He gulped down his apple juice, his vitamin pills, his tea, then kissed Susan goodbye.

  "You're going to say yes?" she pleaded.

  "I'll sort something out," he said grimly, and left.

  At five past ten Mr. Sarotzini telephoned John and asked if they had come to a decision.

  In spite of his preparation, John found himself breaking out in a nervous sweat, and shaking. "I'd like to meet," he said. "I have a proposal to put to you."

  His reply was greeted by a long silence. When Mr. Sarotzini spoke again, his tone was icy. "My car will collect you from your office at a quarter to one, Mr. Carter. We will lunch at my club, which I trust will be convenient."

  John wondered if he ever ate anywhere different. He had planned to suggest that they met somewhere else, in a restaurant of his choosing, but before he could respond, the banker had disconnected.

  The Mercedes collected John, and he rode alone, but for the silent chauffeur. Although at the club he was now on increasingly familiar territory, the place made him feel uncomfortable, to the point of intimidation, and some of his remaining confidence left him.

  He was greeted politely by the staff and wheeled straight through to the dining room, as if his arrival had been rehearsed.

  More people were eating there than he previously remembered, and there were strong aromas of food in the room, of roast meat and, more pungently, of garlic. Above the general murmur of conversation he heard the sharp pop of a cork.

  Mr. Sarotzini was already at his table, sipping a glass of mineral water and checking through a load of documents. He rose to his full height to greet John, and John noticed for the first time an almost reptilian feel in his handshake: it was cold, moist and bony.

  In surprising contrast, Mr. Sarotzini's voice was warm and sincere, as was his expression "Mr. Carter, a pleasure to see you again. It was enchanting to meet your wife, such a remarkable young lady, truly remarkable."

  "Thank you," John said. "I think so too." A steward held his chair for him to sit down, unfolded a starched napkin and placed it on his lap. "Would Sir care for a drink?" he asked.

  "Mineral water, please," John said. "Perrier or Badot."

  "You are a very lucky man, Mr. Carter," Mr. Sarotzini said, sitting down. "A most fortunate man."

  Now, seated across the table from him, John remembered the banker's awesome presence. He wondered about Mr. Sarotzini's wife and tried to form a mental image of her, but could not. Was she a tall, steel-haired aristocrat? A small, dumpy little hausfrau? A beautiful young gold-digger?

  He made himself concentrate on his reason for being here. Mr. Sarotzini looked relaxed: life would go on for him whether DigiTrak survived or not; he would find someone else to provide a surrogate baby, no problem. He did not look the type of person to be unduly concerned by anything. He would go to Ascot, to polo, to the opera, to private art galleries, to great dinner parties and banquets regardless of whether John and Susan were a part of his life or not.

  A menu was presented, but John gave it hardly a glance. He wasn't hungry, and eating wasn't the point of this meeting. He ordered the same as he'd had before, smoked salmon and then sole, no wine, he said in response to Mr. Sarotzini's offer, although he could have happily drunk a bottle straight down. He needed to keep a clear head.

  When the waiter had moved away, Mr. Sarotzini leant across the table towards him, and asked, quietly, "You would not mind if I were to take your wife to the opera, Mr. Carter? I have the impression that you yourself are not particular about opera."

  "No," John said, momentarily thrown by the question. He had been expecting Mr. Sarotzini to get straight down to business. He took this as an encouraging sign. "No, I'm not," he said. "Please do, she'd love it. I'm afraid it's rather wasted on me."

  "The next time I come to England, I shall arrange for tickets." Mr. Sarotzini seemed almost childishly pleased. Maybe he was lonely, John wondered. As rich as Croesus but lonely. He clung to this dreary club because he was known here. He bought friendships, and he thought, even, that he could buy a family.

  Let's keep the illusion going.

  Then, very calmly, Mr. Sarotzini said, "I have prepared the documents."

  John watched as he spread them out into neat piles, wondering if the banker had misunderstood him earlier.

