In short, he looked like hell.
Reluctantly, I took my seat. “I’m listening,” I said.
He glanced at Cap, crossed his legs, and then looked at me. “One of my business associates advised me. His words. Stuck in my head.”
Based on his appearance alone, I felt I had the upper hand, and his demeanor only added to my belief. “Enlighten me,” I said with a note of sarcasm.
He cleared his throat. “My associate. He advised me. In dealing with your organization, one isn’t dealing with amateurs.”
It was the message I gave the two wounded men to deliver. “That is correct.”
He glanced at Cap, and then locked eyes with me. “Your men. Are they as well trained as you?”
“A condition of their employ.”
“Interesting,” he said. “My parents were immigrants. I grew up in South Philadelphia, delivering groceries for a market in my neighborhood, 9th Street. I worked my way to where I am today, scratching and clawing for each and every dime I earned. I’m a proud man, Mr. Tripp.”
Having Agrioli drop by unannounced was definitely strange, but his passive behavior was more odd than his unscheduled arrival. Confused on what point—if any—he was trying to make, I narrowed my eyes and glared back at him. “Why are you here?”
His eyes fell to his lap. It seemed several minutes passed. “Children. Do you have any children?”
I shook my head. “I do not.”
“I have two. As you are aware, one of them has been kidnapped. Taken hostage. Used for ransom. My only boy. The Russian bastards who...” Still staring into his lap, he paused, exhaled heavily, and then shook his head. “For his return? They ask twenty million dollars.”
They weren’t Russians, but it was an insignificant detail.
He lifted his eyes until he met my gaze. He appeared defeated.
I swallowed hard. The twenty-million-dollar demand was preposterous. “Have you tried to negotiate?”
His lower lip began to quiver. “I’m doing so now.”
It began to make sense. At least to me. He was seeking my assistance, but I was at a loss for what I could—or would—offer. I glanced at Cap, who sat slumped into his seat as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.
I shifted my gaze to Agrioli. “I’m still listening.”
“These men.” He turned his palms up and shrugged. “I can’t negotiate.”
“I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”
“I’m a businessman. I make business decisions. In business, we have loss. It’s part of doing business. But this?” He shrugged.
In my limited dealings with Agrioli and his men, I had learned two things. They shrugged a lot, and they talked in circles. His Philadelphia-Italian accent was wearing my nerves thin, and his lack of explanation behind the intrusion into my office was quickly overcoming what little sorrow I felt for him regarding the temporary loss of his son.
I stood and cleared my throat. “I’m going to ask you one more time. No talking in fucking circles. Why are you here?”
“You’re a businessman, no?” he asked.
“I like to think so.”
“I have a business proposition for you.”
“This is the third time I’ve said this since you got here. I’m listening.”
“I’ll hire you to return my son. I’ll pay you two hundred thousand dollars.”
He had my attention, but he had yet to gather my interest. I sat down. “Not interested.”
“Four hundred.”
I cocked an eyebrow. A moment of silence followed. I picked up my pencil and began to twirl it between my fingers.
“Half a million.” He shrugged. “It’s all I can come up with in cash.”
Cap cocked an eyebrow.
I waited. Agrioli didn’t say another word. It appeared he was at his limit.
“I’m not considering your offer, I’m preparing my response,” I said.
“You’re a military man, are you not?”
“That is correct.”
“Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Both.”
“Your opponents. If they surrendered, were they tortured later?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Treated respectfully? In how you say, accordance with military conventions?”
“Yes,” I said. “The Geneva Conventions.”
“A man who surrenders. He’s never killed?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Let me remind you, Mr. Tripp. My son surrendered. If I don’t pay—” His lip began to quiver again. “The Russians will assassinate him.”
Well, fuck.
I focused on the pencil as it flipped between my fingers. His points, as presented, fell on attentive ears. I had spent my adult life doing what I believed to be right, and opposed anyone who I believed to be wrong. On the night Agrioli’s son was taken, his men were trying to rob us. Their actions were not only criminal, but contrary to my moral code. My retaliation was only implemented after they were given a chance to withdraw—which they refused.