It had been a long day for Bernard St. Clair. The cases that his law firm took these days mostly involved defending wealthy clients from small indiscretions and dalliances of past years. He would offer advice to the junior partners handling the cases, make public appearances to inform the world of the client's innocence, and collect his cut of the fees for doing very little work. It was his reward for being the head of the firm and five decades of work. Today's client was more work than he was used to, but it was unavoidable and not something he could let anyone else handle. Victor Seimovich was calling in old favors, and three of Bernard's closest friends had called him today, cashing in their own favors or making promises for future ones. A team of lawyers was being put together. Initial contact with the client was already done, but they wanted a high profile face attached to the team, and someone who understood the clients background. Bernard had represented other clients similar to Mr. Seimovich on occasion, and his success was why he was being called on again.

So, he had been up early, skipping his usual large breakfast while he read the paper and fed his scraps to he aging terrier under the table. After only a cup of tea and a poached egg on toast, he let his chauffeur whisk him out the door and on his way to the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh Prison, just south of London, to begin the ordeal of paperwork, searches, scans, interviews, and more paperwork needed to see his latest client. Belmarsh was known for housing difficult prisoners, spies and counterspies with interesting knowledge, politically connected miscreants with information to trade, and those who posed a threat to national security. Victor Seimovich was considered to fit into all three categories; his cell reflected that. The High-Security Unit was deep in the heart of the prison, and the 'special cells' were at the heart of the HSU. It had its own set of guards, security system, lockdown procedures, and separate food preparation and medical facilities. There would be no unexplainable and embarrassing deaths or suicides of the few prisoners housed here. Victor had the honor of being the only person in the special cells at this time, and all of the attention of the guards and staff was focused on him.

This attention also extended to his lawyer. Nothing could be smuggled in, no papers passed to his client. The two could communicate by phone and see each other through the four-inch armored glass, but that was the limit of their contact. Victor was escorted to the room by four guards and a doctor, his hands cuffed and restraints placed on his legs. He would never be out of his cell without them. It was a slow process as he shuffled along at a pace expected of a man in his 70s. Bernard was waiting for him on his side of the glass. Victor was brought in and placed in his chair, and his hands and feet restraints were hooked to bolts on the floor and table. And then he was left alone with his lawyer.

"Good day, Mr. Seimovich; I am Bernard St. Clair and will be acting as your lawyer in the immediate proceedings, and if we have to go to trial, there as well. If you have another law firm you want to handle your case, please let me know, and I will contact them. For now, I am your primary lawyer. We are guaranteed the confidentiality of a lawyer and client, and it is illegal for them to record or listen to this conversation. I will still caution you to be careful of your words."

Victor knew all of this. Not that he knew this particular lawyer, but the words were all the same. Always the warning that someone would be listening, legal or not. It wasn't needed, but the accusation was true. He expected that someone was taking down every word he said. "I would like you to get me out of here in any way possible. Look at this? An orange jumpsuit? How does anyone feel human wearing such horrid clothing? The food is at least better than I expected. But there is no music, no newspaper, and a lack of stimulating conversation. I choose my bodyguards based, among other things, on their ability to talk about the things I enjoy. These mean know nothing and talk of nothing."

That surprised Bernard, not that the guards wouldn't talk to Victor, but that he didn't mind the food. The meals in Belmarsh was notorious, even for a prison in England. Obviously, hi client had been in prisons with even worse food—a frightening thought. "I'll be working as fast as I can. I've blocked attempts by Germany, Finland, and Italy to extradite you to their countries. The US is trying to recall you to their system but is having a difficult time since you were able to fly out of the country already while under their supervision. There is also concern about your continued health should anyone have access to you."

Victor chuckled. "Yes, I believe that. I bought special treatment and leniency from the US Justice Department by giving them information on some old friends. Dangerous old friends. But not everything, and I'm sure they will breathe easier once I am gone. I'm willing to cut a similar deal with the UK or whoever will give me comfortable accommodations in some out-of-the-way place to live out my years in comfort. Some of my secrets are worth that. Use that for leverage."