  "There is a clinic here in London, Mr. Carter, close to Harley Street. It is owned by the VOrn Bank and offers the finest medical care in this country. There is nowhere more discreet, more private. This is where the insemination will take place."

  The smoked salmon and quails" eggs arrived. John said nothing as Mr. Sarotzini continued, "You are no doubt aware that it is not against the law in England to have a surrogate child, but it is illegal for money to change hands in such an arrangement, other than for expenses."

  John, squeezing lemon onto his salmon, nodded. He'd had a brief word earlier with his lawyer about surrogate law, wanting to understand at least the basics. "This documentation acknowledges myself to be the legal father, which will circumnavigate the law." Mr. Sarotzini raised his eyebrows and received acknowledgement. "Now, who knows what emotions can take place during a pregnancy?"

  John said nothing, watching Mr. Sarotzini's face, listening carefully, waiting for his chance.

  "You will understand that I need to protect my investment, Mr. Carter. So, your house, and all but the ten percent of the shares in DigiTrak owned by your partner, Mr. Gareth Noyce, will be transferred into my ownership until the infant is in my possession. At this point the house will be transferred back to your ownership, together with thirty-nine percent of the shares in DigiTrak. I trust this will be acceptable."

  John cut a piece of salmon, playing for time while he thought out his " reply. He put down his knife and fork and played with his napkin. "Look, there's a problem we need to discuss. Susan is finding this difficult. I think I can persuade her, but I'm going to need time. We can't rush into this."

  Mr. Sarotzini shook his head, looking relaxed. "! don't have that impression, Mr. Carter. I don't think your wife finds this difficult at all. I think you are misreading her. On the contrary, I think it is you who finds it difficult, perhaps."

  John was taken aback by the certainty in his voice. Taken aback because the man was right.

  The banker gestured to John's plate. "Please, Mr. Carter, eat."

  John ate his salmon, like a child scolded by a parent, while he tried to find a way back into the negotiations.

  "This lawsuit that you have with your composer still worries me, Mr. Carter."

  "My barrister feels it's unlikely that Danziger will go the distance. He feels we have enough evidence to show a judge that we didn't deliberately set out to steal someone else's work."

  "But at what cost?"

  John was surprised that the banker was bringing all this up again. He relayed everything his barrister had told him, pointing out that copyright was a grey area of the law, nothing was certain, and maybe if they had a bank like the VSrn behind them, Danziger would back off or, at worst, accept a small out-of-court settlement.

  They reached coffee without any further mention of the surrogacy, and John was feeling a little more hopeful. He had been able to turn the conversation into a serious discussion about the future potential of DigiTrak, and to demonstrate to Mr. Sarotzini the company's viability. The man was a banker, after all. He might be desperate for a child, but surely he wouldn't want to let a good business opportunity slip past? Of all the pitches John had made during the past four weeks, none had been so receptively received as the one he was making now. He was certain that he had swung Mr. Sarotzini into believing in the merits of DigiTrak in its own right. Bolstered by this, he made his play. "This is my proposition, Mr. Sarotzini. If you will put up the funding for DigiTrak, just on an interim basis, I will give you my undertaking to do my best to persuade Susan. I'm sure I can, given time."

  Mr. Sarotzini raised his tiny coffee cup, holding the handle between his forefinger and thumb in a dainty manner. This was not matched by his expression, which had turned to steel. His voice had turned hard also, and impersonal. "You do not appear to have registered what I said to you earlier, Mr. Carter. It is not your wife who has objections to my proposal, it is you. Let me make it clear to you that my terms are not negotiable. You will understand, if you ever do business with me, that I am fair to the point of generosity but I am firm. I have offered you a solution to your problems. You have to take it or leave it."

  John's heart sank. He stared back into the grey eyes, and felt clumsy because Mr. Sarotzini had seen through him. Clumsy and cheap. Even his suit, which was from Paul Smith and had cost a fortune, felt cheap in Mr. Sarotzini's presence.

  He took a breath, hating this man now with all his heart. "I appreciate your offer, but it's not acceptable. My wife and I aren't for sale."

