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No Apologies and No Regrets

By Roddy Wix

Published by Reade Books at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 Roddy Wix

Cover Design: HEM Graphics

Cover Photo: andyxox

License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters and incidents are creations of the author's imagination are should not be construed as real.

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1.

Palo Alto, California

May 6, 2010

Ilya Rusikov pushed long blond hair from his forehead as he leaned over a notebook computer. After a few keystrokes he smiled at his twin, Ivan, and said, "Done."

"Excellent!" Ivan reached over and gave his brother a hearty clap on the back. His gold Breitling indicated 11:42 AM Pacific Time and the New York Stock Exchange began to plummet. Already down three hundred points on the session things got much worse.

Within moments Ivan's cell phone vibrated and spun itself around in circles on the slick, glass topped conference table.

"Yes."

"Congratulations, Ivan Ivanovitch. Thor's Hammer seems to be working." The familiar baritone voice on the other end had a hint of a Russian accent.

"Thank you, Mr. Malroff. Are we ready to complete our transaction?"

"Not so fast, Ivan. You will be paid as soon as we get the results you promised and a copy of the source code." Malroff's voice sounded cheerful though Ivan was wiser than to disagree.

"Understood."

Ivan motioned to his brother and whispered, "Go ahead and forward the file to the address I gave you."

Ilya, appearing confused, complied with his instructions and after a couple of seconds on the keyboard signaled "thumbs up".

"Mr. Malroff, we've sent Thor's Hammer."

"Excellent. Dr. Kovich will verify receipt and authenticate the program. Check your bank account in an hour."

The line went dead before Ivan could respond. He jumped up and started pacing again causing his expensive Italian driving shoes to make a screeching sound on the polished concrete floor. The noise made Ilya cringe, but he didn't complain. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and gave his brother a mischievous grin.

"So, where is Comrade Malroff?"

"Do not call him 'Comrade'!" Ivan stopped pacing and wagged a finger in warning.

"What? Do you think he bugged our offices? He's not KGB anymore."

"Ilya! Never mention his name and KGB."

"Lighten up, Ivan. We're comfortable and safe here in California. Our jobs are pretty cool and we're getting paid well."

"Don't be so small minded, Ilya. We're about to make a lot more money than those children's toys are paying us."

"The 'toys' as you call them aren't such a bad deal. You never refuse a paycheck."

"Because I do a lot of work."

"You spend more time driving your Ferrari and taking your girlfriends to Vegas. It must cost you a fortune."

"Ilya, it doesn't matter. We'll be twenty five million euros richer for this. When has this place paid you so much money?"

"Twenty five million sounds good, but only if your friend and his boss the Prime Minister pay us!"

"Ilya, don't ever bring up the Prime Minister. I want to live to spend my share. Do you understand?" Ivan dropped into a chair with tension visible in his shoulders while his brother seemed relaxed and indifferent.

"Don't worry. If he does, fine. If not, I don't much care, but I'm not going to sit here waiting. Let's get some lunch."

Ilya, unlike Ivan, preferred the thrill of writing novel gaming programs over making money. He'd been that way since before they came west to go to Stanford, but once they got to Palo Alto he soon attached himself to a crowd with similar interests and for awhile the brothers went their separate ways. Ivan hung out at the business school learning what he thought necessary to be able to write EFTS trading software, but his interest in pretty faces always seemed to be a distraction. So, Ilya and his socially backward buddies launched the soonest. They founded Fluid Dimension before graduation and made a decent success of their company. For Ivan, working for his brother became a necessary embarrassment as he continued his quest for a "big score".

"Alright, give me another minute."

Ivan checked his Breitling yet again: almost three PM in the east. A few keystrokes on his computer brought up an array of financial news. The market turnaround seemed to be as rapid as its decline. By just past noon in California most of its sudden losses were recouped. Thor's Hammer had performed as he'd promised Malroff, and his mood brightened. He started tapping the keys again.

"Ivan, I'm not waiting much longer. I want lunch."

"Fine, but let me show you something." He turned the laptop toward Ilya and pointed at a flashing blue number indicating a balance of more than forty million euros in an offshore account he'd been keeping secret.

"Ivan, where the hell did forty million euros come from?"

"Well, I must make a small confession."

"A small confession?"

"Yes. I also sold a copy of your program, the one you called Leprechaun."

Ilya leapt to his feet and glared at his brother. "You sold Leprechaun without telling me?" He advanced on Ivan as he spoke. "You had no right and neither did I. You knew someone else wrote most of that code."

"Possession is everything, Ilya, and I'm the one who created a market. After some bidding Serge paid us ten million."

"Serge?"

"He uses the program to funnel cash through. Laundering..."

"Ivan! What the hell were you thinking?"

"About making some money for us! Besides, I modified the code a little before I delivered it."

"How?" Ilya became angrier.

"Whenever Malroff uses Leprechaun to launder his cash we get a 'royalty' of twenty-five basis points, only a quarter of a penny on the dollar, a fair fee in my opinion."

"Does he know?"

"He didn't ask so I had no need to answer."

"Now I understand why you don't want him angry with us." Ilya headed for the door.

"He can't be too unhappy. He's just paid us twenty-five million Euros for Thor's Hammer." Ivan grinned and pointed at the large number still pulsating on the computer screen.

"Enough! I'm going to lunch. Are you coming?"

"Of course I am." Ivan started after his brother, but not before checking one more account. The news was good, but he decided to defer telling Ilya who stood waiting for an elevator.

"Ilya, wait up."

2.

Silver Star Security Corporate Offices

Palm Beach, Florida

Joanna "Joey" Beretta strolled into her husband's empty office. Her short, green and white dress displayed tanned and perfect legs which she crossed politely as she sat on a black leather couch opposite his desk. Moments later Frank Berretta walked in to be greeted by her dazzling smile and sparkling, ice green eyes.

"So, Beretta, what kept you? Does your old Ford need a tune-up?"

