Chapter 7 #2
To say Cadrion Strategic Holding’s growth is strong is an understatement.
The group’s finances top eighteen billion dollars, and that doesn’t include Northbridge’s assets under management.
Every report presented is a record of success, and when Adrian Chambers, the CEO of Northbridge, stands up, he talks through a massive project at Ironvale Capital, and Summit Ridge gets an honorable mention.
DeLuca nudges me with his elbow and gives me a satisfied nod.
The CFO of Apex Advanced is next, and DeLuca murmurs his name as he has the others. “John Wainwright.”
“—twelve percent growth and I’m pleased to say that the Colombian government has finally signed off on the defense contract.
That will be reflected in next quarter’s figures.
” He pauses, shifting his weight. “I regret to inform you that Brussels has not accepted our tender for the encrypted mobile rollout for the EU Commission and parliament.”
A stir runs through those watching, and DeLuca stills beside me.
One of the other board members leans forward. “That is unfortunate. We were banking on having access to that infrastructure.”
“Indeed,” another board member says coldly, his voice carrying clearly to the silent gallery. “This isn’t merely the loss of that particular contract, but the impact it has on others.”
“Lukas Van Wyk,” DeLuca tells me, his tone flat. “Officially works for Northbridge, but we never see him.”
Wainwright straightens his back. “The loss is regrettable. We offer compensation to the Company.”
“Who was on point?” the man at the head of the table asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken, and DeLuca leans in.
“Bastien Fournier,” he murmurs. It’s not a name I know; he’s not publicly on the board of any of the businesses represented.
“Philippe Dubois,” Wainwright replies. He hesitates. “His prior track record is impeccable.”
“We are aware of his record,” Fournier replies. “Yet failure is not acceptable.” He leans back in his chair. “Have him make amends.”
A man in the gallery opposite stands up, tugs his jacket straight, then walks with his head high to the door. Those he passes don’t look up.
It takes a minute for him to make his way to the main room, the double doors opening to admit him, and he walks to the table where the board waits. He stops ten feet short, bowing from the waist, head down.
From inside his jacket, Lukas Van Wyk pulls a knife, flicking open a short blade in the shape of a claw. It curves wickedly to an elongated point, the dim light reflecting off its steel.
“Karambit,” DeLuca murmurs, half to himself more than to me, and I assume it’s the type of blade. Unless Van Wyk’s named his knife.
Van Wyk lays it on the table and slides it sideways. It travels from hand to hand, deliberate and unhurried, like this is familiar. It comes to rest before where Dubois stands.
He steps forward, placing his left hand on the table, fingers spread, and looks up at Fournier.
“Proceed.”
Dubois visibly braces himself, then sets the curve of the blade against the pinkie finger of his hand.
There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he presses down hard, the curved blade rolling into the cut.
The knife is sharp. Dubois hisses in a breath, his left arm quivering, bracing himself on the table for a long moment.
There’s enough light to see the blood on the polished surface, a dark pool spreading and gleaming. His severed finger sits within it.
Dubois raises his head, meeting Fournier’s gaze again.
“That’s for the loss of the contract. Another, I think, for the further damage to the Company.”
A man behind me mutters something indistinct. Someone down the row swallows loudly enough for it to be heard.
I don't look away; to do so would give DeLuca too much to use. It’s not even the blood or the pain, but the compliance. What level of implied threat would make a man do this to himself? But the message is clear: this is what ‘don't fail’ looks like.
Dubois visibly shudders, his whole body trembling.
But he looks down at his injured hand and grips the knife again, setting the blade to his ring finger.
It takes him longer to make the cut this time, and he can’t suppress the cry of pain.
A second finger joins the first on the surface of the table, and the pool of blood trickles to the edge, dripping onto the floor.
Dubois slowly lifts his head, a whimper escaping as he looks again to Fournier.
The man at the head of the table regards him for a long moment. “That’ll do.”
The knife rattles onto the table, and Dubois straightens slowly in relief, cradling his injured hand to his chest. He takes a pace back, bows once, and turns to walk out. The injured stumps of his hand spread a crimson stain over his white shirt.
Wainwright retakes his chair, his head up as he regards his peers.
But Fournier isn’t finished with him. “Put another man on it. Work with Lukas’s team in Europe to find a way back into the process. We know who within Brussels is running it, presumably? Apply some pressure.”
“Yes, sir,” Wainwright says flatly. “I’ll provide an update at the next meeting.”
Fournier nods. “Then that’s all for now.” He stands and walks to a door at the back of the room, while everyone in the gallery rises. Dubois hasn’t returned to his seat; I presume there are medical facilities somewhere.
The board follows Fournier out, and DeLuca turns to me.
“Well, a more exciting meeting than our usual quarterly sessions.”
It’s some comfort to know that severed fingers aren’t the norm. “I can see why attendance is mandatory,” I say dryly.
DeLuca’s lips twitch. “I knew you were the right man for this job. The ball a week from Friday will be a better opportunity to mingle. My wife is looking forward to meeting Victoria.”
“Ball?” I echo, hearing a note of alarm in my voice.
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” His amusement returns. “You do dance, don’t you?”
“I do.” As it happened. That’s not my concern.
“Excellent. Well, no doubt I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. Good night.” He turns and leaves, speaking to another man as they make their way to the door.
I can’t help but glance again at the boardroom table below, the pool of blood that’s left a smaller puddle on the floor beneath, and the two amputated fingers that someone will have the distasteful job of removing.
Too late to back out, as DeLuca made clear. But I wonder if I ever really had that option. He was candid over our lunch; they already knew some of the underhanded things I’d done on previous deals.
Yet that’s only half my worry. I know I can make a success of Greenstone, and keep all my fingers where they belong.
No, my concern is more immediate: getting Vicky to the dance in less than two weeks.
Especially when she doesn’t dance.
I take a quick look around, seeking one man in particular. Julian Serrano isn’t far ahead, and I step up to join him. “Quick word before you leave?”
He stops, turning to me. “Certainly. Greenstone, or something else?”
A man passes us clenching and releasing his left fist, over and over. It draws my eye, then I notice he only has three fingers. I look away. Serrano notices too, and gives a wry smile.
“Something else,” I reply. “Do you know Heather, Mercer and Lowry?”
“I do. Legal’s a small world.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say.” Around us, the others have moved to the doors, and we have the gallery mostly to ourselves. “I need a small favor. Is it too early to ask?”
“Not at all. Are you aware how payment works here?”
“No.”
He nods. “Simple enough. With Greenstone, we take a cut, but favors of a personal nature are strictly quid pro quo. Something of commensurate size at a future time of my choosing. Which is this?”
“Personal,” I confirm. “But I’m hoping this one should be straightforward.”
“What is it you need?”
I hesitate for only a brief moment, then tell him.