right foot. A minimum of three pints was obligatory to achieve what Rafa called “the proper perspective.” Guinness for Simon and Stella for Rafa.
“Where is this coming from?” asked Simon, setting his pint on the counter.
Rafael de Bourbon stood next to him, nearly half a foot taller, tie loosened, glaring down at him like the devil himself. “I like to know who I can trust.”
“And you can’t trust me?”
“Difficult when I’m not even sure who I’m talking to.”
Simon looked into his friend’s eyes. Usually, they sparkled with mischief and good humor. At the moment, they were dull and steadfast.
The pub was packed to overflowing, mostly youngish men and women from the myriad financial institutions that made their home in the City. The air was warm and fuggy, the din loud enough to make conversation a chore.
When Simon said nothing, Rafa slapped a fat envelope against Simon’s chest.
“For me?”
“Not for you,” said Rafa. “About you. Addressed to no less than Sherlock herself.”
Simon took the envelope, noting its girth and heft. “Sherlock” was the nickname given to the bank’s head of human resources, or HR, a rail-thin, intense, and feared woman named Edwina Calloway who wielded absolute power over the trajectory of one’s career.
“I nicked it,” Rafa went on. “Go ahead. Take a look. Nothing you don’t know. A chronicle of your life, or maybe I should say your secret life…Monsieur Ledoux.”
At the sound of his former name, Simon’s stomach dropped. Rafa was right. He was a liar. In a way, his entire life—or the part of it he’d fashioned with careful planning, dedication, and unremitting toil since he’d left France—was a lie. A hard-won lie, but a lie nonetheless.
Simon studied the institutional envelope, the words “Ministère de la Justice” stamped on the upper-left-hand corner, an address in Paris beneath it. The envelope had been opened and not much care given to conceal the fact.
“My first job every morning is to open Sherlock’s mail and sort it according to priority,” said Rafa. “Hope you don’t mind that I gave it a read. Decided that Sherlock didn’t really need to see it.”
Simon looked through the papers. He needed five minutes to revisit the worst episode of his life. It was all there. His criminal record courtesy of the Marseille police, the highlight saved for the final page: felony armed robbery and attempted murder of a police officer. There were copies of court transcripts, the order for his delivery into the French penal system at Les Baumettes, a maximum-security prison located on the outskirts of Marseille.
“Is Ledoux your real name?” asked Rafa. “I’ve always thought Riske sounded rather too clever.”
“My mother’s married name, second time around. Sorry, I really am Simon Riske.”
He replaced the papers and handed Rafa the envelope back.
“Yours to keep,” said Rafa. “We sure as hell can’t let Sherlock find them.”
“But how…?” Simon narrowed his eyes, shaken by the turn of events.
“You’re a rock star. You’re being put up to work as an assistant to the vice chairman. Sherlock decided to do a little more digging to make sure they had the right man and requested your transcript from Sciences Po. Somewhere there was mention of both names, Riske and Ledoux. Her curiosity was piqued.”
“And now? She’ll be expecting something.”
“Relax. No one has ever accused the French government of being efficient. We’ll have some fun. Copy the stationery, write our own reply. ‘Nothing found. All a clerical error.’ She won’t look any further.”
Simon tried to share in his friend’s jocularity. He couldn’t. He felt as if he’d stepped off the curb while looking in the wrong direction and only narrowly avoided being run over by a city bus. Had Rafa not been assigned to HR, had he not broken every rule imaginable and risked his own job to steal the envelope, Simon would have been summarily dismissed from the bank. There would have been no question of a letter of recommendation. His career in finance would have been over before it started.
“Thank you.” Simon could think of no other words.
“De nada,” said Rafa, gifting him with a pat on the shoulder.
“I owe you.”
“You would have done the same,” said Rafa. “Cheers, then. To both of us.” Then after they’d taken a swig: “I have a confession to make, too. I’m a liar, just like you. No jail. We called it el reformatorio.”
“You?”
“Don’t tell me you thought I was a saint. I’m insulted.”
“You don’t have to worry on that account,” said Simon, feeling a little better already.