Tossing a soft leather satchel on his modern teak desk he turned to face his beautiful young wife. At sixty his movie star looks were intact and though his dark hair was streaked with silver he looked fifteen years younger.

"The 'old Ford' is fine," he said referring to his black '65 Cobra. He added, "Unlike you, however, I like to keep my driving under control and my license unblemished."

"Yeah, right. You fear my superior driving skill and the fine German engineering." She kissed him on the cheek.

"Your 'fine German engineering' was a helluva mess before I put all the pieces back together."

Joey's '85 Turbo Carrera, like Frank's collection of '60's era convertibles, had been one of his personal restoration projects. The cars, big game fishing and Joey were the passions of his life, but definitely not in that order.

"You did a wonderful job, sweetheart. Between my Porsche and professional driving lessons you created a monster." She gave him a flirtatious smile and sat provocatively on the corner of his desk.

Frank sighed in faux exasperation, "If I'd only realized!"

Joey was an "honors" graduate of Bob Bondurant's driving school: a birthday gift five years earlier. She swiveled toward him, in full flirtation mode, letting her skirt ride strategically up her thighs, but Frank put a hand out in the universal sign for "stop".

"Joey, this isn't the time to fool around. Besides, we're at work and I'm your boss." As if anyone would believe that. They tried to be discreet, but the urges they roused in one another often stopped just short of uncontrollable.

"OK." Joey feigned disappointment and stood demurely beside the desk.

Even in a jaded town like Palm Beach, Frank Beretta was much envied, though not for his successful business, car collection, new sport fisherman, or classic bungalow near the north end of the island. No big deal. Everybody in town had stuff, only Frank had Joey. Most men and probably a few women lusted after her. While he admired her intelligence, courage, and competitive drive, her looks never failed to take his breath away. Joey turned heads everywhere, but remained very low maintenance. She considered time spent primping in front of a mirror as time wasted. Despite an age difference of thirty years, she and Frank were happier than either ever expected to be.

Together, the Berettas ran a company Frank started after he left the military. Known as "S3", Silver Star Security grew to become one of the premiere private security firms in the world and served a select group of high-end clients on three continents. Joey managed the domestic Personal Security division while Frank ran the Corporate and IT Security business. He sat on the board-of-directors at Legacy International, a global corporate support firm. Since 9-11, S3's client list expanded almost geometrically.

"So, Joey, what's on your agenda?"

"Marlie Stevens called. She asked me to come to California to meet a friend of hers, Persephone Andreadis. Have you heard of her?"

"The singer?"

Joey was surprised he knew and Frank went on sorting papers from his 'in' box. Maybe a sign of his age, some habits refused to die.

"Yes, the same." Joey walked back to the couch and reclaimed her seat.

"Can't you get someone from your LA office to meet with her?"

"You know Marlie. She wants me to come out in person."

"Pretty soon you'll need to pay her a commission. Since she and Barry hired Silver Star she's doubled your client base in the entertainment industry to say nothing of the division's gross income."

"Fair enough, and I'm the one who didn't want to get involved with performers, but so far things are working out. If I had to live in LA full time it would be a different story. Even Marlie doesn't do that."

The popular entertainer and Joey's close friend still called Nashville home. She and her hedge fund manager husband spent every possible moment in Tennessee.

Frank laughed. In the past year a young beauty named Jemima Burck had become famous as an actor and as the girlfriend of rocker Brian Stone. The press sophomorically called them "JemStone" and dogged the couple everywhere they went. Unfortunately for Joey, she and Jemima may as well have been twins and now her life was miserable whenever she visited LA or New York. In Palm Beach people were either too cool to care or pretended to be. Like Frank's name. Everyone assumed him to be a part of the Italian gun making family, but nobody ever asked. C'est la vie.

"So when are you headed to California?"

"In the morning, if Jill can get everything scheduled."

"Good timing. Billy's taking the boat to the Big Game Club early tomorrow then I'm meeting with someone from Washington on board. We're going to try to do a little fishing afterwards."

"Fishing? Sure, Frank." She rolled her icy green eyes and continued, "I'll be on the west coast while you and your buddies are having a wild party."

Frank's new seventy-eight foot Rybovich would make a fine party boat, but nowadays, the only girl he partied with was the one locking her feline eyes on him. And, everyone knew he'd named the boat Une Belle Femme, 'a beautiful woman', in her honor.

"Busted, sweetheart, what can I say? I do what I must to keep those government contracts coming in." Frank faked a sheepish grin.

"Do I need to go along to keep you out of the tabloids?"

"Sweetheart, if you went you'd be the one in the tabloids, not us."

"Don't remind me." They both laughed.

"Don't worry, Joey. There will be no evidence."

"No evidence or no crime?" Joey gave her husband a snarky smile.

"Anyone ever tell you, you should go to law school?"

"Yeah, you do constantly. You also failed to answer the question."

"Or, I succeeded in not answering. All in how you look at it, my love." Frank laughed out loud as he finished aligning stacks of paper on the desk in front of him. He'd organized his day's work and was prepared to dive in.

Jill Kline, Joey's executive assistant, popped her head in the door with a bright, "Morning Mr. B."

"Good morning, Jill."

"Joey, I need to confirm your flight for tomorrow. Delta leaves Palm Beach International at about ten AM?"

"Perfect."

"You're flying commercial?" Frank asked.

"Yes. I'm trying to keep costs down these days."

"Admirable. Let me know how it works for you, Jemima."

She gave him a peck on the cheek and walked out with Jill to start her own day's chores.

3.

Ten minutes after they'd left their Palo Alto office the twins were sitting in a sidewalk café along University Avenue. The waiter poured a Pinot Gris for Ivan and Ilya had a glass of sparkling water as was his custom during the workday.

"Let's take another look at the market."

Ilya shrugged with indifference. He spread some warm Brie on a small chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth while his greedy brother fiddled with his smart phone.

