Dubois raises his head, meeting Fournier’s gaze again.
“That’s for the loss of the contract. Another, I think, for the further damage to the Company.”
A man behind me mutters something indistinct. Someone down the row swallows loudly enough for it to be heard.
I don't look away; to do so would give DeLuca too much to use. It’s not even the blood or the pain, but the compliance. What level of implied threat would make a man do this to himself? But the message is clear: this is what ‘don't fail’ looks like.
Dubois visibly shudders, his whole body trembling. But he looks down at his injured hand and grips the knife again, setting the blade to his ring finger. It takes him longer to make the cut this time, and he can’t suppress the cry of pain. A second finger joins the first on the surface of the table, and the pool of blood trickles to the edge, dripping onto the floor.
Dubois slowly lifts his head, a whimper escaping as he looks again to Fournier.
The man at the head of the table regards him for a long moment. “That’ll do.”
The knife rattles onto the table, and Dubois straightens slowly in relief, cradling his injured hand to his chest. He takes a pace back, bows once, and turns to walk out. The injured stumps of his hand spread a crimson stain over his white shirt.
Wainwright retakes his chair, his head up as he regards his peers.
But Fournier isn’t finished with him. “Put another man on it. Work with Lukas’s team in Europe to find a way back into the process. We know who within Brussels is running it, presumably? Apply some pressure.”
“Yes, sir,” Wainwright says flatly. “I’ll provide an update at the next meeting.”
Fournier nods. “Then that’s all for now.” He stands and walks to a door at the back of the room, while everyone in the gallery rises. Dubois hasn’t returned to his seat; I presume there are medical facilities somewhere.
The board follows Fournier out, and DeLuca turns to me.
“Well, a more exciting meeting than our usual quarterly sessions.”
It’s some comfort to know that severed fingers aren’t the norm. “I can see why attendance is mandatory,” I say dryly.
DeLuca’s lips twitch. “I knew you were the rightman for this job. The ball a week from Friday will be a better opportunity to mingle. My wife is looking forward to meeting Victoria.”
“Ball?” I echo, hearing a note of alarm in my voice.
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” His amusement returns. “You do dance, don’t you?”
“I do.” As it happened. That’s not my concern.
“Excellent. Well, no doubt I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. Good night.” He turns and leaves, speaking to another man as they make their way to the door.
I can’t help but glance again at the boardroom table below, the pool of blood that’s left a smaller puddle on the floor beneath, and the two amputated fingers that someone will have the distasteful job of removing.
Too late to back out, as DeLuca made clear. But I wonder if I ever really had that option. He was candid over our lunch; they already knew some of the underhanded things I’d done on previous deals.
Yet that’s only half my worry. I know I can make a success of Greenstone, and keep all my fingers where they belong.
No, my concern is more immediate: getting Vicky to the dance in less than two weeks.
Especially when she doesn’t dance.
I take a quick look around, seeking one man in particular. Julian Serrano isn’t far ahead, and I step up to join him. “Quick word before you leave?”
He stops, turning to me. “Certainly. Greenstone, orsomething else?”
A man passes us clenching and releasing his left fist, over and over. It draws my eye, then I notice he only has three fingers. I look away. Serrano notices too, and gives a wry smile.
“Something else,” I reply. “Do you know Heather, Mercer and Lowry?”
“I do. Legal’s a small world.”
