‘Maybe when the first cheque arrives, Bob, old boy.’ He emphasized the lazy Cambridge drawl for all he was worth, earning a puzzled glance from Sarah. ‘In the meantime, I don’t think we’ve seen the colour of your money?’
‘Vanderbilt Media has authorized me to offer you two hundred and fifty thousand English pounds for your cooperation in putting this package together, the split to be decided amicably between yourselves.’
Sarah let out a little ‘wow’ at the figure, which was ten times what she’d been offered by anyone else. Jamie only just managed to maintain his poker face. ‘I suppose that’s an acceptable starting point for negotiations,’ he said carefully.
‘There’s also the question of the world tour.’
‘The world tour?’
The big man nodded solemnly. ‘Dependent on the Czartoryski Museum accepting our offer to sponsor the display of Portrait of a Young Man in fourteen major cities across the globe, beginning in Cracow. You would commit to providing insight and publicity on the tour over a four-month period for a stipend to be negotiated.’ He reached into his leather bag. ‘I have contract details he—’
‘No.’ Sarah’s interruption froze the smile on Bob Sumner’s face. ‘The rest of the package sounds attractive, but we won’t be able to commit to any tour. We have further investigations to carry out into the man responsible for bringing the Raphael here.’
Jamie wondered if she was being hasty. The thought of spending four months jetting around the world at the Vanderbilt Corporation’s expense, captivating the unenlightened with his wit and wisdom on the subject of the Raphael, had its attractions. He felt an idea forming, just the faintest hint of a possibility. ‘Maybe there is a way . . .’ The fathomless blue eyes fixed him. ‘We’ll sign up for the full package, on one condition . . .’
‘Mr Saintclair, the Vanderbilt Corporation will be paying you a substantial amount of money—’
‘The Raphael story doesn’t begin in Europe, it begins in Asia. The condition is that we will provide you with a location and will form part of the documentary team sent to film there.’
It was an outrageous demand and they both knew it, but Bob Sumner didn’t even blink. ‘I’d have to clear it with my bosses, but I’m not against it in principle. Of course, I’d need to know the exact location we’re talking about.’
Jamie held his stare.
‘Tibet.’
XLIII
BOB SUMNER SAW sarah watching him from across the square as he dialled his boss to discuss the new terms. He smiled and waved as he spoke.
‘Our German friend has a photocopy of the journal through his sources in the local police department. Apparently Saintclair became careless after discovering the bunker. I’m signing them up as you advised, but we have a problem.’ He described Jamie’s ultimatum and was surprised by the rich laughter at the other end of the line.
‘Make sure your man hands over the photocopies and get them to me right away. It’s perfect. We need to get Saintclair off the scene and out of Frederick’s reach until we evaluate what we have. I couldn’t have planned it better. If there’s anything in the diary Saintclair can help us with, we’ll bring him back. If not . . . well, that’s too bad.’
Sumner discussed the details for a few minutes before returning to the table. He spread his hands. ‘Sounds crazy to me, but my boss, he loves it and the riskier the better. Following in the footsteps of Nazi treasure hunters. Battling against the elements, the terrain and the might of the Communist Chinese in a search to uncover the secret behind the Raphael bunker. We’ll have cameras on you all the way and record every drop of sweat and squeal of terror. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr Saintclair.’
A week later as he sat in the co-pilot’s seat of the Bell Long Ranger which normally inspected Vanderbilt Corporation pipelines, Jamie had cause to remember the executive’s words.
‘We’ll get you as close to the border as we can, maybe twenty miles.’ The pilot’s distorted metallic voice rang in his earphones above the clatter of the helicopter’s engine and the rhythmic thump of the rotor blades.
‘Why can’t you take us all the way?’
‘Because any closer and we’d be flying in a restricted zone and if one of the good old People’s Republic fighter jets didn’t shoot us down, one of friendly India’s attack helicopters would. It’s that kind of place.’
‘Thanks.’
The chopper pilot, a prematurely grey-haired young Texan, grinned behind his sunglasses. Sarah leaned forward from the rear seats and tapped him on the shoulder.