"The NYSE gained back most of its losses; just as we said it would."

"No, Ivan, as you said."

"Whatever. Here's to us, Ilya."

Ivan sneaked a peek at the performance of his trading program and realized he'd made another million dollars in the time they'd spent walking to the cafe. He was beginning to believe in the possibility of true independence.

Several tables away, Jack Button, Gabe Bowman, and their Chief Technology Officer sat riveted to their own smart phones as they waited for their lunch orders to be served. Jack and Gabe, co-founders of Digital Integrity, LP, were definitely not in the same business as Fluid Dynamics. They specialized in engineering some of the most sophisticated IT security software in the universe, but a lot of the people in Silicon Valley socialized and competed with each other and the Rusikovs were no exception.

"This can't be right, must be a bug in the exchange's system." Gabe, true to form, was focused on the system and not the market.

"Must be a trade error." Jack, the optimist, sat back and relaxed with his glass of Largesse Chardonnay.

"Maybe the brakes didn't work."

Hearing laughter behind him, Gabe Bowman turned and saw the Rusikov brothers "high fiving". Ivan appeared to be quite happy.

"Looks like you fellows shorted the market at a good time," Gabe called out in a congenial tone.

"Yes. You could say that." Ivan bowed a little and Ilya gave a casual salute as they raised their glasses in Gabe's direction. Bowman smiled back, but remained preoccupied. Something about the unfolding events didn't add up. In a selfish way he wondered how his own investment program performed though the puzzle forming in his mind intrigued him more.

Palo Alto is a small town and the Rusikov twins, at six-three with nearly white blond hair, were hard to miss. Ivan's lust to be noticed only enhanced their prominence. They dressed the same because Ilya couldn't be bothered with clothes. Ivan shopped lavishly for himself and when he got tired of something he gave his cast offs to Ilya. In a place where young billionaires took pride in dressing inconspicuously Ivan's taste for well-tailored slacks and jackets and fine Italian shoes didn't lower their profile a bit.

The waiter began serving lunch at the DI table when Sally Ramsay, a pretty blond with sparkling blue eyes arrived. She wore designer jeans, a silk shirt and shoes with impossibly high heels: the much-coveted ones with the red soles.

"Sorry I'm late. Got room for one more?"

She was DI's "special projects officer" and a favorite of Gabe's. He'd personally recruited her just two days after she became one of Stanford's youngest PhD recipients.

"Sure. Pull up a chair." Bart Zeigler, Dynamic's scruffy but well-liked head of development, gestured toward a seat across from his. He was brilliant, good-looking and oblivious to style and, it seemed, indifferent to most women. His teammates were betting Sally would soon be the exception.

Before she took her seat Ilya called out a greeting accompanied by a boyish wave and a big smile.

"Hello, Ilya." She smiled back, but ignored Ivan. Then she eased into a chair and picked up a menu.

"How can you tell those two dudes apart? Seriously." Bart stared at the twins trying to distinguish one from the other.

"Watch," Sally said without looking up.

"Watch what?"

"The noun, not the verb, Bart. Ivan wears one. Ilya doesn't." Sally motioned to let the waiter know she wanted to order.

"And a substantial one it is," Bart remarked as he eyed Ivan's huge Breitling. His gaze drifted to Sally's Rolex Yachtmaster and then to his own wrist sporting only a yellow "Livestrong" bracelet. Perhaps he and Ilya did have something in common.

At the twins' table Ilya remained smitten by Sally's presence.

"Let's go sit with them for awhile. I haven't seen Sally in a long time."

"Sorry, brother, but I have one more surprise for you. I expected that today would be a big success. I booked us on a flight to Paris as a celebration."

"Paris? When do we leave?"

"We're flying out of San Francisco in about three hours. I already packed, so we can go straight to the airport from here."

"I need a passport."

"In your bag," Ivan said getting out of his chair.

"Fine, but let me finish my sandwich before we go."

"Alright." Ivan sat back down and accommodated his less mature brother who munched contentedly without taking his eyes off Sally Ramsay. When he finished, Ivan took him by the arm as if leading a grade schooler out of the café. On their way to the exit they walked past the table where the DI crew sat, and paused for a moment as Gabe raised a glass in their direction.

"Gentlemen."

Ilya gave Sally a friendly wave and Ivan smirked as he and his brother walked down the sidewalk to their office where they boarded his Ferrari and drove away. They would not be coming back.

"Is it just me or are they a really peculiar pair of dudes? I mean, I'm an MIT dropout, and I think I know what 'odd' looks like."

"Yes, Bart, I'm sure you do." Sally eyed Bart's unshaven though handsome face, torn jeans and black hoodie, and had to chuckle to herself. She continued, "Ivan is pompous and self absorbed, but Ilya is the definition of eccentric. I've often wonder what he'd be like if Ivan weren't around."

"How so?" Gabe asked.

"Clothes, for one thing. Ivan buys things he likes for himself and Ilya wears Ivan's hand me downs."

"Wow. Those "hand me downs" look better than my Sunday best," Bart said without a trace of embarrassment.

"I'm surprised you'd admit it." Sally's blue eyes said "gotcha", but the waiter arrived with her lunch before he could react.

"I didn't know the three of you were such good friends." A trace of sarcasm drifted into voice.

Sally ignored the tone answering, "Back at Stanford I dated Ivan a couple of times."

"Must have been fun." A twinge of jealousy took Bart by surprise.

"Not so much. He has his good points, but everything's about him. Ilya took one of my classes when I was a teaching fellow. We worked on a gaming program together just for fun. I think he's smarter than Ivan and he's able to focus at an extraordinary level, but he can be immature. He loves those video games he creates."

Sally, unlike most geeks, was a self-assured east coast debutante from a rich family. In Bart's opinion she must have grown up without ever hearing the word "no". She favored Gucci and Prada, and sometimes didn't play well with others. Bart was no exception though it was clear to everyone else she liked him in something more than a collegial way.

