Empire State Part 12

They watched as the gates were shut and then opened again. Herrick had been urging Bashkin to take the handbrake off and allow the Mercedes to creep forward but he insisted on keeping his distance. The s.h.i.+SK were people you didn't mess with, he said. The mere fact of watching the headquarters was enough to land him in jail. When they glimpsed the figure being brought outside she leaned forward to the dashboard, wis.h.i.+ng she had a pair of binoculars. The build of the man was about right and he was wearing a blue T-s.h.i.+rt, as Khan had been, but she didn't get a clear view of his face before he disappeared behind the vehicles. Seconds later the cars emerged from the compound and moved off down the street.

'We have to follow them,' said Herrick, stabbing at her phone to call Harland.

Bashkin shook his head. 'It's no possible.'

'Of course it's b.l.o.o.d.y well possible. How much do you want?'

'For this?' He looked extremely doubtful, as if no amount of money would compensate for the risk he was about to take. 'Two hundred dollars.'

'Done,' she said.

Unable to hide his astonishment, Bashkin started the car.

Herrick put the phone to her ear. Harland had already answered. 'There are two cars,' she said. 'I'm ninety per cent certain that they're moving Khan. I'll follow them. They're going towards Skenderbeg Square.'

'I'll join you. Keep in touch.'

They followed the cars for about five miles to the western fringes of the city. The evening was still warm and a lot of people were milling on the side of the road, buying water-melons and cold drinks from fridges hooked up to the public power supply. Bashkin slowed down several times, once for a dog-fight that spilled into both lanes of traffic and then for a broken-down truck. As a result, they lost the two Landcruisers, and when they eventually cleared Tirana's chaotic outskirts and hit the dual carriageway to Durres she shouted for him to put his foot down. For once Bashkin did as he was told.

They shot past the new Coca-Cola plant and a detergent factory, both incongruously neat and well-lit, like giant pieces of Toytown, then realised they must have missed the Landcruisers on the turning to Kruje a few miles back. They turned round and took a much smaller road. It pa.s.sed through several villages and began to climb into a forest of low pines. Bashkin explained that this had once been Enver Hoxha's private hunting ground and was now the place where they made charcoal. There were fires up here that burned night and day, he said. She asked to borrow his mobile, and after haggling over the price for a call, she phoned Harland for the final time and told him she had found the Valleys of Fire. This was where they must have brought Karim Khan, for what purpose she could not say. Harland seemed oddly unimpressed, but said he was on his way.

After rounding several more bends they came to a head-land overlooking a bowl in the landscape. Along the far side were about ten furnaces gouged out of the bedrock. Each one had an opening about the size of a door and a little above this was a hole which let out viscous smoke and muddied light. Herrick climbed out of the car saying she'd pay Bashkin another hundred dollars to wait. She also told him to direct a tall Englishman who was about to arrive down into the valley.

She started down the slope, picking her way through the scrub, all the while glancing ahead of her and up to the road above. As she drew near to the point where the bushes had been cleared, she saw dozens of young men and small, emaciated boys scurrying between the furnaces and heaps of rubber tyres that were responsible for the poisonous air. Their skin and clothes were blackened and the sweat on their bodies gleamed in the light. She crouched down and watched for a few minutes, almost hypnotised by the sight of them rolling tyres up the incline, then heaving them into the furnaces. Occasionally, downdrafts from the mountains caused the fires to blow back without warning and those nearest the furnace doors had to jump for cover. She saw one of these tar-black creatures, no more than four foot six tall, use a long metal poker to vault out of the way with great agility. When he landed he performed a jig like a monkey-demon cavorting in the flames of h.e.l.l.

Maybe it was the roar of the underground fires, or the idea that she was witnessing a spectacle brought to life from Hieronymous Bosch, that dulled her attention. Either way, she was utterly caught off guard when they seized her from behind, lifted her bodily onto the clear ground in front and began to frisk her. She managed a little yelp but otherwise put up no resistance.

There were three of them, all armed. She recognised one from the s.h.i.+SK headquarters. He gestured to the other two to bring her a little way down the hill and they walked to a pile of wood. The two men holding her relaxed their grip, and one - covertly it seemed to her - slipped his hand down to feel her bottom. What did this mean? Did it presage gang rape, or was this man's interest something she could use? Could she s.n.a.t.c.h a gun and run for it?

