T he three men were sitting around a large oak table in the Mandarin Oriental’s business-suite boardroom. Dressed in a Camps de Luca suit, a silk shirt, and a tie that he’d bound into a schoolboy knot, Philippe Delage looked at home in the five-star surroundings. He was probably around fifty years old, but wealth, a charmed life, an attractive wife half his age, a personal trainer, or all of those things had made him look ten years younger. By contrast, Richard Baines looked like a 1980s barrow boy banker-pin-striped suit, suspenders over a striped shirt, slicked-back hair, and overapplied eau de cologne. The third man, Will Cochrane posing as Thomas Eden, was dressed as if he were about to have a glass of port in the Household Cavalry’s officers’ mess-dark Huntsman bespoke Savile Row sports jacket, pink shirt with cutaway collar, regimental tie, cords, and brogues.
Delage studied Eden’s business card and said in a barely accented voice, “I’ve never heard of Thomas Eden before.” He looked at Baines. “Why is that?”
Baines shrugged. “Fucked if I know, pal.”
Delage shook his head. “You say you’ve done business together for years. Strange, given that you and I have known each other for the same length of time and you’ve never mentioned him before.”
Baines pointed a finger at the Frenchman. “Don’t be a shit, Philippe. I bet you’ve got a dozen contacts tucked away who I don’t know about.”
Delage smiled. “Maybe that’s true. But why are you revealing Thomas Eden to me now?”
Baines was about to speak, but Will raised a hand to silence him. “Because I’m paying him an introductory fee that equates to ten percent of anything I get out of the relationship.”
“Introductory fee to meet me?”
Will laughed. “No. Someone you know.”
Delage seemed unflustered. “So what’s in it for me?”
“Not my problem. I suggest you arrange terms with the man I want to meet.”
“And who is that?”
Will smiled. “Otto von Schiller.”
Delage did not smile as he began rapidly turning over Eden’s business card in his hands. “Who gave you that name?”
“I have my contacts.”
Delage held the card still. “What’s your interest in him?”
Will looked serious. “Soon I’m going to have my hands on some very interesting blueprints. I’m looking for a buyer, and I think von Schiller might be that person.”
“Blueprints of what?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
The Frenchman looked sharply at Baines. “This has been a waste of my time.”
Will interjected. “Give him my business card. That’s all you need to do. The blueprints I’m talking about-I reckon they’ve got a market value of around fifty million dollars. If I were you, I’d start thinking about what percentage you want from the deal for”-he nodded toward the business card-“merely handing over a tiny bit of cardboard.”
T hat evening, Will’s Thomas Eden cell phone rang.
Philippe Delage.
He listened to the Frenchman’s precise instructions. Otto von Schiller would meet him tomorrow.
But it was crucial that he come alone.