The glass doors of the Croft Tower conference room slid open with a pneumatic hiss. William and Malcolm stood at the head of the table, expecting another federal agent.
Instead, they got Sebastian Cross.
He was impeccably dressed in a Savile Row suit, with eyes like chipped flint. He didn’t carry a warrant; he carried a slim, silver laptop. He was a “Corporate Fixer,” the kind sent by nervous investors to dissect a dying animal.
“Gentlemen,” Cross said, his British accent clipped and precise. “I represent the majority shareholders. There seems to be a… discrepancy in the liquidity reports.”
“My father is recovering from a stroke,” Malcolm lied smoothly, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his twin. “The transition has been chaotic.”
“Chaos I can manage,” Cross replied, setting his laptop on the mahogany table. “Embezzlement is another matter. I’ve found traces of transfers to shell companies in Zurich. The ‘Syndicate’ accounts?”
William froze. Cross knew.
“I will be occupying the office adjacent to yours until I have traced every penny,” Cross said, smiling without warmth. “Do give my best to your father. I’m told he’s a captive audience these days.”