'You do know I'm a British diplomat?' she said in a voice that sounded all too thin and powerless.

The s.h.i.+SK guard laughed without turning towards her. He was searching the track below them, s.h.i.+elding his face from the heat of the fires. 'No Ingleesh diplomat,' he said, wagging his finger without looking at her. 'You Ingleesh spy. Missease Jeemes Bond.' All three laughed. At this point, the little man she had seen leaping from the flames came over with a seesaw walk, holding the metal pole over his shoulder like a javelin. He had a round, hairless face with elfin ears and eyes that were too close together. They knew his name - Ylli - and beckoned to him, although his strange looks clearly made them feel uncomfortable. Ylli put out a hand and was given a cigarette and some notes which he stuffed into his back pocket. Then he strutted around Herrick, making observations about her in the high, unbroken voice of a boy. Twice he tried to touch her but was shooed away by the guards. Then he withdrew and let himself down onto a pile of four tyres where he smoked with quick, childish puffs and made gestures that suggested he was sitting in the finest armchair ever made.

The little man heard the cars first, and scrambled up to balance on the tyres with prehensile bare feet and waved excitedly with the pole. The two Landcruisers, now joined by a Jeep and BMW sped up the remainder of the hill and tore past them about fifty yards away. Herrick strained forward but couldn't make out any of the pa.s.sengers because they were thrown into silhouette by the light of the fires and a lot of dust had been kicked up by the lead vehicle. They reached the top of the bowl and stopped just beyond a layer of black fog, at which Ylli jumped down and scampered over to them. Several men got out and started making for the higher ground above the furnaces. They were dragging someone with them, the man in the blue T-s.h.i.+rt, who evidently had his hands tied behind his back and was offering no resistance whatsoever. Behind them came The Doctor, who struggled up the slope with Ylli bringing up the rear. Something pa.s.sed between this group: it almost seemed as if they were trying to reason with the prisoner. But at length all but two stepped away. The man was marched forward and without further hesitation pushed into the flue opening. Ylli rushed up to the hole and could be seen thrusting and jabbing at the body with his pole. Then a couple of car tyres were thrown in. These instantly caught light and belched a column of smoke and sparks into the night. Without a second look, the party descended to the cars, drove back down towards them and pulled up. A man she hadn't seen before got out. He was in his late forties, dapperly dressed for the evening in a light sports jacket, a thin polo s.h.i.+rt and well-cut trousers. He took off the jacket, hung it round his shoulders and dusted off his hands with a quick slapping motion.

'It was your choice to be here tonight,' said the man. His English was perfect; the manner reminiscent of the polo ground. 'You were spying, and unpleasant things sometimes happen to spies, as you are no doubt aware.'

Herrick was almost too shocked to speak. 'Why did you kill him?' she said. 'And like that?'

'We have no use for a filthy terrorist. He would not answer our questions. We gave him his chance as you saw this afternoon. How many people have been burnt and mutilated by the actions of men like Khan? You ask yourself that before you judge us. We believe in decisive solutions here in Albania.'

'Burning people alive,' she said quietly, 'is not an option in any war.'

'You have a phrase in English, do you not, Miss Herrick? If you can't stand the heat of the fire ... well, I'm sure you know it.' He gave a little chuckle, took a small notebook from his pocket and held it up to the headlights of the leading car. 'Your address in London and your telephone number are written here, and that belonging to your father, an old war hero, I believe. He lives in Scotland in a place called Hopelaw - a pretty name - and he has a servant there named Mrs Mackenzie. You see, you are no mystery to me, Isis Herrick.'

She shook her head. 'Who are you?'

'I am Marenglen.' He paused and took a folded handkerchief from his trouser pocket and held it under his nose. 'You see, we Albanians have been locked up in this land for many years, so when the communists fell we acquired a taste for travel. Many Albanians have left and set up enterprises all over the world. In some cases, regrettably, these did not meet with the approval of the authorities. However, in London my countrymen encountered little opposition to their activities and they were able to establish themselves in many different fields of endeavour. You will be familiar, perhaps, with the way they have taken over certain businesses in Soho, but they also have many other tricks up their sleeves. One is contract killing.'

