Morgan never really understood art.

189.

She'd insisted that they go to the Kitten Club, the rationale being more along the lines of it being a trendy hotspot rather than a place where actual enjoyment could be had.

Morgan remembered that the music was deafening, the light show transfixing, and the drinks ridiculously overpriced.

And then that rich diva Athena Paradis got killed there, and somehow the Kitten Club became even more popular.

Now why Morgan was supposed to be there at seven o'clock in the morning, a good sixteen hours before the club even opened its doors, was beyond him. But it was his first day. And Morgan knew well enough not to ask questions.

He took the subway downtown, then walked to the meatpacking district where the Kitten Club, and its brethren, served generous amounts of alcohol to hip, young New Yorkers seven days a week. At midnight, you couldn't walk down the block without having to cut through any one of a number of long lines dedicated to keeping impatient drinkers outside until the Lord of the Velvet Rope decided it was time to allow them entry.

The Kitten Club used to have one of those large neon signs above the awning, this one depicting a feline in naughty attire sipping from some sort of pink c.o.c.ktail.

The lights were arranged so that it looked like the cat was tipping the drink back. As the gla.s.s. .h.i.t the cat's lips, the drink actually appeared to disappear down its furry throat.

If you had enough money, you could get anyone to make you anything.

As Morgan approached the entrance, the front door opened up. He immediately recognized the man who held it open.

190.

"Morgan, good to see you," Chester said. "Feels good to be up bright and early, doesn't it?"

Chester said this with the slightest air of contempt, as though he knew that Morgan hadn't needed to wake up before noon anytime in recent memory. Though he felt his cheeks flush slightly red, he did feel a bit of pride in rejoining the workforce.

"If it's worth getting up for, there's no such thing as too early."

"Words to live by," Chester replied. "Come on in."

Chester held the door ajar, and Morgan slipped inside. He couldn't help but find it funny that for the first time he hadn't needed to wait in line to enter a club.

Maybe he needed to go clubbing at seven in the morning more often.

Chester led Morgan through the club, the earlymorning sun peeking through black-tinted windows, casting an eerie glow on a floor that seemed ghostlike without the cavalcade of dancing, drinking bodies. The first floor of the Kitten Club was essentially one large open s.p.a.ce, nearly the length of a football field.

At either end was a bar, about thirty feet long, that housed four different bartenders in order to make sure drinks were served promptly, and that every penny was squeezed out of every patron.

Large birdcages hung above the floor, with doors big enough to fit the dancers who gyrated inside them all night. Morgan could see a pulley system keeping them high, attached to a chain that could be lowered. Still, the dancers had to keep going all night. Made you think twice before entering a giant birdcage.Chester led Morgan across the first floor, toward a sign marked Restrooms. Morgan followed, but slowed 191.

down when Chester turned toward the door to the women's bathroom.

"Um, dude, you can't go in there."

Chester turned around, looked at Morgan like he'd sprouted another head.

"You're really going to question me? Now?"

Morgan felt a chill travel down his spine. He simply shook his head, and whispered, "Sorry."

Stupid, Morgan thought. His gut reaction, of course, was to question why the h.e.l.l they were going into the ladies' bathroom in a nightclub at seven in the morning.

On the surface, not the most egregious question to be asking. But Morgan should have known better.

So when Chester pushed open the door to the women's room, Morgan followed obediently behind.

The women's room was cleaner than most clubs, especially considering it was known for being a veritable petrie dish of chemical indulgences. There was an irony in that the club was owned by Shawn Kensbrook, who was as clean as they came. h.e.l.l, the guy became a regular on the Today Today show after Athena Paradis died. show after Athena Paradis died.

One of those celebrities, like Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or whatever the h.e.l.l his name was now who skyrocketed to fame after the death of someone close. And when fame came knocking, the mourning period lasted all of about two more seconds before the checks started rolling in.

Kensbrook himself was clean, but the Kitten Club itself was as dirty as a public restroom. And like a public restroom, Morgan held his nose when he took one whiff of the foul odor that permeated this particular restroom.

He couldn't tell where it was coming from, but got an 192.

idea when Chester walked over to a closed stall door clearly marked Out of Order.

Morgan followed, peeking over Chester's shoulder as he pushed the stall door open.

Yup, that was it. No doubt whatever had died had done so in this stall.

The toilet seat itself was covered in a brown foulness that nearly made Morgan retch. The wall behind it was chipping, the plaster coming loose. The metal toilet paper holder was rusted and gross, and the floor tiles had hints of yellow that reminded Morgan of writing his name without hands on snow days in his youth.

Without hesitation, Chester stepped through the rusted door and stood over the toilet.

"Dude," Morgan said, "that's pretty nasty. I'm sure there's a working one in here that doesn't look like something out of Trainspotting. Trainspotting. " "

Chester appeared to ignore him, instead leaning forward.

