Though he’d barely slept the night before, he felt wired and jittery, helped in part by the five cups of coffee he’d had so far that morning. Though the elegant Bentley was air-conditioned, he could feel the sweat dampening the back of his shirt. The suit he wore was his, but the Italian loafers, hand-sewn silk tie and the emerald and gold cufflinks were not. They had been provided courtesy of the task force, along with the hand-tooled leather portfolio he carried with Cromwell Estate Agency stamped in gold lettering on its face, the purchase contract neatly folded inside it. The briefcase beside him contained more British pounds sterling than he earned in a typical year; again, none of it his. Also in the briefcase were the specs for the property, which Devin had studied exhaustively the day before, working with the task force experts to design a purchase contract that would be hard to turn down, even if the owner claimed he didn’t want to sell. Uncle Ron had come through with flying colors, pulling strings and using his influence with Scotland Yard and Interpol to secure Devin a position with the task force as part of the two-man front team.
