your aunt had any say in it at all. How could she? The money she stole from Future Indonesia…you thought it was yours.”
Simon set Lester’s phone on the table near Sun. “That belonged to Hadrian Lester. Last night on the flight from Singapore, I spent eight hours reading his old emails. They go back years. It’s all there. I don’t need to remind you. After all, you’re something of a ‘genius.’” Simon kneeled in front of Sun, hands on the chair, effectively imprisoning him. “You worked with my friend Rafael de Bourbon at PetroSaud’s Geneva offices. It was you who told Paul Malloy not to pay him the bonus he was due. Do you remember what you did?”
Sun didn’t answer. He had somehow become smaller, weaker, the real person minus the clothes and the house and the trappings of his stolen wealth. Suddenly, he looked like an overgrown child playing dress-up.
“You suggested that Malloy invest the bonus in your company,” said Simon. “In Black Marble.”
Sun’s expression hardened. Though the room was cool and pleasant, he had begun to sweat.
“Did he?” asked Simon.
Sun hesitated, then shook his head.
“Smart man.”
Simon stood quickly, eliciting a gasp from Sun. He strolled around the room, needing a minute. “It all started in that office. All of this. You, Rafa, Malloy, Lester, your boss Tarek Al-Obeidi. I’m missing someone. Oh yes, Luca Borgia. The big boss. You met him there, too, didn’t you?”
Sun nodded. He might not really be a genius, but he was smart and canny. He could see where this was leading.
Simon continued: “I wonder what Luca Borgia will say about all this. That it was you who gave Malloy that lousy advice. That it was you who started this whole chain of dominos. Borgia is Al-Obeidi’s partner, has been for years. You know what happened to Paul Malloy, don’t you? And Rafa?”
The first real look of concern. “Why would I? I’m busy working.”
“You don’t read the papers? Look at CNN?”
Sun shook his head, eyes moving between Simon and London, preparing for bad news.
“Your aunt didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“They’re dead. Borgia had them killed.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Malloy took a fall off a cliff in Switzerland last week. Rafa was killed in the shooting in Bangkok, or didn’t that piece of news penetrate your Hollywood bubble?”
“This is true?” said Sun, looking to London in hopes she might say otherwise.
“This is true,” she said.
“Borgia is cleaning up your mess,” said Simon. “We’re here because of you and your petty actions.”
“And me? You think he’ll kill me?”
“You tell me. You know Borgia better than I do.”
Sun bit his lip, a hand caressing his smooth scalp, eyes darting here and there. The plotting and scheming and conniving had begun.
Simon went on: “I’m afraid that after word gets out of your involvement not only in defrauding your own country’s funds but also in setting up investments to defraud many others, you won’t be producing many more movies. Unless you can produce them from jail.”
“If, that is, you live that long,” said London.
“Did you come here to threaten me?”
Simon sat down in a rattan chair near Sun. “I came to ask you if you are part of Prato Bornum.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell me.”
Sun pulled a face. “Prato what?”
Simon considered this, not taking his eyes from Sun. He was as dishonest as the day was long, functionally amoral, incapable of discerning right from wrong, concerned only with furthering his own best interests. But…he wasn’t a killer.
“Has anyone come to you and asked you to do anything out of the ordinary regarding the premiere of your movie this evening?”
“I don’t understand the question. I have nothing to do with the premiere, other than to attend it and speak to the audience.”
“Samson, listen to me. This is your chance. Your one opportunity to mitigate all the crimes you committed at PetroSaud. If you can tell me anything about the attack that Luca Borgia has planned this weekend…anything at all that might help us to stop it…I’ll make sure your efforts won’t go unrecognized. The court looks favorably on contrition and cooperation.”
“Attack? What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?”
“Who do you think I am? I’m a creative professional. A motion picture producer. I’m stunned. First you tell me Luca Borgia wants to kill me. Now you speak of an attack. What kind of attack? What am I to say?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Simon. “My guess is that it’s tonight. At your premiere.”
Sun hauled himself out of his chair and walked to the bar, taking