didn’t make sense. It was as if the technology itself was against them.
Then Batman got an idea. “Let’s forget the e-mail bullshit for a minute,” he said to Twitch. “Do you think you can get past the Grand Maison Casino’s computer security system?”
Twitch was already typing. Not twenty seconds later he said: “I’m in. What do we want to know?”
Batman thought a moment, then said: “How about this: Obviously we didn’t pay a dime for that penthouse. And we certainly didn’t reserve it and now there’s a good chance that it was all just an elaborate setup. But it must have cost someone something, right? At least for the food and booze?”
“Probably…” Twitch replied.
“So then,” Batman told him. “Let’s see who actually paid for all the Macallan and those Dolce & Gabbanas and Cohiba Behike cigars.”
Five more minutes of frenzied typing followed and Twitch was eventually able to get into the casino’s encrypted financial files. Then he began a search for who paid for all the accoutrements they’d enjoyed while in their luxurious suite.
It took a few more minutes, but finally Twitch was able to pull up a long list of items that had been “routed” to the Grand Maison’s royal penthouse. It was all there: the cigars, the liquor, the cotton robes and the eagle eggs.
Twitch read the total off the screen: “Twenty-two thousand, six hundred and fifty-two dollars, including the meals and booze.”
He looked up at Batman.
“This for a room that was still being renovated? A place that wasn’t even supposed to be open?” he exclaimed.
“Had to be a bribe,” Batman replied. “Someone on the inside got paid off for making it all look legit. The real question, though, is who paid the bill?”
More typing, but Twitch eventually found a name.
“It says some guy named Bobby Murphy paid the bill,” he reported. “In cash, no less.”
Batman had to read it for himself.
“‘Bobby Murphy?’” he said. “Who the hell is Bobby Murphy?”
* * *
IT WAS A slow morning at the Monte-Carlo Bay Casino.
The newest of the handful of gambling halls in the small principality, most of the patrons were out near the casino’s front entrance watching the Formula One cars take their practice laps in anticipation of the big race kickoff the next day.
One man was sitting at the Chemin de Fer table, though, counting his meager piles of chips.
It was CIA agent Mark Audette. He was killing time.
His breakfast that morning had been several cups of coffee at a nearby café and nothing else. He’d drank a soda with ice around 10:00 A.M. and another one a half hour later.
Finally, his bladder started calling for relief. It was time to visit the facility.
He left the card table and walked to the nearest men’s room. Two men dressed in maintenance worker clothes followed him in. Suddenly one of the men slammed the door shut and locked it from the inside.
The next thing Audette knew, he was looking down the barrel of a Glock 9.
“What the fuck…” was all he was able to say before he realized it was Batman on the other end of the gun.
“You?” he gasped. “The pirate guy?”
“And my trusty Boy Wonder, Robin,” Batman said, indicating Twitch, who was standing behind Audette.
“How did you know I would be here?” he asked them.
“A government employee—in a place like Monte Carlo?” Batman replied. “No surprise you’d be staying in the cheapest place in the city.”
Audette began squirming.
“Why the hardware?” he said. “We’re all on the same side here, remember?”
“Are we?” Batman asked, pressing the pistol a little closer to his nose. “Are you even with the Agency?”
Audette seemed insulted. “Of course I am, you ass…”
“Show us your ID,” Twitch told him.
Audette laughed. “We don’t carry IDs,” he said. “You guys should know that. Now, please, lower the artillery.”
But Batman ignored him. He reached inside Audette’s shirt pocket and pulled out the agent’s sat-phone.
“You know the one you gave us was a piece of shit,” Batman told him, indicating the sat-phone. “Crap made in China. Defective battery. You name it.”
Audette rolled his eyes. “I hope they’re not all like that,” he said almost under his breath.
Batman checked the nationality of Audette’s sat-phone. It looked different from the ones he’d dispensed to the team earlier.
“OK—Motorola,” Batman said. “Made in the USA.”
Still holding the gun on Audette, Batman dialed their number in Aden. But the call wouldn’t go through. He passed the phone to Twitch. He tried—with the same result. The call would not connect.