Colonel Tan, “we’re reasonable men.” He had traded his brown uniform and peaked cap for sky-blue slacks, a white short-sleeved shirt, and open-toed sandals. A poorly dressed tourist in his own country. This was a new Colonel Tan, but more dangerous than ever. He was likeable. “We have no interest in seeing this matter go to court. Trials are expensive. A poor use of government resources. There is no need to adjudicate this matter. We have abundant proof of your guilt. Emails to Mr. Malloy. Texts. At this moment, a cybersecurity firm is gathering evidence of your theft. Case closed. Really, Mr. De Bourbon—may I call you Rafa?—let’s shake hands and put this behind us. Take the money. Give us what we want. Be gone. So much easier for all involved.”
One million dollars.
Rafa drew the papers closer. There was no point trying to read them. He could hardly say his own name let alone make sense of so much legalese. What did it matter? There was a check for one million dollars attached. He must take the money. After all, as Tan had stated, he was guilty. The evidence was incontrovertible. A trial really would be a waste of government resources. It wasn’t all he was owed, but it was enough.
Adamson handed him a pen. Gold. Expensive. A pleasure to hold.
“One last question,” said Tan.
Rafa nodded. Anything at all to get out of there.
“Where did you send the stolen information?”
Rafa shook his head. They were mistaken. He hadn’t sent anything.
“You threatened Mr. Malloy that you would send the papers to a certain reporter. Someone who liked to ‘dig,’ to use your words. A name, please.”
Rafa put down the pen. No more use in lying. But how could they know?
“Is there something wrong?” asked Colonel Tan. “We only want a name. In case such a person is foolish enough to take you seriously.”
Adamson said nothing. He was a seasoned attorney. He knew the smell of defeat.
Rafa looked at the can of Coca-Cola, the glass of ice, the club sandwich.
“Not until I see Simon Riske,” he said.
Chapter 11
Saas-Grund, Switzerland
The sky was as blue as a sapphire.
Paul Malloy drew in a breath of the crystalline air and stared up at the wall of ice. Before him stood the Weissmies, a 13,000-foot peak in the canton of Valais, straddling the Swiss-Italian border. He gathered his climbing gear from the rear of his Range Rover and crossed the lot to the cable car. His guide, Rolf Brunner, waited at the Mittelstation. They enjoyed an espresso and a Gipfeli, then left the warmth and comfort of the station.
Outside, Malloy checked his watch: 7:00 a.m.; 2 degrees Celsius, or 35 degrees Fahrenheit; 10,800 feet. He could feel the altitude already and knew he wasn’t in as good a shape as he should be. He had a four-hour climb ahead. It would be taxing, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He needed the exertion. No better way to clear his mind. He zipped up his jacket and pulled on his mittens.
“Shall we?” said Brunner, a compact, bearded man who’d spent his life in the Alps, as experienced a climber as ever there was.
Malloy set out, leading the way. The first hour was a hike, more or less, as they approached the north face, a concave vertical wall towering nearly three thousand feet above them. The trail grew steeper, then disappeared into a pile of scree and rubble. The men stopped and roped up.
“I’ll take the first pitch,” said Malloy, ice axes in both hands, glacier glasses in place, a red cap pulled down over his ears.
“Up, up, up,” said Rolf. Legend was he was born with crampons on his feet.
Malloy dug his axes into the ice and began to climb, kicking the spikes on the toes of his boots into the snow. The north face of the Weissmies was more a question of conditioning than technical skill. One step after the next, setting ice screws every thirty feet. Already he felt better, lighter, shedding the emotional burden of the past weeks. Damn that Spaniard! It was all because of Rafa and his relentless campaign to recover the bonus money owed him. Four years Malloy had kept him at bay, offering excuses and explanations. The man simply would not give up. And now it had come to this. Blackmail. Extortion. A threat to reveal PetroSaud’s deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tried to warn Rafa, but the Spaniard was too proud, too stubborn, too arrogant. Now he knew, didn’t he? Maybe a