Page 13 of King’s Ransom

And then there was our destination, 59West.

Featuring very distinctive gold-tinted windows, it was situated two blocks north of 57th Street, on 59th Street, which meant it fronted directly onto Central Park.

(This also meant it partially blocked the views of a couple of the supertalls on 57th Street, including the Steinway Tower, where one of Aristo King’s ex-wives had an apartment. The social pages had dined out on that fact.)

59West also came with a unique and much sought-after feature, something that none of the other pencil towers had: a helipad on its roof.

This was one of the last taboos of high-end New York City real estate restrictions: no helipads.

It was rumoured that Aristo King himself had made it happen.

How he’d done it—political donations, bribes, personal favours—no-one knew.

But everyone knew that King delighted in landing his personal chopper on the roof of his tower and walking—walking!—down to his splendid residence.

He had bought his penthouse off the plan for $155 million.

Our helicopter did a slow banking circle around the summit of the skinny tower and as it did, I saw, down on the streets far below, a ring of NYPD police cars parked around the building, their blue-and-red lights flashing, sealing it off.

Closer to me, on the tower’s rooftop, I saw four individuals waiting for us on the helipad: three men in suits and a woman in an FBI windbreaker.

More FBI.

Then, buffeted by the erratic winds of the city, the chopper edged in toward the giant ‘H’ painted in a circle on the helipad and—to my relief—landed softly atop 59West, fourteen hundred feet above the planet.

A TEST

For one very rich man, there must be at least five hundred poor, and the affluence of the few supposes the indigence of the many.

– Adam Smith

Roof of 59West

21 December, 1137 hours

The helicopter powered down and I stepped out onto the roof of the tower.

Beside me, the co-pilot quickly secured the chopper to studs at the corners of the helipad with four long ratchet-straps.

It was cold up here, much colder than it’d been on the ground at the airport.

The wind was stronger, too.

Scanning the rooftop around me, I found it almost dizzying to be so far above the rest of New York.

I’d been in tall buildings before, but never one this high.

The narrowness of the roof was both disorienting and disconcerting. It made the rooftop feel even higher.

Bill Brewster evidently felt the same.

He pulled his jacket tighter. ‘I dunno. Buildings shouldn’t be this tall and this thin.’

I was about to answer him when the group of FBI agents who had been waiting for us approached . . .

. . . and I saw the female one in the FBI windbreaker up close and froze, recognising her.

‘Hey, Sam,’ she said.