The banker took it, opened it, turned ghostly pale, and sputtered, “This is outrageous.” “I agree,” Nicholai said. “I imagine Madame Laval would agree as well.” “How did you get these?” Laval asked, stunned by the photographs of him in bed with a young Cambodian girl. “Does it matter?” “This is hardly the act of a gentleman.” “Again, we are in perfect harmony. Those copies are for you to keep, I have others safely stored away. However, if this is not adequate identification”—he slid a stack of piastre notes across the desk—“perhaps these pictures might suffice.” Laval hesitated. Then he took
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