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players, in place and ready. Koreans to the west, and the more temperamental and unpredictable Chechens to the east.
    He’d gone back and forth on the placement, trying to determine who should be where, and who could be counted on to react appropriately when the time came. The Chechens were the clear winners, he decided—the most likely to shoot first and ask questions later. The downside, however, was that in order for Peter’s plan to work, the more potentially dangerous group had to be placed on the same side as his escape route.
    All he could do was hope that they didn’t decide to shoot the messenger.
    He checked his watch.
    Showtime.

Peter took the other cell phone from his pocket, pressed the “talk” button and dialed the second number he’d been given—this one by the Koreans. His call was answered on the first ring. He told the man on the other end to meet him by the entrance to the western staircase, on the thirtieth floor.
    Then he hit the “off” button.
    Taking a moment to breathe deeply, and arrange his face into the affable, trustworthy I’m just here to help expression that had served him so well for so long, Peter headed over to the western stairs. As he walked, he twisted his shoulders, rolled his neck, and shook out his arms. In deals where no one was speaking their first language, body language was crucial. He had to appear comfortable and relaxed.
    Confident, but not cocky.
    He had to look like a man who had everything under control. He just hoped that if he could make the Koreans believe he did have everything under control, maybe he would be able to convince himself.
    He opened the door to the western stairwell and headed down to the thirtieth floor. When he arrived at the AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY door, he heard Korean voices on the other side.
    You got this , he told himself.
    Then he pushed the door open.
    There were four men waiting in the stairwell. Two were obvious muscle—bulky knuckleheads in tracksuits, with big hands and cold, stony expressions. The other two were a Mutt and Jeff pair. The taller one was handsome and lanky with a bleached, pop-star haircut, a mournful expression, and a briefcase just like the one Peter had hidden up on the roof. The shorter one looked like an accountant, with wire-framed glasses and a little bit of a belly under his unremarkable navy-blue dress suit. But the way the others silently deferred to him, it was clear that this was the boss.
    “Mr. Park,” Peter said, extending a friendly hand to the accountant. It was the name the man had given him on the phone, but “Park” was the Korean equivalent of “Smith.” Not that it really mattered.
    He’d told Mr. Park his name was Baker. It seemed more appropriate than “Butcher” or “Candlestick Maker.”
    Mr. Park eyed Peter’s hand as if he suspected Peter might have failed to wash up after his last visit to the men’s room. Reluctantly, he accepted it with a limp, moist handshake that felt like gripping a dead squid.
    They had a brief exchange in Japanese, in which Peter explained that the seller was shy, and didn’t want to meet directly with the buyer. To protect the anonymity of both groups, they would wait on opposite sides of the roof, with Peter acting as a go-between, ferrying the money to the seller and the product back to Mr. Park.
    The Korean nodded with a wordless grunt of acceptance.
    It was very hard for Peter not to pump a victorious fist in the air. Instead he did a little happy dance in his head, while maintaining a stoic expression. Turning, he motioned for Mr. Park and his men to follow him through the locked door and up to the roof.
    When they stepped out into the wind, the tall, handsome guy immediately set the briefcase between his designer sneakers, trying and failing to fix his trendy hair. The muscle twins flanked the boss as he stepped forward and surveyed the roof. Park was frowning.
    “Where are they?” he asked in Japanese.
    “I will call them now,” Peter