“Well, my lawyer, Mario Volpe, as you may know, is my nephew a couple of times removed. He seems to think there are a few things he could take care of before our meeting. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” Chavasse said.

“I’ll send a limousine. Say half an hour?”

“No need. As it’s only a couple of blocks, I’ll walk.”

“Fine. I’ll look forward to seeing you for dinner later.”

Chavasse put down the phone and thought about it, a slight frown on his face, then he went to the wardrobe, took out his rather old-fashioned carpetbag, pulled open a flap in the bottom and produced a short-barreled Colt, only a.22, but deadly with hollow-point rounds. He checked it out, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

IN THE MAGNIFICENT SITTING ROOM OF HIS Trump Tower apartment Don Tino Rossi replaced the telephone. He was seventy-six years of age and still in good shape, his silver hair almost shoulder-length, his linen suit the best that Savile Row in London could provide.

The large man in the black suit with the shaven head came forward as the Don nodded, opened a silver box, offered a cigarette and a light. He was Aldo Vinelli, the firm’s head of security. Don Tino’s nephew, Mario Volpe, stood by the terrace window smoking a cigarette, thirty years of age, medium height, good-looking and like Rossi, impeccably dressed.

“So he’s coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” his uncle asked. “He doesn’t want a car. He’s walking.”

“You trust this Chavasse?”

“As much as he trusts me. Our meeting in London made sense.”

“Good. I’ll make arrangements.” Volpe nodded to Vinelli. “I need you.” He went out.

The Don said quietly, “Aldo, I assigned you to protect my nephew because I trust you and you’ve done a good job.”

“Thank you, Don Tino.”

“And where does your loyalty lie?”

“With you always.”

“Good.”

The Don held out his hand. Aldo kissed it and went out. Rossi sighed. Strange that facility he’d always had that told him when someone was lying to him. A gift from God really.