“Really?” Vinelli headbutted him, breaking his nose, sending him staggering.

The youth started to weep, blood everywhere. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vinelli, but what do I do with Tommy?”

“You get an ambulance. Three very large black guys beat up on you, and no fairy stories for the cops or the Rossi family will see to you on a more permanent basis.” He opened his wallet and took out ten hundred-dollar bills. “I said a grand and I’m a man of my word.” He dropped the money on Tommy.

“I’ll do what you say, Mr Vinelli.”

“You better had, kid.”

Vinelli patted his face, turned his collar up against the rain and walked away.

IN THE SITTING ROOM OF THE TRUMP Tower apartment, Volpe helped Chavasse off with his Burberry and placed it on a chair. Chavasse removed the rain hat and put it on the coat carefully.

“Drink, Sir Paul? Martini? Champagne?”

“Irish whisky,” Chavasse told him, “Bushmills for preference.”

“Anything. We’ve got it all.”

“Good.” Chavasse took a cigarette from his silver case. “And then you can tell me exactly what it is you want.”

Vinelli came in and stood by the door, face impassive. Volpe got the whisky from the bar by the window and brought it over.

“I don’t really want anything, Sir Paul. My uncle and you laid it out pretty clear at your meeting in London at the Dorchester. I mean, even Aldo here met you but I didn’t, so I figured it was time. I handle all the family’s legal business on both sides of the Atlantic. This whole deal is very important. I wanted to familiarize myself with you.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Well, on occasions, we’ll be working together, but hell, no problem there. Your record in the intelligence business is amazing.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Bureau records are on file at the Public Records Office in London. Sure, maybe they’re on a fifty-year hold, but there are always ways round that. The clerks aren’t very well paid. Give them ‘a few bob’ as you Brits say, and it’s amazing what you can get a copy of.”