Mr. Scarlett waited at the edge of the path between the lilac bushes and the mausoleum. The wind off the Atlantic was cold and he could hear the far off rush of the surf. A simple spray of white carnations fluttered atop the coffin, its familiar perfume drifting through the salty air. The heavy shrubbery screened Scarlett from the breeze and provided an inconspicuous place from which he could keep an eye on the ceremony. How he hated funerals. It was his second in a month.
Counting the hearse and the dark green Bentley, there were only five automobiles and fewer than a dozen mourners. A window on the Bentley had been cranked down about halfway, but no one had gotten out. Only the contact was appropriately dressed for the occasion. From this distance he appeared somewhat pallid. Other than that he seemed quite ordinary. The ceremony broke up after about ten minutes and the fellow started up the path. As instructed, he was alone.
As the young man approached, Scarlett steeled himself, then reached out with a gloved hand and took hold of the man’s sleeve, avoiding any physical contact with the skin. Keeping the wind to his back, he tried to breathe in as little as possible. "Step over here Mr. Merchant," he said, his voice low.
"Are you the lawyer?"
"Don’t talk - just listen." Scarlett slipped a hand inside his topcoat and withdrew a thick brown envelope. "This has the instructions you need and contains enough to fund the entire project. It’s clean. Just don’t try to jerk anybody around. My client has confidence in you. Personally I have my doubts. I’ll need to see an accounting when you’ve finished." He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. "To prove how serious we view this little enterprise, my client has deposited an additional million in a Cayman account, as an incentive."
"That isn’t necessary."
"Just the same."
"Is there a deadline?"
"Take your sweet time," Scarlett replied.
