There was a long line leading into the lodge’s kitchen facility. Joe Maslick was near the front, holding a plate that suggested he was going in for seconds. The dirty faces of the men Coleman contracted with were familiar but not so much so that he could put a name to most of them. Then there were Ward’s people—softer, cleaner, and more nervous looking.

He took a place at the back of the line but stood there for only about fifteen seconds before a young man in khakis approached hesitantly. “Mr. Rapp?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Ward would like to invite you to dine with him.” He pointed toward a plank walkway that led to a set of stairs. “He’s up there. In the main cabin.”

Rapp nodded and climbed the steps that seemed to lead straight into the deepening blue sky. He found Ward on a massive deck that cantilevered over the side of the mountain. Despite the fact that temperatures were still in the high sixties, he was standing in front of a fire built in a stone enclosure that matched the scale of the deck. Near the north railing, a table had been set up with place settings for two.

Upon hearing Rapp’s footsteps, Ward glanced over his shoulder and then returned his gaze to the flames. The glass in his hand looked like it contained a couple of fingers of whiskey, but his expression suggested the alcohol hadn’t kicked in yet. Coleman was right. The man didn’t look as happy as he should have been to be alive, richer than anyone in history, and no longer in danger from Gideon Auma.

It was likely that his dark mood had something to do with the program playing on a television inside the cabin. It was a newscast relaying unconfirmed reports that Ward’s compound in Uganda had been attacked and that he and his people were missing. Possibly even dead.

“Do you know how much money I’ve lost today, Mitch?”

“Is it more than a hundred bucks?”

“It’s more than a hundred billion bucks.”

Rapp wasn’t surprised by the number. It hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind, but there was never any question that his plan was going to tank the stocks of any company that Ward or Chism were involved in.

“You’re still not exactly short rent money.”

“My wealth—and my ability to generate it for others—is like Samson’s hair. The source of all my power—”

“To save the world.”

A bitter smile spread across Ward’s face. “I’m being prevented from sending or receiving messages. Can I assume you have something to do with that?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hire you to imprison me, Mitch.” He took a sip of his drink. “Or to bankrupt me.”

“What if I convince Scott to give you a discount?”

“Funny.”

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”