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Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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plain-clothes detectives from the San Francisco Police
Department who hadn’t made his quota of arrests for the month.
‘Then
you won’t mind having a drink with an old con, will you?’ said the younger man,
revealing a slight Bronx accent.
Bill
hesitated, but the thirst won.
‘A
pint of draught Guinness,’ he said hopefully.
The
young man raised his hand and this time the barman responded immediately.
‘So
what do you want?’ asked Bill, once he’d taken a swig and was sure the barman
was out of earshot.
‘Your
skill.’
‘But
I’m retired. I already told you.’
‘And
I heard you the first time. But what I require isn’t criminal.’
‘So
what are you hoping I’ll knock up for you? A copy of the Mona Lisa, or is it to
be the Magna Carta?’
‘Nearer
home than that,’ said the young man.
‘Buy
me another,’ said Bill, staring at the empty glass that stood on the counter in
front of him, ‘and I’ll listen to your proposition. But I warn you, I’m still
retired.’
After
the barman had filled Bill’s glass a second time, the young man introduced
himself as Angelo Santini, and began to explain to Dollar Bill exactly what he
had in mind. Angelo was grateful that at four in the afternoon there was no one
else around to overhear them.
‘But
there are already thousands of those in circula ... tion,’ said Dollar Bill
when Angelo had finished. ‘You could buy a good reproduction from any decent
tourist shop.’
‘Maybe,
but not a perfect copy,’ insisted the young man.
Dollar
Bill put down his drink and thought about the statement.
‘Who
wants one?’
‘It’s
for a client who’s a collector of rare manuscripts,’ Angelo said. ‘And he’ll
pay a good price.’
Not
a bad lie, as lies go, thought Bill. He took another sip of Guinness. ‘But it
would take me weeks,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘In any case, I’d have
to move to Washington.’
‘We’ve
already found a suitable place for you in Georgetown, and I’m sure we can lay
our hands on all the materials you’d need.’
Dollar
Bill considered this claim for a moment, before taking another gulp and
declaring, ‘Forget it – it sounds too much like hard work. As I explained, it
would take me weeks and, worse, I’d have to stop drinking,’ he added, placing
his empty glass back on the counter. ‘You must understand, I’m a
perfectionist.’
‘That’s
exactly why I’ve travelled from one side of the country to the other to find
you,’ said Angelo quietly. Dollar Bill hesitated and looked at the young man
more carefully.
‘I’d
want $25,000 down and $25,000 on completion, with all expenses paid,’ said the
Irishman.
The
young man couldn’t believe his luck. Cavalli had authorised him to spend up to
$100,000 if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered
that his boss never trusted anyone who didn’t bargain.
‘$10,000
when we reach Washington and another $20,000 on completion.’
Dollar
Bill toyed with his empty glass.
‘$30,000
on completion if you can’t tell the difference between mine and the original.’
‘But
we’ll need to tell the difference,’ said Angelo. ‘You’ll get your $30,000 if no
one else can.’
Scott
heard the phone ringing when he was at the foot of the stairs. His mind was
still going over the morning lecture he had just given, but he leaped up the
stairs three at a time, pushed open the door of his apartment and grabbed the
phone, knocking his mother to the floor.
‘Scott
Bradley,’ he said as he picked up the photograph and replaced it on the
sideboard.
‘I
need you in Washington tomorrow. My office, nine o’clock sharp.’
Scott
was always impressed by the way Dexter Hutchins never introduced himself, and
assumed that the work he did for the CIA was more important than his commitment
to Yale.
It
took Scott most of the afternoon to rearrange his teaching schedule with two
understanding colleagues. He couldn’t use the excuse of
Department who hadn’t made his quota of arrests for the month.
‘Then
you won’t mind having a drink with an old con, will you?’ said the younger man,
revealing a slight Bronx accent.
Bill
hesitated, but the thirst won.
‘A
pint of draught Guinness,’ he said hopefully.
The
young man raised his hand and this time the barman responded immediately.
‘So
what do you want?’ asked Bill, once he’d taken a swig and was sure the barman
was out of earshot.
‘Your
skill.’
‘But
I’m retired. I already told you.’
‘And
I heard you the first time. But what I require isn’t criminal.’
‘So
what are you hoping I’ll knock up for you? A copy of the Mona Lisa, or is it to
be the Magna Carta?’
‘Nearer
home than that,’ said the young man.
‘Buy
me another,’ said Bill, staring at the empty glass that stood on the counter in
front of him, ‘and I’ll listen to your proposition. But I warn you, I’m still
retired.’
After
the barman had filled Bill’s glass a second time, the young man introduced
himself as Angelo Santini, and began to explain to Dollar Bill exactly what he
had in mind. Angelo was grateful that at four in the afternoon there was no one
else around to overhear them.
‘But
there are already thousands of those in circula ... tion,’ said Dollar Bill
when Angelo had finished. ‘You could buy a good reproduction from any decent
tourist shop.’
‘Maybe,
but not a perfect copy,’ insisted the young man.
Dollar
Bill put down his drink and thought about the statement.
‘Who
wants one?’
‘It’s
for a client who’s a collector of rare manuscripts,’ Angelo said. ‘And he’ll
pay a good price.’
Not
a bad lie, as lies go, thought Bill. He took another sip of Guinness. ‘But it
would take me weeks,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘In any case, I’d have
to move to Washington.’
‘We’ve
already found a suitable place for you in Georgetown, and I’m sure we can lay
our hands on all the materials you’d need.’
Dollar
Bill considered this claim for a moment, before taking another gulp and
declaring, ‘Forget it – it sounds too much like hard work. As I explained, it
would take me weeks and, worse, I’d have to stop drinking,’ he added, placing
his empty glass back on the counter. ‘You must understand, I’m a
perfectionist.’
‘That’s
exactly why I’ve travelled from one side of the country to the other to find
you,’ said Angelo quietly. Dollar Bill hesitated and looked at the young man
more carefully.
‘I’d
want $25,000 down and $25,000 on completion, with all expenses paid,’ said the
Irishman.
The
young man couldn’t believe his luck. Cavalli had authorised him to spend up to
$100,000 if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered
that his boss never trusted anyone who didn’t bargain.
‘$10,000
when we reach Washington and another $20,000 on completion.’
Dollar
Bill toyed with his empty glass.
‘$30,000
on completion if you can’t tell the difference between mine and the original.’
‘But
we’ll need to tell the difference,’ said Angelo. ‘You’ll get your $30,000 if no
one else can.’
Scott
heard the phone ringing when he was at the foot of the stairs. His mind was
still going over the morning lecture he had just given, but he leaped up the
stairs three at a time, pushed open the door of his apartment and grabbed the
phone, knocking his mother to the floor.
‘Scott
Bradley,’ he said as he picked up the photograph and replaced it on the
sideboard.
‘I
need you in Washington tomorrow. My office, nine o’clock sharp.’
Scott
was always impressed by the way Dexter Hutchins never introduced himself, and
assumed that the work he did for the CIA was more important than his commitment
to Yale.
It
took Scott most of the afternoon to rearrange his teaching schedule with two
understanding colleagues. He couldn’t use the excuse of
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