Abhay glanced at his fellow poker players, making sure to catch each man’s gaze, especially the sandy-haired man sitting across from him: Simon Fitzgerald. After tonight, several weeks’ worth of careful posturing and subtle maneuvering would end. The bait was set. The steps to success had been decisively executed. Now, all Abhay had to do was wait for the Order’s Hashashin to fall for Abhay’s scheme.

The man to Abhay’s left said, “I raise you five.”

“Draw one,” Simon added.

“Fold,” the last man told the table.

Abhay dealt more cards for the round.

While the others checked their hands, Abhay fidgeted with his mobile. Time for his last play of the evening. “I’m out of money,” he announced. The three other men grunted, acknowledging his depleted stack of cash. Abhay spun his mobile—one of the decommissioned Progress Communications prototypes—and added, “But, I’m not folding.” He made a face and held up his phone. “Would my mobile suffice?”

Greed colored the expressions of the men to each side of Abhay, but Abhay only had eyes for Simon. Would he accept the bet?

“The phone’ll do,” Simon acquiesced.

Abhay plunked the mobile down on the pile of money in front of him. “Your cards?” Abhay prompted, needing to finish the hand they played.

“Flush,” Simon announced, laying his cards on the table.

Everyone else groaned, and Abhay hid his smile, Simon had won, exactly as he had planned.

“Good game, boys,” Simon said as he stood, pocketing the phone and the cash. “See you next week.”

Abhay sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Next week,” he said with a single nod.