Despite that, Kurt had no doubt who he was looking at. He’d stared at the photo of her in the blond wig for hours after sending it to Hiram. He’d burned her features into his mind: the angle of her cheekbones, the narrow bridge of her nose, the arch of her eyebrows, and the little scar that ran through one of them like a part. All these things were easy to make out.
He noticed her bottom lip seemed to be swollen, almost beestung. Considering it had been bruised and bleeding four days prior, that did not surprise him. Nor did it surprise him that she was here. After all, they were chasing the same thing.
“Your drinks, sir.”
The bartender had returned.
“Thank you,” Kurt said. It was an open bar but Kurt believed in tipping. He handed over a fifty-thousand-won note. The equivalent of about forty dollars.
The bartender smiled intently. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” Kurt said, lifting the small tray on which the drinks had been placed. “Us working-class guys need to stick together.”
With the grace of a waiter, Kurt carried the drinks back to Joe, where the women continued to hang on his every word. As soon as the drinks were distributed, Joe handed the bag to Kurt.
Before Kurt could explain the latest complication, Acosta appeared. His arrival was enough to scatter the women like spooked doves.
The pleasantries were exchanged somewhat awkwardly. “My Spanish is not so good,” Acosta managed.
“Nor my French,” Joe replied. “Perhaps English is better?” “Not better,” Acosta grumbled, “but common.”
Acosta laughed at his own joke and then continued the conversation in accented English. Joe did likewise, doing his best to sound like Solano.
“Are you ready?” Acosta asked.
“Whenever you are,” Joe replied.
With that, Acosta and his bodyguards led Joe and Kurt to another elevator guarded by Than Rang’s men. As they reached the door, one of the guards pointed at Kurt and shook his head. “He’s my assistant,” Joe said.
“Do you need him?” Acosta replied.
“Of course not,” Joe said. “He is simply here to carry the bags.”
Joe snapped his fingers and made a Give it to me motion with his hand. Kurt dutifully handed the briefcase over. “Enjoy the festivities,” Joe said. “I’ll signal you when I return.”
The elevator door opened. Acosta and Joe stepped inside. As the door shut, Kurt heard the beginnings of a conversation centered on a collection of works by the artist Degas. He hoped Joe’s crash course in the world of art would hold up.
With little to do but wait, Kurt turned and went back to the bar. His main priority now was to avoid being recognized by one of Acosta’s guards or the mystery woman from the yacht. He decided the best way not to accidentally run into her was to follow her and keep an eye on her from a distance.
Tracking her was fairly easy, as the shimmer of her copper locks stood out in a crowd of mostly Korean women. Avoiding her gaze was a little more difficult as her eyes seemed constantly on the move. He only hoped his surveillance technique was better than Joe’s.
On the elevator ride to the top floor of Than Rang’s building, Joe continued discussing the art of Degas with Acosta, relaying facts and anecdotes with ease. By the time they reached the fifty-second floor, Acosta seemed impressed.
The elevator opened and let them out into a large foyer. A man with one hand met them there. He was Caucasian.
“Kovack,” Acosta said. “This is Arturo Solano.”
Joe nodded and Kovack offered him a brief glance. “Than Rang is waiting.”
“Excellent.”
Together, the three of them made a short trip to Than Rang’s private office.
Than Rang was already there, still dressed in his indigo robe, looking out over the lights of Seoul through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
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“We have arrived,” Acosta announced. “It’s time for the exchange.”