had been corrupted, softened, Anglified, and its People had been spread around the globe. So instead, he had considered how to have his personal entitlement of Scotland, and eventually he had decided. If he could not have his kingdom, he would have its crown.
From a hugely wealthy and very unorthodox art collector friend, he had heard already about 'Mr Black', and the anonymous box number in Geneva. Very special assignments: you want it, you give him enough money, he'll get it for you. 'His team is good,' the friend had said..'I know. Look at that painting they got for me. Even if I had been able to buy it at auction, it would have cost fifteen million dollars. Through Mr Black, I got it for eight.'
And so Balliol had contacted the Geneva box number, and Black had sent his messengers: that little woman and her blond brother. He had given them enough money, given it to them two years back, and he had waited. And now it was gone, and nothing to show for it. He slammed his fist on the desk, in his den, in his bungalow, in his fortified compound, in the deeps of Texas. As he read the report again, he fixed on one name – a memorable name.
Assistant Chief Constable Bob Skinner. – 'Some day, my friend. Some day,' Everard Balliol said aloud.
