We started the drive out to Fort Lee, New Jersey, in our old Jeep Cherokee that we always talk about replacing but never do. By the time we crossed the George Washington Bridge, Tracy stopped muttering how “silly this all is” and seemed content to lean back and listen to the Tom Petty channel on the radio. Finally, after an excellent back-to-back set of “Free Fallin’” and “American Girl,” I pulled into an empty parking lot near a warehouse for a medical supply company that no one has ever heard of, primarily because it doesn’t actually exist.

  Tracy reached for his blindfold as soon as I cut the engine. He couldn’t wait to get the damn thing off.

  “Hold on, not yet,” I said.

  “But we’re here, right? The Batcave?”

  “Almost.”

  I came around to get him from the other side of the Jeep, guiding him by the arm across the vacant lot to the security gate near the warehouse entrance. I knew the code for the gate, but there was no code for the steel door ten feet behind it, and definitely not one for the second steel door waiting for us after that.

  Julian liked his privacy. For good reason.

  “Okay, we’re good,” I said, once we were all the way inside. Tracy took off the blindfold, his eyes slowly adjusting in the low light.

  “Hi, Tracy. I’m Julian.”

  Even if Tracy still had the blindfold on he would’ve made the connection based on the British accent alone. “Wait. You’re the guy from the bar at Frankie’s, the one who gave me his seat.”

  “Yes. That was me,” said Julian. “The one and only.”

  “Only a little less drunk,” said Tracy, realizing it was all an act.

  “Not as less as you might think,” Julian assured him. He motioned for us to follow. “I’ve got a seventeen-year-old Nikka Taketsuru opened. Who’s joining me?”

  “We’ll pass,” I said as we fell in line behind him. “I’m driving, and Tracy needs to focus.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Tracy.

  “Actually, as much as I hate to deprive a chap of a good Japanese pure malt, Dylan might have a point,” said Julian. “We have a lot to cover.”

  Any further objection from Tracy ended the second we turned the corner into Julian’s office. Tracy looked around, mouth agape, at the mainframe computers, three-dimensional printers, and other gadgets along with Julian’s giant desk configured from the wing of an old Fokker Eindecker, the first German fighter plane. And surrounding it all were walls that doubled as seamless projection screens carrying a live feed from Julian’s latest hacking conquest—the newest Mars rover, Perseverance. It was as if we were standing on the red planet with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view.

  “Holy shit,” said Tracy.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” said Julian. He scratched his beard. “Come to think of it, that’s not true. You’re only the seventh person ever to see the inside of this place. Our friend, Agent Needham, was actually the sixth. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Watching Annabelle,” I said.

  “That’s one overqualified babysitter,” said Julian.

  Tracy was taking it all in. Everything. He turned to Julian. “So you were, what, my backup at Frankie’s? Protection? A little George and Ira Gershwin?”

  That’s what I get for telling Tracy about Vladimir Grigoryev’s serenading me instead of killing me. Meanwhile, Julian, who had an IQ higher than the 145-degree melting point of palmitic acid, looked at me without a clue. George and Ira Gershwin?

  “‘Someone to Watch Over Me,’” I said. “A song from one of their musicals.”

  “Clever,” said Julian. “A bit on the nose in terms of gay men stereotypes, but still very clever.” He poured himself two knuckles of his six-hundred-dollar Japanese whiskey. “Shall we get started?”

  If we were truly going to pull this off, Tracy needed an extra pair of eyes and ears. But we could only get so close to him when the exchange happened. Julian’s job was to bridge the gap. He went over to his desk, reaching for the already opened FedEx package.

  “Do they work?” I asked.

  “That’s why you guys are here,” he said. “We’re about to find out.”

  CHAPTER 77

  Julian handed Tracy the package, leaving it to him to remove the slender rectangular case inside. The lid was on a tight spring-loaded hinge. The lining inside was padded for extra protection. CIA labs often make duplicates of their experimental spyware, but rarely when given such short notice. This was a one and only.

