All Bertone said was, “I have been developing a new conduit. A true naïf.”

“You have a day to transform your naïf into a whore. The arms exchange must be completed immediately.”

“What? You gave me four weeks to-”

“Complain to Neto,” Fouquette cut in. “He’s the bastard who brought in St. Kilda. I have to move the money fast and get the arms to Neto’s enemies faster.”

“When will you have all the money transferred to me?” Bertone said.

“As soon as you set up an account, each participant has agreed to put in his share within forty-eight hours.”

“By Saturday?” Bertone grunted. “I can’t guarantee weekend bank-”

“Don’t tell me your problems,” Fouquette said over the complaint. “Since he has become president, my sponsor has lost all patience. Get that account set up immediately.”

“Perhaps Brazil needs a new president. It could be arranged, yes?”

“Not soon enough. If the arms aren’t on the way to overthrow Neto’s New Camgerian Republic very quickly, I’m out of a job. And you, my Siberian friend, you are dead.”

Manhattan

Thursday

12:15 P.M. EST

Former ambassador James B. Steele rolled into the conference room on the fifty-seventh floor of the UBS Building as if he owned the television network headquartered there. He was fifteen minutes late and he didn’t apologize. He had more to bring to this meeting than the five people he’d kept waiting.

“Good afternoon,” Steele said to everyone and no one.

He guided the electric wheelchair over to the rosewood conference table. An overstuffed leather armchair blocked him from taking his place.

“Oops. Okay, I’ll get that,” Ted Martin said quickly.

“Thank you.”

The field producer had been Steele’s principal UBS contact for the past two months of research and negotiations. As Martin scrambled to shove the armchair aside, Steele rolled forward. His position put him opposite the most important man in the room, Howard Prosser, executive producer of The World in One Hour.