“I have.” Stockton sat down, and the others followed him.

“And you are prepared to sell us the shares. Do you have the documents with you?”

Stockton nodded. He passed over a manila folder to Massot, but the Frog lawyer leaned forward and took it; he read it intently for some minutes.

“Hey.” Pete cleared his throat. He wasn’t here just to sit waiting on these Frenchies. “You give me my document about the shares in Bagatelle. Three million shares in Bagatelle,” he repeated, insistently. “I may not have a law degree, but I can read a fucking financial document.”

“Of course.” Tom Massot inclined his head. “Take all the time you want.”

He handed over the contract; it was already signed, witnessed, and dated. Pete read it carefully. Bagatelle Inc., S.A. For “consul tancy work” and “ongoing advice” and “guidance.” He was made a nonexecutive director of the company. Nice touch, Stockton thought, giving them a reason to pay him. All the time board members got gravy gigs like this for doing fuck all.

It was airtight. He’d signed enough shady deals to see that. Three million shares, no restrictions on the sale. Enough to pay off his mortgage . . . enough to cushion his retirement when the Mayberry stock really tanked.

Fuck it. He scrawled his signature on the documents. Mayberry’s crash and burn would be the board’s problem now.

Louis Foche silently passed the documents to the limey lawyers. They studied them for an age. Pete just sat there. Two could play that game. He wasn’t about to ask them a fucking thing.

“Everything is in order,” the limey, Elgin, said gravely. “The in-house counsel has appended a memorandum. It is within the power of the chief executive to order the sale of any division worth under eighty million dollars. The approval of the board is suggested, but not strictly necessary in this case.”

“I concur,” said Foche. The other limey nodded.

Fools! Like he’d take a chance the board could reverse this. He was about to get paid in shares of Bagatelle. It was in his interest to make sure the deal was airtight.

“Very well.” Tom Massot took a heavy gold Montblanc pen lying beside him on the burgundy leather of the desk, and signed his name on the contract. He passed it wordlessly to Foche, who witnessed it.

“Mr. Hartford . . .”

Tom passed the signed contract to the third lawyer, who folded it crisply and placed it into his jacket pocket. He then said, “Excuse me,” stood up, and left the room.

“Where’s he going?” Stockton asked.

“To ensure the transfer of ownership of the shares is registered with the financial authorities. There’s an office in the south wing that has a high-speed Internet connection and other modern communications.”