straight to the shower as he’d told his wife but stopped first in his private study. There, after locking the door, he sat at his desk and logged on to his email. It was not his regular email, but a secret address used for the most sensitive matters accessed through an encrypted website on the dark web.
A single message from “PM” waited in the inbox. P for Paul. M for Malloy.
Rafa’s finger hovered above the trackpad.
Once, in better times, he had worked with Paul Malloy in the Swiss city of Geneva. Their business had been finance—more specifically, capital: the raising thereof. In those days, they’d communicated via shared company servers using standard email addresses. No longer. The closest of friends had become what might politely be called “estranged colleagues.” Depending on the contents of the message blinking on Rafa’s laptop the nature of their relationship would change once again. For better. Or worse.
Rafa opened the message.
Go to hell.
Three words. Impossible to misunderstand.
Rafa felt his guts twist. It was not the answer he’d wanted. Regardless, he must now embark upon a threatened course of action. It was not a matter of a wounded ego. It was a question of justice. Of right and wrong. Of keeping one’s word and honoring one’s promises. As in all business affairs, it dealt with money. A severance payment of five million Swiss francs, already several years late.
For worse, then.
He double-clicked on an icon titled PETROSAUD. A list of spreadsheets appeared. They had names like: “Emirates Lease 7.14,” “Indo Drill 1.15,” “Saud Refine 3.16.” And others named: “Commissions.”
He’d always been good with other people’s money: asking for it, investing it, spending it, losing it. But this…this in front of him was different. A crime. Not a single instance, but many. Over and over again. With malice aforethought. Rafa had objected. He was many things, but not a criminal.
An offer had been made. Join them. Not just Malloy, but all the big boys at the company, PetroSaud SA. It was easy money, Malloy had argued, over white wine and Dover sole at the Lion d’Or. Victimless. No one would find out. Billions for the picking.
Rafa knew better. There were always victims.
He hadn’t participated, but to his lasting shame, he hadn’t done anything to stop it. He was making too much money working the clean side of the business. He was in love. He planned on getting married. This was his chance to build up a stake. After a while, those justifications had worn thin. Silence amounted to complicity, sure enough. He had resigned, asking only for the bonus owed him. Five million Swiss francs.
Before him on the screen was a compendious record of Malloy’s acts: names, dates, banks, accounts, monies taken in, monies invested…or not. Commissions paid. And more commissions. The sums were staggering. Millions. Tens of millions. Hundreds of millions. It was all there in its fantastically illegal glory.
A flash of blue caught his eye. A spray of red. Rafa looked out the window to see a procession of automobiles enter the hotel forecourt and stop in front of the fountain. He’d been expecting one inspector, maybe two. Not the entire Thai Hotel Association.
The doors of the cars opened as if synchronized. Men in tan uniforms, peaked martial caps, and mirrored sunglasses poured from the vehicles. All carried sidearms. Not hotel inspectors. Police. The “men in brown,” as they were known and reviled.
Rafa understood everything at once. He’d waited too long to make good on his threat. He’d given Malloy and his friends too much time to agree. Another mistake added to the litany before it.
He had a minute to act.
Quickly, then. A new email address. A last hope. He chose several files, not all the material, but for the right set of eyes, enough. A trail.
His index finger pressed the SEND key. He waited a second, then typed in a four-digit code ordering the hard drive to destroy itself.
“Cry ‘Havoc,’” he whispered, “and let slip the dogs of war.”
Rafa left his office, hurrying down the stairs to the lobby. Delphine was speaking to one of the officers, the tallest one, and, by his demeanor, the leader of the group. Never one to rest on her laurels, she spoke fluent Thai to Rafa’s colonialist minimum. He attempted to smile, as if he were accustomed to receiving unannounced visits from the police.
“Good morning, officer,” he began in Thai, placing his palms together and bowing his head in welcome. “I am Mr. De Bourbon. What seems to be