Newton’s Fire

II

‘Twenty million,’ said Grant, when finally he rang back. ‘That’s the highest I can go.’

‘One hundred,’ replied Croke. ‘That’s the lowest I can go.’

‘Seriously, my friend. You don’t know the people I work with. They think you’re trying to take advantage of them. They hate people taking advantage. There’s no chance whatsoever that they’d go for forty, let alone a hundred.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Croke. He looked out his window at the French Riviera thirty thousand feet beneath, the distinctive shapes of its marinas, the white specks of the cocaine super-yachts. It wasn’t just how much they cost in themselves; it was their berthing fees and running costs. It was the salaries for their crews.

‘So we’re agreed, then? Twenty million.’

‘I’m not risking my life for twenty mill.’

A beat of silence. Two beats. ‘Thirty, then. I can probably go as high as thirty.’

‘Ninety,’ said Croke. ‘For what your friends will be getting, ninety’s a steal.’

‘You know nothing about my friends.’

‘I know they’ll be getting a steal at ninety.’

‘Fine,’ sighed Grant. ‘Call it fifty. But success-only, understood? No crying about near misses.’

They settled on seventy. Less than Croke had hoped; more than he’d expected. Now for the next stage. He called Avram in Jerusalem. ‘I need you to speak to Thaddeus for me,’ he told him.

‘Why me?’

‘Because I don’t speak his language.’

‘You don’t speak American?’ asked Avram, puzzled.

‘I don’t speak Bible.’

Avram grunted. ‘And what do you want me to say to him?’

‘Everything you told me before. Why you’re so confident about finding it. Why this is the time. Why it has to be tomorrow night. I need him to do something he won’t want to do. I need him excited. I need him rash.’

‘Leave it to me.’

‘Good. And when he’s ready, have him give me a call.’