“A final toast,” I say, rising to my feet. “To domestic felicity.”

They all stare at me blankly, but raise their glasses just the same and empty them. I take a sip, look at my watch, and suggest after-dinner drinks on the back porch for those who haven’t had enough. I then thank them all again for coming, excuse myself, and wish them all a good night.

ALLEN IS DOWN AT THE LAKE. I can see his shape lit by the low-voltage lights along the shore. The rain is still falling in random bloated drops. Allen appears not to mind as he casts stones from the beach into the rippling black water.

“I’m sorry,” I say, toweling off a lounge chair beside him before I sit down and put up my feet.

Allen is silent. A sliver of the orange moon peers through the trees on top of the far hill before disappearing into the bank of clouds. Over the hissing of the wind in the trees I can hear the crunch of Allen’s feet on the beach. He throws half a dozen more rocks into the water before raising his voice above the wind and saying, “What made you invite that asshole anyway?”

“It’s really not Andre’s fault,” I say. “He is what he is and I have a business deal with him and Rangle. To tell you the truth, I think it gives you a good out.”

“Who says I want an out?” he says, turning to face me. A drop of rain strikes his cheek and he wipes it away.

I fold my hands together.

“Allen,” I say quietly. “That’s a rocket ship bound for space. You want to be on it because it’s fast and sleek and exciting. But whoever mounts that baby is going to burn up as soon as they leave the launching pad. You know that. I know you know…”

“What did you… plan it or something?”

“Of course not,” I say. “But I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t stop it, and that’s because you’re my friend.”

“So what,” he says with a small smile, looking up at the dark sky then back at me. “I owe you two lives now?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say.

“I feel like I do,” he says, “even though I wanted to punch you in there.”

“Violent,” I say, skipping a rock of my own without getting up from my seat.

“That’s my father’s side,” he says. “To hear him tell it, I’m practically a clone. It makes my mom and me laugh.”

“Pretty crazy about your mom, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “Dani Rangle is a long way from her. I’ll have to remind myself of that for the next one.”

“Well,” I say, rising from my seat and looking up. “Time for bed.”

“Good night,” Allen says.

“As your mom would say, don’t forget to brush your teeth,” I tell him, and he laughs.

I watch him from my bedroom as the tempo of the rain picks up. I lose his shape for a moment in the mist rising from the water. Then his rain-soaked shape appears from the gray and the back door slams shut. Thunder begins to crash and the blackness is shattered by white bursts of light. The trees bow down and one of the old spruces cracks like a cannon.

I listen to the storm rage and wait until after midnight before I sit down with a mug of green tea and start up the computer. The Villays are snug in their bed under a blue light occasionally lit bright by flashes of lightning outside. Christina’s mouth is open, her arm flung over her forehead. Villay himself is tossing and turning, muttering to himself, whining like a feverish child. His eyes are open, but stare blankly at the ceiling.

I split the screen so I can see the images projected onto the ceiling and Villay at the same time, then I start the sequence, just the way Chuck showed me. The instant Villay sees the image of his first wife’s face he shrieks like a sorority girl. His head twists from side to side, but his eyes seem frozen on the image, his body pinned to the bed.

In an eerie voice, the computer-generated image of Villay’s first wife begins to moan and shriek and it rises on the back of the howling storm outside, flailing above it then sinking back as if she were drowning all over again.

“You killed me, Dean,” she says, wailing. “You killed me. You murdered me. You and she. Murderers, Dean. I won’t leave you, Dean. You chose her, but now I’m back. I won’t leave you, Dean. You killed me…”

On and on she groans. For Villay, it is an unending nightmare. One he cannot escape. The drug in the green vial was perfected by the CIA in the eighties, before the end of the cold war. It opens gaping holes in the mind so that horrible images and sounds can be poured in without filter and slosh around to contaminate without end.

It won’t happen tonight. Or tomorrow night. But sooner or later, the drug will do its job.

It will break his mind.

“INCREDIBLE,” Rangle says, tapping an open copy of the Wall Street Journal that rests on top of the black onyx slab that makes up his desk. “Russian sweet crude through the roof. That’s the fifth perfect trend in two weeks.”

I clasp my hands behind my back and walk across the thick rug to the window. I can see New Jersey. The Statue of Liberty gleams, emerald in the last rays of the afternoon sun.

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” I say.

“Do you know what someone said they’re calling me?” Rangle asks. “The wizard of Wall Street. Do you think that’s a compliment?”

“Of course,” I say.

“It’s a jealous town,” he says, musing. He strokes his little mustache and then grasps his fingers.

“Pleased?” he says, shaking his head, grinning now. “My little girl’s head over heels in love. My wife is happy. No small feat there. Did I tell you that Vance International got me copies of the documents that draw a direct line from our Prince Andre all the way to Alexander III? I’d go out and buy a Powerball ticket if I didn’t know we were going to make more with our new Russian prince.”

I put my hand against the glass. It’s warm from the day.

“God, it’s a long way down,” I say in a low tone.

“Excuse me?” Rangle says. I hear his desk chair swivel my way.

“Did you ever look down?” I ask, glancing back at him. “It’s a weird feeling I get whenever I’m up high. What it would be like to have it all rushing up at you and you can’t stop it.”

Rangle is beside me now. He raps his knuckle on the window.

“Safety glass,” he says.

“That’s right. We’re safe,” I say. “We’re on the top. But just look.”

He glances at me. His eyes flicker down toward the street and the waterfront below. Cars crawl along like ants. People are specks that barely move. He clears his throat and moves back to his desk. The intercom buzzes and his secretary announces that his lawyer is on the line and says he needs to talk to him.

“Not now,” he says. “Tell him I’m with Seth Cole and I’ll get right back to him.”

I turn and take a seat facing his desk. I make a steeple of my fingertips and say, “On the twentieth, we’ll take a position in the Bank of Moscow. There will be a favorable announcement first thing on the twenty-third and the price will jump hard. It’ll happen fast and we’ll sell into the surge at four p.m. Moscow time.”

Rangle leans toward me. His hands grip the edge of the dark wood desktop.

“How much?” he asks. “I can leverage half a billion after what happened with the oil. Everyone will want in.”

“As much as you think is wise,” I say. “Just buy into it in ten-million-dollar blocks and make sure you use different brokerage houses.”

“Oh, what are you worried about?”

“Safety glass,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“My God,” Rangle says, exposing half his teeth behind a smile that’s close to a sneer. “This is it. The Russian market. I was on top in the late nineties and then I took a huge hit, but I told my wife, I said, ‘It will come again. One day, the opportunity will be there and I’ll jump on it.’”

He looks hard at me, narrowing his eyes. His ears seem to flatten and he says, “I want a billion.”