an audible clearing of his throat. He was dressed for the premiere in an ivory tuxedo, a black silk scarf draped around his neck. “Excuse me,” he said. “You can’t barge into someone’s home without their permission.”
Simon turned. “Hello, Samson.”
Samson Sun didn’t miss a beat. “Riske. Where’s my painting?”
“It’s not yours. It belongs to the Rijksmuseum of Amsterdam.”
Sun bristled at the suggestion, then seemed to think the better of it. “At least I know it was authentic,” he said, his good-natured self once again.
“Don’t be too sure,” said Simon.
“Back for another? Look around…No Monets. I bought the place with all furnishings. If you see something else that’s been stolen, help yourself.” He took note of London. “Who’s your friend?”
Simon introduced them, leaving out that she was a reporter for the Financial Times. Sun took to her, as he did to all beautiful women, gripping her hand too long, asking her why in the world she was with Simon when she could be staying at his, Samson Sun’s, villa. The Sun charm offensive.
“I’m not here to talk about art,” said Simon. “I’m here to take you up on your invitation to the premiere.”
“Too late. All the tickets are spoken for.”
“Two just came free.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hadrian Lester and his wife won’t be attending,” said London.
“Who?”
“Come off it, Samson.” Simon stared at the man. “Didn’t your aunt tell you? Lester’s dead.”
“Aunt Nadya?” said Sun tentatively. How did Riske know her? “She might have mentioned something.” He took a few steps and fell into an oversized armchair. “What are you here to talk about, then, if it isn’t art?”
“Like I said, your movie.”
“What about it?” asked Sun, already softening, gesturing for them to take a seat on the sofa across the room.
“We looked at your press conference online,” said London. “It’s your first film. Where did you get the idea?”
“The screenwriter. M. L. De Winter. She approached me—a friend of a friend—hoping to make it as a documentary. I suggested it might work better as a drama.”
“Tell the story on a more personal level,” said Simon.
“Yes,” said Sun, smiling a bit. “Indeed. That’s the beauty of the film, of film itself. It allows the viewer a glimpse into a character’s heart, as well as their mind.”
“So the film is sympathetic to the refugees’ situation.”
“Asylum seekers,” said Sun. “Fleeing from oppressive regimes. How could it not be?”
“And your aunt was okay with this?”
“My aunt? What does she have to do with my film?”
“I think we both know her political views.”
“She can be a bit conservative,” said Sun. “So what?”
“I’m just wondering,” Simon went on, “since Future Indonesia is a majority shareholder in your company, Black Marble Productions, and since your aunt is not only Indonesia’s minister of finance but also manager of its sovereign wealth funds, why she would agree to finance a motion picture that lionizes the plight of individuals with whom she has a fundamental disagreement. The money to finance your motion picture, The Raft of the Medusa, it came from your aunt.”
“How would you know that?”
“Public knowledge,” said London. “It’s in the fund’s annual disclosures. You see, Mr. Sun, we’ve been taking a close look at Future Indonesia and at Harrington-Weiss lately.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I’m sorry,” said London. “Mr. Riske failed to tell you that I’m an investigative journalist for the Financial Times.”
Sun shifted in his seat, uncertain how to view Riske or London: friend or foe. “I’m a motion picture producer. I have nothing to do with my aunt’s affairs either in government or in business. If she decided to finance my film, it’s because she realized it represented a good return on her investment.”
Simon laughed, the banker in him rebelling at the suggestion. “How many films ever make money?”
“This one will, I promise you.”
“So your Aunt Nadya gave you free rein to make any movie you wanted?”
“Of course,” said Sun. “She recognizes my skill as a creative professional. One might even say genius.”
“That’s not the way I see it,” said Simon.
“You’re a glorified mechanic, some kind of thief. What would you know about the movie business?”
“Very little, but I know lot about you.”
Sun swallowed, offering a nervous smile to London, adjusting his scarf, his glasses.
Simon stood up from the sofa and approached Sun. “I know, for example, that you worked for a finance and investment company named PetroSaud. I know that it was you who came to Tarek Al-Obeidi and Hadrian Lester with the scheme to defraud your country’s sovereign wealth fund.”