Garry Sanchez had made many bad decisions in his life, and he could name the exact moment he'd made the worst one.
It was two years ago, in a hotel bar in Marseille, at the end of a bad week. His modeling agency was losing money. His biggest client had walked out. He'd had three whiskeys and a head full of unpaid bills, and a man in a gray suit had sat down on the next stool and said, very gently, "Mr. Sanchez? I wonder if I might buy you a drink."
That was how he'd met Victor Renard.
He thought about it now, as the private car climbed the winding road to the Renard estate. The car was long and black and silent. The driver didn't speak. Outside, the hills rolled by, olive trees and cypress and the glitter of the sea, and in the back seat Garry sat with his hands clasped, sweating through his good shirt.
