They arrived at the car. Not a Ferrari. A Volkswagen Golf R model. It had more than enough power to get around London as fast as anyone was able. Maybe one day he’d buy himself a Ferrari. But not for a while. He had better uses for his money than a fancy automobile, no matter how much he loved them.
“Your chariot.” He opened Lucy’s door.
“A gentleman,” she said, lingering a moment too long and a step too close.
“Lucy Brown, it’s past your bedtime.”
“What about my champagne?”
“Didn’t you just say you’ve had too much?”
Simon stood aside. Lucy slid into her seat, slamming the door.
Simon rounded the car, pausing to slip the timepiece from his pocket. He held it so the moon glinted off the platinum case and illuminated its ivory-colored dial. The watch was a 1965 Patek Philippe perpetual calendar chronograph with moon phases. Value: three million dollars. A month earlier, a member of Boris Blatt’s criminal organization had stolen it from a jeweler in the north of the city. Simon had been hired by the jeweler’s insurance company to retrieve it.
Simon climbed behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. In moments, he was speeding beside the River Thames.
Three million for a watch.
Amazing what people would pay for things these days.
Chapter 3
Lloyd’s of London, the world’s preeminent insurance exchange, had its offices in a steel-and-glass skyscraper in the heart of the City, the one-square-mile district that was home to England’s most powerful financial institutions. Late on a Sunday night, lights burned brightly on all floors. Insuring risk was a twenty-four-hours-a-day occupation.
Simon parked in the subterranean garage and showed his ID at the reception desk on the main floor. “Mr. Moore,” he said, giving the name of his contact.
“Know the way, do you?” said the security guard.
Simon took an elevator to the eleventh floor. The door to the office was unlocked. He followed the scent of coffee and cigars to the end of the hall.
“Don’t you sleep?”
D’Artagnan Moore sat at his desk, banging figures into his computer. “Did you get it?”
“And here I thought you were staying awake to make sure I got home all right.”
“Well, did you?”
“You mean this?” Simon dropped the watch on the desk.
“Careful!” Moore scooped up the timepiece in his immense hands, appraising it before offering Simon a relieved look. “Of course I was worried about you. It’s just that I was worried about this beauty more.”
D’Artagnan Russell McKenzie Moore was a bear of a man, six and a half feet tall, three hundred pounds, with a mane of untamed hair and a black beard that had been neither groomed nor trimmed in years. As was his custom, Moore was dressed in a tweed hunting jacket over a cardigan vest. Simon had known him since the age of eight, when he’d lived with his father in the village of Royal Tunbridge Wells and the two boys had attended the same day school in Surrey. Simon’s father, Anthony Riske, had come to London to set up a branch of his commodities-trading business. Moore, the son of minor nobility, went on to Harrow, Cambridge, and a stellar career in the insurance industry. Simon’s path took him in a different direction.
“Still haven’t told me where you learned the trade,” said Moore, eyeing him from beneath a shaggy brow. “I don’t imagine they taught you that at the LSE.”
Simon smiled cryptically, then dropped into a chair across from the desk. “What are you going to tell your partners?”
“They know better than to ask. Discretion is the better part of profit.” Moore slipped the watch into a beige jewel pouch and locked it in his desk. “Went well, did it?”
“To a point.”
Moore’s leonine head came to attention. “How so?”
“There was a second as I was leaving when I thought he might have noticed the switch. Not consciously, maybe, but by instinct. Guys like that have a sixth sense about this kind of thing.”
“Takes one to know one.”
