"I'm sure I would have heard back by the end of the week," John said. "I did a search on his bank for you," Archie said. "You did?" John was surprised.

  "Uh huh. The V6rn, right? V-6-r-n?" Archie spelled it. "Yes. Thanks, what did you find?"

  "Goose eggs."

  "Goose eggs?"

  "Zilch. But that doesn't necessarily mean much. V6rn could be its trading name - it might be registered as something different."

  The boat thumped hard through the heavy wake from a ferry and spray fogged John's sunglasses. He removed them and wiped them, with only moderate success, on his salty T-shirt.

  "Half my clients are banks that only exist on paper," Archie continued. "You try to trace them back, you end up with nominee directors in Liechtenstein who are working for nominee directors in Panama, who are working for the subsidiary of a shell that's registered in the Cayman Islands. Classic Mafia money-laundering technique."

  John frowned. "Think this could be Mafia?"

  "Do you?" Archie threw the question back at him, and shook out a cigarette. He lost his concentration as he reached into a cubby-hole for his lighter and the boat veered off-course, then rolled sharply as he overcorrected. Some of John's gin and tonic slopped out of the glass.

  "I hadn't thought about "This Sarotzini character. Sounds sort of Italian. Is he Italian?"

  "No, I assumed he was Swiss, I suppose, I don't know. His accent is more German than Italian."

  "I can't find anything on him, either. Nobody's heard of him."

  "Is that unusual?"

  "There are players who keep a low profile. Might not be his real name -you didn't ask him?"

  "Oh, sure," John said, with a grin, taking a long pull on his drink. "First thing I said to him, Arch - "Can I borrow a million quid and, by the way, is that your real name?""

  Archie grunted, his concentration distracted by a flashing orange blip on one of his navigation screens. "Don't know what the fuck that means," he said, twiddling a couple of knobs. He called up a help menu and began to study it. "Keep an eye out ahead."

  "I am." John scanned the water: at the speed they were going, sail-boats came up fast.

  Still studying the menu, and fiddling with more dials and buttons now, Archie said, "It's a long shot, but I've got an Arab client who's looking for technology companies to buy. I've given you a hard sell."

  "Thanks. Did he bite?"

  Archie hesitated. "No, I wouldn't say that, but he didn't turn you down flat. He's in the frame. How're you getting on with Big Jim?"

  That was the liquidator Archie had recommended. John had signed and carefully filed away a load of phoney, backdated documents Big Jim had helped him prepare, and he was nervous: it was the first time he had ever done something fraudulent, although the liquidator had assured him that this went on all time, that it was almost standard practice for any company going down the tubes.

  Archie's Arab didn't sound much of a prospect and John suspected that his friend had only mentioned it to try to keep up his morale. He was dreading tomorrow and all that the coming week was going to bring. Dreading it. He was going to have to tell Gareth and the rest of his staff, although he was going to have one final last-ditch attempt at reaching a deal with Zak Danziger. He had asked his lawyer to set up a meeting for tomorrow, to try to persuade Danziger that if DigiTrak did go to the wall there would be nothing at all for him.

  He wasn't looking forward to that meeting either. Next to the subhuman Clarke, Danziger was probably the most unpleasant person John had ever met.

  "Got it!" Archie said suddenly. "The orange blip. It's an aeroplane going overhead!"

  "Well, that's useful to know," John said.

  Archie gave him a sideways glance, unsure whether he was being serious or taking the mickey.

  John was normally at his desk before eight o'clock, but on this Monday he'd dragged his feet while getting ready. Susan, her voice heavy with emotion, had wished him lots of luck and, unusually for her, had set off for work before him.

  Because he had left late, he got caught up in heavier traffic, and it was nine fifteen before he reached the office. Stella greeted him with the news that Mr. Clarke had phoned and needed to speak to him urgently.

  "Fuck him," John snapped, startling her. He slammed the door behind him, hung up his jacket, then sat at his desk and switched on his computer. A stack of post awaited him and another of e-mail, none of which he had any enthusiasm to tackle. His back and the tops of his shoulders were raw - sunburned yesterday on Archie's boat.

  Why had Clarke rung? To remind him of what he already knew, that he had just two days left to his deadline? To gloat? Calming down a little, he buzzed Stella and asked her to get the bank manager for him.

