“. . . if the situation is growing critical, as we have determined it is . . .”

Right off, Rube began a murmured commentary into my ear. “Okay . . . that’s Will Dubowski, CEO of Empire State. Empire Will. Nice handle for a proto-fascist, doncha think? Which he’s not, despite the tight-ass look and affectless delivery. Closer to libertarian, in fact. Next to him is his husband Arjay Gupta, called R period, J period. He’s the VP. Supercilious but sharp as a tack.”

No suits on the Empires this time. Trim casual instead, like they’d known what sort of day this would be but owned nothing that wasn’t somewhat stylish. The men’s clean-shaven faces looked well-schooled to conceal inner doubt or concerns. The woman was all nose and cheekbones, pale as the moon, with short waves of salt and pepper hair.

“How do they do it?” I whispered. “All that careful grooming, in a den? Why bother?”

Rubio smirked. “Keeping up appearances in case the media turn up? The fierce lady in power red is their CFO, Katja Ferrar. Red Katja, they call her.”

“What are you, my tour guide? I’ve seen these people already.”

“But do you know their facts?”

“Okay, no. What’s a CFO? What’s libertarian?”

“Haven’t I taught you anything? Just listen.”

“But check out their tech.” Tablets as thin and faceless as gray paper glowed in front of each. The Nathan brothers weren’t the only ones with access to the latest.

Rubio nodded. “No way their pickers found those just lying around. Song-yi must be curdled with envy.”

So, no need to challenge Rousseau about the tech gap. Empire was doing it for me.

Rube pointed a finger past my nose. “Okay, to the right, with the all-over tats . . .”

“Tall Tommy. The Adonis of the Dens.”

A pause in his patter. “Really? You think so?”

“What all the girls call him.”

“Well, I don’t get that, but anyway, full name, Tom Doyle. With his lady friend Mitsuko. Don’t have ID on the other two yet.”

His finger picked out the matched pair sitting back, one knee slopped over the other, scanning the room’s dark corners.

“Muscle,” I said.

“Obviously, but why? Everyone else brought their brain trust.”

“Maybe Tommy thinks he’s brain enough?”

“More like he thinks muscle is more important.”

Tom Doyle, his height exaggerated by bone-sculpting leanness, looked no happier than he did the last time I’d seen him. Watching Empire Will sidelong, even the ink swirling across his face could not conceal his distrust.

At our table, Jake lifted his mug and drank it dry. “So, Will, how long are we saying?”

“Another three, maybe five months at most.”

Rousseau gave a quick shudder of negation.

“You could be making that shit up,” said Doyle.

In the hush that followed, sad music wafted in from the mudroom, faint as a breeze. The din in the main hall had eased, with an undertone of snoring.