I stared at him, scanning every line of his face, searching for any trace of doubt or deceit. This guy would sell his own mother for a wad of cash. Misery had made him the perfect tool for my purpose.
Slowly, I untied my fingers and released him, letting him fall to his feet. I smoothed the collar of his jacket with a cynical movement, a silent warning of what would happen if his words turned out to be false.
I reached inside my overcoat and pulled out my black leather wallet.
I extracted a thick wad of American dollars, crisp, new bills, their fresh ink scent a jarring contrast to the stench of the bar. I held them up to his eyes, watching his pupils dilate.
“This is just the advance,” I said, my voice regaining that implacable, icy tone I used in my New York offices. "If the address
