“The prince writes too much down. You might want to mention it to him next time you get together.”
“Mr. Coluzzi, I’m a busy man. You are correct that we would like to take possession of the letter. Sooner rather than later. I’m prepared to offer you fifty thousand euros.”
“I was thinking of a different number.”
“Of course you were.”
“How does twenty million sound?”
Borodin’s laugh sounded like a seal’s bark. “Did Ren give you that number?”
“All mine.”
“Impossible. We have a budget like any other organization. It’s not my decision alone.”
“I don’t think your budget applies in this matter.”
“Why not?”
“This is your play. I know what’s in the letter. I know why you want it. The number is twenty million.”
“Never.”
“Then I apologize for wasting your time. I’m a busy man, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another call to make.”
“Wait!”
“I’m listening.”
“Two million euros. Cash. You’ll have it in twelve hours.”
“Twenty million. Also in cash. And have it here by six.”
“Five million is the best I can do.”
“The sun is coming up in Washington, DC. I know just the person to call. He’s probably mad at me for not having given him the letter in the first place, but I suppose he’ll soften up. I’ve kept the Americans waiting long enough.”
“Ten million and that’s final.”
“What did you do to Luca Falconi?”
“Ten million, Mr. Coluzzi. Or you’ll find out yourself what we did to your friend.”
Coluzzi’s eyes met Ren’s. The Russian nodded.
“Deal,” said Coluzzi.
“Call this number back in an hour and I’ll give you the details.”
Borodin hung up before Coluzzi could protest.
Ren slipped the phone into his pocket. He held a fresh cigar in his free hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s celebrate.”
Chapter 49
Boris Blatt required four hours to determine where his watch had been stolen. He was not sure if he would ever discover how, or by whom.
He’d set to work upon his return from Zurich earlier that morning. His plane had landed punctually at nine at City Airport, his car waiting on the tarmac to take him home. The twelve-mile drive to Highgate in the north of London took nearly as long as the five-hundred-mile flight from Switzerland. It wasn’t until ten that he pulled through the iron gates into Parkfield’s grand forecourt. It was the first time Blatt had purchased a property with a name. Frankly, he thought “Parkfield” rather bland and lacking in grandiosity, especially for a ninety-thousand-square-foot Georgian revival set on five acres of grassland that counted as the second-largest private residence in the city. He preferred the name given to the largest private residence. Buckingham Palace.