"I will be honest with you, Mr. Seimovich, the people you were caught with entering the country are causing a stir. They are linked to bio-terrorism, human trafficking, and illegal human experimentation. Interpol has an entire unit assigned to them, led by Lord Inspector Deville. The threat of another bio-terrorism attack hitting London has everyone on edge, and the country is on high-security alert. Of course, this has nothing to do with you. You didn't know of their backgrounds. They were posing as normal doctors specializing in neurological disorders that your niece suffers from and were hired by John Sabbatino and not you. They took advantage of your trip abroad to seek medical help for your niece, hoping to remove their injured accomplice from the US."

Victor nodded. "Just as I've been telling them. Who knows where John Sabbatino found such people? Because of them, I can't leave this place and can't find out what has happened to my grand-niece. Poor Belinda is sick, and it is of the utmost priority that she be found and put someplace where I know she is safe."

Bernard nodded slightly but said. "I will request for the US to investigate John Sabbatino about your niece's whereabouts, but there may be little I can do."

A nod from Victor. "Do what you can. Ask around for help, maybe? And spend what you need to of the little money I have left. Luckily, I put your firm on retainer so long ago. But there are other people that I'm concerned about. My good friend Eric was so helpful in setting up so much of this, I hope it doesn't cause him problems, what has happened to me. I'm sure he's as surprised Belinda was not with me as I was."

Another nod, then a question. "Would John Sabbatino be of help to you? Or will he be talking to the press?"

"John? No, if John knows what is best, he will say nothing and be helpful. You could ask him how he could help; I'm sure he wants this to go away as much as I do. He may know where my Belinda is, and of course, he should also be concerned about our good friend, Eric."

"Interpol pressed me on several topics relating to you. Things I should bring up that they might be willing to trade for improved accommodations. They asked about a package that went missing in Brussels twenty years ago, a man named Benjamin Shivago, and a strange question about a 'Batch Four.' Do you wish to talk to them on any of these topics? If so, I will use the exchange to push forward your case in the direction you want it to go."

Victor was amused that they still didn't know, even after decades and thousands of man-hours of work by dozens of special investigators. Brussels was always going to be a touchy subject. No one liked it when a suitcase-sized nuclear weapon went missing, but that was a strong lever to save for the right time. Anything to do with Batch Four was out of the question, especially in this case, with these doctors. Batch Four was dead and needed to be left forgotten. But Benjamin Shivago, aka 'Bennie the Shiv'? The whereabouts of his bones were a small secret and something he could give up. Ironically, no one had known Bennie the Shiv was an undercover agent for the Mossad. They'd caught him cheating at cards as they planned the Italian job. The small recording device had been discovered during the fight after the table had been overturned and a free-for-all had broken out. That had led to Bennie's death and destroyed all plans for the operation they were planning in Rome. Money had let them hide his body where no one would find him. Only later had they discovered who he was, but not why he had been working for Big Swede as a 'security specialist'. Whatever long game Bennie had been playing went to hell during that poker game.

"Tell them that every nice Jewish boy should be buried at home. In return for agreeing to talk of where he might be buried, I want real clothes, real food, something to read, and a barber to see to my beard. If they do this and apologize for treating an old man so badly, then maybe we will trade an old rumor I heard in exchange for some leniency." They would need a backhoe and permission from the Vatican to find Bennie. Work had been being done to install a pipe in a sensitive part of the Holy City. The trench ran between the tombs of two saints. Bennie had been buried six feet deeper than the bottom of the trench and covered in stones, a gas pipe, ten feet of earth, and a layer of marble paving stones.

"I'll do what I can, and I think we'll see changes to your accommodations by the end of the day." The two old men nodded to each other, and Bernard took his leave. He would pass on Victor's words to other people who would act on them. Bernard didn't want to know the details. He had recognized certain words and how they were said. After dealing with Interpol and setting up appointments with agents in his offices, he returned to work and made several phone calls.

The people on the other end of the call knew exactly what Victor wanted. Any of his remaining money was to be used for three things: John Sabbatino would aid his lawyers or disappear. Eric Kresthammer was a dead man. And Belinda Seimovich would be found and taken someplace secure. She was the real leverage Victor needed. Money began to flow, and people began to move towards a run-down habitat in Philadelphia.