Slowly, he reached into his Balenciaga travel bag, searching for something; he didn't even know what. The man had come up from nowhere and he didn't know what to do; he was almost paralyzed.
The man, vaguely menacing, wore a trench coat that Friedman almost envied, the stitch count density indicating an ability to wield immense power, power well beyond Beirut. But the man wasn't sure of himself.
And that was the moment Friedman had to pounce. He did.
The man collapsed, his coat crumpling with him in an odd way, not entirely natural. But as he fell he croaked: "I'm with you."
Friedman warily helped him back to his feat, carefully concealing the thing he had retrieved from his bag.
But then he remembered where he'd seen that face before. Of course. The golf course.
And it all made sense.