money, of course, makes all this possible. I can travel anywhere—or I can fly in any expert for any length of time. Money gives you time, access, cutting-edge technology and equipment.
Don’t I sound a bit like Batman?
If you think about it, Bruce Wayne’s only superpower was tremendous wealth.
Mine too. And yes, it’s good to be me.
Sweat coats my skin. I feel the rush of that. I push harder. I’ve always pushed myself. I’ve never needed to be pushed by anything external. The only training partner I ever worked with was Myron, but that was because he needed to learn, not because I needed motivation.
I do this for survival. I do it to keep fit. I do it because I enjoy it. Not all of it, mind you. I enjoy the physical. I don’t enjoy the obsequious “yes, sensei” patriarchal nonsense that certain martial arts thrust upon their students, because I bow to no man. Respect, yes. Bow, no. I also don’t use these techniques, per the platitude, “only for self-defense,” an obvious untruth on the level of “the check is in the mail” or “don’t worry, I’ll pull out.” I use what I learn to defeat my enemies, no matter who the aggressor happens to be (usually: me).
I like violence.
I like it a lot. I don’t condone it for others. I condone it for me. I don’t fight as a last resort. I fight whenever I can. I don’t try to avoid trouble. I actively seek it out.
After I finish with the bag, I bench-press, powerlift, squat. When I was younger, I’d have various lifting days—arm days, chest days, leg days. When I reached my forties, I found it paid to lift less often and with more variety.
I hit the steam room, sauna, and then, when my body temperature is raised, I jump into a freezing cold shower. Putting the body through certain controlled stresses like this activates dormant hormones. It’s good for you. When I exit the shower, three suits wait for me. I choose the solid blue one and head back to my office.
Kabir holds up his phone. “The story’s hit Twitter.”
“What are they saying?”
“Just that the Vermeer was found at a murder scene. I’m also getting a ton of calls from the press interested in a quote.”
“Any porn magazines?” I ask.
Kabir frowns. “What’s a porn magazine?”
Today’s youth.
I close the door. My office has an enviable view and oak wood paneling. There is an antique wooden globe and a painting of a fox hunt. I look at the painting and wonder how the Vermeer might look there instead. My mobile rings. I look at the number.
I should be surprised—I haven’t heard from him in a decade, not since he told me he was retiring—but I’m not.
I put the phone to my ear. “Articulate.”
“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way.”
“Times change,” I say. “I do not.”
“You change,” he says. “I bet you don’t ‘night tour’ anymore, do you?”
Night tour. Back in the day, I used to put on my dandiest suit and stroll through the most crime-ridden streets in the thick of the night. I would whistle. I would make sure all could see my blond locks and alabaster-to-ruddy complexion. I am rather small boned and, from a distance, appear frail—a bully’s irresistibly tasty morsel. It is only when you get close to me that you sense there is considerable coil under the clothes. But by then, it is usually too late. You’ve seen the easy mark, you’ve laughed about me with your friends, you can’t back out.
I wouldn’t let you even if you tried.
“I do not,” I tell him.
“See? Change.”
I stopped night touring years ago. It was oddly discriminatory and all too random. I am now more selective with my targets.
“How are you doing, Win?”
“I’m fine, PT.”
PT has to be in his mid-seventies by now. He recruited me for my brief stint with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was also my handler. Very few agents know about him, but every FBI chief and president has met with him their first day on the job. Some people in our government are considered shadowy. PT is shadowy to the point of nonexistence. He barely makes a blip on anyone’s radar. He lives somewhere near Quantico, but even I don’t know where. I also don’t know his real name. I could probably find out, but while I enjoy violence, I don’t relish playing with fire.
“How was the basketball game last night?” PT asks.
I stay silent.
“The NCAA finals,” he says.
I still say nothing.
“Oh, relax,” he says with a chuckle. “I watched the game on TV. That’s all. I saw you sitting courtside next to Swagg Daddy.”
I wonder whether this is true.
“I love his stuff, by the way.”
“Whose stuff?”
“Swagg Daddy’s. Who else are we talking about? That song where he juxtaposes bitches ripping out a man’s heart to bitches ripping off a man’s balls? I feel that. It’s poetic.”
“I’ll let him know,” I say.
“That would be great.”
“Last time I heard from you,” I say, “you told me you retired.”
“I did,” PT says. “I am.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he repeats. “Is your line secure, Win?”
“Do we ever know for certain?”
“With today’s technology, we do not. I understand the FBI located your property today.”
“For which I’m grateful.”
“There is more to it, however.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Always,” he agrees with a sigh.
“Enough to get you out of retirement?”
“Tells you something, doesn’t it? I assume there is a reason you aren’t fully cooperating.”
“I’m just being careful,” I say.
“Can you stop being careful by the morning? Let me rephrase.” His tone did not change—nothing you could hear anyway—and yet. “Stop being careful by the morning.”
I do not reply.
“I’ll have a plane meet you at Teterboro at eight a.m. Be there.”
“PT?”
“Yes?”
“Have you identified the victim?”
I hear a muffled female voice through the line. PT tells me to hold on and calls to the woman that he’ll only be a moment more. A wife maybe? It’s shocking how little I know about this man. When he comes back on the line, he says, “Do you know the expression ‘this one’s personal’?”
“When you trained us,” I say, “you stressed that it was never personal.”
“I was wrong, Win. Very wrong. Tomorrow, eight a.m.”
He hangs up.
I lean back, throw my feet on the desk, and replay the conversation in my head. I am looking for nuance or hidden meanings. None come to me other than the obvious. There is a knock-pause-double knock on my office door. Kabir sticks his head through it.