The folded paper sat on the study desk until three in the morning, untouched, as if not opening it might keep the number from being real.
Marcus arrived at half past two, tie gone, eyes red-rimmed, and read it standing because sitting felt like agreeing to stay as long as the problem needed.
“Forty-one million,” he said, when he finished. “Wired to three accounts, staggered, with a number to call for confirmation. No names. No company letterhead. This isn't amateur work, Damien. This is a professional collection operation wearing a very calm voice.”
“Can we trace it?”
“We can trace the accounts to nothing, same as before. What we can trace,” Marcus said, tapping the bottom corner of the page, “is this.” A small watermark, easy to miss, a stylized compass rose. “I've seen this mark once