"Regardless, I can assure you we're far superior." She looked at Bart and raised her glass.

"Well said, I think," Bart said quixotically as he returned the toast.

Gabe smiled knowing his two star players were "the best". There was friction between them, but that could be a good thing.

"A friend of mine ran into the Rusikovs a few weeks ago. Ivan was drinking a lot and raving on and on about a project of his that would make some huge amount of money." Sally finished her wine.

"Good to know." Gabe somehow he had the feeling the Rusikov brothers might be on their collective radar screens sooner than anyone might imagine.

"A friend?" Bart took the wine bottle and refilled Sally's glass.

"Just a Stanford alum," Sally said evasively taking another sip of wine.

Bart nodded, leaned back in his chair and casually appraised his colleague. Definitely attractive, he thought. Blond and athletic, she might be five-four but it was hard to tell because she usually wore those ridiculous high heels. Even after working together for two years he still didn't know what to make of her. To him, Sally Ramsay remained a conundrum. On one hand she always dressed as though she were on her way to a party, just as Ivan did. On the other, he'd seen her work like a daemon for two or three days, and achieve some pretty amazing things. Not what he imagined to be the MO of a spoiled heiress. One day, perhaps, he might figure it out.

4.

The Big Game Club

Grand Bahama Island

The afternoon's weather had gone to hell, but the robust squall line hadn't diminished the good humor of the three men on board the luxurious yacht, Une Belle Femme. Riding out the storms in the safe harbor of a private fishing club they entertained themselves drinking single malt whiskey and playing cards. As usual, Billy "Billfish" Sawyer won nearly every hand. The amiable Bahamian had been Frank's boat captain and friend for more than twenty years and during that time he'd rarely lost at poker.

"Gentlemen, I've got some conch chowder simmering down in the galley and I need to check on it," Billy said rising from his comfortable club chair.

"Good timing, Billy. Leave the table when you've taken all Frank's money." Harry chuckled and Frank gave a mock frown.

"Senator, I learned a long time ago that timing really is everything. I'd also bet you two wouldn't say 'no' to some of my homemade chowder for lunch, either."

"That's no bet, it's a plain fact." Harry Brooke laughed and cuffed Billy amiably on the shoulder. A Stanford educated attorney, he'd surprised his constituents by retiring from the senate in 1980 to return to practicing law in an anonymous little suburban Virginia office. Though his clientele remained something of a mystery, he spent most of his time following in the philanthropic footsteps of his wealthy family. In his case the public spin wasn't entirely untrue.

As soon as Billy had gone below the Senator's mood grew more serious.

"Frank, times are changing at a faster pace than I thought I'd live to see and I'm not quite a dinosaur yet."

"You're right, but I wonder if the mission I signed on for is coming to a close."

"The mission will never end. The way we execute it is something else."

"Well, surgical killings don't seem to be working. Nobody's been able to eliminate bin Laden. Not even me."

"How hard did you try?"

"Not hard enough." Frank said forthrightly.

"No matter. Killing him probably wouldn't have made a difference and might have elevated him to martyr status. That sure as hell would have backfired on us."

"True. That's what happens when you get sucked into declaring war against an ideology; you kill one man and another takes his place. His death means nothing and changes nothing."

Harry took a swig of single malt and gave Frank a solemn smile.

"The battlefield changes, but the war goes on."

"It already has changed, Frank. We spend billions on so called "security" because the people have been made afraid by the media and by politicians. While they're all fixated on someone blowing something up they miss the bigger point. I'm worried that the next big strike will be invisible, but its impact could be devastating."

"Cyber-space?"

"True. Look at what happened yesterday."

"You're telling me the crash was contrived and not just a mechanical glitch?"

Frank pulled a couple of Cuban cigars from a leather case and motioned toward the sliding glass doors leading out to the broad aft fishing cockpit. The senator willingly followed him out on deck where the rain had cooled the air and a gentle breeze washed over the basin as the boat rode at anchor. The men lit their cigars and watched the smoke drift silently away.

"I'm not certain, but I plan to find out. Imagine the consequences if someone had the ability to manipulate or totally disrupt our markets."

"Is your boss aware?"

Frank was referring to the President of the United States, the man he knew to be Harry Brooke's only client. Harry chuckled as he answered.

"He's smart and I'm sure he suspects, but to answer your question, "no". I'm empowered to investigate on my own, and I won't involve him until there's more reliable information."

"How's he dealing with the whole concept of the Legacy Counsel?"

The wise old lawyer laughed again. "Let's just say his perception of Washington and Jefferson is permanently altered. People and history tend to forget how desperate those men were. If the Revolution or the Republic failed early on the gallows awaited them. In fact, if not for Washington's skillful handling of John Honeyman the worst may have happened in December of 1776. He personally ran the secret agent who, at enormous personal risk, teed the Hessian mercenaries up for defeat at Trenton. That gave the Continental Army a desperately needed shot in the arm."

"Washington was never recognized for the clever way he used a clandestine crew to accomplish his goals."

"True, and Jefferson didn't need to be sold on the idea, either. Jefferson and Franklin both acted as master manipulators on the world stage. While they partied their way across Paris they traded information and misinformation at every opportunity. They were positioned to act with broad latitude and no oversight. Oversight is supposed to make our system work, but sometimes a president is hamstrung without the unilateral authority of a monarch."

"Seems like they found a way around that."

'And Woodrow Wilson refined the mechanism by institutionalizing the role and requiring the Legacy Counsel to be a licensed lawyer."

"Wilson was a wise and clever man."

"Being a lawyer himself must have colored his thinking when it came to how he structured the job. The whole concept isn't much of a leap from the theory allowing the president to respond to a "clear and present danger' " Frank blew a jet of cigar smoke toward the sky.

