“Thorough,” Myron said.

“We try to be.”

“So you know why I’m here.”

“We do.”

“And?”

“I assume you are working for the boy’s family?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. We do rescues, of course. It is all a matter of profit, to tell you the truth. I learned this from the great Eshan, who had a religion—you’d call it a cult—outside Varanasi in India. He was a wonderful man. He spoke of peace and harmony and charity. He was so charismatic. Teenagers flocked to him and gave his temple all their earthly possessions. They lived in tents on well-guarded barren land. Sometimes the parents wanted their child back. The great Eshan would accommodate. He wouldn’t ask too much—never be too greedy, he would say—but if he could receive from the parents more than he could make from having their child work or beg or recruit, he would take the money. I am no different. If one of my workers makes the most contribution working sex, that is what he or she does. If the worker is best suited for robbery, as our friend Garth attempted with you, that is where we place him.”

Man, this guy liked to talk.

“How much?”

“One hundred thousand pounds cash for each boy.”

Myron did not reply.

“This amount is nonnegotiable.”

“I’m not negotiating.”

“Wonderful. How long will it take you to raise this sum?”

“You can have it immediately,” Myron said. “Where are the boys?”

“Come, come. You don’t have that kind of cash on you.”

“I can get it within an hour.”

Fat Gandhi smiled. “I should have asked for more.”

“Never be too greedy. Like the great Eshan said.”

“Are you familiar with Bitcoin?”

“Not really.”

“Doesn’t matter. Our transaction will be via cybercurrency.”

“I don’t know what that is either.”

“Get the cash. You’ll be instructed what to do.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Fat Gandhi said. “I will call you and set it up.”

“Sooner is better.”

“Yes, I understand. But you should also understand, Myron. If you try to circumvent our arrangement in any manner, I will kill the boys and they will never be found. I will kill them slowly and painfully and there will not be an ash left. Do I make myself clear?”

An ash? “You do,” Myron said.

“Then you can go.”

“One thing.”

Fat Gandhi waited.

“How do I know this isn’t a scam?”

“You question my word?”

Myron shrugged. “I’m just asking.”

“Perhaps it is a scam,” Fat Gandhi said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t bother coming back tomorrow.”

“I’m not trying to play chicken here. You”—Myron pointed at him—“you are smart enough to get that.”

Fat Gandhi stroked his chin and nodded.

Psychos, Myron knew, fall for flattery almost every time.

“I just think,” Myron continued, “for that kind of money, a little evidence would be nice. How do I know you have the boys?”

Fat Gandhi raised his hand again and snapped his fingers.

The documentary disappeared from the screen.

For a moment, there was only black. Myron thought that maybe they had shut off the television. But no, that wasn’t it. Fat Gandhi moved toward a keyboard and slowly started tapping the brightness button. The screen started to light up now. Myron could see a room with concrete walls.