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 theSENDkey. 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 the problem?”
The policeman’s answer was delivered with actions, not words. He nodded to his colleagues. They threw Rafa to the floor, hauling his long arms behind him and snapping handcuffs onto his wrists. It was a violent act, leaving Rafa stunned, bleeding from his mouth.
“Stop this,” Delphine cried out. “What are you doing to my husband?”
Rafa struggled to free himself, shouting for an explanation. A baton landed on his ribs. A boot dug into his neck. From the corner of his eye, he observed the officers running upstairs to the executive floor. Delphine stood alone, hand covering her mouth. He met her gaze and read only despair and resignation. This was no accident, no case of police malfeasance or random error. The police were here because of him.
“What do you want?” Rafa managed, his mouth filled with blood. “Tell me.”
Rough hands dragged him to his feet. “You are under arrest,” said the tall policeman, spitting the words into his face. “You will come with us.”
“What for? I’ve done nothing.”
“Rafa, please tell them.” Delphine’s eyes pleaded with him. “Whatever it is they want, give it to them.”
“It’s nothing, Dee. I swear it.”
Delphine grasped the policeman’s tunic. “What has he done? Please.”
The policeman shoved her violently. She fell to the ground. The other policemen returned to the lobby, one carrying Rafa’s laptop, another hoisting a box of documents. In seconds, they were outside, loading their vehicles.
Rafa followed, propelled by a stiff arm to his back. At the car, he put up a fight, refusing to lower his head and climb in. The leader hit him in the solar plexus and, when Rafa doubled over, took hold of his hair and folded him into the back seat. The last words Rafael de Bourbon heard as the door slammed and the cars raced out of the forecourt were his wife’s.
“Rafa…what did you do?”
Chapter 3
London
How is she?” D’Artagnan Moore stood at the entry to his office on the eleventh floor of the Lloyd’s of London building.
“Not good,” said Simon, brushing past.
“Any improvement?”
“We’ll know more in forty-eight hours.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Whose is it? I should never have brought her with me.”
Three days had passed since the accident. Simon’s shoulder ached from a partial dislocation and he’d gotten a nasty bump on the head. Otherwise he was fine. He’d handed the painting over to a representative of Lloyd’s in France. He’d come to get paid.
“Sit down,” said Moore. “Have a drink. I might have a bottle of that Tennessee cough syrup you seem to favor.”
