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glittering stare, and slowly shook his head, producing a strange cross between a smirk and a smile, his guru look. “Considering? … Considering?”
    â€œConsidering I’m only thirty-six,” said Mack, feeling stupid the moment it was out, given the age at which people made their fortunes nowadays. Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg and Biz Stone—practically babies when they earned their first million, or billion. But they weren’t in real estate, he kindly reminded himself.
    Zoltan colored his voice with familiarity. “Come clean, McKay. Tell me who you really are.”
    Mack looked puzzled.
    â€œYour card says ‘President and CEO.’ Is that who you are?”
    â€œWell, yes, partly …”
    â€œIs that how you define yourself? Your real self?”
    â€œWell, not really—no, of course not.” Mack felt stripped a little barer with every word he spoke. How had he got into this?
    â€œThen who are you, McKay? Exactly who are you?”
    Mack hesitated under the piercing gaze, which seemed to penetrate straight to his soul. “I … I don’t know what you mean.”
    Seeing Mack begin to squirm, Zoltan concentrated his gaze even harder. He knew that everyone wants to be seen, to be known. And to see was Zoltan’s gift—enhanced by the combined techniques of prison interrogator and Hollywood guru: to keep asking questions, preferably in the subject’s own words, until the subject gave himself up.
    â€œYou say President and CEO are partly you, but not entirely you.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd what?” said Mack, mustering the requisite show of belligerence for this dangerous line of questioning.
    Zoltan ignored it. His voice softened. “You are afraid of something, Mack. It’s on your face. What are you afraid of? Say it.”
    â€œYou talking about the economy?”
    â€œNo.”
    What was he getting at? Mack put down his fork and leaned closer. “Then what?”
    Zoltan raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.”
    Mack pushed back his chair and crossed his legs, no longer interested in the food. Not that he wasn’t flattered to have his business card analyzed by Zoltan Barbu, but in the process his defenses were being undermined. Had they been Indian wrestling, he would be getting creamed. Yet somehow it didn’t matter, as he felt himself suddenly, exhilaratingly exposed. It was those eyes. Could Zoltan see in him something that he was too close to see himself? Could he see right through him? With effort, Mack managed to marshal the pushback required to remain upright. “No. You tell me.”
    Like a bodhisattva, or a sniper, who has mastered the art of patience, Zoltan waited, toppling Mack’s defenses with his gaze.
    Mack was now incapable of waiting; he crumpled under the scrutiny. “An impostor? Is that what you think I am?”
    â€œThou sayest it, my friend,” Zoltan replied as gently as possible, stifling the triumphant grin pressing against his lips. “Too much easy success, too soon. Right? Makes you feel like impostor, afraid to be found out.”
    Mack was stunned. Hearing aloud the secret thoughts that he sometimes whispered to himself shocked him into silence. How had Zoltan guessed?
    Sometimes Mack claimed his success was a matter of random luck—good contacts (he was a Yale man), a calculation error that had made him low bidder on a key contract during his first year in the business, unearned honors. But could those advantages really be counted as luck? Luck was the shiny side, sham the tarnished side of the coin of success. Getting something for nothing—in fact, as much as possible for as little as possible—was the essence of the game. Risk and reward: the greater the risk the less deserving of reward. The opposite of what they taught you in school. It was the same with any gamble: in the long