  Without any visible reaction, Mr. Sarotzini slowly scooped up the pages of the documents and tidied them. There was a matter-of-factness about the way he did this, as if he really did not care one way or another, and John watched him helplessly, aware that he had badly misjudged the banker.

  "Mr. Carter, please realise that I do understand the complexities of emotions in this situation. It was a thought, an idea I had to help you out of your dilemma. We will talk no more of it. I will transfer the funds back to Switzerland and that will be the end of the matter." He paused to wave away a waiter, who was trying to refill his cup. Mr. Sarotzini smiled. "I have enjoyed our brief friendship, Mr. Carter, and perhaps our paths will cross again one day. Who knows?"

  From beside his chair Mr. Sarotzini produced a slim black briefcase. He opened it, put in the documents, and closed each of the catches with a sharp click. Then he downed the remnants of his coffee, nodded at the head waiter and got up from the table.

  As John rose also, the finality hit him. Mr. Sarotzini was moving towards the door at a speed that startled him, as if John already belonged in his past. Hurriedly following him out past the porter's desk, he thought about the expression on Susan's face this morning. It had been that of someone looking forward to a challenge.

  Maybe he was being too hasty. Perhaps this was the perfect solution: Susan could experience motherhood without them having to bring up a child. They would be out of their financial mess. And she wouldn't have to worry about Casey - neither of them would.

  He followed Mr. Sarotzini into the street with a mounting sense of panic. Without even turning to acknowledge him, the banker was getting into the back of his Mercedes. John realised he had no fax or phone number, no e-mail address for this man. His last chance to save his business, his home and, perhaps, even, his marriage was about to glide away into the London traffic.

  As the chauffeur closed the door, John ran forward. "Mr. Sarotzini! Wait, please. We'll do it!"

  For a moment, as the chauffeur climbed in behind the wheel, John thought the car was going to pull away. Then the rear window began to slide down. Mr. Sarotzini peered through it, staring into John's eyes with an intensity that scared him.

  "Let us be absolutely clear on this, Mr. Carter. I will give you one and a half million pounds. Your wife will bear the child my wife and I are unable to have. The day the baby is born you will hand it over to us. You will never see it again. We have a deal?"

  "We have a deal," John replied.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  "Nietzsche said, "That which does not kill me makes me stronger.""

  On channel 4 on the monitor in Klindz's attic, John Carter, leaning against the kitchen table, said to Susan, "What time do you have to be there?"

  Klindz, in his armchair, read several more paragraphs of the book on the German philosopher, Nietzsche, that Mr. Sarotzini had recommended to him, then looked at the television screen again.

  This was the shape of his life now. He watched, he read, he sketched, he reported. Sometimes, at his discretion, he hired extra people to maintain surveillance on Susan Carter when she travelled. Nothing could be missed, no place that she visited, no people she met, no conversation she had. "Ten," Susan Carter said.

  "And you really don't want me to be there, you're sure, hon?" John Carter asked.

  Susan was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and yachting shoes. Klindz liked her in this casual outfit. She was making supper, roasted peppers with anchovies, then grilled lamb chops, followed by raspberries and from age frais. John Carter did not appreciate the effort his wife made each evening, cooking for him, and this angered Klindz. Susan's job was just as demanding as her husband's, yet she was the one who always had to work at home too. He hoped Mr. Sarotzini would allow him to teach John Carter a lesson for this.

  And now, while she worked, John Carter was doing nothing except drinking whisky. He was still drinking too much, Klindz thought. This was weakness: he didn't need to drink this much, not now he had got what he wanted.

  Klindz was concerned about the amount john Carter drank because sometimes it made him snap at Susan, and Klindz could see the pain in her face when he did this, and the pain hurt him. Burned him. This made him hate John Carter even more than he already hated him.

  John Carter switched on the television in the kitchen, but he didn't watch it. Instead he flicked through the pages of a magazine.

  "I'm sure," Susan said. "I'm really sure, OK?" She'd left beef cooking the meal and was watering a row of plants in pots along the window-sill. They might have been herbs, Klindz couldn't tell. Although he was becoming an expert on poetry, philosophy, painting, opera, he knew nothing about plants. One day Mr. Sarotzini would teach him about plants, but not yet.