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and snapped his fingers. The guard who had first apprehended her handed him a cigarette and lit it. 'So,' he let out smoke from the side of his mouth, 'allow Marenglen to tell you now that if you place so much as a word of what you have seen in your report to London, I will have you and your father and his loyal servant killed. Naturally, these contracts will be issued in the order that causes maximum pain. If, however, you feel you cannot guarantee your silence to me now, then I don't see why we shouldn't advance things a little. You have met Ylli. I believe Ylli is a virgin, at least with humans, although the same cannot be said for sheep and goats. We can leave you with Ylli, he can take his pleasure with you and then, well, you will disappear. I think you can imagine that this would not be a happy end.'

She nodded.

'So why don't you go back to the Byron and prepare to leave Albanian soil within, say, thirty-six hours. That should give you time to send a convincing report saying you were given access to the prisoner Khan and that he was in every respect unforthcoming and uncooperative. Oh yes, there is one other thing. Take Robert Harland with you. I don't see that there is any point in his staying on after you've left.' He smiled, not very pleasantly, and walked the few paces to the car.

The men holding her let go and jogged over to the cars. When one of the doors was opened she was sure she caught a glimpse of Gibbons. A few seconds later the convoy b.u.mped off down the hill. She turned and made her way to Bashkin's Mercedes, sickened and choking on the smell of the Valleys of Fire.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

One question stayed in Herrick's mind on the ride back to the hotel, and when she was sitting on the balcony of her room with a packet of crisps from the minibar she said it out loud. Why would the CIA and s.h.i.+SK go to such lengths to question Khan about a planned terrorist attack, then kill him without getting an answer? Even if Khan had talked in the few hours between her leaving the headquarters and seeing him taken off, that would be no reason to kill him. Surely it would be the moment for the Americans to produce him to the world's media as evidence of another thwarted terrorist plot, a triumph of vigilance and interception to be shared with their Albanian friends. There was only one solution. Khan had not been killed.

She phoned Harland's room and then his mobile. There was no answer on either. She waited for half an hour, drinking a little of the whisky opened by Gibbons the night before, not really enjoying it, and gazing across the garden. Then she went to the bathroom and washed the smell of burnt rubber from her hair under the shower. This took only a few minutes and when she came out she saw that a note had been slipped under the door. 'Rooms and phones bugged. See you at Emba.s.sy soonest.'

She dried her hair, changed and was downstairs in less than five minutes. Bashkin was still out in the car park. 'What is this, a twenty-four-hour watch?' she asked him.

He looked at her a little ruefully. 'Mease Errique leave soon? Tomorrow Bashkin drive you to airport.'

'You know my plans before I do,' she said, climbing into the Mercedes. 'Perhaps you could tell me what you thought of what we saw up in the hills?'

'Bashkin see nothing. Bashkin asleeping.'

'Right,' she said, 'Bashkin asleeping. But not tired enough to go home after he's dropped me at the hotel. Who do you work for?'

'For you Mease Errique.'

'And for Mr Marenglen also, I shouldn't wonder,' she said. 'Drive me to the British Emba.s.sy, please.'

Harland was waiting for her just inside the Emba.s.sy gates with one of the Hereford-trained guards, who introduced himself as Steve Tyrrel.

'Where the f.u.c.k did you get to?' she said to Harland. 'I thought you were following me. Where were you?'

'We'll talk inside.' He gestured to a door where another armed man stood. 'We've got Loz here, but I haven't told him anything and I think we should keep it that way until we know what's going on. There's more to him than you could imagine.'

They found Sammi Loz seated nonchalantly in an outer office with a cup of tea and a copy of the day's International Herald Tribune, looking for all the world as though he was about to go out in Manhattan on a warm summer's evening. 'Reunions later,' said Harland roughly as Loz got up and made an elaborate fuss over Herrick.

As soon as the metal door of the communications room thudded behind them, Herrick gave Harland a brief account of what she had seen on the mountains. When she reached the end she said, 'This wasn't for real. I know that. Gibbons dropped the stuff about the Valleys of Fire like a pile of plates after he had spoken on the phone - obviously to Milo Franc. They wanted me to go up there and watch someone being thrown into the fire.' She stopped and looked around. 'I don't suppose you've got any food, have you?' Harland phoned Tyrrel and asked him to scratch something together.

'Where'd you get to?' she asked when he put the phone down.

