Although Paul acknowledged that everything he was being told was probably true, he knew his not reporting definitely violated the law. Forced to choose between his innate sense of ethics and a combination of personal ambition and his family's insatiable need for cash, the conflict was driving him crazy. In fact, it had driven him back to drink, a problem he'd overcome years ago but that the current situation had reawakened. Yet he was confident the drinking wasn't completely out of control since it was restricted to having several cocktails prior to boarding the commuter train on his way home to New Jersey. There had been no all-night binges and partying with ladies of the night, which had been a problem in the past.

On the evening of April 2, 2007, he stopped into his designated watering hole en route to the train station, and while sipping his third vodka martini and staring at himself in the smoky mirror behind the bar, he suddenly decided he would file the required report the following day. He'd been flip-flopping for days, but all at once he thought maybe he could have his cake and eat it too. In his mildly inebriated state, he reasoned that it was now so close to the IPO closing that maybe the report would sit around at the bureaucratic SEC and not get to the investors in time. That way, he'd have assuaged his conscience and, he hoped, not killed the IPO. Feeling a sudden euphoria at having made a decision even if he would change his mind overnight, Paul rewarded himself with a fourth cocktail.

Paul's final vodka seemed more pleasurable than the previous, but it might have been the reason he did something an hour later that he normally would not have done. Weaving slightly while walking home from the train station, he allowed himself to be approached a few doors away from his house and to be engaged in conversation with two nattily dressed yet vaguely unnerving men who had emerged from a large, vintage black Cadillac.

"Mr. Paul Yang?" one of the men had questioned in a raspy voice.

Paul stopped, which was his first mistake. "Yes," he responded, which was his second mistake. He should have just kept walking. Coming to such a sudden halt, he had to sway slightly to maintain his balance, and he blinked a few times to try to sharpen his mildly blurry vision. The two men appeared about the same age and height, with hatchet-like faces, deeply set eyes, and dark hair carefully slicked back from their foreheads. One of the men had considerable facial scarring. It was the other man who spoke.

"Would you be so kind as to afford us a moment of your time?" the man asked.

"I suppose," Paul responded, surprised by the disconnect between the gracious syntax of the request and the heavy New York accent.

"Sorry to delay you," the man continued. "I'm certain you are eager to get home."

Paul turned his head and glanced at his front door. He was mildly discomfited that the strangers knew where he lived.

"My name is Franco Ponti," the man added, "and this gentleman's name is Angelo Facciolo."

Paul looked briefly at the man with the unfortunate scarring. It appeared as if he didn't have eyebrows, which gave him an otherworldly appearance in the half-light.

"We work for Mr. Vinnie Dominick. I don't believe you are acquainted with this individual."

Paul nodded. He had never met a Mr. Vinnie Dominick, as far as he knew.

"I have been given permission by Mr. Dominick to tell you something financially significant about Angels Healthcare that no one at the company knows," Franco continued. "In return for this information, which Mr. Dominick is certain will be interesting to you, he only asks that you respect his privacy and not tell anyone else. Is that a deal?"

Paul tried to think, but under the circumstances it was difficult. Yet as Angels Healthcare's chief accountant, he was curious about any so-called significant financial information. "Okay," Paul said finally.

"Now, I have to warn you that Mr. Dominick takes people at their word, and it would be serious if you don't honor your pledge. Do you understand?"

"I suppose," Paul said. He had to take a sudden step back to maintain his balance.

"Mr. Vinnie Dominick is Angels Healthcare's angel investor."

"Wow!" Paul said. In his position as accountant, he knew that there was an angel investor to the tune of fifteen million dollars, whose name no one knew. On top of that, the same individual recently provided a quarter-of-a-million-dollar bridge loan to cover the current shortfall. From the company's perspective, and Paul's, Mr. Dominick was a hero.

"Now, Mr. Dominick has a favor to ask. He would like to meet with you for a few moments without the knowledge of the principals of Angels Healthcare. He told me to say that he is concerned the principals of the company are not following the letter of the law. Now, I'm not sure what that means, but he said you would."

Paul nodded again as he tried to clear his alcohol-addled brain.

Here was the issue he'd been struggling with solo for weeks, and suddenly he was being offered unexpected support. He cleared his throat and asked, "When would he like to meet?" Paul bent down to try to see into the interior of the black sedan, but he couldn't.

"Right now," Franco said. "Mr. Dominick has a yacht moored in Hoboken. We can have you there in fifteen minutes, you can have your talk, and then we'll bring you back to your door. It will be an hour at most."

"Hoboken?" Paul questioned, wishing he had skipped the cocktails. It seemed to be getting harder and harder to think. For a second, he couldn't even remember where Hoboken was.

"We'll be there in fifteen minutes," Franco repeated.

Paul wasn't wild about the idea, and hated being put on the spot. He was a bean counter who liked to deal with numbers, not hasty value judgments, particularly when suffering a buzz. Under normal circumstances, Paul would have never gotten into a car at night with total strangers for an evening meeting on a yacht with a man he'd never met. But in his current muddle and with the prospect of being abetted in his business decision-making by such an important player as Vinnie Dominick, he couldn't resist. With a final nod, he took a wobbly step toward the open car door. Angelo helped by taking Paul's laptop and handing it back to him when Paul was settled.

There was no conversation as they drove back in the direction of New York. Franco and Angelo sat in the front seat, and from Paul's vantage point in the back, their heads were dark, motionless, two-dimensional cutouts against the glare of the oncoming traffic. Paul glanced out the side window and wondered if he should have at least gone into his house to let his wife know what he was doing. He sighed and tried to look on the bright side. Although the interior of the car reeked of cigarettes, neither Franco nor Angelo lit up. Paul was at least thankful for that.

The marina was dark and deserted. Franco drove directly to the base of the main pier, and all three got out. Since it was off-season, most of the boats were out of the water, standing on blocks, and covered with white, shroud-like vinyl covers.

There was no conversation as the group walked down the pier. The cold air revived Paul to a degree. He took in the nighttime beauty of the New York City skyline, marred by the fact that in the foreground, the Hudson River looked more like crude oil than water. The gentle waves made soft, lapping sounds against the pilings and the refuse-strewn shoreline. A slight odor of dead fish wafted in the breeze. Paul questioned the rationality of what he was doing but felt it was too late to change his mind.

Halfway out the pier they stopped at the mahogany stern of an impressive yacht with the name Full Speed Ahead stenciled in gold letters across it. The lights were ablaze in the main saloon, but no one could be seen. A row of fishing rods stuck out of cylindrical holders along the afterdeck's gunwales like bristles on the back of a giant insect.