In his office he made sure that neither Hardy nor Dammerman had followed him and might be watching through the glass walls before he put his pistol and the flash drive in a drawer. The police would need a warrant to search his office, which they might get, so he made a note to himself to find a better hiding place.
But when the NYSE opened in a few hours, and markets around the world were turned upside down, no one would pay much attention to the murder of a minor executive in a nothing outdoor apparel company from the Midwest.
Even though the hour was late, he phoned Rupert Leland, one of his alternative brokers, this one in Panama City. Leland had been on the bad side of the law for most of his life, finally escaping to Panama, where money bought anything you might need—including immunity from extradition to the U.K.
“Top of the morning to you, then, Mr. Treadwell,” Leland said, his fake British accent high-born.
“We’re good with our trades?”
“Yes, sir. We closed the ten million short position, took out your fat profits, and wired the two million to your account in this lovely country.”
“Just checking to make sure.”
“Ta ta,” Leland said and rang off.
Treadwell sat back and stared out the window at the dark harbor. Some of his maneuvers were going through, but he wished the opening bell would hurry.