  Tracy stared at the thick black frames. “What are these, like, special Dick Tracy glasses?” he asked.

  “You’re thinking of his wristwatch,” I said.

  “But Dick Tracy wore glasses like this, too, right?”

  “He did, but it was the watch that was special. It doubled as a two-way radio.”

  “Are you sure his glasses didn’t do anything?”

  “I assume they helped him see better.”

  “Ha. Very funny,” said Tracy. “You always make lame jokes when you’re not sure about something.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Julian stared in disbelief at both of us. “Bloody hell, you two really are married,” he said. “If it’s any consolation, Tracy, these particular glasses happen to be very special. Go ahead. Give ’em a try.”

  Tracy put on the glasses slowly, as if waiting for some big reveal. There wasn’t one. “I think your definition of special might be different from mine,” he said.

  Julian moved to the laptop behind his desk, pressing a couple of keys. “Reach up to the frame around the left lens,” he said. “Use your thumb and forefinger to adjust how the glasses are resting on your nose. You know, like people do. Make it look natural.”

  Boom. The second Tracy adjusted the frames, the walls of Julian’s office changed. We were no longer on Mars. We were now looking through Tracy’s eyes. Everything he was seeing, we were seeing.

  “Whoa,” said Tracy, only to hear an echo of himself. We could also hear everything he could.

  “That tiny hole on the frame by the left lens, where the little screw for the hinge would normally go—that’s your first camera,” said Julian. “When it’s on, it activates a microphone on the bridge of your nose.”

  “So I’m wearing a wire without having to wear a wire,” said Tracy.

  “Exactly. Better yet, we can also communicate with you.” Julian grabbed a headset from off his desk, covering his mouth as he whispered something into the mic. I couldn’t hear him.

  But Tracy could. “Maxwell,” he answered.

  “No kidding,” said Julian. He’d obviously asked what my middle name was. “All these years, and I never knew that. Dylan Maxwell Reinhart.”

  “Wait, how is that happening? How am I hearing you?” asked Tracy. “There’s nothing in my ear.”

  “Bone conduction,” said Julian. “The sound waves are emitted through both temples in the frames. They bypass the eardrum via your cheekbones and directly stimulate the inner ear.”

  “You lost me at bone conduction,” said Tracy, “but very cool nonetheless.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Julian. “Now reach for the rim around the right lens, just like you did with the left. Real casual.”

  Tracy adjusted the frames again. We’d already left Mars but it was now shades of the red planet again. “What the…?”

  “That’s the second camera, on the right side,” said Julian. “Thermal imaging.”

  That one even took me by surprise. I leaned over, staring into the frames. “All in that tiny hole?”

  “Yep.” Julian stepped out from behind his desk. “See anything interesting, Tracy?”

  I spotted it right away amid the red-tinted outline of Julian projected on the wall. Tracy wasn’t too far behind. He pointed at Julian’s waist. “You’ve got a gun tucked underneath your shirt,” he said.

  Julian lifted his shirt, removing his Glock. “The metal obstructs your body heat so you’re able to see it underneath clothing.”

  Tracy didn’t seem as impressed as he should’ve been. He’d already jumped ahead. The ramifications. “Wait. If someone in that room has a gun and I don’t, how does this really help me?”

  “Because it helps us,” said Julian. “It lets Dylan and me know who’s carrying in case you need to hit the panic button.”

  “What panic button?” asked Tracy.

  “It’s actually not a button. The second you take those glasses off is the second we’re bursting into the room,” said Julian. “That’s your SOS.”

  “Won’t you already be able to see everything I can see?”

  “Yes. We can see and we can hear. But we can’t feel.”

  “Feel what?”

  “Never mind. It’s not a big deal,” said Julian. “Forget I said anything.”

  As if that answer would ever satisfy Tracy.

  CHAPTER 78

  Julian looked at me. His winking would’ve been redundant. Better that I be the one to scare the crap out of Tracy.

