He slumped there at his desk, pondering his predicament. Everything he had, his fortune, his professional standing, was wrapped up in making OptiMarx work. His real future depended on that little “special feature” that had been designed to ensure him a bountiful cash flow for many years to come. Even if he and Stern could pull it off, even if they could pin all the staggering losses on Alan Smythe, all he had worked for over the last five years was still in ruins. He might stay out of jail if he played his cards right and he was real lucky. His career was over. His vast fortune was lost.

Even in his drunken state, Andretti knew what he was up against. His reputation on The Street was in shreds. No respectable broker or analyst firm would hire him now. His considerable debts with his “friends” in North Jersey were way past due. Those hard-asses wouldn’t wait much longer. Their “collection agency” played rough.

Andretti stared at the bottom of the empty glass. There was no way out for him there. Running was no good. That took cash. Besides, they would find him wherever he went. Then they would settle the debt in a final and fatal way.

The harried CTO rose and walked unsteadily to the window of his office. He looked out at the plaza twenty-three stories below. It seemed to beckon to him, to offer him a quick and easy way out. Andretti snorted. He knew he was far too much of a coward to end it that way.

He turned from his reflection in the window. No sense staying here, alone in the office, drowning in his own misery. If he was going to consume enough courage to end this, he might as well do it in the company of his old drinking buddies. In the comfort of Harry’s Bar. Once the decision was made, he felt better.

He pulled on his jacket, left the office, and made his way unevenly down the long hallway toward the elevators. As Andretti bounced from wall to wall, his shoulder struck one of the horrid modern art paintings Smythe insisted on hanging everywhere. It fell from its hook, its glass cracking when it hit the floor. The bastard would scream when he found that. Too bad. He shrugged and left it where it fell.

As Andretti passed the testing room, he noticed the light was still on inside. Odd. No one should be in there this late. Besides, it didn’t make any sense because testing was finished. Cleaning crew probably left it on. He was about to head on down the hall and closer to a double Scotch with his name on it.

That’s when he heard voices from inside the testing room. A man and woman, talking. The female one sounded like Marina Nosovitskaya.

Man, was she a piece!