Page 175 of Storm over the Caribbean
“The money. Where. Did. It. Come. From?” Half-turning, the business mogul lifted the case in his hand. “And more importantly, whom?”
“W-well, ehem…” Hutchinson cleared his throat, wishing he had never set foot on this blasted island. “Telling you that would be against bank polic—”
His voice died as Mr Rikkard Ambrose pinned him to the spot with an icy stare. “Who?”
“WaitjustaminuteI’lllookitupforyou!”
“Appreciated.”
Before he could think better of it, Hutchinson rushed to do his temporary new overlord’s bidding. Five minutes later, he was back, with a piece of paper in his hand that, if it ever fell into the hands of his higher-ups, would see him reassigned to the bank’s branch in North Siberia. Although…
He looked into the arctic eyes of the man in front of him.
…that might actually be preferable to the current situation.
“Here, Mr Ambrose, Sir.” Bowing deeply, he handed over the paper. “All the information you asked for.”
“Hm.”
Ten seconds later, Hutchinson was wonderfully, blissfully alone in his office.
Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Hutchinson made his way back to his desk and slumped down in the comfortable plushness that was his leather armchair. Phew! That was…intense. Why had he wanted that information anyway? Why was a man such as he even here?
Shrugging, Hutchinson lit his cigar and took a deep puff. Well, it couldn’t be anything that important, right?
***
I watched as Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode out of the Bank of England, a massive briefcase in his right hand. I, however, was much more focused on the piece of paper in his left.
“You’ve got it?” I demanded, heedless of anyone hearing. Our two guards had long since been sent back to the ship, and I couldn’t care less if any passer-by heard what I said. Not right now. Not when we were so close.
“I do.”
Vicious triumph surged inside me.
“What is his name?” I demanded.
What is the name of the dog I’m going to put down?
Unfolding the paper, he shared a last, lingering look with me.
Not you alone, that look said.We’re going to face him together.
“The man we’re looking for,” he told me, eyes darting down to the paper, “is named…”
The Name
“The man we’re looking for, is named…”
Silence.
A long, long moment of silence. Too bloody long!
“Yes?” I demanded. “Is namedwhat?”
Mr Ambrose raised his eyes from the paper. “John Doe.”32
Yes! Finally!
