But even with all that he had been through at the State House, and despite his education, the years he’d spent plying his unique profession—something about the man at the end of the dock still filled him with trepidation.

Strange; as Curt moved closer, he could make out the man’s features, and there was nothing unusual or terrifying about them. Middle-aged, handsome, thin but not gaunt, with short hair slightly silver at the edges, and maybe just the hint of a scar above his left eye. If anything, the man looked like a banker, or someone who started companies in Silicon Valley. There was nothing inherently frightening about him.

But as Curt stopped a few feet in front of the man, bowing slightly, he could feel the palpable surge in the nerves of his spine, overcoming the needles ricocheting out of his ribs. All of his senses were going off, warning him, and it took much of his energy just to push the feelings away.

“Mr. Arthur,” Curt finally said, when he’d regained his composure. “I have unfortunate news to report.”

The man sighed. Curt could see, behind him, the leather-lined tender tied to the end of the dock, piloted by a sailor in a crisp gray uniform. The exterior of the tender was sleek and mostly pitch-black fiberglass, without markings or numbers. The interior was likewise dark, the leather imported and expensive. Curt knew that the tender was one of the fastest of its kind, ridiculously expensive, with a price running into the millions. But it was nothing compared to the three-hundred-foot yacht it served, anchored just beyond the harbor.

Curt had been on the yacht once before, when he’d first been hired to shadow Patricia. The yacht was something quite incredible: two helicopter pads, multiple swimming pools, an indoor theater, and a lower level that could only be described as an art museum, filled with Picassos, Van Goghs, and probably now, at least one Vermeer. The yacht flew a flag of a small European country, but the family that owned it had a different provenance, one shrouded in mystery. Even Curt didn’t know their full history. And he didn’t intend to research the matter. There were certain stones you did not turn over, no matter how curious you were.

“Both Patricia and I failed,” Curt started, not mincing words, but Mr. Arthur stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“It doesn’t matter. There’s a new thread to pull, Mr. Anderson. A promising thread.”

Curt instinctively recoiled as Mr. Arthur reached into his jacket pocket, then relaxed as the man retrieved a small photograph, and handed it across to him.