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minutes Fortunato and Vasile were jammed into tiny quarters and the public was kept away, though passersby stared.
    When the vodka was brought to the table, along with two glasses, Fortunato panicked. “Scuza,” he whispered, waving for the manager. “A head of state should not be expected to pour his own drinks!”
    “Nonsense,” Gheorghe Vasile said.
    But Fortunato insisted, and the manager, bowing and apologizing, took the bottle and glasses away, then returned with the glasses full. He winked at Fortunato, and Leon was grateful to discover that his was water.
    “The impudence!” Leon whispered.
    “Ach! They know me here. I often pour for myself.”
    “You should not. Never. You preside over this country. That is due some deference.”
    “But in here, in a bar, I’m just a man.”
    “May it never be so.” Leon could tell he was making an impression on the man. He wondered if Vasile’s chief of staff ever treated him this way. He did not know a leader whose ego did not crave such regard.
    When Fortunato opened his mouth to speak, Vasile held up a hand for silence as he downed one glass and held it up for another pour.
    Leon waved for the manager, who handled the task. Leon had barely sipped his water.
    “Excellent,” Vasile said.
    “Eh? You see? That is how you should be treated.”
    “I see.” Vasile knocked back the second glass and set it down loudly.
    “Another?” Leon said.
    “Later,” Vasile said. “Talk to me. What are you saying?”
    Fortunato had long loved the directness of the powerful. They did not have the time for pleasantries and small talk, and that, naturally, was not what Leon was here for anyway.
    “I am saying that your fortune, the one the public believes is appropriately tied up in trusts during the tenure of your presidency, is being managed by not only Jonathan Stonagal but also Nicolae Carpathia.”
    Vasile stared, glowering. “And what are the ramifications of this?”
    “The ramifications? Need you ask? Surely you would not expect the Romanian people to believe your presidential salary alone finances your wife’s annual stipend, your son’s palatial estate that people think is funded by his lucrative stallion-breeding operation—but which you and I both know is a house of cards—your own storehouses of precious metals, American stocks and bonds, Asian securities, European land holdings. Were word to get out that you, sir, fund all this with income wholly criminally gained, why, it would all be in jeopardy.”
    Vasile squinted and leaned forward. “Carpathia is aware of all this?”
    “How do you think I know?”
    “And is he not also vulnerable, if he has such information and has not reported it?”
    Fortunato sat back, still speaking softly. “No one can determine when this information came to him. But you well know that knowledge is power. He has both. He has no wish to humbly, reluctantly, sadly come forward and announce his abject disappointment in a worthy opponent he has long admired, despite political disagreements.”
    “But he would, would he not?”
    “Of course he would.” Fortunato was warm in the smoky, crowded place, and he wriggled out of his overcoat.
    The president, flushed and sweaty, not only left his on but also left it buttoned to his neck. He folded his arms and lowered his chin, appearing sad. He stared at Leon and then at the table. “So, this is stoarcere?”
    “It is indeed extortion, Mr. President.”
    Vasile rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms against his generous cheeks. He sighed, inhaled as if to speak, then appeared to rethink himself. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he said, “I suppose you are prepared to tell me what the man wants.”
    “Of course I am,” Leon said.

CHAPTER FIVE

    So this was why Irene had been buttering up Rayford. She had him in a good mood, wasn’t on his case about anything. She gave him eye contact. She listened. She encouraged. In short, she was pleasant.
    But then Irene sweetly