One hundred and twenty-three

That afternoon, the directors of Globalcom met once again in closed session.

As before, Harass was seated at the head of the table. He was still smarting at having heard that Ghita and her companions had escaped. The guards responsible had each lost the top joint of their little finger, Larbi as well. The punishment had been meted out by the Falcon himself with the cleaver he kept in his desk.

Leaning back in the chairman’s seat, he surmised that Omary’s daughter was a spent force. The important thing now was to take a cleaver to the Globalcom brand – to chop it up, and to sell it off bit by bit.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘I have the honour of informing you that JFT’s acquisition of Globalcom is now ready to go through. The papers are drawn up, and await your signatures. Once this formality has been attended to, we can put the past behind us, and strive towards the future.’

‘But what about Mr. Omary?’ asked François Lassalle, smoothing a hand down over his hair.

‘Omary?!’ Harass let out a childish cry. ‘He’s gone! Finished! Kaput!’

Hamza Harass took a gold Mont Blanc from his inside jacket pocket, and swivelled to where Patricia Ross was seated.

‘So... where are the documents for us to sign?’

‘In Mr. Omary’s office.’

‘You mean, in my office?’ he smiled, gave a wink, and stood up. ‘I’ll go and get them myself,’ he said, leaving the room.

Ross reached for the phone, speed-dialling a number.

‘He’s coming there now,’ she said.