“What about the reporter? She’s called my office three times this morning. They know.”
“They don’t know anything.”
“She asked me about the oil leases in Saudi Arabia, Hadrian. The leases you instructed me to buy. You promised nothing like this would happen. You gave me your word.”
“Darling, nothing is going to happen. I’m making the entire problem go away.”
“When?”
“As we speak.”
“But how…I don’t want to ask too many questions, but this reporter…she’s with theFT. I’ve heard of her. She sends people to jail.”
“Nadya, how much have I made for you?”
“Hadrian, please, don’t change the subject.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. A billion, maybe.”
“Higher.”
“Two.”
“Higher.”
“Four billion dollars.”
“And change,” said Lester. “And we have another fund on deck. The biggest yet, don’t we? Anyone asking questions about that?”
“That’s all well and good, but—”
“Calm, my dear. You didn’t think there might be a few questions? Really?”
“Well…”
“And I’m here to take care of them. Why do you think you pay me so much?” A laugh to soothe the rawest nerve. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Ignore the reporter. Forget about what you saw on the telly about Bangkok. Dreadful things happen. None of our concern.” He paused, excited now. “Why don’t you buy yourself something nice? A new Gulfstream. I know just the designer who can really trick it out for you. Or maybe a yacht like the one you bought your nephew. Better yet, why not the Hope fucking diamond? God knows you can bloody well afford all of them. Now listen, I’ve got a bank to run. Be well. Beatrice and I send love.” PronouncedBay-ah-treee-chaybecause his wife was Italian.“Ciao, bella.”
Lester put down the phone, sighed with feigned exhaustion.
A finger snap later, his secretary came back. “London Li,Financial Times.Again.”
“Where did she get my direct number?” he muttered, then once again the soul of politeness. “Tell heragainthat I am otherwise occupied but that she should feel free to contact Debbie Whatshername in investor relations who’d absolutely adore helping her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lester placed his hands on his hips, his face set in a scowl. Journos: hated ’em. In fact, at the moment Lester hated pretty much everyone who wasn’t family or a close friend. Nadya Sukarno wasn’t the only one rattled. He’d had calls from Kuala Lumpur and Malaysia, and from his boss, Sir Ian, asking if there was anything to be worried about. And all of it because of a minuscule bonus that a hired hand in Geneva had pocketed for himself. Greedy little peckerhead. Lester wished he could have pushed Paul Malloy off that cliff in Switzerland himself.
He turned, running a hand over his hair, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. White shirt. Navy-blue tie. Charcoal suit. A fighter pilot’s posture. A man in charge. He liked this uniform a helluva lot better than an orange one with a number stenciled on the back.
He slid his phone from his pocket—what time was it in Italy, anyway?—placed a call, speaking Italian. “Luca, old man, we need to act. I’m worried about Nadya.”
“Is he with you?”
Lester kept his eyes to the floor. “Yes, he’s here in my office.”
“Do as I told you.”
