“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar.”

It was Fat Gandhi. He had done this on purpose, the four A.M. call. Myron understood. He was trying to catch Myron off guard, in the middle of a sleep cycle. He hoped to find Myron disoriented and just slightly off his game. Classic move.

“Hey,” Myron said.

“Do you have the money?”

“I do.”

“Lovely. Please go to the NatWest Bank on Fulham Palace Road.”

“Now?”

“As soon as possible, yes.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“I am aware. There is an employee named Denise Nussbaum, who will be standing by the door. Go to her. She will help you open an account and make the proper deposit.”

“I’m not following.”

“You will, if you listen. Go where I tell you. Denise Nussbaum will give you wiring instructions.”

“You expect me to wire the money to you before I get the boys?”

“No. I expect you to do what I say. The boys will show up once the account is open. When you see them, you will complete the wire transfer to our cybercurrency account. Then you get the boys.”

Myron looked over at Win. Win nodded at him.

“Okay,” Myron said.

“What, Mr. Bolitar, you prefer the old-fashioned way? Did you think I would make you use various red telephone boxes and jump on the Underground and perhaps drop the ransom off in a hollow tree?” Fat Gandhi chuckled. “You watch too much television, my friend.”

Oh boy. “Are we done?”

“Not so fast, Mr. Bolitar. I have a few more, shall we say, requests.”

Myron waited.

“Bring no weaponry of any kind.”

“Okay.”

“You come alone. You will be followed and watched. We realize that you have some sort of backup in this country. Other people working with you. If we see any of them within smelling distance of this transaction, there will be consequences.”

“Now who’s the one watching too much television?”

Fat Gandhi liked that one. “You don’t want to cross me, mate.”

“I won’t,” Myron said.

“Good.”

“But one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I know you’re scary and all,” Myron said. “But so are we.”

Myron waited for a reply, but the phone went dead. Myron and Win exchanged a glance.

“Did he hang up?” Win asked.

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

Chapter 8

They sat in the back of the stretch Bentley. Win had put the money in a rather elegant leather suitcase. Myron read the label.

“A Swaine Adeney Brigg bag for a ransom drop?”

“I had nothing cheaper on hand.”

“Do you know Fulham Palace Road?” Myron asked.

“Not well.”

“So where should we drop me off so we won’t be seen?”

“Behind Claridge’s Hotel.”

“That’s near this bank?”

“No. It’s approximately a twenty- to twenty-five-minute ride.”

“I’m not following.”

“I switched out your phone last night.”

“Right, I know.”

“When your rotund friend from the arcade temporarily confiscated said phone, he put a tracking chip into it.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s been keeping tabs on my location.”

“Well, not yours, of course. I had one of my men bring the phone to Claridge’s. He checked into the hotel under the alias of Myron Bolitar.”