Morgan couldn't make it out, but Chester was apparently doing something against the wall, either scratching it with his fingernails or pushing on something, he couldn't tell what.

Suddenly Chester stepped back, and Morgan heard a brief clicking noise before the entire compartment--the toilet and the wall behind it--simply slid backward, revealing a walkway behind it.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Morgan said. "Who are you, James Bond?"

"Guess I got the blond hair right," Chester said. "Come on."

Morgan stepped into the pa.s.sageway. It was a long narrow hallway, metal on both sides, no deviations. At the end of the hallway stood a simple metal door. There was 193.

no doork.n.o.b, no metal slats. Nothing except two video cameras perched above the doorway, each pointed down to capture whoever was about to enter.

"Who's back there?" Morgan said.

"What did I tell you about questions?"

"Not to ask them."

"You're a quick learner."

Chester kept walking until he was standing directly in front of the door. He looked up at the cameras. Smiled.

Morgan was about to ask if whoever was back there could see him, but remembered the previous conversation.

"The cameras don't work," Chester said.

"Huh?"

"That's what you were about to ask. Do you see any wires? Any outlets?"

Morgan eyed the cameras. "Nope. But there's a red light on."

"Runs on a battery," Chester said. "Fakes out most burglars and trespa.s.sers. You can buy these things at Radio Shack for sixty bucks."

"So then how do they..."

"Trust me, security is a lot tighter than a simple camera. Just don't bring any of your friends here. They'll be dead before they count to five."

"What..."

Before Morgan could finish his question (something he was thankful for), the metal door slid open. Standing there was Leonard.

He was wearing black jeans and a green turtleneck. He held a clipboard in one hand, and gripped the door's handle with his other.

"Hey," he said to Chester. Then he looked at Morgan.

"Glad you could make it. You guys are late."

194.

"Traffic," Chester said.

"Of course." Leonard took a pen from the clipboard, checked something on it and went back into the room.

"Come on," Chester said, and Morgan followed him inside.

The room was fairly small, and resembled an atrium of some sort. There was another door off to the side, and that was all. The only light was overhead track lighting, and Morgan noticed a dozen cameras pointed at different parts of the room.

The first person he saw was Nikesh. The Indian boy was standing in the center of the room. He was wearing a black pinstripe suit, with a red tie and wingtip loafers.

His hair was freshly cut, and Morgan noticed a small shaving nick under his chin.

Nikesh turned around. He nodded when he saw Morgan.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Morgan replied, wittily.

Then Nikesh turned around, and Morgan saw that he had a large briefcase slung over his shoulders. The bag was full, but not overstuffed. There was a combination lock on the front, and the clasp was done.

"Patel, you're finished here. Flanagan?"

The chubby white kid from the conference room ambled out of the side room. He was also clutching a briefcase, this one stuffed even more. Though the bag looked ready to burst, Chubby--aka Flanagan--seemed to have no trouble carrying it. Obviously whatever was inside didn't weigh much.

"You two have your orders," Leonard told them. "And you remember everything I told you."

Patel and Flanagan both nodded. They looked confident.

Whatever Leonard had told them, they remembered it.

195.

Leonard clicked something in his ear, nodded, then motioned for the duo to follow him. He slid the door open, revealing the corridor. When they'd stepped outside, Leonard pulled the door back into place.

"Your turn," Leonard said. "Time for orientation."

Leonard walked over to the side door. This one looked fairly standard, with a doork.n.o.b and everything. Leonard simply turned the k.n.o.b, pulled it open and beckoned Morgan to follow him.

Tentatively Morgan came forward, surprised at first that the door wasn't guarded by some super electromagnet or something else similarly complicated.

As he approached the door, another young man stepped out. Morgan recognized him from the conference room. He was black, about five foot ten. Stocky but not fat, with a neatly shaved head. He wore a creamcolored suit and a blue tie, a pocket square neatly tucked into his jacket.

"Theodore W. Goggins," Leonard said. "This is Morgan Isaacs."

Morgan extended his hand. Theodore shook it. His grip was tight.

"Call me Theo."

"Call me Morgan," he replied. "So 'W' huh? Like George W. Bush?"

"Do I look like I was born in Texas?" Theo said. "The 'W' is for Willingham, my uncle's last name."

"Keeping it all in the family," Morgan said. "Nice."

Theo laughed. "You keep up, brother, you and me are gonna get along just fine."

"Get along?" Morgan said.

"You two are partners, for the time being," Leonard said. "You ever use the buddy system on school trips?"

196.

Neither of the young men answered, but they both knew what he was talking about.

"Same principle. Theo, you're responsible for Morgan.

Morgan, you're responsible for Theo. Either of you get into any trouble, it's up to the other one to help out."

"No problem," Morgan said. "That's a pretty sweet tie," he noted, admiring the silk.