wars? Tan’s gold Rolex Daytona, however, was strictly civilian issue and, to Simon’s eye, the real thing.
“What do you do, Mr. Riske?” demanded Tan.
“I own an automotive restoration shop in London. We specialize in Italian sports cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis.”
“You are a mechanic?”
“I employ mechanics.”
“Why does Mr. De Bourbon think you have any expertise in legal matters?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not an attorney?”
“Mr. Adamson is his attorney.”
“And you are?”
“As I said, a friend.”
Tan considered this. No one put one over on him. Then: “You’ve read the plea agreement. I expect you to advise your friend to sign it and to return the materials he has stolen.”
“That would be my advice.”
“Good. Let’s get this matter concluded.”
“You know, Rafa, I always imagined I’d run into you at the Dorchester.”
“I swore I saw you once at Heathrow, Terminal 5. I was headed to Geneva. You were having a pint at one of the bars.”
“You didn’t stop to say hello?”
Weak smiles, but neither could laugh. Simon shook his head, eyes on his friend, letting him know that all was forgiven.
The room was a ten-by-ten concrete box, a fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling, two chairs, one battered wooden table. An armed guard stood in the corner. Simon was shocked at his friend’s appearance. Cheeks sunken, eyes vacant, clothing stained with sweat, filthy. If this was what happened after four days, Rafa wouldn’t last the full week.
“Dickie told me about your hotel,” said Simon.
“It’s nice.” A glimmer behind the exhausted eyes. Rafa had always been a dreamer, eyes to the stars. “We’re booked for six months.”
“Tell you what. Let’s get you out of here and you can comp me a suite.”
“Deal.” Rafa put his elbows on the table, head forward. “Have you seen Delphine? I’m worried about her. She’s terribly frightened.”
“Not yet. I came straight from the airport.”
“Go see her. Tell her I’m all right?”
“Count on it.” Simon covered Rafa’s hand with his own to let him know he meant it. “Even more important, then, that we move quickly.”
Rafa nodded.
Simon said that he’d read the proposed agreement and that everyone—Dickie, Adamson, and, according to the attorney, Delphine—wished for him to sign it, accept the million dollars, and turn over the information he’d taken from PetroSaud. “They want this nightmare to be over.”
“What do you think?”
Simon mulled his response. “I think you were right to be careful,” he said, letting the words sink in. “Tell me about your relationship with Paul Malloy.”
“He hired me. Ran the Geneva office. My boss, I guess. He signed my contract.”
“Was he the person you were ‘negotiating’ with?”
Rafa hesitated. “He gave me his word. I trusted him.”
Trust. A liability in any industry. “Bad news,” said Simon. “Malloy was killed in a climbing accident in the Swiss Alps the day before yesterday.”
A look passed between them. Rafa shuddered, a man sentenced to a similar fate. “I did it for Delphine,” he said. “She deserves better.”
Simon was not there to pass judgment on his friend’s actions. He’d come to secure his release, and now, it appeared, to make certain he returned to his home and family alive. He wondered if Dickie had foreseen this development. If by “proxy,” he’d meant bodyguard. Of course he had. Dickie was a smart one, worldly wise if nothing else.
“Do you have what they want?”
Rafa nodded.
Simon knew better than to ask about what he’d stolen. Whatever it was, its value had been established beyond dispute. Paul Malloy’s death was no accident. Colonel Tan, head of the Royal Thai Police, did not fly to a resort island to supervise the arrest of a foreigner accused of a white-collar crime. Nor did he cut short board meetings to oversee the prisoner’s visits. This was about more than the theft of confidential information or a case of corporate extortion.
Simon switched to Spanish. The room was bugged. Their conversation was being recorded. Maybe Warden Charlie had a Spanish speaker on staff, maybe not. Better not to make it easy for them.
They talked for a while, barely a whisper, as much slang as they could manage. When Rafa switched to Italian, Simon followed suit, and then to German. The benefits of a European childhood. Slowly, the story came out. Rafa’s precarious involvement with PetroSaud. Worse than Simon expected.
And so Simon asked: Where was the stolen information?
Rafa had a trick. He’d softly rap his knuckles on the table to emphasize a certain word or phrase. They’d practiced this years ago at bars and clubs in London, up-and-comers on the make, full of themselves, two young Turks