I sat at a corner table sipping club soda and scanning the hotel bar. I could see everything, but I couldn't see anyone who appeared to be waiting for me. The little golden ball was an unfamiliar weight in my pocket, but I didn't dare keep it out in the open for fear that it was meant to mark me as a target for someone.

I glanced at my watch. 11:45. If I didn't see anyone soon, I'd be forced to show the ball to the concierge at the desk just outside the bar. I was afraid it was some sort of trap; one doesn't do well in my like of work without a healthy amount of paranoia. But my curiosity was getting the better of me. Someone had gone to great expense, drugging me, setting me up in a deluxe suite at an opulent hotel, and even purchasing a perfectly tailored Italian suit. It wasn't really my style, but the cryptic not had said to wear it. When in Rome, I guess.

At 11:50 I presented the little ball to the concierge. He waved over a bellboy and instructed him to guide me to Conference Room A.

After a short trip down a side corridor, the bellboy opened a door and gestured me inside. The conference room was every bit as elegant and well appointed as the rest of the hotel. It had to cost a fortune.

Seated at the head of the long conference table was a well dressed man. My trained mind sized him up instantly: mid 40's, probably between 5'10" and 6'0" when standing, about 220 pounds, but fit. The suit obviously came from the same tailor, so either he had purchased them both or he was in the same boat I was. The latter was doubtful, as he had a confident air about him and gave off the vibe that he was in control. There were no bulges in his jacket where a shoulder holster might be, and from his posture I doubted he had a waistband holster.

"Please have a seat," he said amiably. The was something familiar about him that I just couldn't place. "Glass of wine?" He began pouring before I answered, from a very expensive bottle.

"Why am I here?" I asked as I took a seat.

"Just as I expected. The first to arrive, and already asking questions. Out of curiosity, why don't you ask my name?"

"You won't give it until you decide to, there's no point in asking."

"And how do you know that?"

"Your whole act is geared toward anonymity," I replied. "Strange hotel, note with no names, unique marker presented to the concierge. No, you aren't going to tell me who you are until you're good and ready."

Just then the door opened and Donovan Brigg stepped in. He called himself a retrieval specialist, but really he was just a punch-up artist. One of the best in the business, but still.

"Donovan," he said when he saw me. "Haven't seen you since we ran into each other in Belgium."

"The stolen Degas. I remember."

"Of course you do, you stole it."

"Now, gentlemen, let's put our past differences aside. We're going to work together on this one," said the man pouring the wine.

The door opened again to admit someone I didn't know. My brain kicked in: Five foot seven, 130 pounds, doesn't go outside much, slouch indicates someone who spends a lot of time sitting at a desk, thick glasses. Judging by the fact that our mysterious host had gathered a thief and a hitter, it made sense that this guy would be a hacker. And that's when it hit me.

"Henric Jameson," I said as I turned to the man still seated at the conference table.

"A hat tip to you, my friend. Now, if we can all have a seat, I'll tell you about our heist."

I didn't normally work with a crew, but I was willing to make an exception. Because Henric Jameson was the best Mastermind in the business.