“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 a bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge. “I tell you this right now, Mr. Riske. No one is going to interfere with the premiere of my motion picture.”
Simon went to the bar and took a bottle of mineral water for himself and for London, opening them, and handing one to her. He returned his attention to Sun and said: “Has Luca Borgia ever had any involvement with your movie? Think about it for a second.”
Sun shook his head violently. “Never. Why would he? I barely know him. It’s been years since—” He stopped.
“Since what?” asked London.
“It was years ago…”
