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“It is, Anwar. It is. But now you can return to work a happy man.”
Anwar sobbed for a few more moments before lifting up his head and letting out a tortured yet relieved breath. “Thank you, Mr. Waller. Allah thanks you.”
“I have no need of your Allah’s blessings, Anwar.” Waller raised his pistol and aimed it at the man’s head, his eyes first focused on the metal nub of the sightline on the end of the muzzle and then onto the ultimate target.
Anwar jerked back. “But you said—”
“I lied.” The bullet torpedoed into Anwar’s brain. Waller relaxed and then triggered another round, tattooing the skin just to the left of the first entry wound. He placed the fired gun on the table and took a few moments to pour one more finger of scotch. Drinking this down slowly as he walked across the room to reach the door, he turned back and glanced at two of his other men.
In an admonishing tone he said, “Just remember this time that a two-hundred-pound man needs twice that weight to hold the body properly underwater.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Waller,” said one of the men nervously.
“And melt down the damn gun.”
“Right away, sir.”
“And Pascal, get rid of that,” he added, pointing at the woman’s head. “Cheers.” Waller disappeared through the door and settled into a black armored Hummer that sped off the moment he buckled his seat belt. An Escalade followed with another Hummer in front of Waller’s ride.
He’d discovered that his “trusted” accountant had a slush pile siphoned from Waller’s substantial cash flow. It was minor skimming, less than a tenth of one percent, and had done Waller no financial damage, but it was an unforgivable act. To let it go would have been a sign of weakness. In Waller’s business your competitors and people who worked for you were constantly looking for any signs of frailty. If they thought they’d found it, your mortality rate went up a thousand percent. He understood that lesson well, since it was how he’d come into the business many years ago. His mentor had let a minor slight go by with no consequences. Three months later he was being eaten by wolves in the Pacific Northwest and Waller was in charge. Over the next two decades, there had always been consequences whenever someone had betrayed him. He had no desire to be devoured by wolves. He would much prefer to do the eating.
He looked at the person sitting next to him. Alan Rice was thirty-nine, a graduate of a prestigious university in England, who’d traded the halls of academia to help Waller run his empire. Some men were just drawn to the dark side because that’s where they could thrive properly.
Rice was slender, his hair prematurely white. Though his features were delicate, his mind was muscular, brilliant. Men like Rice were seldom content to be second-in-commands. But he’d also helped triple the size of Waller’s business in a short period of time, and Waller had given him additional responsibilities commensurate with his talents. Waller was the only indispensable one in his business, but it was close to the point where he could not run it without Rice.
Waller flexed his gloved hand.
Rice noted this movement and said, “Recoil on the pistol bad?”
“No. I was just thinking about the last time I’d killed someone.”
“Albert Clements,” said Rice promptly. “Your Australian point man.”
“Exactly. It makes me wonder. I pay them extraordinarily well, and yet it never seems to be enough.”
“You have thousands, you want hundreds of thousands. You have millions, you want tens of millions.”
“And they must think I’m a fool to let them get away with it.”
“No. They just think they’re smarter.”
“Do you think you’re smarter than me, Alan?”
Rice looked over his shoulder at the building they’d just left. “I’m more intelligent than the man you just killed, if for no other reason than I have no wish to die at your hands. And I would if I tried to fool you.”
Waller nodded, but his expression wasn’t quite as convincing.
Rice cleared his throat and added, “I understand that Provence is beautiful this time of year.”
“There are few times when Provence isn’t beautiful.”
“You’ve spent much time there?”
“My mother was French, from a little town called Roussillon. It’s the site of some of the largest ochre deposits in the world. Many famous painters, like Van Gogh, traveled there to obtain the earthy pigments for their palette. And unlike many other villages in Provence, the buildings are not white or gray stone but wild reds, oranges, browns, and yellows. If I were a painter I would move to Roussillon and capture its images using only its colors. We had happy times there, my mother and I.”
“Have you been back as an adult?”
“Not to Roussillon, no.”