"Except, when he deals through his Legacy Counsel, the President doesn't have to tell anyone what he's doing. Frank, you're a soldier and a good one. You view your mission with simplicity and clarity which is a luxury politicians don't often have."

"I'm getting to be an old soldier, Harry."

"And I'm already an old lawyer who would love to retire. My son would have been my first choice as my successor. I was just laying the groundwork when Harrison died."

Harrison Carter Brooke, IV had a freak skiing accident as he and his wife, Olivia, vacationed at Vale. The senator's relationship with his only other child was strained. Despite her marriage to a patrician philanthropist and public servant Charlotte remained randy, headstrong, and absent from his life as did her daughter. So, Harry came to fill the void by focusing his fatherly attention on his son's widow. During the elder Brooke's bereavement Frank hosted him on what they called "recuperative" fishing expeditions. They grew close and Harry then revealed the true nature of his work and, by extension, Frank's.

"Those were dark days, Harry. Had any further thoughts on a successor?"

"If I had to decide I'd choose Olivia."

"I couldn't argue." Frank shook his head in agreement. He didn't know the woman well, but he liked what he had seen. A compact, copper haired forty year old, Olivia Brooke was a popular professor at Georgetown Law and sometime "talking head" on news shows where she always seemed to give voice to the sort of unbiased, rational thinking now so rare in the media.

"Good. I'm thinking of moving in that direction soon. Just remember, you're the only one in your position who has ever known as much about my work as you do. I told you in a moment of personal need and I sincerely believe our friendship kept me going. By extension you helped keep this job alive. I know I can trust to your discretion."

"Of course. Besides, 'President's Assassin' isn't the sort of title I thought about putting on my business card."

"I suppose not."

The two men laughed dryly and Frank said, "Well, I'm starting to think it might be a good time for me to retire, too, Harry."

"That would be a first, Frank. None of your predecessors has ever retired in the conventional sense of the word."

Frank grew somber and said, "Yeah. Some days I doubt I'll be the first, Harry, but I can hope."

"Here's to 'hope'. Many days that's all we've got, my friend."

They stood on the damp teak deck blowing smoke into the soft breeze and staring at the brightening sky.

The wide glass salon doors opened and Billfish Sawyer stepped out.

"Soup's on, gentlemen."

5.

Despite the late hour, cheers went up the moment the stock market began to fall. Krug and Monte Cristo cigars were passed around the luxurious Milan offices of the international hedge fund, Grosserkopf, Hasslich & Archloch.

"To the Golden Boys and to our own success," a man proclaimed in a Russian accented baritone voice.

"To us."

The party, in the firm's stainless steel and leather upholstered aerie would go on unabated throughout the night as the intoxicated fund managers tallied their growing profits. By the end of the following day the firm made more than a hundred million euros for its principals. One particular client in Moscow would be quite pleased.

Serge Malroff, the founder and managing director of GHA hoisted his glass in what felt like his hundredth toast.

"To our success, everyone." A round of cheers went up from the crowd as he continued. "Today is Friday and a most successful one. I must leave you now, but I ordered the caterers to serve food and wine until you all go home or pass out!"

A thunderous ovation greeted the surprising and generous gesture on the part of the self-absorbed boss. Applause lasted until Serge left the room. Barely acknowledging his employees he strode into an elevator to be whisked down to the parking garage where a silver Maybach and liveried chauffeur awaited his arrival. Serge swept imperiously into the car and motioned for the driver to "go".

"To the lake house, Friedrich."

"Sehr gut, mein Herr," the dapper Austrian responded.

"Danke schoen, Friedrich." Serge raised a partition between the front and rear seats and picked up the phone. His first call went to his villa at Lake Como where Duccio, his major domo, answered on the first ring.

"Is Penelope there?" He inquired without greeting.

"Ci, Lady Goldman arrived this afternoon."

"Please make certain she is taken care of. Let her know I will be arriving in an hour or so. We are celebrating tonight, Duccio."

"Very good, sir. Did you know that Lady Goldman brought a guest with her?"

For a moment Serge felt the anger boil up in his throat but restrained himself and asked, "Who is her guest?"

"The gentleman who accompanied her on her last visit, sir."

The thought of the effete gigolo made Serge relax. He almost laughed aloud.

"Fine. I cannot understand why she travels with that fool. No matter, he'll need to find a way to entertain himself tonight."

"Yes, sir. What may I instruct the chef to prepare for dinner?"

"Let her decide, but make sure she understands, it's a celebration for two."

"Of course, sir. A safe journey to you, sir."

Serge hung up without responding. Malroff mechanically punched the buttons on his phone, but wondered if he was calling his boss prematurely. While the Rusikovs worked for him, he in turn was beholden to a far more forbidding master, one who would not tolerate slip ups.

"Good evening, this is Serge Malroff. May I speak with the Prime Minister?" His tone became deferential this time and he waited patiently for the familiar voice to come on the line.

"Congratulations, Serge, your plan seems to have worked as promised."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. Congratulations to you as well. Your investment paid off handsomely and we deposited your profits into your account as instructed."

"Good, but tell me, Serge, can the event be reproduced?"

"Yes, Prime Minister." He answered in haste.

"Excellent. I am in no hurry, but I need to know that such tools are available."

"Yes, Excellency. I assure you, they will be at your disposal." Serge remained wary. The cagey Prime Minister never wasted his breath. Every sentence he uttered had meaning and his demeanor was unchanged from their days as comrades in KGB.

"Well done, Serge Ivanovitch." The line went dead before Serge could respond, but he was relieved to hear he had some time before his services would be called upon. He just didn't know how little; or how much.

While Serge's comfortable car cruised into the northern reaches of Italy the twins luxuriated on an Air France jet somewhere over the Atlantic.