  And there was only so much that could be taught, Mr. Sarotzini said. That which is truly important had to be learned.

  Mr. Sarotzini had explained this to him, telling him always to carry inside his head the words: "I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand."

  Klindz read these words now. Then he looked at the date on his watch. It was the twenty-first. And tomorrow was the twenty-second: 22July. Yes. For three weeks he had watched Jotin and Susan Carter, had listened to them day and night, and all the time they kept on talking about it, debating it, discussing their visits to the clinic.

  They had been to the clinic eleven times now. On five occasions John Carter had gone with Susan, on the rest she had gone on her own for the injections to improve her chances of conception. Klindz had listened to them discussing the doctors they had met there, and they were impressed with the clinic, there was no doubt about that.

  Mr. Sarotzini had been very pleased to hear that.

  July 22. The centre of her ovulation cycle. Tomorrow.

  And that was more than good.

  Susan walked out of the kitchen towards the living room and Klindz switched to channel 3, picked her up, watched her carry the glass vase she was using as a watering can over to a plant, a potted palm perhaps, he wasn't sure. Susan knew about plants: maybe she would teach him about them.

  He carried on watching her, in no hurry to re'turn to Nietzsche, although he was enjoying the book. But he was enjoying Susan Carter in her jeans, white T-shirt and yachting shoes even more.

  John Carter came out into the living room now, put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. "It's not too late, darling. We don't have to go through with this, OK?"

  "Everything's signed."

  "It doesn't matter."

  Susan wished - and neither John nor Klindz could read this - that John would take his hands off her. She wished he would stop kissing her, stop giving her the option to quit, every five minutes.

  She had made up her mind, she had come to terms with all the voices inside her head that screamed at her not to do this, and now all she wanted was her own space. She wanted to make a box and hammer a label on the outside of it that said, NINE-MONTH BOX, and she wanted to climb inside it, close it, bolt the hatch, have this baby, and let Mr. Sarotzini take it away. Then she could climb out and get her life back.

  But it wasn't going to be like that, however much she wanted it to be. And it was this that made her angry, this fear that she was not going to be in control, that Mr. Sarotzini was already in control and, from tomorrow, doctors would be in control too, and then the baby, if she conceived, would be in control, too. And what was going to happen to her emotions - and to her marriage?

  Layered beneath those fears lay her curiosity. She had convinced herself that she was doing this for Casey. But she knew, also, that she was doing it for herself A few days ago in a magazine she had read that it was important for health reasons for a woman to become pregnant at least once. She had shown the article to John, taking consolation in it.

  She was dying for a drink, although she'd been told strictly no alcohol tonight.

  Klindz watched in dismay as she poured herself a glass of ros( wine. This gave him a problem he would rather not have had, because he should report it. But if he did, what would happen? Would they delay?

  And the timing, he reflected. If he reported this one glass she was now drinking, so much would have to be changed that it hardly bore thinking about. And Mr. Sarotzini might be angry with him, might blame him for not stopping her from drinking.

  Just one glass, Susan Carter, that's all.

  He remembered something Mr. Sarotzini had taught him, the story of the strong man who said, "Give me a firm place to stand and I will move the world."

  "We can all be that man," Mr. Sarotzini had told him. "We can all push the lever that moves the world, it is inside us, we just have to learn how to recognise it, how to use it, that is all we have to do."

  Susan moved to the dining room and Klindz turned the channel selector to 6. There wasn't much in this room, just a trestle and some rolls of wallpaper. Klindz wasn't sure why she had come in here.

  She walked to the window and stared out at the garden. Now he understood: she had come in here to be alone.

  And Klindz, watching her so closely, almost breathless with adulation, knew. He knew. He was certain that Susan was the lever that would move his world. But there was a lack of clarity that bothered him. There were events going on, wheels turning. He thought again of Mr. Sarotzini's words, "I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand." July 22. Tomorrow.