  Moments later, Clarke was on the line. He did not sound like the same Mr. Clarke John had met almost a month ago.

  "Mr. Carter," he said. "This is a very encouraging development!"

  John wondered if the man had misheard his secretary and thought he was talking to someone else. The only encouraging development he could think of was either that Clarke was terminally ill or that he was leaving the bank. What the hell was he talking about? "Which development exactly do you mean?" he asked, cautiously.

  "The one and a half million pounds from the V6rn Bank." It was Clarke's turn to sound a little strange!

  John heard the words but took several moments to comprehend them. "The V6rn Bank?" he echoed, finally his pulse starting to race.

  Some of the good humour evaporated from Clarke's voice. "You do know about this, I presume, Mr. Carter?"

  "Yes - I - I -" John started to bluff. "I've been in negotiation with them, but -" He wasn't sure how to go on, and was almost too excited to think clearly. "I wasn't expecting the funds quite yet."

  "I have explicit instructions from a Mr. Sarotzini. The sum of one point five million pounds has been transferred from the VOrn Bank in Geneva in Switzerland and lodged in a temporary account they have opened with us, pending transfer to DigiTrak when documentation has been completed. The V6rn Bank has indicated to us that they anticipate the transfer should occur by the end of this week. In view of the circumstances, Mr. Carter, should it be necessary, I am prepared to allow you a few days" grace on my bank's original deadline."

  John could not believe that this was happening. He wanted to throw his arms around Mr. Sarotzini and hug him. Tears were welling in his eyes, and his voice was choked. He swallowed, trying to compose himself, not wanting Clarke to know that this was a complete surprise.

  "Thank you," he said, pausing again to control his voice. "I appreciate the extension."

  "No bank likes to see a valued customer go out of business," Mr. Clarke said. "I can assure you, Mr. carter, that no one is more delighted by this news than myself."

  "I'm sure," John replied, swallowing the man's hypocrisy. Right now he was filled with almost as much gratitude towards him as he was towards Mr. Sarotzini.

  Just after he put down the receiver on Mr. Clarke, the phone buzzed. It was Stella. She had Mr. Sarotzini on the line.

  "I've just had a call from my bank," John said to him. "Thank you - I'm just incredibly grateful."

  Mr. Sarotzini replied, in a tone that was coldly formal, "We have deposited these funds, Mr. Carter, to demonstrate our good faith. You have yet to agree to our terms."

  John barely heard him. He was thinking about Susan's face when he told her the news, about how he was no longer going to have to say anything to Gareth or his staff, about the house that they were going to be able to keep, after all. He didn't care about terms, he was going to have to accept them. "Of course," he replied.

  "Are you and your wife free to join me at my club for dinner tonight, perhaps?"

  "My wife?" John said, a little surprised.

  "Yes, I should like to meet her."

  It struck John as an odd request, but he and Susan had no plans, he was certain, and even if they did they'd have to cancel them. "Sure, yes - I -I'm sure she would be delighted."

  "Good," Mr. Sarotzini said. His voice was still cold, but John hardly noticed. "My driver will collect you both from your home at seven thirty this evening."

  John was so elated, and his brain was in such a whirl, that all he wanted to do right now was call Susan and tell her the news. It did not occur to him that he had never given Mr. Sarotzini his home address. "Seven thirty," he said. "Perfect."

  Chapter Twenty

  It was quiet in Mr. Sarotzini's club, and John wondered whether the establishment was more of a lunchtime venue than an evening one. Although, of course, it was a Monday night. Only a few tables were occupied, and many were not even laid. One elderly steward was occupying himself by aligning the CUtlery on a.nearby table.

  "The Napa Valley," Mr. Sarotzini said. "Yes. The French have much reason to be grateful to the Americans. When phylloxera destroyed so many of the great vines of Bordeaux in the 1880s, they were replanted with rootstock from the East Coast. You have been to any of the wine regions, Mrs. Carter? You know the Napa Valley?"

  They were in an alcove, which could not have been" more private. John stared at Mr. Sarotzini across a small cut-glass vase of yellow carnations. The banker was eating quails" eggs. Susan, who had a plate of Parma ham and melon, told him that she had been there.

