Thomas Greer was a man of refined tastes and substantial means, mostly stolen of course. So despite the chaos currently surrounding him as his men were in the process of flipping drawers and tearing sofa cushions apart he had no problem relaxing in the beautiful wing-back chair, with his Italian loafers propped up on a low mahogany coffee table, next to a bottle of red he had found in the kitchen. Casually swirling some of the contents he had poured into a large wine glass, he glanced over at the fireplace and found himself wishing for a different scene, that of a warm crackling fire rather than two of his lackeys poking through the cold charred ashes. But the mission remained the primary objective and if they wished to succeed in their task they needed that disc. A shame, he thought, taking another slow draft from his glass, that the girl got away. With her in their custody he had no doubt that despite all his CIA training, Richard Chase would sing like a canary.