They had partied too hard on the leg from Las Vegas to New York and missed their original connecting flight. By the time they boarded the plane they were still buzzed. Ilya absorbed himself in a hand held video game while Ivan remained tense and tight beneath his thin veneer of poise and polish. At some point during the flight Ivan managed to connect with a cute brunette cabin attendant named Sophie-Ann. She volunteered to give him a personal tour of the aft facilities on the plane and, having done so, he returned to his seat a little more relaxed and carrying vodka on the rocks, a double. Surprisingly, his awkward brother was making conversation with a beautiful Swedish girl sitting two rows ahead. Apparently she was a fan of his latest video game. On closer inspection Ivan judged her to be young, perhaps college age, but altogether stunning. Had he not been recovering from his recent encounter with Sophie-Ann he might have been compelled to claim her for himself. Maybe later, but before he could make a move Ilya returned to his seat and announced a last call for drinks before service would be discontinued.

"I can't believe they'd cut us off from liquor. We paid a small fortune for these seats." Ilya, quite the moderate drinker, became uncharacteristically annoyed.

"Well, you know there are more regulations. With all the terrorists in the world it's become a dangerous place. Anyway, what are you worried about? You're a rich man, and Europe is full of liquor and beautiful women. By the way, Ilya, who's your new friend?"

"Oh, her name is Madeleine. She's going home to Stockholm from a semester abroad. She may stop over in Paris for a little sightseeing. I hope she does. How long are we staying?"

"A few days at least. We owe ourselves a celebration."

"True. We can connect with Serge in person later this week."

"Yes, what can he do without us?" Ivan laughed and seemed, for a moment, to loose sight of what Serge could do to them.

"Does he know that?"

"As I said before, he didn't ask and I didn't tell him."

"Good," Ilya spoke indifferently without looking up from his video game.

Ivan became silent as he eyed the sexy young Swede thinking how much better a tour guide he would make than his brother.

6.

On Friday morning Gabe Bowman couldn't sleep so he went to work at four AM. He wasn't alone. The regular 24 / 7 crowd was there plus a few more.

As the sun came up Gabe, Sally and Bart gathered in his office around a small conference table that passed for a desk. Sally was grazing on dry granola and some fruit. A less health conscious Bart had a double mocha latte and a chocolate chip croissant that he'd picked up at Starbucks on the way in. Gabe had only a bottle of Fiji water and a handful of aspirin tablets.

"The most likely scenario is a glitch in the exchange's computers," Sally said without a lot of conviction.

"I don't know, Sally. We've been inside their system so many times I think we know it better than they do." Bart grinned and took another bite of chocolate croissant.

"I'll assume those visits were all at the NYSE's request," Gabe said while hastily washing down several white pills.

"It was definitely in their best interests. That's the same thing, isn't it?" Bart studied the bottom of his empty coffee cup to conceal his impish smile.

"Sure. Sure it is, Bart." Gabe frequently chose not to know too much about the expeditions his super stars took into sensitive systems and software.

Sally shifted restlessly in her chair and fiddled absent-mindedly with her long hair. "I think that, because the market started to stabilize so quickly, the exchange's program and systems were basically intact."

"I agree with that." Gabe was distracted by his own line of thinking and didn't say more.

"What if someone entered an incorrect trade in some unimaginably huge number? That could put the EFTS's into frenzy...."

Bart interrupted, "That's exactly where all the moronic talking heads are going with this." He was notorious for his visceral contempt of the televised media. "The system has built in 'circuit breakers' that should have stopped a fall long before it got to this."

Yeah, but they shut off at a certain time of day Sally thought but kept the comment to herself.

She spoke in a calm clear voice, "What if someone injected a string of code, a virus if you will, and that precipitated the whole thing?"

"Then I'd say we can find the bugger in less than 24 hours." Bart looked smugly at Sally.

"Maybe." Gabe stared out the window, deep in thought.

"But what if it was designed to eliminate itself?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sure, Bart. The code could have been instructed to initiate a self-destruct routine when its mission was fulfilled. It wouldn't be so hard. It's how I'd do it if I were writing the program myself."

"Possible, I suppose, but why do you think that's what happened here?"

"Dunno. Maybe just a hunch." Sally went on eating tiny pieces of granola and staring off into space.

"Maybe a good one." Bart seemed indifferent, but Gabe was clearly intrigued by her idea.

"Look, the "virus" would only have to serve as a catalyst. A substantial percentage of trading volume is driven by program traders and they tend to behave in a predictable way. If they see, or think they see just a few trades that fall well outside their parameters they'll react automatically. The prices drop, stop loss orders kick in and a train wreck results." Sally popped one last bit of granola into her mouth as she started to pace the floor. When she was focused on something she tended to move around a lot. According to rumor, she'd paced her cubicle for two days straight while she and Bart were working on a crash project.

"For argument's sake let's assume a false trade was entered by someone who knew the virus would disable the circuit breakers: that could easily trigger a collapse if only for a few minutes. You may be on to something, Sally." Gabe was fully engaged in the conversation while Bart worked hard to conceal his own interest.

"Yeah. The breakers only need to be disabled for a matter of seconds. The trick would be to size the fake trade to be large enough to do the job. I think you could even control how far you wanted the market to fall by tweaking the parameters a little." Bart was getting more enthusiasm for the notion now that he was feeling some ownership.

"Before you get too excited, guys, let's not forget that whoever did this needed a digital signature to get in."

"If we can do it someone else could figure it out." Sally glared at Bart as he said it.

"Elegant." Gabe reentered the conversation with his mind filled with a vision of how simple the process could be.

"Bloody fucking brilliant if it actually works." Bart immediately regretted his word choice. Sally reacted badly to profanity - especially from him.

"BART! How many times do I have to ask you to watch your language?" Eyes blazing, Sally spun on her new black Gucci stilettos and stared at him.

"Sorry, but I never worked with a dilettante before. It takes some getting used to for a farm boy like me." The snarky edge in Bart's voice didn't portend good things.

Shit, here we go again Gabe thought.