  She looked stunning tonight, and John felt more proud of her than ever before. She was wearing a new suit, which she had rushed out and bought after he had phoned her the good news; the jacket was stone-coloured with black abstract markings, and the matching skirt was plain and elegant. Under the jacket she had on a simple white open-necked blouse, and a silver pendant on a velvet band round her throat. She always dressed well, but he had never seen her look classier.

  Mr. Sarotzini reeled off a list of towns, villages, vineyards, and Susan responded enthusiastically. She talked about soil, escarpments, canyons and valleys, about specific density, alkaline soil, late harvesting, and John remembered now that a couple of years ago she had edited a book on Californian wines, a technical, scientific guide to the industry.

  Mr. Sarotzini raised his wine glass and said, "Forsake not an old friend, for the new is not comparable to him. A new friend is as new wine; when it is old, thou shalt drink it with pleasure."" He stared pointedly at her. "Ecclesiastics," she responded.

  Mr. Sarotzini smiled. "Remarkable." He turned to John. "You have a remarkable wife, Mr. Carter. You are aware of this?"

  Susan laughed freely. "He needs reminding sometimes!"

  John grinned. He peeled a quail's egg, dipped it into some salt and ate it. He'd never tried one before, and had decided that if Mr. Sarotzini ate these for lunch every day, they must be special. But it was disappointing. It tasted, in his view, as bland as any ordinary hard-boiled egg.

  Susan was enjoying herself: she had taken an instant liking to Mr. Sarotzini. She loved his elegant appearance, his old-world courtly charm, his cultured voice, the humorous twinkle in his eyes, although she was finding it hard to put an age on him. At one moment his features looked delicate to the point of frailty, particularly in the way he ate, taking tiny mouthfuls of his shrimps and bread and butter, chewing slowly like an elderly man nervous of choking. But at the next there was an assured, confident flow in the way he moved, in the way his manicured hands gestured animatedly as he conversed, and in the power that his erect, lean body radiated. It was then that she could see a deep strength within him, the grace and power of a lion.

  This was a man she would have loved to have had as an uncle, or a grandfather. He had so much knowledge, exuded such passion for life: she felt she could talk to him for ever.

  The conversation moved from wine to opera. John disliked opera. He knew Susan loved it but, even so, her savvy surprised him as she talked, well able to keep up with Mr. Sarotzini whose encyclopedic knowledge of wine was nothing compared to his authority on opera. John found himself a bystander, left out of the conversation, but he didn't mind. This was brilliant, he thought. Susan and Mr. Sarotzini were hitting it off famously, she was impressing the man, sho was winning this battle for the money single-handed.

  John peeled the last of his eggs while they compared Rimsky-Korsakov operas, each enthusing about their own favourite, and then, over lamb cutlets, they moved on to ballet. John knew even less about ballet and loathed it even more than opera.

  He could see in Susan's eyes that she was captivated. She had gone beyond a mere show of good manners, of common courtesy to her husband's potential business associate. She had really connected with the man. Mr. Sarotzini was making plans (with John's permission, of course, he said, with a smile he would like to take Susan for lunch one day soon, and afterwards show her his favourite gallery, a room where there were paintings from the Renaissance of which few knew. And, perhaps, one evening a concert? And Glyndebourne before the end of the season. John must come to Glyndebourne as "well; they would see something accessible, Mozart, perhaps, Don Giovanni - would John care to see Don Giovanni?

  John was aware, suddenly, that both Susan and Mr. Sarotzini were looking at him, awaiting the answer to a question he had not heard. "I'm sorry," he said, "I was miles away."

  "Mr. Sarotzini is inviting us to Glyndebourne," Susan said, "Don Giovanni? I think you'd enjoy it, it's not heavy."

  John thought that he'd rather spend an evening in hospital, having his gall bladder removed without an anaesthetic, than have to sit through an opera, but he didn't say this. Instead he replied politely, "I'd be delighted."

  After dinner they went through: into the club's large drawing room, which they had to themselves, and settled into wing-back leather chairs. Coffee arrived, and Mr. Sarotzini insisted John had a brandy. He ordered one for himself as well. John hesitated as a box of Montecristo cigars was offered, then selected one, acknowledging Susan's glance which had said, "Go ahead, you're allowed this!" The banker selected one too.

