Ok, weíve been planning this for months, so no pressure -
tonight had just better run smoothly. You know whatís at
stake: a stamp collection so rare itís worth £10m. The fence
will buy it from us for three. Your cut: a cool one million.
Not bad for six monthsí work, eh? - flashing those bright
eyes of yours, a bit of cleavage, and a shimmy of that cute,
curvy arse. You buttered up the old man well. But then Lord
Brompton isnít the sort of fellow you want as an enemy. He
is a ruthless bastard. And if he suspects itís us who fucked
him over heíll happily see us for dead.
Bromptonís throwing his famous mid-summerís charity ball
this evening. Itís the height of the social calendar,
dignitaries from the worlds of politics, business and
entertainment will be there - the great and the good. Plus
you and me. Though he wonít find out weíre together,
heaven forbid. The show kicks off proper 8pm prompt.
Guests start arriving at seven for a Champagne reception.
Weíll be breaking in, stealing the prize and making good our
escape just in time for starters; I believe tonight is scallops
seared in butter, served with a light rocket salad garnished
with balsamic vinegar and freshly-pressed, extra-virgin olive
But letís get one thing clear. You sure youíre up for it? If
you have the slightest doubt then Iím willing to go it alone.
Itíll be harder without you, but then I get to keep your
million. So, yea or nay? One-hundred per cent, or nothing
Good, youíre in. So letís get moving. You know the plan: to