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be there.”

“What, Matt?” Amanda asked.

“I was right. Something from very high up. Uncle Denny says that Carlucci has blown his cork and that he will hold another conference first thing in the morning. Which means I’ll have to be there at oh-dark-thirty. Anytime he plays the Boy Scout motto card, it’s code for me to really be on my toes.”

“Be Prepared?” she said, reading the screen.

“Uh-huh.”

Amanda then reached over and picked up the television remote from beside his knee. She hit its red OFF button.

She then snuggled up to him and tugged his cell phone out of his hands. She turned it off, too, and slipped the phone back into his pants pocket.

Then she put her head on his shoulder and softly said, “That’s tomorrow, sweetie. Now it’s Be Prepared for tonight.”

[FOUR]

Two Liberty Place, Thirty-seventh Floor 50 South Sixteenth Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 10:12 P.M.

“Seriously?” Jan Harper said, her tone sharp and incredulous. She tried keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard in the five-star restaurant high atop one of Philly’s tallest buildings. “Rapp, I don’t know if you can cover your ass this time. Those guys are dead. And the demolition company is raising hell that we—HUD—said it was clear to take down those condemned buildings. And I don’t know who gave them the go-ahead.”

Badde heard Jan, but he was paying more attention to how she looked in the posh Vista Fiume restaurant. And thinking how, when they’d walked in, she’d looked like she owned the place. The young bankers and lawyers and other professionals had turned.

The beautiful people, Badde thought.

And I’m with one of the prettiest women in the room.

Not bad for the son of a barber from South Philly.

This really is a classy joint.

Maybe after I get through all this, and the fund makes a little more money, I’ll get a condo here. Move on up. I heard Risken bought a six-million-dollar one just before he ran for governor. Not bad company for me to be associated with. . . .

Taking up half of the entire thirty-seventh floor, “River View” had a high-class international feel, more like a large open-air nightclub than a restaurant. All its gleaming wood-inlaid tables featured undulating lounge seats that faced the windows and their commanding views of the city and the rivers bracketing it. The ambience thrummed with a high energy.

While Vista Fiume set a new nightlife standard for Philadelphia, it still wasn’t on par with the chicest and toniest restaurants and nightclubs that were offered in New York, the City That Never Sleeps. And the Philly nightlife certainly wasn’t anywhere near that of, say, Buenos Aires, where the Argentines began partying well past ten-thirty and did not slow down until the sun came up.

But judging by the international clientele, Badde thought, scanning the room, it’s coming.

Those foreign models are gorgeous—and Jan fits right in.

When he had driven the Range Rover up to the cobblestone circle drive of the Hops Haus Tower, Jan had been waiting just inside the main glass doors. The bright lights of the lobby made her look like a model. Her curvy body looked stunning in a black velvet dress, her silky light-brown face complemented with an elegant short strand of pearls.

Although Badde—who had stopped by his City Hall office and changed into a plain dark two-piece suit and open-collared shirt he’d worn two days earlier—would never have admitted to it, he felt far out of her league.

And that had only become more apparent to him when they’d arrived at Two Liberty Place, a first-class high-rise that was the city’s third-tallest building. It featured executive offices and condominiums costing upward of seven million dollars, among the most expensive in town.

Then Jan had really proven she owned the place when she told the maître d’: “The reservation is under Harper, and it’s for table eighty-two, please.”

After they were seated, and Rapp Badde could tell the table had the best view in the place, he said, “You’ve been here before!”

She smiled. “No, I just made a few calls while getting ready. Then made the reservation. A friend said table eighty-two is supposed to have the best sunset view. And she said I should have crab cakes and lobster, and my date should get either the tenderloin or veal. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, the mini cheesesteaks. Get some before Yuri arrives.”

Badde then thought: And what the hell does the Russian want to talk about all of a sudden? I’ve been racking my brain over that since Jan said we were coming here.

He really is an impatient one—an impatient one with a temper.

Forty-eight-year-old Yuri Tikhonov was an international investor who had earned his first billion dollars between the ages of thirty-five and forty—after, it was rumored, having more or less left the employ of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russia’s external spying and intelligence gathering agency, formerly the KGB.