"You mean debutante," Sally said tartly. Her tone was equally testy. Sometimes, where Bart was concerned, she could be sensitive to references to her privileged upbringing. More than one of the town's tecchies grew up rich, but Sally tended to be more obvious than most. Along the way she had embraced her family's culture of wealth and high-end consumption and typically made no apologies.

"They're synonyms, aren't they?" Bart, who had scored 1600 on his SAT's, was needling her in a way that was guaranteed to get under her skin.

"Feigned stupidity is much worse than real stupidity, Bart." She clicked the sharp heel of her shoe on the floor for emphasis.

"So is feigned moral superiority, Sally."

"Meaning?"

"I'm just sayin'. According to you I have a reprehensible foul mouth, but you have your ménage a trois going with Mr. Jack Daniels and whoever. We're all sinners one way or the other."

"You always have to go there, don't you Bart?"

"And you never deny it, do you?"

A persistent rumor had been circulating that, after marathon work sessions, Sally liked to blow off steam with bourbon and non-stop sex. Her partner or partners had yet to be identified though Bart had given it more thought than he would admit to. So, maybe the rumor was true and perhaps it was wishful thinking, but mention of it always got her wound up.

Gabe decided to jump into the middle of the fray. These were two of the most brilliant misfits on the planet and he needed them to stay on point.

"Look, children, let's not loose our focus here. See if you can form a cogent hypothesis and try to advance to the next level, huh?" Even though it was his own office he headed for the door. It was soundproof and a good place to contain the combatants.

"Yeah, sure, Gabe." Bart said without taking his eyes off Sally who nodded affirmatively in Gabe's direction.

"Bart, one day I'm going to file a complaint against you with HR."

"Oh give me a break, Sally. You won't." Bart dropped casually into a chair. "You won't because then I might be forced to stop." He leaned back comfortably and smiled smugly at Sally. 'Checkmate' he thought to himself.

"Might have to stop? You'd be lucky to have your job!"

The company's co-founder, Jack Button, was walking by as Gabe emerged from his office quickly closed the door.

"Those two again?"

"Yup. The inter-tribal mating ritual is in full tilt."

"Ever wish they'd just get a room and get on with it?"

"Nah. This is much more entertaining." They both laughed.

"Has she thrown a shoe at him yet?" Somehow the inane act of throwing a shoe had come to symbolize the end of these childish confrontations.

"No, but soon, I hope. I have real work for them to do."

Jack just laughed. "I'm going out. You can use my office if you need one."

"Thanks."

"Don't mess it up," Jack said over his shoulder jabbing jovially at his lifelong friend, the legendary clean freak.

Gabe walked across the floor and into an office even less traditional than his own. The room had no desk or conference table. A low glass coffee table and four Barcelona chairs sat on a Persian carpet at its center. In a corner stood sleek, black leather reclining chair close by a sixty-inch high def screen. The recliner was Jack's 'work station.'

Gabe plopped down on one of the Barcelona chairs and pulled out his cell phone. He wasn't entirely surprised to see an incoming call from the McLean, Virginia law firm that represented one of Digital Integrity's largest and most secretive clients. Gabe could only guess at the client's true identity as the engagements and billings were processed through the firm. Payments were wire transferred from a New York branch of Bank of America. Sally and Bart wanted to hack the account, but the relationship was too lucrative. Gabe threatened termination or worse if anyone tried and everyone knew he would have made good on the threat. Of course, he'd have to find out about it first.

He dialed voicemail and switched to speaker mode so he could take notes. A familiar voice came on the line without salutation or introduction.

"I have a client who has lost a substantial amount of money due to the recent market volatility. I've suggested that we engage you to investigate and report back to me. I'm authorized to approve one hundred hours at your standard rate. Please acknowledge."

He immediately broke the connection then punched some numbers into his phone and waited. As expected, his call went directly to voice mail.

"Acknowledging acceptance."

He ended the call and leaned back with a smile on his face. You had to love those guys. He was going to get paid over a hundred thousand dollars for doing something the team had already started on their own.

7.

The Saddle Peak Lodge

Malibu, California

Marlie Stevens and Joey Beretta were seated in the second floor 'library' of the quirky old Saddle Peak Lodge. A unique setting with outstanding food, the Lodge was a favorite meeting place for both women and, it wasn't heavily patrolled by the paparazzi.

A waiter served cocktails and tasting plates of foie gras that had been sent by their friend, Dr. Ann Ehringer, the establishment's stylish owner.

"With Ann's compliments, ladies. Enjoy."

"Please thank her for us. These look delicious."

"Of course." With that the waiter departed.

Joey picked up her Smirnoff on ice with a large olive. Her friend raised a martini glass saying, "Here's to you, Jemima."

Marlie winked, but Joey responded with a hand gesture some would consider rude. Both women laughed loudly enough to be noticed by a young couple at the opposite end of the small room. They were the only other diners seated in the library.

"That's the most fun I've had in a long damn time!"

"Wish I could say the same thing." Joey was serious, but had to admit to the irony of her arrival at the airport. She'd been traveling first class and carrying a leather bag monogrammed with her initials, 'JB'. A teenager noticed her and texted her friends, "OMG, Jemima Burck 3 seats in front of me!"

Ms. Burck had been at the top of the paparazzo's target list since she started dating child actor turned rocker, Brian Stone. The press declared them both "white hot".

"Honey, I wish I had a picture of your face when you hit baggage claim and your adoring fans welcomed you home."

"Check the grocery stores tomorrow." Joey grimaced as she took a sip of her drink. "They kept asking me "where's Brian?" I told them he was with Jemima, but they didn't get it."

"Or didn't want to. So, how many autographs did you sign?"

"No idea. I just scribbled away while you stood in the corner laughing your ass off. They totally ignored you, the one with Platinum Albums and Grammy Awards and whatever else you have on your bookshelf. Apparently, I make a pretty good decoy."

