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A pause. Zack was bemused by the unexpectedness of the reference to the money’s weight.
“That’s it, Quinn. Don’t argue. Any tricks and we can always send you a couple of fingers to straighten you out.”
In Kensington, McCrea gagged and skittered away to the bathroom. He hit a coffee table on the way.
“Who’s with you?” snarled Zack.
“A spook,” said Quinn. “You know the way it is. These assholes are not going to leave me alone, now are they?”
“I meant what I said.”
“Come on, Zack, there’s no need for that. We’re both pros. Right? Let’s keep it like that, eh? We do what we have to do, nothing more or less. Now time’s up. Get off the line.”
“Just get the money, Quinn.”
“I have to deal with the father on this one. Call me back in twenty-four hours. By the way, how is the kid?”
“Fine. So far.” Zack cut the call and left the booth. He had been on-line for thirty-one seconds. Quinn replaced the receiver. McCrea came back into the room.
“If you ever do that again,” said Quinn softly, “I will have you both out of here instantly, and screw the Agency and the Bureau.”
McCrea was so apologetic he looked ready to cry.
In the basement of the embassy Brown looked at Collins.
“Your man fouled up,” he said. “What was that bang on the line anyway?”
Without waiting for an answer he picked up the direct line from the basement to the apartment. Sam Somerville took it and explained about the threat of severed fingers, and McCrea’s knee hitting the coffee table.
When she put the phone down, Quinn asked, “Who was that?”
“Mr. Brown,” she said formally. “Mr. Kevin Brown.”
“Who’s he?” asked Quinn. Sam glanced nervously at the walls.
“The Deputy Assistant Director of the C.I. Division at the Bureau,” she said formally, knowing Brown was listening.
Quinn made a gesture of exasperation. Sam shrugged.
There was a conference at noon, in the apartment. The feeling was that Zack would not phone back until the next morning, allowing the Americans to think over his demand.
Kevin Brown came, with Collins and Seymour. So did Nigel Cramer, who brought Commander Williams. Quinn had met all but Brown and Williams.
“You can tell Zack that Washington agrees,” said Brown. “It came through twenty minutes ago. I hate it myself, but it’s been agreed. Five million dollars.”
“But I don’t agree,” said Quinn.
Brown stared at him as if unable to believe his ears.
“Oh, you don’t agree, Quinn. You don’t agree. The government of the U.S.A. agrees, but Mr. Quinn doesn’t agree. May we ask why?”
“Because it is highly dangerous to agree to a kidnapper’s first demand,” said Quinn quietly. “Do that, and he thinks he should have asked for more. A man who thinks that, thinks he has been fooled in some way. If he’s a psychopath, that makes him angry. He has no one on whom to vent that anger but the hostage.”
“You think Zack is a psychopath?” asked Seymour.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Quinn. “But one of his sidekicks may be. Even if Zack’s the one in charge—and he may not be—psychos can go out of control.”
“Then what do you advise?” asked Collins. Brown snorted.
