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surprised. The terms of his confinement are that he’s only allowed to see immediate family, doctors, and lawyers, but somehow at least two of every type seem to show up each day. Which category do you fit in, Mr. Littman?”
    “I’m a lawyer.”
    “Do you have any identification?” Aaron hands over his driver’s license but immediately knows from Clipboard Man’s frown that that’s not going to suffice. “Anything to indicate you’re a lawyer? A business card will do.”
    Aaron reaches back into his wallet, wondering why a business card is satisfactory proof that he’s a lawyer, when anyone could have one printed up. Clipboard Man studies the card carefully, even though the only information on it is Aaron’s name and the firm’s name, address, and telephone number.
    “Okay,” Clipboard Man finally says, looking back at Aaron. “Please remove your coat, your suit jacket, your shoes, your belt, the contents of your pockets, and anything metal. Also, you’re going to need to leave your phone, laptop, and anything with a camera in it.”
    Aaron doesn’t have a laptop, but he dutifully hands over his phone for inspection. Then he places his belt, shoes, cuff links, and watch in the plastic bin and watches the accessories go through the X-ray machine.
    After Aaron walks through the metal detector, the older of the twouniformed police officers says, “Please follow me, sir. I’ll accompany you to Mr. Garkov’s apartment.”
    Inside the elevator, the cop uses a key, rather than pressing a button. The lights above the doors don’t go on until the fiftieth floor.
    “I thought the Donald lives in the penthouse,” Aaron says.
    “He does. Mr. Garkov has the four floors below that.”
    Sure enough, the elevator doors open at the sixty-fifth floor. Aaron expects the cop to lead him out, but instead he gestures that Aaron should exit alone.
    Two more police officers and another man in a dark suit await him. They sit at a desk with two computer monitors facing them. Even though Aaron doesn’t get a clear look at the screens, he sees enough to know that they are transmitting video from inside the apartment.
    Just like downstairs, the man in the suit has a clipboard. “Identification, please,” he says.
    Aaron mentally sighs and reaches back into his wallet. This time he pulls out his driver’s license and a business card. This clipboard man spends much less time looking at them than his lobby counterpart.
    From over Aaron’s shoulder, one of the police officers says, “Please hold your arms out.” He traces over Aaron’s body with an electric wand, like they use at the airport. It rings at his belt, his cuff links, and his watch, but the cop doesn’t seem to care.
    “Visitor,” he calls out while simultaneously knocking hard on the door with his fist. Without waiting for an answer, the cop opens the door and motions for Aaron to enter.
    NICOLAI GARKOV IS APPROACHING seven feet in height, which makes him the tallest man Aaron’s ever encountered. Garkov’s hair is a straw-colored blond that can only be found on a Russian, and he has clear blue eyes that invoke Caribbean water.
    If it weren’t for the view of midtown Manhattan, Garkov’s home could easily pass for a medieval castle. Tapestries cover the stone walls and all the fixtures are gilded.
    Garkov is one of a growing breed in the financial world: Russian billionaires who made their fortunes in hazy ways and spend them ostentatiously. Latter-day Jay Gatsbys. The purported source of his billions is a hedge fund, although all that really means is that he has amassed a lot of money. Where the money came from, how he invested it, and where it went from there were likely known only to Garkov himself.
    “Thank you for coming, Mr. Littman,” Garkov says with only the subtlest accent.
    “It didn’t sound like I had much of a choice,” Aaron replies coolly. “Here’s my first bit of advice for you, Mr. Garkov: blackmail is not the best way to earn the