“Major Rudi,” London volunteered.
“Yes, I told him the Singapore police had the embassy shooter in custody. I’m sure he alerted his colleagues.”
“You don’t appear especially relieved,” said Mandy.
“Properly skeptical,” said Simon. “Whatever is going on is bigger than us…the law-abiding public. Bigger than a scheme to rip off lots of money. If Tan, chief of the Royal Thai Police, was involved, why not the commissioner of the Singapore police? Or the head of the army? The prime minister?”
“We’re talking thirty billion dollars,” said London. “How much bigger do things have to get?”
“I can’t say. But when an assassin lectures me on ideas like purity and piety and preservation, my ears prick up. Those are dog whistles for extremism.”
“You’re reaching, Mr. Riske,” said Mandy Blume. “We’re journalists. We prefer to let facts speak for themselves.”
“You’re probably right,” said Simon, not liking her high-and-mighty act. He knew plenty of bent journalists, too. “I’m just a guy who fixes cars for a living.”
“There you are, then,” said Mandy. “You said it, not me. Let’s stick to what we know and can prove.”
But London held him with her eyes. Two hours ago she’d escaped being killed by the narrowest of margins. She no longer possessed the luxury of relying solely on the facts. Facts offered scant protection against a global conspiracy that had put her squarely in its sights.
“Go on,” said London. “You have more to say.”
“May I use your computer?” he asked.
“Desktop is in the study,” said Mandy.
The three moved into the Blumes’ study. Dark, wood-paneled, leather-bound volumes lining the shelves—they hadn’t changed rooms but continents. The air-conditioning blasted so hard, Simon shivered. He slid the keyboard closer and accessed his new email account, bringing up the last message from Arjit Singh, which included an attachment titled “PRF,” for “PetroSaud recovered files.”
“So far you’ve seen only the files Rafa sent London. As I said, there are a few more.”
“How many?” asked London.
“Total? A million. Give or take.” Simon saw a look pass between the two women, equal parts disbelief, astonishment, and joy. The Holy Grail. “Emails, texts, spreadsheets, banking instructions, the works,” he continued. “Rafa downloaded them from the company server his last day of work four years ago.”
“A million?” said Mandy. “This is all happening a bit too quickly for this old broad. I need a ciggie.”
“And you’re certain they are authentic?” asked London.
“As certain as I can be. Have a look.”
“Oh, we will,” said Mandy, taking a filtered cigarette from a box on the desk and hoisting a heavy silver lighter.
“My first concern is whether you can use them in court,” said Simon.
“If the documents are real, they are admissible,” said London. “It doesn’t matter how we came upon them, whether we found them lying on the street or were handed them on a silver platter. We’re not dealing with privileged information…you know, communications between a lawyer and client, that kind of thing. Otherwise we’re in the clear. When all is said and done, Mr. De Bourbon will be regarded as a whistleblower. I hope that is some consolation to his family.”
Simon nodded, thinking of Delphine. Cold comfort. “What I’ve seen of the files validates what you know about the Indonesian and Malaysian funds. It looks like those were the first ones that involved PetroSaud. We can come back to those later. Now we need to concentrate on the other thing.”
“The dog whistle,” said Mandy, caustically.
“I think they call it ‘Prato Bornum.’”
“Prato what?” said Mandy.
“Sounds Latin,” said London.
“In fact, it’s the medieval name for Zermatt, Switzerland,” said Simon. “You know, where the Matterhorn is. ‘Prato’ means source, or a wellspring. ‘Bornum’ means ‘the place where it begins.’ Put them together and you have ‘Here, where the spring originates.’ The ‘spring’ refers to the river that flows through the town of Zermatt down to the Rhône Valley.”
“The place where the spring originates.” London considered this. “A place of purity, preservation, and piety. I think I’m getting the drift.”
