"What's the name of your company?"

"QS Security."

"Clients?"

"The president of the United States, for one."

"I mean, after after you quit the Secret Service." you quit the Secret Service."

"The Saudi royal family when they come to Manhattan. Madonna. Michael Jordan. Several high-profile football players. Jeremy Cole, for one. Now that you got him that big contract. Others you'd recognize."

"How many people at QS?"

"Forty. And I'm not one of those guys who hires temporary help if I get a couple of big jobs at the same time. I only take the number of jobs I can handle with the people I've I've trained. People who understand how I do things." trained. People who understand how I do things."

"Ever lost a client?" Gillette asked, drinking some water.

"Never."

"Close?"

"Define 'close.' "

"Anyone you've been protecting ever been hurt?"

"No."

"Attacked?"

"Sure."

"You ever been shot?"

"Yup," Stiles replied, pulling back his jacket and lifting up his shirt to point at a nasty scar beside his navel, then to another one on the left side of his rib cage.

Gillette gazed at the wounds, wondering how it would have felt if one of the bullets had hit him last night. "Why'd you quit the Secret Service?"

"They didn't pay very well."

"What do you charge?"

"Two thousand a day, plus expenses. Another thousand a day for each additional person."

Gillette whistled. "You must be good."

"Very good." good."

"You don't talk much, do you, Quentin?"

"My clients don't usually care about talk. They care about being safe." Stiles glanced around the office. "If you're really really looking for companionship, I can put you in touch with another kind of firm. High end. No questions asked." looking for companionship, I can put you in touch with another kind of firm. High end. No questions asked."

"Thank you, no." Gillette took another drink of water. "Get some references to my a.s.sistant, will you?" But he already knew he was going to hire Stiles. Something about the man impressed him. And, as a.n.a.lytical as he was, Gillette had learned over the years to trust his instincts, too.

"I'll leave telephone numbers with her on my way out, numbers of people I've worked with."

"Good."

"What's the job?" Stiles wanted to know.

"Protecting me full-time."

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"Then it's three three thousand dollars a day. I charge an extra grand when it's open-ended." thousand dollars a day. I charge an extra grand when it's open-ended."

Gillette did some quick calculations. Almost a hundred thousand a month just for Stiles. Plus another thousand bucks a day for anyone else Stiles used. A lot, but so be it. "Okay."

"Why?" Stiles asked after a few moments.

"Why what?"

"Why do you need protection?"

"Someone blew up my limousine." He didn't want to mention last night yet.

Stiles's eyes flashed to Gillette's. "The one that exploded in front of a church over on Park Avenue?"

"Yes."

"I heard about that." Stiles shook his head. "And you waited three days three days to get in touch with someone like me?" to get in touch with someone like me?"

Gillette shook his head. "No. We own a firm that provides executive protection. The CEO of that firm has people with me."

"What firm are you talking about?"

"McGuire & Company. You familiar with them?"

"Of course." A quizzical expression ran across Stiles's face. "If you own them, and Tom McGuire already has someone with you, why did you call me?"

Gillette liked the fact that Stiles was familiar with McGuire & Company, particularly that he knew who Tom McGuire was. "Last night I was attacked," he said quietly. "A woman-"

"Stop talking," Stiles ordered, scooping up the television remote from the table. He pointed it at the set in the far corner of the room and clicked. When it was on, he turned the volume up high, then pulled his chair close to Gillette's. "Go ahead, but keep your voice down."

"What's the problem?" But Gillette knew what Stiles was thinking. And he liked how suspicious the guy was.

"Keep your voice down, please. please."

Gillette leaned toward Stiles. "What's the problem?" he repeated innocently.

"Where was the McGuire guy last night when you were attacked?"

"Not around."

"So the guy who's supposed to protect you isn't around when you're attacked." Stiles placed the remote back down on the table.

"I gave him the slip here in Manhattan. I'm a pretty good driver when I want to be."

"Then I have a question and an observation."

"Go ahead."

"First, the question."

"Okay."

"Why did you want to slip slip away?" away?"

"I had personal business."

