“All clear.”
Cabot climbed out and smoothed the front of his graphite-gray W. W. Chan & Sons suit, double-checked the pistol in his pocket, and started for the door. He barely made it to the steps before a man with slicked-back black hair and a tight-fitting Italian-cut suit stepped out to meet him, an accommodating smile spread wide across his face.
“Monsieur Cabot,” he began in French, “so very nice to . . .” He paused, the smile faltering when he saw the Escalade sitting at the curb. “Oh, merde.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Please, Monsieur Cabot, the oversight, it was n-not intentional.”
“It’s fine,” he lied. “Now, if you would be so kind, I am late to my meeting.”
“Of course,” the man nodded. “Mr. Pritchard is waiting in the VIP room.”
They stepped inside. Cabot returned the nods of the gray-haired men licking their wounds in the leather club chairs that lined the entryway and pushed through the pair of burnished teak doors before stepping out onto the gaming floor.
It was standing room only, the floor packed with the island’s rich and shameless. Gold-chained men and collagen-enhanced women crowded around the tables, chain-smoking while laying thousand-dollar cash bets at the roulette and craps tables.
Cabot followed the man up the carpeted stairs and into a hall, passing a line of rooms before reaching a pair of gold-inlaid doors.
“If the monsieur will permit me,” the man said, ducking inside.
Cabot shot his cuff and consulted the Rolex Daytona on his wrist. The minute hand ticked past the top of the hour—the realization that he was late burned hotter than the cigarette smoke that stung his eyes.
Thirty seconds later, the man was back. He held the door open, and with a slight bow announced, “Mr. Pritchard would like you to meet him in the main room.”
About time.
Cabot passed through the sitting room with its pastel walls, cherry-stained bookshelves, and a pair of cream-colored couches and found himself in a second, larger room with an empty felt-topped card table and a rough-hewn bar where a pair of scantily clad call girls eyed him over flutes of Veuve Clicquot.
He ignored the girls, his focus never leaving the two men seated in the oversized leather armchairs in the center of the room.
“Ah, Bertie, look who finally arrived,” Nigel Pritchard said, a sardonic grin stretching across his fleshy face.
You fat fuck.
“There were transportation issues,” Cabot said.
“Ah, that old Sikorsky of yours finally give up the ghost?”
“No,” Cabot said, reining in his temper, “the issue wasn’t on my end.”
“Well, at least you made it.”
“Looks like he came bearing gifts as well,” the second man said, nodding to the bottle in Beck’s hand.
“That must be the famed Yamazaki our friends in Macau were telling me about,” he said, eyes lighting up as he hefted his bulk from the chair and tottered across the room.
Nigel had obviously been drinking, and for an instant it appeared the booze had gone to his head and that he was about to snatch the bottle from Beck’s hands. His fingers were inches from the neck when something in the German’s eyes made him reconsider his actions.
He froze, jerked his hand back like a man who’d seen a snake hiding in the weeds, and stood there nervously licking his lips.
Not as dumb as you look, eh, Nigel?
Nigel tore his eyes from the bottle and turned to Cabot with a petulant “Well?”
“Let the dog have it,” he told his bodyguard in German.
Beck handed the bottle over and Nigel spent a few seconds studying the label before handing it to one of the hookers at the bar.
“Pour us a drink, love,” he said, motioning for Cabot to take the seat across from his.
Cabot lowered himself into the chair, the contemptuous smile of the man seated to his left sending a flash of anger up his spine. He focused every ounce of his considerable will on keeping his face blank, not reacting to the obvious bait, but knew he’d failed when Nigel asked, “You remember Bertie, don’t you?”
Not trusting his voice, Cabot nodded yes.
“How daft of me. Of course you do—he used to work for you,” Nigel chortled.
“Andre,” his former employee nodded.
Andre, is it? Why, you snot-nosed little fuck.
The arrival of the booze marked the end of the bullshit, and while Nigel slurped at the whisky, Bertie produced a laptop and set it on the table.
“You have the money?”
Beck was at his side in a flash, unlocking the cuff and placing the case before his boss.
“Five hundred thousand, as agreed,” Cabot said, popping the clasps and opening the lid, revealing a stack of bearer bonds.
Bertie nodded, typed a passcode, hit the enter key, and spun the laptop toward Cabot, who pulled a pair of gold reading glasses from his pocket.
This is it.
He slid the glasses over his eyes, leaned forward, and grabbed the laptop. He pulled it into his lap and inspected the files, heart thumping in his chest as he scrolled through the diagrams and blueprints, noting the marked security positions and locations of the mainframe computers, everything he needed to pull off the job that would save his company—save his life.
He was almost to the end of the document, the elation and relief welling inside of him until he thought that he might burst, and then he reached the last page and deflated like a balloon.
The codes, where the hell are the codes?
Cabot sat there staring at the screen, momentarily confused by the missing data, then he looked up, found Nigel staring at him over the rim of the half-empty lowball.
“We had a deal,” he hissed.
“Yes, well, that was before you bolloxed the Uganda affair.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Do you believe this, Bertie, he actually thought that he could keep it a secret,” Nigel hooted, his jowls bouncing in time with his laughter. “Thought no one would find out that he was spying for the Ugandan government, helping them rig the election.”
“Or that while the French government is working to seize all of DarkCloud’s assets,” Bertie sneered, “they have banned its CEO from traveling to Africa.”
“How much?” Cabot asked, cutting straight to the point.
“An additional five hundred thousand,” Nigel said, wiping the tears from his eyes, “and considering your current financial woes, I’d suggest taking the deal before the price goes up.”