Chapter 79 - The Rooftop Exchange
"You have a visitor," the old Moroccan host said softly, stepping into the courtyard from the roof staircase.
Lind was on his feet in a fraction of a second, his gun cleared and leveled at the doorway. "Who?"
"A woman. She came alone. She is waiting on the terrace above. She said to tell Mrs. Vance that Geneva is already closed."
I looked at Lind, who shook his head firmly. "It’s a trap, Myrna. We go out the rear alley."
"No," I said, snapping the ledger shut and tucking it securely under my arm. "Running ends here. I want to see her face."
I climbed the narrow tiled stairs to the roof.
The terrace overlooked the sprawling white amphitheater of Tangier falling down toward the azure blue of the strait. Across the water, the hazy brown mountains of Spain shimmered in the midday heat.
Standing by the terracotta railing, wearing an immaculate beige linen suit and dark sunglasses, was Evelyn Vance. She held a porcelain teacup in one hand, completely at home against the backdrop of the North African sun.
"You look exhausted, Myrna," Evelyn said smoothly, not turning around until she set the cup down on a low wrought-iron table. "You always were stubborn. Arthur died of stubbornness, you know. It’s an unattractive trait in a grandmother."
"Where is Roland?" I asked, stopping ten paces away.
"Roland is an old man who prefers comfort," Evelyn said, turning to face me. She took off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were cold, sharp, and empty. "He is currently boarding his Gulfstream in Lisbon. He will be in Zurich by five o'clock. Maître Delacroix is a very formal man, Myrna, but even Swiss bankers have a price when thirty million dollars in offshore securities are on the table."
"You used Caleb," I said, each word hitting like a hammer. "You used that greedy little girl he married."
Evelyn offered a thin, amused smile. "Tori is remarkably cheap to buy. A few designer handbags, the promise of an exclusive country club membership, and the threat of an audit on Caleb's struggling logistics firm. She practically begged us for an excuse to leave the children with you. She thought she was being clever."
"And the children?"
"Collateral," Evelyn said simply. "Just like Arthur was. Just like Caleb is. Roland doesn't care about the children, Myrna. He cares about the paper you’re holding."
Evelyn opened an ivory leather briefcase resting on the table. Inside were stacks of certified cashier's checks drawn on the Bank of England.
"Twenty million dollars," Evelyn said, gesturing to the briefcase. "Sign the relinquishment papers. Hand over the 1988 ledger. You can buy yourself a palace right here in Tangier. You can live out your years in luxury, drinking mint tea and looking at the sea. And Caleb... well, Caleb and Tori can keep their suburban house and pretend they’re important."
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"And if I refuse?"
"Then Roland executes the default clause," Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "The farmhouse in New Hampshire burns to the ground. Caleb goes to federal prison for corporate conspiracy. Tori’s children become wards of the state. And you... you never leave this continent alive."