Harland gave her an odd, crooked smile. Now that his back was on the mend the strain had left his face. 'I went with Steve Tyrrel. I didn't tell you because I think the Americans are listening to our mobiles. So I had to pretend that I was following you up there. Steve had a hunch they were taking Khan out of the country and he was exactly right. Khan was driven to the airport and put on a private jet. The plane is being tracked by GCHQ and our people on Cyprus. I have no word yet as to where it's headed but the Chief will be on as soon as he knows.'

'So that's more or less that,' said Herrick. 'We've lost our man and I can go home.'

'Better hear what the Chief says,' he said with another smile.

Khan had known nothing after being rolled into the back of the car because a needle was plunged into his b.u.t.tock. When he began to recover consciousness on the plane, all he was aware of was a raging thirst. He had been given no water during the previous day and whatever drug they'd used to knock him out had heightened the need for liquid. This blocked out his fear at finding himself on a plane, still hooded and bound, but now also with his mouth taped over and his ankles tied together. After a little while he started to explore his surroundings by moving his legs. He touched what he a.s.sumed was the seat in front of him and then angled them into the aisle and started to kick out, making as much noise as he could behind the tape. Someone stirred in front of him and he heard Lance Gibbons' voice, then the big CIA man, Franc. He kicked some more and became aware of them consulting each other. 'Look,' said Gibbons. 'Langley says he might have a capsule in his teeth.'

'He would've used it by now,' growled Franc.

Khan had no idea what they were talking about and heaved his torso forward so he was almost out of the seat and in the aisle.

'Hey, hey, hold still there, buddy,' shouted Gibbons.

The hood was removed and Gibbons' face peered into his. Khan stared back, eyes popping and cheeks blown out.

Gibbons examined him in the dim light of the cabin, then pulled back the tape so it hung from the corner of his mouth. When he heard what Khan wanted he grunted and fetched a clear plastic beaker of water which he lifted to his lips. He replenished it twice from a bottle before Khan's thirst was slaked and he was able to croak thank you.

'Now I'm gonna put this tape back. There's no use you getting excited. We got a lot of flying time ahead of us and unless you want us to give you another one of those shots you'll take a nap.'

Khan saw that he was considering whether to replace the hood so shook his head vigorously. Gibbons hesitated, then folded the cloth and placed it on the headrest in front of him. Before returning to sprawl in his own seat he jabbed his finger in front of Khan's face and said, 'Now, sleep, buster.'

Khan wasn't rea.s.sured by the water. These tiny acts of kindness meant nothing and indeed they often seemed to foreshadow some new, unpleasant turn in his story. In all the thousands of miles he had travelled he realised he had met almost no one he could trust, except perhaps in the case of Mr Skender - the consumptive interpreter who had accepted his money and the postcard with a look of solemn obligation. He was sure that Skender had posted the message and that it had arrived in New York. Moreover he understood that the pretty young English diplomat was letting him know she had met Sammi when she mentioned The Poet. It wasn't just chance she used that name because he caught the look in her eye as she said it. And yet she couldn't have any idea what it meant. Loz must have told her to drop it into the conversation, knowing he would recognise it while she would remain utterly ignorant of its meaning. That was smart of Loz.

But just as there seemed to be hope it was s.n.a.t.c.hed from him. He was almost certainly on his way to Camp X-Ray, which he knew would be impregnable to all Loz's money and cunning. He had heard enough about the place while travelling through Iran to know that no one left unless the Americans wanted it. What hope did a veteran of the jihad in Bosnia and Afghanistan have of persuading the interrogators that he was simply a soldier? He wriggled a little to ease the pain in his ribs where The Doctor had hit him. The discomfort reminded him that at least the Americans did not practise torture. They may have been prepared to leave the room while The Doctor suffocated him and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. But that wasn't the same as doing it themselves. He could at least survive at Camp X-Ray and soon they would understand that he was cooperating with them and represented no threat whatsoever. Yes, he would make them understand that.

Although the drug made his mind sluggish and he was desperate for sleep, he kept on returning to the young woman. He had forgotten what a Western woman could be like and she brought back memories of his time in London. This woman was poised, intelligent and brave. It had taken courage to shout out in his defence when they tried to stop him talking.

