It made me go to law school. It made me become a sports agent.”
“It didn’t ‘make’ you,” Win said.
“No?”
“You were always a competitive—nay, overly ambitious—son of a bitch.”
Myron smiled at that and raised his mug. “Cheers, mate.”
Win again clinked his glass, cleared his throat, and said, “
Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.
”
“Wow,” Myron said.
“I taught myself the Yiddish,” said the blond-haired, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon. “It does wonders when I hit on Jewish chicks.”
Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.
Translation: Man plans and God laughs.
Man, it was good to be back with Win.
They both went quiet for a moment. They were both thinking the same thing.
“Maybe the injury isn’t such a big deal anymore,” Myron said, “because I know there are a lot of worse things in life.”
Win nodded. “Patrick and Rhys.”
“What do you know about cybercurrency?”
“Ransoms are sometimes paid with it, but with all the recentantilaundering laws now, it is extraordinarily difficult. My expert says that you have to buy the currency, put it in some kind of online wallet, and then transfer it to them. It’s part of the dark web.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“I told you. I’m an expert in nearly anything.”
Myron waited.
“But no, I don’t have a clue.”
“We may be getting old.”
Win’s phone buzzed. He checked it. “I’m getting information on our friend Fat Gandhi from a constable friend.”
“And?”
“His real name is Chris Alan Weeks.”
“For real?”
“Age twenty-nine. The authorities know about him, but according to this, he mostly works on the dark web.”
“That term again.”
“He dabbles in prostitution, sexual slavery, robbery, blackmail . . .”
“Dabbles?”
“My term, not theirs. And . . . ah, no surprise. He’s into computer hacking. His syndicate operates several online money scams.”
“You mean like a Nigerian prince wants to give you all his money?”
“A tad more sophisticated, I’m afraid. Fat Gandhi—I prefer his nom de plume if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
“Fat Gandhi is good with computers. He matriculated and graduated from Oxford. As we both know, law enforcement hatesreferring to criminals as ‘geniuses’ or ‘masterminds’—but our cherubic friend seems pretty close to being both. Hmm.”
“What?”
“Fat Gandhi also has a reputation for being—and this is their phraseology—‘creatively violent.’”
Win stopped and smiled.
“He sounds a bit like you,” Myron said.
“Ergo my smile.”
“Is he into kidnapping?”
“Human trafficking is slavery for the purposes of sexual exploitation. By definition, that’s kidnapping.” Win held up a hand before Myron could interrupt. “But if you mean grabbing wealthy children for the purpose of making them sexual slaves, no, there is no indication he does that. Plus, Fat Gandhi would have been nineteen when the kidnappings occurred. By all accounts he was studying at Oxford at that time.”
“So any theories about how Patrick and Rhys ended up with him?”
Win shrugged. “Several. The original kidnapper sold them off. The boys could have changed hands dozens of times over the past ten years. He may not be their first predator.”
“Ugh.”
“Yes, ugh. It could be that Patrick and Rhys were somehow runaways living on the streets. A parasite like Fat Gandhi gets them that way too. Offers them work. Helps them get strung out and thus hooked on drugs, so that they have to earn. There are a dozen ways it could have gone down.”
“None of them good,” Myron said.
“None that I can think of, no. But as we’ve learned, people,especially the young, are resilient. Right now, we concentrate on rescuing them.”
Myron stared in his beer. “You saw Patrick on the street.”
“Yes.”
“If he had that kind of freedom—”
“Why didn’t he call home?” Win finished for him. “You know the answer. Stockholm
“It didn’t ‘make’ you,” Win said.
“No?”
“You were always a competitive—nay, overly ambitious—son of a bitch.”
Myron smiled at that and raised his mug. “Cheers, mate.”
Win again clinked his glass, cleared his throat, and said, “
Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.
”
“Wow,” Myron said.
“I taught myself the Yiddish,” said the blond-haired, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon. “It does wonders when I hit on Jewish chicks.”
Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.
Translation: Man plans and God laughs.
Man, it was good to be back with Win.
They both went quiet for a moment. They were both thinking the same thing.
“Maybe the injury isn’t such a big deal anymore,” Myron said, “because I know there are a lot of worse things in life.”
Win nodded. “Patrick and Rhys.”
“What do you know about cybercurrency?”
“Ransoms are sometimes paid with it, but with all the recentantilaundering laws now, it is extraordinarily difficult. My expert says that you have to buy the currency, put it in some kind of online wallet, and then transfer it to them. It’s part of the dark web.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“I told you. I’m an expert in nearly anything.”
Myron waited.
“But no, I don’t have a clue.”
“We may be getting old.”
Win’s phone buzzed. He checked it. “I’m getting information on our friend Fat Gandhi from a constable friend.”
“And?”
“His real name is Chris Alan Weeks.”
“For real?”
“Age twenty-nine. The authorities know about him, but according to this, he mostly works on the dark web.”
“That term again.”
“He dabbles in prostitution, sexual slavery, robbery, blackmail . . .”
“Dabbles?”
“My term, not theirs. And . . . ah, no surprise. He’s into computer hacking. His syndicate operates several online money scams.”
“You mean like a Nigerian prince wants to give you all his money?”
“A tad more sophisticated, I’m afraid. Fat Gandhi—I prefer his nom de plume if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
“Fat Gandhi is good with computers. He matriculated and graduated from Oxford. As we both know, law enforcement hatesreferring to criminals as ‘geniuses’ or ‘masterminds’—but our cherubic friend seems pretty close to being both. Hmm.”
“What?”
“Fat Gandhi also has a reputation for being—and this is their phraseology—‘creatively violent.’”
Win stopped and smiled.
“He sounds a bit like you,” Myron said.
“Ergo my smile.”
“Is he into kidnapping?”
“Human trafficking is slavery for the purposes of sexual exploitation. By definition, that’s kidnapping.” Win held up a hand before Myron could interrupt. “But if you mean grabbing wealthy children for the purpose of making them sexual slaves, no, there is no indication he does that. Plus, Fat Gandhi would have been nineteen when the kidnappings occurred. By all accounts he was studying at Oxford at that time.”
“So any theories about how Patrick and Rhys ended up with him?”
Win shrugged. “Several. The original kidnapper sold them off. The boys could have changed hands dozens of times over the past ten years. He may not be their first predator.”
“Ugh.”
“Yes, ugh. It could be that Patrick and Rhys were somehow runaways living on the streets. A parasite like Fat Gandhi gets them that way too. Offers them work. Helps them get strung out and thus hooked on drugs, so that they have to earn. There are a dozen ways it could have gone down.”
“None of them good,” Myron said.
“None that I can think of, no. But as we’ve learned, people,especially the young, are resilient. Right now, we concentrate on rescuing them.”
Myron stared in his beer. “You saw Patrick on the street.”
“Yes.”
“If he had that kind of freedom—”
“Why didn’t he call home?” Win finished for him. “You know the answer. Stockholm
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