Leo Krasner worked most of the night, several times cursing the goddam Englishman who had hired him to do this job.

But by dawn he had finished. The end result was a computer diskette that appeared to contain only a thirty-one-page “term paper” on market economics and monetary policy, which Krasner had plagiarized from a college introductory economics textbook and then rendered semiliterate, strewn with typos and basic grammatical errors. Of course, the only part of the disk of any interest to him, the sequence of code he had so laboriously written, was cloaked in a hidden attribute and would remain invisible to the user.

At a few minutes to nine o’clock he walked into the cappuccino bar in the Manhattan Bank building, wearing his only blazer and tie. His blue oxford-cloth button-down shirt was too small at the neck; perspiration darkened large ovals under the arms and in the middle of his chest.

***

Mary Avakian, administrative assistant to the Manhattan Bank’s senior vice president for personnel, popped the diskette into her disk drive as soon as she’d poured herself a mug of coffee (light with two sugars) and set to work on it right away.

She copied the contents of the disk to her C-drive, which meant copying it to the bank’s LAN, or local area network. She glanced at the text. Boy, this guy wasn’t kidding. What a mess! And this guy, who could barely write, was probably going to walk out of business school and start at six figures, while she slaved away for a lousy twenty-four thousand.

During her coffee breaks and lunch hour she slogged through the guy’s term paper. The spelling was so bad she couldn’t even rely on the spell-check. It took her an hour and a half, and it wasn’t exactly easy sledding. But for three hundred bucks, tax-free, she really had no right to complain. For three hundred bucks, she’d edit this guy’s work again anytime he asked.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

That evening, Sarah and Brian took Jared out to dinner at a steakhouse, where Jared was able to order a cheeseburger and fries. Brian ordered a large salad and a plate of pasta, explaining that he was a vegetarian. After dinner, the three of them were ambling toward Sarah’s apartment when they heard a voice.

“Jared.”

Sarah and Jared turned around simultaneously, recognizing the tall blond man running toward them on the street as Peter.

“Hey, little buddy, how’re you doing?”

A look of concern passed over Brian’s face, and Sarah was noticeably tense. He hung back as Peter approached Jared, arms wide. Jared looked stricken.

“Give me a hug, Jer,” Peter said, leaning down toward Jared. He was in street clothes, slacks, and a hunter-green polo shirt.

Standing stiffly, Jared kept his arms at his side and glared at his father.

“Come on, now, buddy,” Peter said, giving his son a bear hug anyway. Straightening up, he turned to Sarah and then to Brian. “So,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting something.”

“Not at all,” Brian said. “Just returning from dinner.” He extended his hand. “I’m Brian Lamoreaux.”

Peter smiled at him as a snake smiles at a rabbit. “Peter Cronin. So you’re Sarah’s latest.”

Brian half-smiled uncomfortably. “I should probably leave you three alone,” he said.

“No, Brian,” Sarah said. “Please.”

“I’ve got a long day tomorrow. I should really be getting home.”

“Brian,” Sarah said. “Don’t.”

Peter slipped one arm around Jared’s slender back. “How was camp, Jerry? Hey, I’ve missed you.”

Baumann lingered awkwardly in the background, shifting from one foot to the other, eyes watchful.

“So you’ve been real busy looking for your mad bomber,” Peter said to Sarah. “So busy you don’t have time for Jared, right? You’re parking him in some YMCA all day-you think I don’t know that?”

“Will you please get out of here?” Sarah said.

“No, sorry, I will not,” Peter said. “I’ve come to see Jared for a couple of days. Come on, buddy, let’s get your things, and come on with me. I’m staying at the Marriott Marquis. We’re going to see the sights of New York City that your mom is too busy with her boyfriend and her task force to show you.”

“Come on, Peter,” Sarah said.

“No, Dad, I don’t want to go,” Jared said, face flushed. “I’m having a great time here.”

“Hey, little buddy-”

“You can’t make me,” Jared said. His eyes narrowed, in unconscious imitation of his father. “You can just go on back to Boston. Just lay off.”

Peter stared at Jared, then at Sarah. A slight twist of a smile played on his lips. His face, too, began to redden. He spoke to Sarah in almost a whisper. “You’re turning him against me, is that it? You think you can do that to my son?”

“No, Dad,” Jared said. “She doesn’t even talk about you. It’s me. I’m sick and tired of you bullying me around.”

Peter continued staring, alternating between son and ex-wife. He licked his lower lip, then smiled viciously.

He started to say something, then turned slowly and began walking away.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE