60

Magnus Leclerc had been given a number to call in case of emergency. He’d been told it was very unlikely that anyone would complain about the phoney money transfer. But just in case, there were people who’d want to know about it. And they’d be very grateful for the information.

It wasn’t easy to summon up the courage. He’d had a lot to think about.

If he were exposed, as Vandervart had threatened, it would destroy his marriage. The more he thought about it, the less that looked like a problem. He’d be rid of Marthe for good, and the only thing he felt about that was relief.

He’d lose his job too, of course, and the status that came with it. There’d be a certain amount of humiliation, even mockery, to be endured. But underneath, he knew, plenty of his banking peers would be thinking that they’d have liked a crack at the bombshell in the white lingerie. They’d say old Magnus was a sly old dog, didn’t know he had it in him. He’d be back in business within months.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’d just give them all the finger and fly away to the Cayman Islands. He’d spent years quietly saving, skimming, and pocketing money. He could spend the rest of his life on a beach if he felt like it.

Put it like that, and there didn’t seem much to be lost by talking. But what if he kept his mouth shut?

There was a reason Vandervart had wanted Malgrave’s number. He obviously wanted his money, by any means necessary. That would mean big, big trouble. Sooner or later, people would work out that Leclerc had been the root cause of that trouble. And they wouldn’t be happy. He did not like to think how they would react. On the other hand, Vandervart would not stop at sending a few videos to the media if he felt he had been betrayed.

Leclerc spent a sleepless night in the spare room, then went into work still unsure of his next move. Finally, he dialed two numbers. One was the number Malgrave had given him.

A woman’s voice answered. “Consortium. How can I help you?”

He was put through to a man who spoke in a courtly English accent. The man thanked Leclerc profusely for his information, then asked him where he could be contacted later in the day, “just in case we need to ask you any further questions, check the details of what this man Vandervart was after, that sort of thing.”

Leclerc was eager to be as helpful as possible. He provided his phone numbers and his home address. He wanted the man to appreciate how sorry he was about the Vandervart problem. He would do everything he could to make up for his carelessness. The man was most understanding. “I sympathize with you, monsieur,” he said. “You have been through a terrible ordeal. Anyone would have reacted the same way.”

When he put down the phone, Leclerc was sweating. He wiped his forehead and loosened his tie. Then he called a second number. It belonged to a travel agent. He asked for the earliest flight to Miami. The agent booked him first class on the next morning’s British Airways flight to London, Heathrow, connecting there with the lunchtime departure for Miami. Leclerc used his company credit card.

He went home that evening after work and tried to act normally. The arguments were no worse than usual, the silences between them no more deafening. They were sitting in the living room after dinner, Leclerc lying back in his leather recliner watching a badly dubbed American cop show on TV, when the doorbell rang.

He grabbed the remote control and turned the sound down on the TV. The bell rang three more times, harder and more insistently. “Go and answer it,” he ordered Serge, a sullen, gangly boy of seventeen who was the younger of his two children. The kid remained motionless in his chair, letting everyone know how much he resented this intrusion into his busy schedule of sitting around, before hauling himself to his feet. He slammed the door as he left the room and stalked into the entrance hall.

Leclerc craned his head in the direction of the front door. He heard it open. He heard his son say, “Who—?” Then he heard a cracking sound like a cross between a bat hitting a ball and an eggshell cracking against a bowl. Next came the muffled thud of something heavy flopping down onto the floor.

Marthe was the first to react. She leaped from her seat and was halfway to the door to the hallway when it opened and two men walked into the room. They had pump-action shotguns in their hands. There was blood on the butt of one of the guns.

The first man through the door had fiery, spiky orange red hair. He almost collided with Marthe in the middle of the living room floor, barely breaking stride as he swung his knee into her midriff. Marthe bent double, soundlessly, the air knocked out of her, and he shoved her backward, sending her skittering into the wall.

Leclerc’s daughter, Amelie, a thin, plain young woman of nineteen, screamed. The second man, round-faced and full- lipped, punched her in the mouth to shut her up, then threw her across the room. She ended up in a heap next to her mother.

No more than five seconds had passed since the men had entered the room. Leclerc was still stuck in his recliner, watching helplessly as his womenfolk were attacked. He struggled to his feet, his eyes widening as one of the men swung his shotgun around until it was pointing at his guts. The other had his weapon aimed at the two women, huddled together against the far wall.

The two men glanced at each other. The red-haired man gave a quick, commanding jerk of his head. And then they both started firing.