He managed to doze for half an hour or so but then woke to a new kind of light in the cabin. He looked to his left and saw dawn rising through the window, an orange light below the wing tip, graded through azure to a deep mauve in the stratosphere. He watched it for a while before realising with a sudden, sharp dread that the sun rising on the port side of the aeroplane could only mean one thing - they weren't headed west for the Caribbean and Camp X-Ray, but due south.

Harland and Herrick sent a long encrypted email to Vauxhall Cross about Khan being taken out of the country while the CIA and s.h.i.+SK had set up a diversion in the mountains, then sat back to consume a meal of bananas, Marmite sandwiches, digestive biscuits and coffee, rustled up by Steve Tyrrel from the Emba.s.sy kitchen. Herrick found she couldn't eat enough.

At 3.00 a.m. the Chief came on the phone. The British listening station in Cyprus had picked up the unscheduled flight an hour before and noted that, having executed a wide circle over the Mediterranean, the jet turned east into Greek air s.p.a.ce and then followed the commercial air corridor down the coast of the Mediterranean, skirting Turkey's southern flank, Lebanon and Palestine.

'They're going to Egypt,' said Herrick, leaning into the conference phone.

'It looks like that,' said the Chief.

'It fits with today's line of questioning,' she said. 'The only thing they wanted to demonstrate in front of me was that Khan was Jasur Faisal - the man whose papers he was carrying. Faisal is wanted all over the Middle East, and in Egypt for the murder of a newspaper editor.'

'Yes,' said the Chief quietly. 'It means of course that the Albanians wouldn't want to be answerable for the degree of torture they're planning. This has happened before, in 1998.' There was a long pause during which Harland and Herrick wondered if the line had dropped. 'It complicates things a great deal.' Another pause. 'Yes, what we shall want you to do for the moment is to have that serious talk with Loz, using the information I sent you earlier. See how he responds. I'll get back to you. Oh, by the way, we're going to change encryption on the next call.' He told Harland to enter a six-digit code into the computer through which the phone was routed, then hung up.

As Harland worked at the keyboard, Herrick asked, 'What did Loz say to you that made you and the Chief so interested?'

'He told me that Khan knows the ident.i.ties of two terrorist leaders who were already talking about al-Qaeda activity in the mid-nineties. He and Khan talked to at least one of them when they last saw each other in ninety-seven.'

'But surely Loz is just trying to get us to spring his friend?' she said. 'He's bound to exaggerate the importance of Khan's information.'

'It's a tip that the Chief 's not prepared to ignore. He has very good reasons to think Loz is telling the truth, but I don't know what they are.'

'But what's the point?' she asked. 'If Khan is in Cairo, we can forget it. The only thing the Egyptians are concerned with is what target he's planning to attack, who his contacts are, and where he was trained. They'll be asking the questions the Americans want answers to, but with a cattle prod. When he denies being involved in a specific plot they'll torture him to a point where he has to dream up some c.o.c.k and bull story. Meanwhile they'll miss the really valuable information.'

'One of the minor problems with torture,' said Harland grimly. He picked up the phone and told Tyrrel to bring Loz in.

Loz's buoyant expression collapsed when they told him that Khan had been taken to Cairo. 'This is very, very bad news,' he said, shaking his head and working his hands.

'Well, we're still evaluating what this means,' said Harland, steering him to a chair away from the computers. 'But it doesn't look good, I grant you that.' He paused and rubbed his chin, as though wondering how to proceed, then he focused on Loz. 'Isis had an encounter with one of the nastier sc.u.mbags of our time tonight, a man called Marenglen who is head of the local secret service here. It's a curious name which I understand is made from the first three letters of Marx, Engels and Lenin - a name forged in desperate communist times when people needed to ingratiate themselves with the regime.' He stopped again. 'Interestingly, it's the same kind of formation as TriBeCa in New York, the Triangle Below Ca.n.a.l. But I probably can't tell you anything about TriBeCa, Doctor.' He let that hang in the stuffy atmosphere of the Communications room and looked down at Loz intently. Herrick wondered where the h.e.l.l this was leading.

