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I had to spread another twenty thousand around out at Heathrow.”
    â€œIn all, $138,000,” Timble said. “Not bad, although I think you could have sliced just a teeny bit more off the Bulgarian’s price for his umbrella.”
    â€œI could have rented it,” Keeling said, not bothering to put much sarcasm into his tone, because Timble never noticed it anyway.
    For a moment Timble’s face brightened. But it was only for a moment. “No,” he said, “I don’t suppose that would have done at all.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œStill, $138,000 isn’t bad. I think the ransom will be ten million. Ten million each, of course, or have I already mentioned that?”
    Keeling wiped one of his large hands hard across the bottom of his face. “Leland?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLemme ask you something again?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAnd this time you’ll give me a straight answer?”
    â€œCertainly.”
    â€œWho are we gonna ransom Felix down there feeding the sharks twice to?”
    For a moment, Timble’s expression changed. The emotion that flitted across it was one of either rage or despair. Like a child, Timble’s face had a limited range of expressions which came and went so quickly it was often difficult to determine his feelings.
    â€œYou didn’t forget my contingency instructions, did you, Franklin? I would be extremely disappointed if you did. Most operations fail because of a lack of contingency planning. An ability to anticipate the unexpected as well as the unforeseen—”
    â€œLeland,” Keeling interrupted.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI didn’t forget.”
    A look of pure joy came and went from Timble’s face in less than a second. It was almost subliminal. If I had blinked, Keeling thought, I would have missed it.
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t,” Timble said and smiled happily with his lips closed, showing no teeth. When he smiled like that, he reminded Keeling of those dumb faces that some people draw at the bottom of their letters.
    â€œLeland,” Keeling said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLemme ask you again. Who are we going to ransom Felix down there in the ocean twice to?”
    â€œDidn’t I just say?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh. Well, first to Israel and then to Libya. Or perhaps vice versa.”

8
    The day after his meeting with Paul Grimes, Chubb Dunjee on a very wet Thursday morning flew into Heathrow from Lisbon aboard an Iberia Airlines DC-8. He went through customs and immigration and then headed for the Pan Am counter, where he used his nearly expired American Express card to charge a first-class one-way ticket to Rome on a flight leaving in two hours.
    He had decided to put to a test the easy-money proposition Paul Grimes had made him in Sintra. Over the years, Dunjee had abandoned nearly all faith in easy money.
    At a pay phone he dialed the London number that Grimes had urged him to memorize. The phone rang its double rings twice before a woman’s voice answered with a carefully noncommittal “Yes.”
    â€œThis is Dunjee.”
    â€œOne moment.”
    There were some clicks and whirrings that Dunjee didn’t particularly care for, but then Grimes came on the phone with “Where are you?”
    â€œHeathrow. I’ll be in the Pan Am VIP lounge for the next hour and twenty minutes. If half of what we talked about in Sintra isn’t here by then, I’ll be elsewhere by evening.”
    â€œWell, shit, Chubb.”
    â€œIt’s up to you.”
    Grimes sighed. “It’ll be there,” he said and hung up.
    Dunjee effortlessly talked his way into the Pan Am VIP lounge, which turned out to be a rather grubby place that offered some worn couches and chairs, a TV set, and free help-yourself booze from a rotating circular rack of upside-down bottles. There were also some bowls of peanuts, potato chips, Ritz crackers, and a large mound of