“And tell me again what this program does?”

“Dalfan Technologies is registered on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange. The software on that drive is designed to crash the value of Dalfan stock at a specified time and date for just a few seconds—but long enough for my HFT experts to short the stock and make millions.”

“HFT?”

“High-frequency trading. Most stock transactions are done by computers these days, and the faster computers get, the better the deals. But we’ve decided we can be the fastest if we can predict the future—and get the best deal of all.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Only if we are caught.”

“I don’t know.” Rhodes set the drive back down on the glass. “I’ve been to the Dalfan facility. Their data security seems impregnable.”

“Then impregnate it.”

“How?”

“How do you impregnate any reluctant woman? Seduction. You’re good at that.”

“What does that even mean? I don’t know how to breach their security protocols.”

“Not my problem.”

“It is if I fail.”

“Then do us both a favor and don’t fail.” Zvezdev grinned. “And I think you wouldn’t mind becoming very, very rich.”

“I have a fiduciary responsibility to Marin Aerospace, and by extension, Dalfan Technologies, which we’re about to acquire, which you no doubt know, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Zvezdev pursed his lips, his head bobbing. “Well, yes, a ‘fiduciary responsibility’ is something to consider. But so is this.” He pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, punched a few buttons, and handed the phone to Rhodes.

Rhodes read the screen, then reddened, angry and embarrassed. It showed Rhodes owned thousands of stock options with Marin Aerospace but he couldn’t exercise them for another three years. And even though he earned a good salary, his lavish lifestyle, two divorces, and a recently acquired gambling habit put him behind the financial eight ball. He tossed the phone back to the Bulgarian. “How did you get this?”

“The identity-theft company you’re signed up with? We own it.” Zvezdev tapped the side of his head with a thick index finger. “I know you need the money, Weston. And it’s easy money.”

Rhodes glowered at the fat Bulgarian, a pockmarked peasant from a failed state: a lesser man in every sense of the word. Yet somehow it was Rhodes who was the threadbare beggar. He resented Zvezdev’s easy smugness. This wasn’t a negotiation. The Bulgarian held all the cards, and he was broke. The only thing Rhodes hated more than treason was poverty.

Zvezdev drained his glass with a flourish and wiped his bearded mouth with his hand. He set the glass on the table. “So what shall it be?”