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When Sean O’Driscoll returned to his cell after his shift in the kitchen, the first thing he said to Simon was, ‘I’ve picked up some information on the prison grapevine you’ll want to know about.’

Simon’s heart began to beat more rapidly, as he had a feeling that what he was about to hear wouldn’t be good news.

‘Some tart from London called Avril, who used to work in one of the local clubs, has been murdered, and for some reason the Governor’s pleased about it.’

Simon stared at him. ‘He’s pleased,’ he said quietly, ‘because her death means that Prince Ahmed is off the hook – and I’m back on it.’

‘I could kill the Governor if you wanted me to,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘It wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference,’ said Simon, unsure if his cell mate was serious, ‘because now nothing will stop the French being awarded the arms contract, and Prince Ahmed getting his extra five per cent.’

‘How can I help?’ said O’Driscoll. ‘Once I’m out of the way, you’ll be next on their shopping list, because one thing’s for sure: they won’t want your trial to come to court.’

‘Then you’ll somehow have to get me out of here before the trial can take place.’

‘I’d do anything I can to help,’ said O’Driscoll, as he sat down on the bunk next to his friend, ‘but as I’ve already warned you, there’s only one way out of this shithole, and that’s in a coffin.’

‘Then that’s exactly how I’ll have to leave,’ said Simon, ‘but it’s me you’re going to have to kill, not the Governor.’

CHAPTER 21

MILES WAS OBLIVIOUS TO WHATwas taking place in two kingdoms on the other side of the world as his car pulled up outside Christie’s on Rockefeller Plaza. When he entered the front door, he found a secretary was waiting for him. He was ushered straight up to the managing director’s office.

Miles didn’t waste any time on small talk. Once he’d shook hands and sat down he said, ‘Bring me up to date.’

‘I don’t think it’s an exaggeration, Mr Faulkner,’ said Chris Davidge, the managing director of Christie’s, ‘to say that when Jefferson’s Fair Copy of the Declaration of Independence comes under the hammer, it will be one of the most sought-after items in the auction house’s long history.’

Miles allowed himself a smile.

‘I will be chairing a press conference later today in a room that would normally hold around two hundred,’ continued Davidge, ‘but we’ve already received over three hundred requests from the world’s media to attend.’

‘The Fair Copy,’ chipped in the public relations director,‘will go on display at midday today, and I can report that a queue began forming on the street outside in the early hours of the morning, which hasn’t happened since Vincent van Gogh’sIrisescame under the hammer in 1987.’

‘Have you been able to put an estimate on how much the Declaration might fetch?’ said Miles, moving on to his only real interest in the unique item.

‘That’s anyone’s guess,’ said Davidge. ‘However, we do know that a printed copy of the Declaration, published in Philadelphia by Benjamin Franklin, which was owned by John Adams, the second President, and left to his son John Quincy Adams, the sixth President, fetched $4.3 million dollars when it came up for auction last year. All I can tell you is our principal auctioneer plans to open the bidding at five million.’

‘Have you had any interest from what one might describe as serious bidders?’ asked Miles.

‘A not unknown commodities trader called Bunker Hunt,’ said Davidge.

‘And only this morning,’ added the PR director, ‘Donald Trump phoned to let me know he’s already selected the place where it will hang in Trump Tower. I can also tell you, in confidence, I had a call from the chairman of the Smithsonian, to advise me that he will be bidding on behalf of the government. So if you were to press me on an estimate, I would have to say fifty million wouldn’t surprise me, and it’s certainly the figure I’ve been hinting at whenever a journalist enquires.’

Miles didn’t need to make a note.

‘Have you come up against any problems?’ asked Miles, fairly sure he knew what the answer would be.

‘One or two journalists have been sniffing around asking about a letter Jefferson might have written at the time, which would show that the Fair Copy legally belonged to its authorand, following Jefferson’s death, the American people.’

‘Pigs would have a better chance of sniffing around for truffles in Central Park than journalists finding a letter that doesn’t exist,’ said Miles, ‘so you can stop worrying about that.’

‘Let’s hope that’s the case,’ replied Davidge, ‘because if such a letter were to surface, and Professor Rosenberg verified it as having been written by the former President, we would be left with no choice but to withdraw the Fair Copy from the sale and hand it over to the government.’

‘Even Saul Rosenberg can’t verify something that doesn’t exist,’ said Miles, leaving no further room for discussion. ‘So, what other items will be coming up in the sale?’ he said, wanting to change the subject.

‘Several pieces of historic memorabilia from around the period of American Independence, as well as the Jefferson letters you were able to supply from your own remarkable collection.’

‘It will allow me to give even more money to charity,’ said Miles, with an ingratiating smile that didn’t fool either of them.