I was sent to meet with a man named Aziz, a project manager brought in by Wolfe. Darrin had left me a cryptic note at the office, no explanation about the progress of the project, just a directive. A cab dropped me at an address on Madison, an exclusive men’s club I’d never heard of, housed in a gothic mansion with an old school elevator that led to a third floor library where I found a young Egyptian who was undoubtedly Aziz. He was alone in the bold and ostentatiously decorated room, in the back, smoking a cigar. I recalled the dark, flaring Cuban cigar stuck constantly between Wolfe’s lips and wondered if I would soon be required to light up. As I approached, he stood.
He was attractive and young, likely mid-twenties. His skin was a cool copper brown, his features evenly aligned, and h
