Simon took a sip of his borscht.
"How kind of you to join me for lunch."
"I can assure you, the pleasure is entirely mine." Alexander Price Koch was enjoying his buckwheat blinis with sour cream, chopped boiled eggs, onion, parsley topped with caviar. "It's a nice change of pace to get out of the office from time to time."
For almost fifty years The Russian Tea Room has been a popular location for actors, writers, politicians and businessmen to discuss their deals. The waiter cleared the appetizers.
Two weeks prior to this meeting Jean Pierre had forwarded a communique indicating top Guggenheim Museum personnel that were the most vulnerable. Simon chose Koch as the most pliable.
The waiter delivered their entrees: a red caviar omelette with sour cream, fine herbs and Rosti potatoes for Simon and Boeuf a la Stroganoff for Koch.
The two men made small talk. Simon talked about international finance and his son Connor. Koch lovingly spoke of his three grown children, two boys at university and a daughter about to graduate high school.
When the dishes were cleared they ordered two Moscow Mules; a blend of vodka, ginger puree, lime juice and bitters along with black coffee. Simon offered Price, as he liked to be called, a Cuban cigar.
"Very nice, Simon. Thoroughly enjoyable. But I must ask, why me? I understand that you wish to make a donation to the museum. I'm merely one of several Deputy Directors."
"Price, that's not entirely true. You're also the Chief Curator."
"I don't understand. I thought that you wished to make a donation. Is that not correct?"
"Yes, I wish to make a donation. A rather substantial one. However, not to the museum."
Price folded his hands in front of him and dropped his head to his chest. "I apologize, Simon, I'm a little confused. Perhaps you would be so kind as to spell it out for me."
A private investigation had yielded two helpful facts indicating that Alexander Price Koch was malleable. The first was that although he came from one of America's wealthiest families, APK himself suffered from a severe cash flow problem. This, in and of itself, was not enough to push him over the edge. The second item, the secret that Price held dear, was much more persuasive.
"I want Montagnes a Saint-Remy"
Price got red in the face, nearly screamed "Are you out of your mind?" and stood to leave.
Calmly, Simon took several photos from his pocket and passed them to Price.
The look on Price's face can only be described as horror. He collapsed into his chair, all the wind taken from him.
"You… you… you can't be serious. How did you get these? This will ruin me!" At this point Price was babbling, maybe about to lose control.
The photographs were rather explicit. Price in a comprising position with a younger man. A much younger man.
"Take a deep breath Price. Have a drink. It's not as bad as you think."
After a few minutes Price sat upright in his chair, took a deep breath and said, "Okay. What do you mean by it's not that bad."
Simon spent the next fifteen minutes going over what he needed from Price. As he listened, he managed to relax somewhat and regain some semblance of composure.
"When the project is completed, successfully, you will receive ten million dollars in your name at any bank anywhere in the world."
"And the pictures?"
"You get all the pictures and the negatives. But, to be perfectly honest Price, and this is none of my business… the pictures are not your problem. Our investigator managed this in a very short period of time. Anyone wanting to put you in a difficult situation could easily do the same. Hey, look, Price, I've only met you two hours ago. You seem like a decent enough guy. Don't you think it would be wise to do something about this?"
"Yeah, I've thought about it. I guess that I should get some help, you know, professional help. Listen Simon, I don't mean to impugn your integrity or anything…"
"How do you know that you'll get paid? We have some people in common. I’ll give you a name. Contact them, they'll vouch for me. What do you say, in or out?"
"In."