“They’ve been keeping an eye on De Bourbon for a while,” said Adamson. “PetroSaud has gone a step further. They’ve engaged a cybersecurity firm to dig up records of De Bourbon’s having stolen confidential information. Your friend is guilty. No question.”
“Is it illegal if he accessed the information while an employee?”
“No. But it is illegal to take the information from the premises. And it is illegal to threaten to make it public if he isn’t paid what he believes is owed him.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Five million Swiss francs. Deferred bonus.”
“I’d be upset, too.”
“Mr. De Bourbon’s personal grievance is beside the point. There are other means of remedy than corporate theft and extortion.”
“And now PetroSaud wants the information back.”
“Precisely.”
“Any idea what he stole?”
“That’s not our concern. Our concern is getting Mr. De Bourbon out of jail and back to his wife so he can get on with his life.”
“Who are we dealing with? You said his name was Paul Malloy.”
“The principal managing partner of PetroSaud is Tarek Al-Obeidi, a Saudi national, though we haven’t heard from him. Right now the point man is Colonel Albert Tan.”
Simon remembered the bio of Tan, which “Iron Ben” Sterling had provided. “Why is Tan involved in a garden-variety case of corporate blackmail? I see this kind of thing a dozen times a year in the UK. Disgruntled employee threatens to reveal company secrets, divulge recipe for the proprietary secret sauce. I don’t recall the director of MI5 ever becoming personally involved.”
Adamson shifted in his seat, avoiding Simon’s gaze. He’d been in the game long enough to know how to keep secrets. Simon believed he was keeping one now.
“What else do you know about PetroSaud?” said Simon.
“Founded by Al-Obeidi and a group of international financiers a dozen years ago with the goal of selling off leases of undeveloped parts of the country.”
“To?”
“Oil companies, of course. Sovereign wealth funds. Larger family offices. Minimum investment a hundred million dollars. Rafael de Bourbon was one of their top salesmen.”
Simon knew how the game worked. Salesmen like Rafa worked on commission. One percent on a one-hundred-million-dollar investment was a healthy sum. “So why did he leave?”
“Excuse me?”
“Uh, nothing.” Simon realized he’d been talking to himself. “How is Rafa doing?”
“Not well,” said Adamson. “Conditions are taxing.”
“I can imagine.”
“I doubt that,” said Adamson, as if he’d done time in a Thai jail himself and was the tougher for it. He pursed his lips, irritated. “Still, it’s his own fault.”
“Why’s that?”
“I negotiated an agreement that would pay Mr. De Bourbon one million dollars and see him freed immediately and deported from the country upon turning over the information he stole from PetroSaud. All there in writing. He could have signed and walked out of the jail a free man.”
“He turned down a million dollars?”
“He insisted on your counsel in the matter first.”
“Who’s offering him the money?”
