CHAPTER 43: A Matter of Trust
The sound of a radio tuned to the news woke Seamus Boyle in the back seat of the Honda parked outside Jonah’s Manhattan townhouse. He listened and heard Warren Jonah making coffee. He checked his smartphone—it was 7:25. He got out, stretched, watched New Yorkers busily start their day. He climbed behind the wheel and drank his cold coffee, ate two of the donuts, listened to Jonah washing dishes in the kitchen.
He dialed Warren Jonah’s number. “I want $10 million or I’ll ship the files to Grace Newman,” he said, his voice steady. He was, after all, in control.
Jonah’s heart beat faster. Impossible, he thought. “What files?” he asked.
“The ones in the office in Jersey, the office with the furniture that was just delivered.”
Jonah felt his blood pressure rise as he thought about how angry his contact in Bonn would be, how angry Frédéric Trinité would be. He shuddered.
“Hell, Boyle. You’ll be the death of me yet.”
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In his office at his estate in Connecticut, Frédéric Trinité’s assistant signaled him, pointing to her watch. “The lawyers from Blackrock and J.P. Morgan are waiting for you in the Blue Room, monsieur,” she whispered.
Trinité muted the phone. “Trente minutes,” he said.
“Oui, monsieur,” she said, backing out and closing the door.
Trinité returned his attention to the call from Bonn. “Obviously this Seamus Boyle got the better of everyone,” he said.
“He wants to retire,” said Marguerite. “He thinks what he’s selling is worth ten million.” She paused. “To the right person,” she said, “it just might be.”
“And Grace Newman might be that right person?” asked Trinité.
“C'est une possibilité,” she said. “Get him a plane so he can disappear, make the transfer. Do that and Boyle will give you the code and the files are ours—we’re back in control.”
The two were quiet. ‘I’m going to pass this over to James,” said Trinité.
“D’accord,” said Marguerite.
Trinité frowned. This is turning out to be a very expensive week, he thought.
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James listened carefully, showing no emotion in his sharp blue eyes. He was aware of how awkward the situation was for Trinité as he cautiously questioned his employer. After half an hour, James had everything he needed. “This shouldn’t take long, sir,” he said.
Trinité relaxed slightly, hoping that James would be worth the small fortune he cost. He inhaled the scent of the orchids on his desk and felt relief.
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Seamus Boyle sat in the blue Honda outside Warren Jonah’s Manhattan townhouse. He’d finished the coffee and all the donuts. After an hour of waiting, a silver-gray Mercedes drove by once, twice, and then parked on the curb and James and another man got out. They were both in their thirties, blond and muscled. They adjusted their fine suits as they unobtrusively checked the busy street.
A matched set, thought Boyle, hoping he’d never have to take them on. As the men walked to Jonah’s townhouse, he clicked off a few shots with his cellphone. More money in the bank, he thought.
Ten minutes later, the men appeared with a very pale Warren Jonah. They got in the Mercedes with Jonah in the back and drove north out of Manhattan. Boyle followed.
James had spotted the blue Honda when they’d parked, seen Boyle taking photos.
Curiosity killed the cat, thought James. “Jonah, don’t turn around. Stefan, we’ve got a tail.”
Stefan discreetly checked his side mirror. “I don’ see nobody,” he said in a thick New Jersey accent.
“Blue Honda hatchback,” said James. “Watch when you make the next turn.”
“Well, I’ll be…,” said Stefan.
“Police?” asked Warren Jonah.
“I’ll bet you a grand it’s your Seamus Boyle,” said Douglas. “We’ll go nice and slow and hang on to him. I know just where to take him.”
The Mercedes exited the freeway in Connecticut and drove through an expensive residential neighborhood next to Long Island Sound, Boyle following at a safe distance, focusing on the task at hand.
The car made a right and drove through ornate iron gates which closed behind it as it disappeared up the drive.
Boyle drove past the gates and pulled over to the side of the road, paused for a minute. Too risky to climb the fence, he thought just before the window next to his head shattered. He instinctively covered his face, then felt the barrel of a gun push against his neck. He froze.
“Hands on the wheel,” said Stefan as James dialed his employer, updated him.
“Put him on,” said Frédéric Trinité.
“Keep your hands on the wheel. Someone wants to talk to you,” said James, holding the phone to Boyle’s ear while Stefan held the gun to Boyle’s neck.
“Hello?” asked Boyle, swallowing hard.
“That’s all it takes, Boyle,” said a voice with a slight French accent. “One small miscalculation.”
Boyle’s left eye twitched. Trickles of perspiration rolled down his face.
“Overall, though,” said Trinité, “We are impressed. Following Jonah was a brilliant move. Confiscating the files, even more so.”
Trinité let his words sink in. Always good to start with praise, he thought.
“We want the files and you gone,” said Trinité. “You want money and to be gone. We are your single best bet to get out of the country. We have the basis here for a very good business deal.”
In his office, Trinité paced. “The 100 grand is yours, of course, the offer for the plane still stands. We offer another 100 thousand for the files. For that price, you can be assured we won’t send someone to kill you. Once you’re out of the country, We’ll report the plane stolen, confirming you acted alone. It’s a role, Boyle. $100,000 for one day’s acting. To make this dream come true, give your new friends our stolen records. Then you can fly away this week. Très simple.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me?” asked Boyle.
“You don’t,” said Trinité. “It’s a matter of trust. Now tell the nice man with the gun to your head I want to talk to his partner.”
“He wants to talk to your partner,” said Boyle, his hands on the steering wheel. He heard the faint sound of James’ voice on the phone, the ocean waves lapping on the shore behind the estate as he sat very still, dripping sweat, a gun to his neck.
