‘I’m not in this for the riches,’ Papineau assured him. It wasn’t a lie. He actually didn’t care about the money; he simply did as he was told to buy time.
Cobb grinned at him, the smile of the Devil as he confronts a sinner. ‘Well, you’re not in it for the fame. The train and the tomb were both discovered by anonymous parties. I know because I saw it on the news. And I’m willing to bet my entire paycheck that your name will never be linked to Marco Polo. So if you don’t want the money, and you don’t want the credit, then what’s left? And don’t you dare tell me a fucking cross.’
‘The satisfaction,’ Papineau answered defiantly. ‘Knowing that you accomplished what no one else in history could achieve.’
Cobb laughed. ‘What you accomplished? You didn’t accomplish shit. All you did was foot the bill. My team made the discovery. They made this happen, not you.’
Papineau could feel the rage building inside his captor. He knew that Cobb had taken lives — he had seen it on multiple occasions; and he wondered if he was next.
‘You don’t understand that, do you?’ Cobb continued. ‘You see yourself as the king, and the rest of us as pawns. You’d replace us in a heartbeat if you could find better pieces to fit your needs; in fact, you did. Human life means nothing to you.’ Cobb came closer to Papineau, bearing down on him like the Grim Reaper. ‘You felt nothing when we lost Jasmine. I bet you felt the same when you had Seymour killed for following you.’
Papineau’s emotion was instant. It couldn’t be faked.
The look in his eyes told Cobb that he was wrong.
He could see the pain the Frenchman felt for Jasmine’s death, and the anger he suppressed following Cobb’s accusation. Even worse, Cobb could sense Papineau’s surprise at the mention of Duggan’s death. In a flash, Cobb knew that Papineau hadn’t ordered his execution. In fact, Papineau didn’t even know that Duggan had been following him.
A sickening mix of confusion and shame flooded Cobb’s mind.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do.
‘Seymour is dead?’ Papineau dared to ask.
Cobb could only nod. He had been absolutely certain that Papineau was responsible for Duggan’s death. He had convinced himself that Duggan’s man in California had confessed Duggan’s involvement and that Papineau had called for his grisly murder.
Now, he knew none of that was true.
‘It wasn’t you, was it?’ Cobb asked.
Papineau said nothing. He was suddenly struck by the full magnitude of what he had learned. He had no idea that he was being tracked — by a former associate, no less. But Copeland knew. Copeland obviously knew. And when his boss sensed a threat, he took care of it immediately. Anyone who learned of Copeland’s involvement would be silenced forever.
It was only a matter of time before Copeland would turn against him.
Papineau didn’t have a choice. He had to strike first.
For that to happen, he would need help.
‘It wasn’t me,’ Papineau finally answered. ‘But I know who it was.’
‘Who?’ Cobb demanded.
Papineau had been given permission to string Cobb along, to lure him in with assurances that he would someday meet the man pulling the strings, but that timeline had changed. Papineau knew he would have to give up more information than that if he hoped to weather this storm.
Copeland pushed him from one direction.
Now Cobb pushed back from another.
The time had come to make a choice.
‘I’ll give you his name,’ Papineau said, ‘but you must promise me one thing.’
‘Name it,’ Cobb growled.
‘When you meet him, you have to kill him.’