“Let’s just say Raffy rides again. Your manager believed Rafael Nuñez when he told him that he’d make sure the bribe reached the minister of the interior. Of course, it never did. You chose the wrong intermediary, simple as that. Raffy Nuñez took a lot of companies for a ride in the nineties. Most of your competitors are wise to him now. They were laughing their asses off when they saw your guy dining at the La Paz Cabana, tossing down tequilas with Raffy, because they knew exactly what was going to happen. But what the hey—at least you tried, right? So what if your operating margin is down thirty percent this year? It’s only money, right? Isn’t that what your shareholders are always saying?”

As Janson spoke, he noticed that Harnett’s face had gone from flushed to deathly pale. “Oh, that’s right—they haven’t been saying that, have they?” Janson continued. “In fact, a bunch of major stockholders are looking for another company—Vivendi, Kendrick, maybe Bechtel—to orchestrate a hostile takeover. So look on the bright side. If they have their way, none of this will be your problem anymore.” He pretended to ignore Harnett’s sharp intake of breath. “But I’m sure I’m only telling you what you already know.”

Harnett looked dazed, panicked; through the vast expanse of polarized glass, muted rays of sun picked out the beads of cold sweat on his forehead. “Fuck a duck,” he murmured. Now he was looking at Janson the way a drowning man looks at a life raft. “Name your price,” he said.

“Come again?”

“Name your goddamn price,” Harnett said. “I need you.” He grinned, aiming to disguise his desperation with a show of joviality. “Steve Burt told me you were the best, and you sure as shit are, that’s obvious. You know I was just yanking your chain before. Now, listen, big guy, you are not leaving this room before you and I come to an agreement. We clear about this?” Perspiration had begun to darken his shirt in the areas beneath his arms and around his collar. “Because we are going to do a deal here.”

“I don’t think so,” Janson said genially. “It’s just that I’ve decided against taking the job. That’s one luxury I have as a consultant working alone: I get to decide which clients I take. But really—best of luck with everything. Nothing like a good proxy fight to get the blood racing, right?”

Harnett let out a burst of fake-sounding laughter and clapped his hands together. “I like your style,” he said. “Good negotiating tactics. OK, OK, you win. Tell me what you want.”