“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do I have to read it to you verbatim?” Dickie Blackmon shoved a hand into his pants pocket and, after a pained search, pulled out a rumpled paper. He made a face as he read the words aloud: “‘Tell Simon Riske that only the monsignor can get me out of this. I need his blessing.’ There, happy? Mean anything to you?”
Simon nodded. Only those closest to him knew about the monsignor: who he was, where Simon had met him, and how he’d saved Simon’s life.
It was a call for help. The only words Rafa knew that would impress upon Simon the gravity of his situation. There was more, though it remained unsaid. A debt in the Spaniard’s favor, but Rafa was too much the gentleman to bring it up even under the direst of circumstances. “The monsignor” was enough.
Dickie Blackmon tossed the paper onto Simon’s desk. “He said that you would understand. Old times, best friends. The usual horseshit. Oh, and, of course, that he was sorry about everything.”
Simon stared through Dickie, past the fleshy cheeks, the watery blue eyes, the too-white teeth. He was looking into the past, seeing himself as a newly minted banker, barely a year on the job, and seeing Rafael de Bourbon, too, his fellow trainee. It had been the beginning of an important friendship, kindred souls, latching on to each other for the difficult ride ahead. Brothers, really.
Until…
“So?” barked Dickie.
Simon slid the envelope toward himself. “When do I leave?”
Chapter 8
London
You, sir, are a liar.”
Dickie Blackmon was gone. Simon sat alone in his office, the words echoing in his ears as if Rafa had just spoken them. In fact, it had been eleven years earlier. Half past six on a Friday night. The Blackfriar pub at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge. As was their custom, they’d met after work at the bank to trade war stories of the week past and to get the weekend started on the 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?”
“Notfor 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.