  “Feel what?” Tracy repeated.

  “For instance, and this is just an extreme example to illustrate a point,” I said. “Let’s say, if a gun happened to be pressed against the back of your head.” I quickly raised my palms. “Not that that would ever happen.”

  “No, that’s definitely not going to happen,” added Julian quickly. “Because when you’re in that room, you’re going to keep everything in front of you.”

  This was Julian at his finest. I may have earned a PhD in psychology, but he was born with one. When you really want people to take your advice, don’t merely tell them what to do. Instead, make them fully understand why they need to do it. Make them feel it. Down to their core.

  Rest assured, Tracy now fully understood. I need to keep everything in front of me.

  “Now let’s talk about the exchange,” said Julian. It was the perfect segue. “We’ve got a mob boss, a Monet, and a fifty-million-dollar transfer on the sly from a foreign government. What could possibly go wrong?”

  The arrangements were set. Tracy had gone back and forth on the phone with Brunetti and Laszlo multiple times. Brunetti wanted the exchange to happen in a place of his choosing, namely, someplace he controlled. Fittingly, Laszlo wanted it to happen at the Hungarian consulate. The compromise that Tracy pushed for was “Switzerland,” someplace neutral. He’d suggested the Roxy Hotel, which we knew would work for Brunetti since it was right across the street from his restaurant. Still, Brunetti insisted that he be the one to book the room. He’d clearly seen enough footage of hotel sting operations over the years.

  Lastly, Brunetti and Laszlo were each allowed a plus one. But only one.

  “The guy that Laszlo brings to authenticate the painting,” said Tracy. “Should I be worried about him?”

  “In what sense?” asked Julian.

  “It’s one thing to google the name ‘William D’Alexander,’ it’s another if this authenticator goes asking around about him. Obviously no one in the art world has met me, let alone heard of me.”

  “You’re right, and normally that could be a problem,” said Julian. “But it won’t be, not tomorrow.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the supposed expert accompanying Laszlo probably wouldn’t know a Picasso from a pizza, let alone whether a Monet is real or fake.”

  “What he means is that the guy’s not an art expert,” I said. “He’s Hungarian intelligence. He’ll be there to protect Laszlo, the painting, the whole deal itself.”

  Tracy nodded. He got it. He knew we could hear the calls on both her cell and office phone, but still. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?” he asked.

  “I figured it was better to show you the special Dick Tracy glasses first,” said Julian. “You know, to make you feel better about there being more than one guy in the room with a gun.”

  “Great. How’d that work out for me?” asked Tracy. It clearly hadn’t.

  “Not as well as I had hoped,” said Julian.

  “Any other surprises you want to share?”

  I was about to chime in with a definitive no when the phone rang. We all froze for a moment. It wasn’t any of our phones.

  Julian swung back around his desk, looking at one of his monitors. “Damn,” he said. “I was afraid this might happen.”

  I knew he could see her caller ID. At the eleventh hour, literally, Laszlo was getting a call from the powers that be. Not the ambassador. Not anyone here in the states. The true powers that be. The head of Hungarian intelligence. He wasn’t calling simply to wish her good luck.

  Julian put the conversation on speaker so we could all listen in. Laszlo hardly did any of the talking.

  Their plan had changed. The Hungarian ambassador was no longer taking the Monet back to Budapest with him. Laszlo was now to personally escort the Monet back on a private jet that had already been arranged out of JFK. She was not to let the painting out of her sight at any time.

  “I understand,” said Laszlo, not questioning anything. She was given the time of the flight, which terminal, the full details.

  If she wasn’t happy about this new development, she sure wasn’t letting on. She was a good soldier. Or maybe she simply understood the extra precaution. They’d come so far in finally getting the damn painting back, why leave anything to chance? Laszlo would simply go a little farther in making sure it arrived back to Hungary safely. It made sense.

  And it completely screwed up our plan.

  No one said the words out loud after the call ended, but all three of us were thinking the same thing. What the hell do we do now?

