Massachusetts Institute of Technology - Busting Vegas

Under different circumstances, the moment might have seemed almost comic.

Way too much velvet for three in the afternoon. Even

A poster on a hallway bulletin board.

Newbury Street, two blocks from the park.

Please excuse the beige. Somehow, the future of the world

The moment came suddenly, so suddenly that Semyon half thought

The heat took him completely by surprise. Searing, arid, a

Like banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills, the high-stakes lounge had

The bathrobe was some sort of silk/terry-cloth mix, with

This is completely insane.

Six A.M.

To Semyons surpriseand reliefhe never actually made it

The music was so loud that the chandeliers were actually

Semyon wasnt afraid of heights, exactly; he had no problem

I think I could get used to this.

Weve got to stop meeting like this.

The water was ice-cold, but burned like fire as Semyon

The first thing Semyon noticed about paradise was that it

Semyon wasnt sure who looked the most out of place

Semyon couldnt decide whether to be proud or ashamed.

Twenty-five thousand dollars in a sock drawer.

To Semyons surprise, the thing Victor wanted to show him

The woman was short and muscular and poking at my

The thing about prescription painkillersthe really good onesis

Well if its not the Darling of Las Vegas. Fancy

Ten minutes later, Semyon was back in the same elevator,

She was tall and blond and beautiful.

The first thought that hit Semyon as he carefully navigated

Europe in flashes, like postcards caught in a vicious wind,

The BMW was sleek and black and moving way too

Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porsches, and Rolls-Royces lined up around the semicircular

Nearly twenty-four hours later, just as they passed through U.S.

Well, youve really done it this time. Youve really fucking

Six days, Victor. Its been six days. Im telling you,

An uncharacteristically cool wind was blowing across the parking lot

Three in the morning.

The events described here took place over the course of eighteen months in the 1990s. Some names and identities were changed to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent.

U nder different circumstances, the moment might have seemed almost comic.

A forty-year-old Cessna four-seater airplane, lurching up and down in the turbulent dark. Two MIT kids dressed in velvet shirts and too-tight jeans, hanging on for dear life as they stared wide-eyed through the cockpit windshield. A plastic garbage bag full of hundred-dollar bills stuffed beneath their feet. And then the statement that hung in the rarified air between them:

See, the thing is, Im not really supposed to fly at night.

In the passenger seat, Semyon Dukach turned to stare at the young man sitting in the pilots chair next to him. Victor Cassius was sweating. His mahogany skin was glistening and his thin black hair was matted against his forehead. His thin lips were pressed against his bright white teeth, and his eyes, usually narrowed into slits, were twin manhole covers. His collar was soaked through, and he was hunched forward over the steering yoke, his round shoulders bunched together beneath the electric purple shirt.

What do you mean? Semyon asked, his voice barely audible over the growl of the Cessnas twin engines.

I shouldnt be flying after it gets dark. Instruments, and shit.

Semyon blinked. This was not good. Five minutes earlier, the sky outside the windshield had gone from a dull, gunmetal gray color to near blackness. Semyon could still barely make out the low cloud cover a few hundred feet below the small airplane, but beyond that, he couldnt see anything. No lights indicating towns, no geographic clues that could help them figure out their location. All he really knew was that they were somewhere over New Jersey. That twenty minutes ago, they had taken off from a small airfield outside of Atlantic City, heading due north.

Okay, dont panic, Victor mumbled, reaching beneath the control panel. Let me see. I know theres a switch down here somewhere

A moment later he found the trigger for the headlights. A tiny cone of yellow blinked against the sky. Great, Semyon thought. Like aiming a flashlight into a snowstorm. He tried to remain calm. He had been in dangerous situations before. Hed been beaten up. Held at gunpoint. Nearly thrown out of a hotel window. But somehow, this seemed worse. This was really his own fault.

Semyon couldnt believe he had let Victor talk him into climbing into the Cessna in the first place. The thing was ancient, and looked more like an old rusting VW Bug than an airplane. The bright yellow paint on the outside hull was scuffed and peeling, and there were visible cracks in the aluminum wings. The interior of the cockpit was cramped, all vinyl and plastic, and the poorly cushioned seats smelled like mildew. The control panel was like something out of World War II, bubbled glass gauges and black plastic switches.

But the derelict plane wasnt even the worst part of the equation. Right before takeoff, Victor had admitted that hed spent the minimum required amount of hours with the flight instructor. Any more would have cost extra, and the whole point of the airplane was to save money. Victor had done the calculations; now that the team was hitting Atlantic City on a regular basis, it made more sense to buy a used plane to shuttle them back and forth from Boston than to fly commercial.

For Victor, it was always about the bottom line. He was always economizing, always optimizing. He had never paid full price for anything in his entire life. Two weeks into a relationship, he would move in with a girl to save money on rent. To describe him as cheap would be a disservice. He made being cheap into an art form. And when Semyon had pressed him on the subject of the expedited, money-saving flight lessons, Victor had replied in true MIT fashion. Though he had far less training than the average pilot, his IQ was far higher; Victor believed that IQ would more than make up the difference.

To Victors credit, the flight down to Atlantic City had actually been quite pleasant. The weather had been perfect, and Victor had guided the Cessna down the Eastern Seaboard like a real pro. Right before the approach, hed taken them low over the Hudson River, gliding around the Statue of Liberty so that the whole Manhattan skyline opened up in front of them, a gilded pincushion.

But tonight, it was a completely different story. Victors last-minute decision to chart a course toward Princeton to visit an ex-girlfriend who was helping them recruit new team members had delayed their takeoff until near dusk. The wind had already been picking up by the time theyd reached the airfield outside of AC, and their takeoff had nearly given Semyon a heart attack. Theyd almost been blown off the end of the runway, and the plane had climbed so slowly, Semyon had been certain they were going to crash into a row of town houses at the edge of the small airport. That they were still alive seemed like a miracleand they were going to need a much bigger miracle to get back on the ground.

Victor tapped at one of the gauges with a stubby finger, then rubbed his eyes.

Were okay. Nothing to this. But Im going to need your help.