Stiles gave Gillette a frustrated look. "Mr. Gillette, if I'm going to protect you, there can't be any secrets between us. I have to know everything about you. But I will promise you this," Stiles said, holding up his right hand as though he were about to take an oath. "No one will ever know what I know. No one. No one."

Gillette stared hard at Stiles. He had that air about him that made you trust him. "It involved a woman," Gillette explained. A partial truth, but probably enough to satisfy Stiles's curiosity.

"Okay. Now, here's my observation. Just the fact that you were able able to slip away tells me something. With all due respect to your driving skills, I can a.s.sure you right now that you wouldn't be able to slip away from me or any of my men under any circ.u.mstances. Do you understand?" to slip away tells me something. With all due respect to your driving skills, I can a.s.sure you right now that you wouldn't be able to slip away from me or any of my men under any circ.u.mstances. Do you understand?"

Gillette was already feeling safer. "Yes." And it had occurred to him that he'd been able to lose the McGuire guy easily, too.

"Good. Now why would someone want to blow up your limousine?"

"Don't know."

"Speculate."

For the next five minutes Gillette described Everest Capital and the events of the last week. What the firm did and the ma.s.sive amount of money it-he-controlled. Bill Donovan dying suspiciously at the estate. How Gillette had been elected the new chairman of Everest by one vote. How there were a number of people who might want him dead. And how there were very few people he could trust at this point. Maybe no one.

"Tell me exactly what happened last night," Stiles requested when Gillette was finished. "When you were shot at."

Gillette took several more minutes to explain the incident in New Jersey. "I guess it could have been a random carjacking," he said, finishing the story.

"What kind of car were you driving?"

"A rented Taurus."

Stiles shook his head. "People don't go out of their way to steal a Taurus. And a carjacking? I seriously doubt that. Particularly if there were two vehicles working together, and they shot at you before before driving you to an ATM. It makes no sense. No, they were after you. Plain and simple." Stiles paused. "How much are you worth, Mr. Gillette?" driving you to an ATM. It makes no sense. No, they were after you. Plain and simple." Stiles paused. "How much are you worth, Mr. Gillette?"

"A lot," he answered. "And, with Donovan dead, I could be worth a lot more."

Stiles pointed at Gillette. "In other words, as far as Donovan goes, you had motive, too."

Gillette gave Stiles a strange look. "I like how you try so hard to ingratiate yourself a potential client, Quentin."

"I call it as I see it," Stiles replied firmly.

"While you're at it, call me Christian."

"I don't get close to my clients. Now answer my question. How much are you worth?"

"Around seventy million." In addition to his stake in the funds, which Cohen estimated was worth sixty, Gillette had banked ten during his career at Everest, thanks to the salaries, bonuses, and payouts on the ups he'd earned on earlier funds.

Stiles's expression didn't change. "And, as a result of Donovan's death, how much could you be worth?"

"Billions." Again, Stiles's expression didn't change. Which Gillette liked.

"Just by virtue of being chairman of Everest."

"If I'm chairman long enough."

"So, if someone else were in your position, they could be worth billions, too?"

"Yes."

Stiles picked up the remote and turned the television off, then stood up and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Gillette. I'll give your a.s.sistant those telephone numbers on my way out, and I'll wait to hear from you."

Gillette stood up, too, and shook Stiles's hand. "Can I look at your gun?" He'd seen it when Stiles had shown him the bullet scars.

Stiles pulled his jacket back, revealing a shoulder holster and the black handle of a pistol.

"What kind is it?" asked Gillette.

"Glock forty cal."

"Let me have it."

Stiles withdrew the weapon from the holster and popped the clip, then handed the gun to Gillette.

"Not going to let me have it loaded, huh?"

"No."

Gillette held the Glock for a few moments. He liked the way it looked and the way it felt in his palm. He handed it back to Stiles, who reinserted the clip and slid the weapon smoothly back into the holster. "You're hired, Quentin." Stiles was heading toward the door. "I want you to start immediately."

Stiles turned back around to face Gillette. "Sorry, Mr. Gillette, but I have a few things to take care of first."

"Get one of your people on them."

"I can't. I have to-"