'This Marenglen,' continued Harland, 'was picked up when he came to the LSE in London on a scholars.h.i.+p in 1987, and he was trained by former colleagues who of course had no idea that communism was about to collapse in Albania. He was a good spot because he was exceptionally clever, and useful to us after Enver Hoxha's death, but Marenglen turned out to be a rotten apple, as bad a man as you could ever meet. There is literally no crime in Albania that Marenglen does not in some way supervise from the safety of his position. Coming in contact with this man is like handling a test tube of bubonic plague. I do not exaggerate.' Loz looked mystified. 'We are here because of you, Dr Loz, and because of your friend. Isis took a big risk this evening to see if she could help Khan and that's when she came across Marenglen. It could have ended very badly for her but she took that risk because of you and your friend. But you know something? We don't really have any idea about either you or Khan. So, I want you to help us. Tell us everything about you.'

'Absolutely,' said Loz, eagerly leaning forward, hands clasped around his knee. 'But what more do you want?'

'You should understand your position,' said Harland. 'You're in Albania illegally. You travelled here on a forged pa.s.sport and have none of the correct visa requirements. Remember, this was Khan's only crime in Albania, and yet he was held and beaten up. If they find that his main contact is also here, they are very likely to do exactly the same to you. Who knows, you may even end up in the same Egyptian jail.'

'But your responsibility is to help me.' A fleeting, rather professional smile crossed his face. 'That's what the Secretary-General instructed you to do.'

Harland shook his head. 'Believe me, Doctor, what happens to you is entirely my choice now.'

'So what do you want me to tell you?'

'Ninety-seven. What were you doing in 1997?'

'I was in New York, studying osteopathy. You know that!' he smiled at Herrick as though Harland was now being quite impossible.

'And the real estate business? How did that fit into your life?'

Loz's gaze hardened. 'What do you mean?'

'We know all about that. We know that while you were studying, you were also investing large sums in Manhattan developments. I have a figure of sixty million dollars, but London believes the amount transferred to you through twenty accounts may be two or three times that figure. All of it was placed at your disposal to buy real estate in Manhattan - mostly in Chelsea and TriBeCa. TriBeCa was the big killing of your operation, wasn't it? You made a profit of 15.7 million dollars on one deal in the Triangle Below Ca.n.a.l. There were many others.' He stopped and examined his notes. 'You know how we began to trace them? We started by looking up the name of a company that let your premises in the Empire State building - and still does - the Twelver Real Estate Corporation. That name rang a few bells in London. Anyone who knows anything about Islam knows that the s.h.i.+'a sect is called in Arabic Ithna Ashariya - the Twelvers. The movement of money from the s.h.i.+'ite banks in Lebanon to New York had been noted between 1996 and 1999 and so had the name of the Twelver Real Estate Corp. What they didn't know was who was controlling the investments. A week ago, they began to dig again and found your signature on doc.u.ments held by the City Authority in New York. Who were you investing the money for, Dr Loz?'

'Some former a.s.sociates of my father.'

'And these people were connected with the Hizbollah organisation?'

'No. But I cannot say definitely, of course.'

'But you agree that the utmost was done to disguise the origin of this money before you invested it and, given your father's s.h.i.+'ite background, it is likely that it came from Hizbollah?'

'It's a possibility.'

'But more interesting is that you deceived almost everyone about the extent of your wealth and your real occupation.'

'But I am an osteopath.'

'Yes, you are, and a very good one. But you are also a property tyc.o.o.n. You've made many millions of dollars for your partners and for yourself. A rough estimate puts your wealth at fifty million dollars - enough, as someone observed in London, to finance one h.e.l.l of a terrorist operation. Enough money to buy as many sets of fake ident.i.ty as you could need. That's why you found it so easy to leave the States and bribe your way through the Balkans.'

Loz sank into the chair. 'I had to leave the US, as you are very well aware. I spent what was necessary.'

'Yes, but what other back doctor has your sort of contacts - members of Bosnian crime fraternities outside Chicago, gun runners, people smugglers in Southern Bosnia and Montenegro? We've only just begun to research you, but it's already clear that you are seriously "connected". Your pose as a society figure in Manhattan is a carefully constructed cover.'

Loz shook his head. 'I really am an osteopath. That's what I do! It fulfils me in a way I cannot describe. Why else would I run free clinics every week in three New York hospitals? Yes, it is true I have made a lot of money, but I can arrange for you to talk to my lawyers and they will tell you that I have donated much of my fortune to charity. In other circ.u.mstances I would not mention this, but you should know that I have made grants and donations of nearly twenty million dollars in the last three years. This can all be confirmed in New York, by my lawyers, my accountant. Even the charities will tell you.'

'But you still have a tidy sum in the bank.'