Johnston shook his head. “All clear this way.”

Martinelli had moved a few feet away from the rest of the group. He found a small door partially hidden by a large cement pillar. The door hung open. The inside appeared to be a small, windowless closet.

“Hey, guys,” Martinelli reported. “Someone has been here. They left their eyeglasses.” He studied the spectacles for a moment. “I know enough Cyrillic to see Gregor Smitrov’s initials on the case.”

Johnston looked over at Beaman and asked the obvious question. “What now, Skipper?”

“Damn good question. Got any suggestions, Chief?”

Chapter 35

Carl Andretti watched wide-eyed as the ticker flashed across the monitor screen. It was amazing! He had never seen the market behave like this before. It was absolute panic. Prices just kept dropping and dropping. There were no bargain hunters. No sign of a bottom. The volumes were incredible. The market was coming apart right before his glassy eyes.

The Dewar’s wasn’t helping calm his jangling nerves. The special secret feature he had built into the OptiMarx system had been automatically buying thousands of tiny chunks of stock, the way it was supposed to, but now it couldn’t unload the shares. It was uncanny. There was always someone in front of him, selling shares a tick lower. Right now he had over fifty million dollars invested in the market. Money he didn’t have. Money he wouldn’t ordinarily need. He would have to come up with it somehow.

If this debacle didn’t reverse itself soon, they were ruined. He drained the last of the Dewar’s and then poured another one. His hands shook so badly he spilled some of the precious liquid on his keyboard. He wiped it up with his fingers and licked them dry.

Above all else, Carl Andretti dreaded the possibility of jail. Even through the dull haze from the Scotch, he realized that possibility was now very real.

Smythe. Where was the bastard? The little Brit should be here to help him take the heat.

Cheryl Mitchell, Smythe’s assistant, knocked once. Without waiting for Andretti’s invitation, she stuck her head through the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Andretti. Mr. Stern is here and he—”

Mark Stern shoved past her and barged into the CTO’s office. He was livid and not in any mood to observe the niceties of corporate protocol. Mitchell backed out of the office and shut the door behind her.

Stern jammed his knuckles down on Andretti’s desk and rested his body on his fists. He leaned forward, his eyes little more than fiery slits, and glared down at the obese, drunken executive.