Ramsheed Ja Alia walked up to the frenchman and spoke in perfect French, with a Parisian accent. “May I see the sword please?” Ramsheed was a slight man in appearance. His slender frame and pleasant manner belied his strength, skill and endurance. A former member of the IDF special force called simply “The Unit” but officially the Sayeret Matkal. The Unit, is Israel’s special forces team in working behind enemy lines for intelligence gathering, recovery of hostages and other clandestine activities that are generally not publicized or admitted to when asked. They answered directly to the Aman. The frenchman was a lumpish, deceitful man with sweaty palms and brow. He laughed mirthlessly. He pulled at his beard as if to consider the request. Two large muscular men stood behind him with crossed arms. Ramsheeds partner, a stocky Brit, who at this moment was uncharacteristically quiet, sat in a papasan chair that, despite his six foot three, two-hundred and forty kilo frame, seemed to swallow him whole. The Brit wasn’t worried about getting to his feet in a hurry. He knew Rasheed could handle the situation if things veered from the plan. “I’ll let you see the sword if you show me the money,” The frenchman said in thickly accented English. “After all,” he continued, “this is an exchange, is it not.” And chuckled again without any movement in his eyes. Rasheed nodded in agreement and looked over to the Brit who was staring at a picture of Joan of arc framed, in what looked like a gilded Rocooco style that the Brit knew to be eighteenth century, if it was authentic. Ramsheed cleared his throat and the Brit looked up. Ramsheed waved his hands in a circular motion palms upward as if to say come on, let’s do this. The Brit reached down beside the chair and lifted a Samsonite leather flapover bag. Without getting out of the chair he opened the flap and revealed the contents. It was literally stuffed with US one hundred dollar bills. The Brit held the bag up high. Ramsheed looked at the Brit with disappointment. The look said, “Couldn’t you bother yourself to get out of the chair to conduct business.” The Britt shrugged. One of the Frenchman’s bodyguards walked over and tugged on the strap of the bag. The Brit didn’t release the bag until Ramsheed nodded. The bodyguard, a tall, muscular, bald, black man with two gold loop earings that gave him the look of Aladin’s Genie dumped the contents of the case onto the round rose crossed etched glass table top. The Frenchman, who said his name was Jean Pissarro, thumbed through several stacks randomly. He pulled out a pen and swiped it across several bills in several stacks. Jean Pissarro nodded to the other bodyguard, a large bearded frenchman who looked more like a pirate than anything else, including his dress, slipped out of the room. Moments later he returned with two other men armed with automatic weapons, Uzi NH. The Uzi Pro Target, or Nighthawk as it was called was an improved version of the Uzi Pro. It was called the nighthawk after the f-117 lockheed single seat twin engine stealth attack aircraft. The reason being, the Uzi has an aiming system similar to the f-117 designed by Raytheon. The Uzi Pro-T also available with or without an electronic sensored glove that improves speed and accuracy of the weapons use, though many users believe it detracts from the feel of combat. These men opted not to have the glove. Ramsheed and the Brit remained unusually calm, which perturbed the Frenchman. “Thank you for your donation to our cause gentlemen,” Jean Pissarro remarked jovially. “I suggest you leave much the same way you arrived, perhaps more rapidly lest my boys fingers begin to itch.” The Brit finally wriggled his way from the papasan with much difficulty. He stood beside Ramsheed and they both walked to the door some fifteen feet from Jean Pissarro. “Oh, by the way,” the Brit replied calmly holding up what looked like the fob to his car. “My finger is getting a bit tired of holding down this here button. I doubt I make it to the street before I release the pressure. Just so’s you know.” He opened the door to let Ramsheed through. “Pardon me.” The frenchman said in English with a British accent this time. “What might be the relevance of that statement my dear fellow?” “Oh, we dint tell you. If you look at the clasp on the flap of that case you’ll notice a lil light flashing, ever so softly. That light indicates the explosive in that case hasn’t been detonated yet. But if my thumb gets tired, and I can tell you it is getting tired, you won’t be able to see that light for two reasons.” The Brit nodded to Ramsheed who took a step toward the door. “Excuse me but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me,” said Jean in a tone that hinted of concern. “What pray tell would those reasons be?” “Well for one,” continued the Brit. It would stop flashing as the bomb would be detonated. As for the other, well you’d be dead.” “Gentlemen, please. Come back inside and let me find your sword. You must realize that we in our business have to be cautious. You could have been with the antiquities authorities.” Ramsheed and the Brit looked at each other, shrugged and turned to the Frenchman. “Let us see the sword Jean and quit screwing about.” spat the Brit. “Yes, yes, I have it right here.” He pulled the sword out from behind the antique French chair he was sitting in. “Yes, you must realize that before we can come over to examine it your men will need to lower their weapons. As a sign of good faith of course.” Ramsheed spoke calmly in french. “Oui,” replied Jean and ordered the men to do so. Ramsheed grabbed the weapon and began to examine it while the Brit pulled a small test kit from his sport jacket inner pocket. He began to set out trays and vials and petri dishes on the table. The Frenchman curled away to protect himself. “What about the detonator?” Jean asked slightly panicked. “Oh that,” replied the Brit. “That’s my key fob. It’s a rental.” The frenchman rolled his eyes. After about thirty minutes The Brit looked up to Ramsheed. “I’d give you about an eighty-five percent certainty. The DNA test is a prelim. A full test will take a few days.” “Well Jean, It looks like you either have the real deal here or an amazing forgery.” Ramsheed said, this time in perfect American English. “But of course gentlemen. I stake my life on my reputation.” “Interesting choice of words Frenchy,” The Brit said bruskly. “We have another proposition for you?” “Oh, What do you wish for now. I told you that was the only piece I have that belonged to Joan of Arc.” “We want the location where the sword was found.” “I’m afraid that is impossible my friends. It is a strict business policy of mine not to divulge that information on any of my procurements. I’m sure you can understand that. It’s non-negotiable.” Two hours later, after Jean Pissarro had hung upside down for thirty minutes while his bodyguards sat tied together watching, he decided to forgo his policy just this one time.