  The conversation had moved to the English romantic poets. Mr. Sarotzini favoured Shelley, and quoted "Ozymandias, King of Kings", in its entirety and, from John's memory, word perfect.

  With literature, John was On better terrain: he could get a toehold into the conversation here. But he was beginning to feel agitated. Not one word of business had been spoken the entire evening, and he wanted to steer the conversation around to this now, while Mr. Sarotzini was in such good humour. All his instincts were telling him that this would be a smart time to negotiate.

  As if he sensed this, Mr. Sarotzini shifted his position in his chair. For some moments, he worked on his cigar, puffing out several thick clouds of smoke; then, careful not to disturb the half inch of ash, he rested it in the ashtray. He picked up his brandy balloon, and cradled it in both hands, his fingers outstretched around the contours of the glass as he seemingly studied the contents. "I'm glad," he said, "that we are able to feel so comfortable together."

  He gave each of them in turn a piercing stare that made John feel uneasy. "It is so pleasant to have so many interests in common." The banker smiled, an easy, warm smile. "There is something else we have in common also."

  John watched Mr. Sarotzini expectantly, sucking on his cigar, trying to draw it back into life. It was the first he had smoked in several years and he was enjoying the taste but it was making his mouth hot and parched.

  "You see, Mr. and Mrs. Carter, you are childless. My wife and I are also childless, but there is a difference. You are childless by choice, my wife and I by unfortunate circumstance." He paused to sip a little brandy, and there was sadness in his voice when he spoke again. "My wife is unable to conceive or bear a child, the result of a cancer operation some years ago."

  John glanced at Susan and saw her looking at the banker with apparent sympathy. Susan was again trying to work out his age. He must be in his late fifties, she thought, at the very least, and could be quite a bit older than that. Perhaps his wife was much younger.

  Circling the rim of his glass with his index finger, as if he were stroking a cat, Mr. Sarotzini said, "This is my proposition. I am prepared to give you, Mr. Carter, the one million pounds you require to pay off your bank, together with the five hundred thousand necessary to pay off the mortgage on your house, by way of the V6rn Bank acquiring a fifty-one percent equity stake in your business."

  Mr. Sarotzini paused to pick up his cigar and John's brain raced. On the surface, this seemed fair, far more so than he had been expecting. A bank taking an equity stake in a business would customarily want around thirty to thirty-five percent but, under the circumstances, and considering that no bank would normally allow any such investment money to be used for private purposes, the deal seemed, the more he thought about it, incredibly generous.

  Then Mr. Sarotzini continued. "In exchange for this, I would like you to be the surrogate parents for the child my wife and I cannot have." He drew hard on his cigar and blew a long plume of smoke up at the stuccoed ceiling.

  John looked at him, unsure that he had heard correctly. He caught Susan's eye and saw the same uncertainty. "Surrogate parents? How exactly do you mean?"

  Mr. Sarotzini stared John straight in the eye. "Mrs. Carter would be artificially inseminated - in a clinic, of course - with semen provided by myself. She would act, until the birth of the baby, as its natural mother. Then you would hand over this child to my wife and me."

  John turned to Susan. She had gone white and looked rigid with disbelief. What the hell's going on here? Susan was signalling. And John signalled back that he had no answer. Something deep inside him had gone cold, as if he had been given a lifeline, which had been cruelly snatched away before he could reach it. He could not believe what the man had said.

  Susan asked unsteadily, "Why? I mean, why me - us?" She was in turmoil, trying to read the expressions on her husband's and Mr. Sarotzini's faces.

  As if anticipating this, Mr. Sarotzini said, calmly, "Mrs. Carter, let me assure you that your husband was wholly unaware of this proposition. Please believe that there has been no conspiracy between us over this."

  Trying to think clearly through her shock, Susan wanted to say something that would keep the deal alive for John. There must be hundreds of women who would be prepared to have a surrogate child for money. If that was what the banker wanted, she could find someone, there were organisations in America she had read about. "This isn't something I'd want to do, but i'll be very happy to help you find someone," she said, sounding calmer than she felt.