She looked uncertainly at her boss; Montfort made the smallest of hand gestures, to tell her to relax.

“I was just about to go for lunch, Peter,” said Hugh. “Care to join me?”

A distasteful task, but it had to be done. He could hardly refuse to invite the chairman.

“I don’t think that would be such a great idea.” Pete Stockton drew a metal cigar case out of his shirt pocket, theatrically withdrew a Monte Cristo, bit the top off it, and lit it up.

“Are we celebrating something?” Perhaps he had news on some more stockholder commitments.

“We’re not. I am.” Stockton drew in a mouthful of fragrant smoke and let it drift out of his nostrils.

“How shall I put this,” he said with evident relish. “Let me see. . . . Hugh—you’re fired.”

“What?” gasped Mrs. Percy.

Pete turned to her. “You’re his assistant, sugar? Great. I want you to go to your laptop and change all the passwords. Zip up all his letters and files and send them straight to me. Make sure he’s denied access to any and all Mayberry data, starting immediately.”

Hugh tried to take it in. “May I ask why I’m being fired?” he said.

“Sure,” Pete said expansively. “You’re being terminated for cause. Lousy performance with the Massot deal.”

“We’re still going to make that deal.”

“We certainly are, but you’re not gonna be a part of it. You failed to prepare for this party—look at the stock price, for Christ’s sake. And you failed to investigate all the avenues.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Montfort snapped.

Stockton smiled smugly. “You’ll find out—once Mayberry owns House Massot. Now you’re fucking fired, so get your shit together and get the hell out of the hotel. Mayberry is paying this bill. Same goes for you, sweetheart. Get back to London, you can take that underwater train. Pack up his office. Make sure he takes nothing, I mean not even a goddamn Biro. He walks away with anything, you’re out on your pretty ass.”

Elizabeth Percy said, “Screw you, fatso. I quit.”

Hugh turned to her in surprise, then started laughing. “Priceless,” he said.

Stockton’s piggish eyes narrowed; he’d expected Hugh to plead, not laugh. Everybody knew Mayberry was the limey’s life, gave him a sense of purpose. And who did the bim think she was?

“I expect you want to know the full story, Montfort,” he sneered.

“Not at all; I couldn’t be less interested.” Hugh offered his arm to Elizabeth again. “Mrs. Percy, I believe we were going to lunch?”

Pete Stockton stared at them, furious, as they walked out the door and down the corridor. He was so angry to be cheated of his moment of glory he found his face had gone all red. Then a column of ash dropped onto his fresh-pressed pants.

“Fuck!” he said.