13
IT’S JUST A BIT MORTIFYING that even Li has to smother a smile when she sees me. This is a woman who could sit through any stand-up comedy set without cracking a laugh. I meet her amused look with as much irritation as I can while still maintaining a shred of respect for my superior.
“Impressive,” Li tells us, perfectly deadpan. “I don’t recognize the two of you. Disguises might be superfluous to our requirements, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Thankfully, we’re so close to the bank that I don’t have much time in the back of Li’s super-cool Tesla with my boss trying not to stare at me. When the driver pulls up outside the bank, Caitlin and I both exit smoothly, assessing the street for risks like real bodyguards would before allowing the rear door to open and Li to exit. We escort her inside the towering building, which is all carved stone and marble on the outside. Right inside the foyer, a deferential wealth manager and assistant are anxiously awaiting our arrival. They bow and scrape us into a private client lounge, an acre of neutral-toned space with lush cream carpets, expensive leather armchairs, and some kind of championship barista coffee machine. A wine cooler holds an array of champagnes and vintage wines. Another bar area houses racks of coconut water, matcha tea, and the kind of environment-slaughtering bottled water that’s probably harvested by hand in the foothills of the Himalayas.
Bank managers parked behind desks are so not how it’s done in this world, apparently. Li is ushered to a plush armchair, and the elegant manager sits opposite her. He’s perhaps fifty, in a tailored suit; clean shaven, salt-and-pepper hair cut neatly and swept back. He looks like he stepped out of an ad for luxury Swiss watches; you know the ones—where a satisfied guy lounges on the deck of a yacht, smiling fondly at his designer kids, so ecstatic that their hundred-thousand-dollar graduation gift timepieces will last for six generations.
Completely poised, Caitlin plants herself by the door while I station myself right beside Li. The assistant that greeted us when we arrived, a young woman in a gray skirt suit and heels, brings over a small, gleaming silver tray. Upon it sits a solid crystal glass filled with the sparkling water that Li just requested. But Li shakes her head.
“Bring me a bottle. Sealed. And a new glass. Two glasses.”
The woman scurries off. Even though it’s Li who is behaving (intentionally) like a prima donna, and a rude one at that, the manager apologizes profusely for his assistant’s terrible service. When he’s done with the self-flagellation, he starts making polite small talk. Li looks bored and provides one-word replies to his questions, upon which he casually tries tossing out a few phrases in Mandarin. Li is originally from outside Beijing, so that’s her first language. Now she smiles slightly, like she’s so impressed, and they chat a bit more. The water bottle appears but Li returns it again, because it’s the wrong brand of water this time. I smirk, but only on the inside. Li is setting up her fussiness for the next stage of our attack. By the time the young assistant is back for the third time, I take the bottle of water from her tray myself, open it, pour a little into one of the glasses, and then I actually taste it, like it might be poisoned, before allowing my esteemed boss to get near the other glass. The manager watches politely, like he sees this kind of thing every day. And who knows? Catering to paranoid tyrants, maybe he does.
A couple more minutes go by, during which Li switches back to English and throws out three billion dollars as the amount she has ready to place with the bank of her choice. By now, her host is practically salivating. But Li shifts.
“I’d like to use the bathroom,” she says.
The young assistant hurries back to escort her to the guest restroom, which is right off the client lounge that we are in. But Li does not move. She nods to me, and I whip out my tape measure and follow the girl to the room. It’s a marble-clad nook with gold taps and thick cotton hand towels. Thanks to Amber’s floor plan, I already know the dimensions, but I diligently throw a beam of light onto each wall and read the length and width of the room. Shaking my head, I sigh deeply.
“Mrs. Chen is highly claustrophobic,” I say, and my voice just about carries to the manager in the lounge. “This is below the minimum space she requires, and there are also no windows. Is there a staff bathroom we could try?”
“Yes, but the stalls are smaller,” the assistant squeaks, stressed out of her mind by my insane explanation. It’s been my experience since starting work with Athena that people rarely argue if you say something that they don’t quite understand.
“Are there gaps in the base of each cubicle?” I ask.
She nods. I drop my voice.
“Then it should be fine. It is the feeling of being sealed in that is the problem,” I say enigmatically.
“Of course,” she whispers. “I completely understand.”
Honestly, it seems like it doesn’t matter what bizarre needs you have if you’re wealthy enough; everyone will move heaven and earth to accommodate you. The manager is up now, nodding and bowing a lot. The assistant runs around escorting the three of us out of the lounge and into the main bathrooms, which are still really nice but just a series of stalls in a long room with frosted windows at the end. Reassuringly, they are laid out exactly as Amber’s building plans showed. To keep up appearances, I leave Li at the door while I measure the length and pronounce it acceptable. At the same time, I scan around the room. It would be illegal to have any surveillance within toilet stalls and, luckily,
