The Monday meetings the next day feel longer than usual. Our newest sponsor, Basilisk Tech, is already proving challenging. When my car pulls up outside the hotel, it’s nearly eleven at night. I’m exhausted and haven’t eaten since noon.
I’m saying good night to the driver and climbing out when my phone rings. After running a tired hand down my face, I swipe the call open and stride into the hotel lobby.
“Clara,” I say grimly. “What now?”
Immediately I feel bad for my sharp tone. Emerald’s commercial officer is every bit as tired as I am and wouldn’t call so late if the issue weren’t critical.
I add an apologetic sigh. “Forgive me. I’d sell a kidney for a proper night’s sleep.”
When was the last time my nomadic life afforded me truly restful sleep? I live out of hotels—different cities, beds, women. Lately, I often find myself reminiscing privately about the simplicity of a time when the word “home” still meant something.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen what Basilisk just posted?” Clara asks.
“No.” I wander toward the lobby’s seating area and lean against the arm of an overstuffed chair, closing my eyes—half in concentration, half in exhaustion. “What happened?”
Spurred by the rumble of my empty stomach, I glance across the lobby at the archway leading into the lounge. I’m jolted alert as I spot Natalia Evans at a table with an auburn-haired man who has his back to me.
Clara’s words pull me away from the scene.
“They just posted they want to break up with Emerald,” she says, “because, quote, ‘We aren’t pleased with their potential or professionalism. Will explore sponsorship opportunities with more competitive team.’ Hashtag ‘DontMesswiththeDragon.’”
I set the phone down for a moment and scrub my face with both hands, at my wit’s end. “Sohn einer Hündin! Der mist…” Picking the phone back up and stifling my frustrated groan, I shift to sit in the chair, leaning my elbows on my knees. “What the hell does he think he means with this Schwachsinn?”
It’s a rhetorical outburst, but the very literal Clara answers, “It certainlyisn’ta performance concern. A ‘more competitive team’ means ‘one willing to overlook the watchdog report, take Basilisk’s thirty million, and roll out the livery with the dragon logo next month in Shanghai.’ They’re preemptively slagging us off to cover their arses. Which means they’re hiding dirt of their own. Should we call Mo?”
“Edward doesn’t need to deal with this.” I nearly make the mistake of including the wordswhen he’s ill, but cut myself off just in time.
“Well, all right. You know what you’re doing…” Clara says uncertainly.
I slide one hand to the back of my neck and massage the tension there. “Tell me your concerns, Klärchen,” I invite in an easy tone.
“Bit of a triple-decker shit sandwich, isn’t it?” she replies. “The biggest exporter in what may be a grand prix host country in two years’ time? Basilisk would have been a feather in our cap—but obviously not if they’re compromised. Still, losing them leaves a massive hole in the budget. And we’ve a duty to inform the FIA of what we learned, but few will thank us for damning intel that affects a race location—we all know how much everyone loves a bearer of bad news.”
She audibly swallows some liquid, and the musical sound of ice clinking is Pavlovian—suddenly I’m dying for a drink. I push to my feet and head across the lobby into the lounge. My gaze glides over Natalia as I pass, but she doesn’t see me. Her expression is put-upon. I can’t help noticing there is an uneaten plate of food before her, but nothing in front of the man sitting in the other chair.
Not a date, then? Just someone disturbing her meal?
“Let’s focus on hard facts and not borrow trouble for now,” I say calmly to Clara. “Our budget will take a hit—not insignificant, but manageable. Next issue?” I briefly mute my phone to order a Courvoisier once I’ve stepped up to the bar.
“Next,” she continues, “is figuring out who tipped off Basilisk about our meeting tonight. It had to have been someone on our team for them to find out so fast and make this post.”
I hide my frown in the tulip glass the bartender sets before me. Breathing in the liquor’s warmth, I take a generous sip.
“Let’s meet tomorrow,” I instruct Clara. “It won’t benefit us topanic tonight. But wewillfigure this out and deal with the perpetrator accordingly.”
Swiveling discreetly to look back at Natalia, I note that she’s folded her arms, posture closed. The man across from her, I can see from this angle, is Alexander Laskaris, a fellow journalist from her magazine. He leans his elbows heavily on the table and Natalia grabs for her wineglass before it tips. She scowls and says something, and Laskaris attempts to touch her under the chin as if she were a pouting child.
I turn back to the bar. “Emerald will get through this, Klärchen,” I tell Clara. “The repercussions of Basilisk as a sponsor would be far worse than the hit to our budget if the watchdog report is accurate. And if investigation reveals that the human rights problem is not confined toonecompany in the host country?” I rub my eyes again. “It detonates into a scandal.”
Additionally, there will be far rougher waters ahead for the team if Edward Morgan is sick, which my intuition tells me he is. The look in his eyes before he flew to Switzerland to see the doctor… it was something I recall seeing in Sofia: a sense of resignation that said her body intuited that things were dire before it was confirmed.
I sign off the call and tuck my phone into a pocket, grimly nursing my drink, one eye on Natalia. Her gaze snags on mine, and she lifts one hand in acknowledgment before looking away. Finishing my cognac and tucking a ten-dinar tip under my glass, I push off the bar and head toward her table.
Laskaris rests with his chiseled chin on one hand, the picture of affected ease, as I walk up. I hear the tail end of his story, monologuing at Natalia.
“But, you know…” His wink is sly. “That’s a joke people onlyget if they went to Saint Paul’s. Or if they’re just fans of John Milton.The poet,” he adds.
“Glad you clarified,” Natalia deadpans. “I thought you were talking about John Milton the plumber, who installed my aunt’s garbage disposal.”