  “We postpone a day, give us some extra time to figure out another option,” said Julian.

  “Too risky. Postponing will spook both sides,” I said.

  “Dylan’s right. It’s now or never,” said Tracy.

  Julian folded his arms, nodding. Whatever blind spot he had for American musical theater he more than made up for with British playwrights. “Noël Coward, it is,” he said. “The show must go on.”

  I reached for my phone, hitting speed dial. It was just the spark of an idea, far from fully formed. But if it was going to work, I knew one thing for certain. We needed more help.

  “What are you doing?” asked Tracy.

  “Expanding the cast,” I answered.

  CHAPTER 79

  The beginning of my years with the CIA intersected with the final months of a paramilitary operations officer who was just about to retire. Julian had introduced us in the back room of a London pub. The room, which was closed off to the public, was basically a private bar hidden within a bar, a safe refuge for US and British intelligence officials and the occasional operative.

  The CIA officer’s name was Charles, but he was a “call me Charlie” kind of guy. At least around alcohol. After my first night of drinking with him, I was no longer Dylan. I was Dill.

  Charlie liked to tell stories. Mostly great ones. Some surely embellished. He’d spent years in Honduras, training rebel forces to fight the Sandinista government. He’d seen a lot of messed-up stuff. Done a lot of messed-up stuff, too. All in the name of a philosophy as old as the Roman empire. Victory always comes at a cost.

  I remember the last time I saw Charlie, not that I realized in the moment that it would be my last time with him. I think maybe he knew, though. That’s why at the end of the night he pulled me aside for something other than another one of his stories. It was advice. Except when someone tells you something that you can remember word for word more than twenty years later, it’s no longer merely advice. It’s a mantra.

  Charlie wasn’t privy to the specifics of my mission in London at the time, but he knew I was young. Untested. And perhaps a bit unnerved by the inherent risk of my newfound profession.

  “To doubt is human,” he told me, with a heavy arm around my shoulder. “Doubting is healthy. But only before the beginning of a mission and after the very end. Anytime in between, doubt is your worst enemy. It’s a trap. A Trojan horse. A self-inflicted fatal wound. In the middle of a mission, doubt only belongs to the dead.”

  Charlie was at least six bourbons deep when he told me that, but he spoke every syllable crystal clear. “Whatever happened to Charlie?” I asked Julian, years later.

  Julian didn’t know. No one did. I suspect that was by design. Charlie and his pension disappeared off the grid. In a related story, there are more than one hundred thousand islands in the world.

  “Wish me luck,” whispered Tracy as he approached room 1106 of the Roxy Hotel. From the stairwell by the eleventh floor, I could hear him perfectly through my headset. The stairwell door didn’t have a window, but I had the visual feed on my cell courtesy of Tracy’s glasses.

  “You don’t need luck. You’ve got this,” I told him. “No doubt.”

  The bearded businessman sitting in the lobby with his laptop, otherwise known as Julian, was our spotter. He was the only one of us that neither Brunetti nor Laszlo would recognize.

  Brunetti had arrived first with his plus-one per the arrangement, although he of course was cheating and actually brought two henchmen with him. The second one remained in the lobby and tried to look as inconspicuous as a six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound man possibly can. In other words, not very well.

  Anyone else would’ve panicked on seeing Brunetti show up without the painting, but not Julian. He assumed as much. Only after Brunetti checked in and went to his randomly assigned room to make sure there was no surprise waiting for him did his first henchman reappear in the lobby, exit the hotel briefly, and return with an oversized portfolio case.

  Minutes later, Brunetti gave the signal to Tracy by texting him with the room number. Tracy then texted Laszlo. To keep his “Switzerland” efforts intact, Tracy was to arrive second, in the middle, before the Hungarian delegation.

  “It’s Bill D’Alexander,” said Tracy, immediately announcing himself after knocking on room 1106.

  Brunetti’s guy let him in. Tracy had switched to thermal mode on the glasses before the door opened so we knew immediately.