“Yeah, well, fuck you with ‘give it time.’ He’s endangering the goddamned American Operation.”

“Which, I am reliably informed, is going well. There is not a flicker of talk about it on the net. And clearly no one in the States knows or the whole event would have been canceled. Take a moment and pay attention to the fact that you are doing this very, very well.”

“And you’re changing the subject to hide the fact that you either fucked up or lied about being able to do this.”

There was a soft chuckle at the other end of the call.

“What the hell is so freaking funny?”

“You are, my young friend. You really don’t appreciate the way in which this world is wired, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Sunday airily. “Just more of my—what did you call it? Voodoo bullshit, I believe. Adorable.”

“Stop being so cryptic, and stop being a smart-ass,” growled Kuga. “I’m trying to run a business here, and you are jerking me off. How do I know what you’re doing isn’t making things worse?”

“You don’t.”

“I want Ledger out of the equation, and I want to know for certain the American thing is not on Church’s radar.”

“Did I say you weren’t?” Sunday snorted. “You’ll always be on his radar. He probably has toilet paper with your face on it. And if he ever catches you again, he won’t send you back to prison. No, my boy, he’ll personally cut your throat—Santoro’s, too—and piss on your graves.”

“Well, gosh … thanks for the cheer-up call. Really made my day.”

“Hush now,” said Sunday soothingly. “No, what I said was that it is apparent that he is unaware of the G-55 matter. And there is almost no time left even if they do find out.”

Kuga chewed on that for a moment. “From your lips to … well, to whoever’s ears,” he said grudgingly.

Sunday got a big laugh out of that. Kuga sipped his drink.

“Don’t give yourself an ulcer,” said Sunday after a moment. “I told you that I was playing my own game on Ledger, and I am.”

“How? You don’t even know where he is.”

“I don’t need to know,” said Mr. Sunday.

And the line went dead.

On impulse, Kuga decided to call him back, but just sat there staring at his phone. There was no record at all of any recent calls from Mr. Sunday.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, and when he lifted his drink to his lips, his hand shook so badly that some of it spilled on his shirt.

CHAPTER 79

BILDERBERG PARKHOTEL

ROTTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS

Stafford went to a quiet corner of the lobby and called Dingo.