Marlie Stevens was one of the more celebrated performers of her age. Now thirty-seven, she'd come out of her native Chattanooga ten years earlier to achieve success as a cross over country artist and TV star who recently began making a name for herself in motion pictures. She was a big bundle of energy in a small package. At five two with dark hair and cool blue eyes she'd been introduced at her first Grammy Awards as "Marlie the Meteor" and the moniker kind of stuck.

"Honey, you and Jemima look as much alike as Ashley and Mary Kate do. I should know, I've seen all four of 'ya live and in person."

When the two friends were together, Joey, who hailed from Alabama, found her own southern accent starting to creep back.

The waiter returned and made a couple of recommendations, but both women ordered another drink and Elk tenderloins then resumed their conversation.

"Well, let's not do that again any time soon."

"Nooooo. I think I want decoy service as a regular part of my personal security plan." Marlie gave her friend a sly smile.

"Fine, I'll start calling around for a Steven Segal double tomorrow."

"I want Jemima Burck."

"Sorry, we're all out of those. You'll need to settle on someone else," Joey smiled and batted her eyelashes.

"Hey, the customer is always right and you can't fire me as a client. I'm on the same contract as my husband and I know Frank won't let you loose a fish that big."

Over the past six years the women had become good friends and Barry Stevens' Nashville based hedge fund was a substantial account. Plus, he was a friend.

"Fair point. OK. I'm stuck with you, but I'm under no obligation to be your decoy. In fact, I may get my hair cut and dyed before I leave tomorrow."

"Fine. You have to admit, though, it was a hoot.

"Yes it was." In some part of Joey's brain she imagined a star's life might be fun, but only if you could leave it whenever you wanted to.

While the waiter served dinner the young woman from the other table timidly tapped Marlie on the shoulder and spoke quietly and in a sugary Southern accent.

"Excuse me, Miss Stevens. I apologize for interrupting y'all, but I'm Suzzie Trotter and we're here on vacation and, well, may I get my picture taken with you and Miss Burck." Her husband smiled sheepishly and waved a small camera in their direction.

"Of course. We'd be delighted."

Suzzie squealed with excitement and scurried to the other side of the small table while her husband got in position to take the picture. He cranked off three frames quickly and offered a shy and polite "thank you".

Marlie pulled a crème colored note card out of her purse, signed it with a Sharpie, and passed the card and pen over to Joey.

"Your turn, Jemima."

"My pleasure, Marlie." She signed with a big, loopy "JB" the way she initialed invoices at the office, and handed the card to the young woman.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," both women said in unison as the cute girl turned and danced back to her table already anxious to text all of her friends back home in Indiana.

"I enjoy being able to do something for the people who pay my salary."

"They seem like a nice couple, but I'm still just Joey Beretta."

She sighed and shook her head. Hero worship was alien to her, but then again, she had Frank. How much 'hero' does any girl need in her life?

"Didn't matter to her. Don't forget, illusion is our business."

"Yours, Marlie, not mine."

"All evidence to the contrary, my dear. Now, let's get on to other subjects. Are you going to take Persephone on as a new client?"

"I need to hear her story before I commit."

"Persephone told me that a 'weird 'guy from San Francisco was 'sort of stalking her'. I got concerned."

"Has he done anything specific or made any threats?"

"I don't think so, but I want you to make sure he doesn't."

"That's why I'm here, Marlie. I'm sure we can work something out for her." Joey took another bite of the delicious Elk.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." The sincerity and concern in Marlie's voice disarmed Joey.

"She's sweet and not at all like a lot of the girls her age out here. You'll understand when you meet her. I know you'll like her."

Marlie finished off the last of her Elk tenderloin and added, "By the way, there's another reason you came. You got to see me and we're having this fabulous dinner."

"There is that, Marlie." She reached over and squeezed her friend's arm.

8.

Serge's Villa

Laglio, Italy

Penelope Goldman woke up alone in a huge bedroom with a wide view of Lake Como. She touched her face gingerly and brushed over a couple of bruised spots. Her arm hurt and she had finger marks on her throat. She smiled a little. The previous night was hell; just as she and Serge liked it. Their individual perversions complimented one another. Unfortunately for her, she might be his perfect match.

She called for him but he wasn't in the suite so she got up and examined herself, naked in a mirrored wall reflecting the green hills across the lake. On inspection she didn't think she looked too bad. The bruises on her face and neck were faint and a little makeup would do the trick. He'd bitten her in more than a couple of places but those wouldn't show. She remembered and laughed out loud on her way into the bathroom. He'd been in quite the celebratory mood. Some big deal or another had gotten him revved up. Money and conquest intoxicated Serge. Penelope craved the aggressive sex and the coke.

She worked for almost an hour to pull herself together and when she made an appearance downstairs the houseman told her Serge had already gone out.

"Where?"

"I couldn't say, ma'am. Perhaps he's available on his cell phone."

"I think I'd prefer breakfast first. What's on the menu?"

"I'm sure we can prepare almost anything, Lady Goldman." The houseman was English, gay, and quite proper. By his age Penelope guessed he might have worked for the late Queen Mother. The thought made her laugh aloud.

"Shirred eggs, a muffin and a glass of champagne," came as a statement and not a request, delivered in the tone of someone accustomed to being waited on in their own home.

"My pleasure, Lady Goldman. Would you like breakfast served on the terrace?"

"Yes."

"May I show you the way?"

"No." Her tone was flat and her eyes said, "Go away."

"Of course, your Ladyship."

The so-called lower terrace was a full flight of steps down from the main level and afforded a scenic view of the hills north of Quarzano. A large glass-topped wrought iron table was positioned to take advantage of the vistas and the shade of a beautiful old tree towering above. As Penelope Goldman stepped onto the terrace she was surprised find her escort enjoying the morning air and doing a passable impersonation of Cary Grant.

Clad in a cashmere sweater and well tailored slacks he held a cigarette in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was handsome enough and his family had almost as much money as hers, but for reasons they kept to themselves, Jean and Penelope were on equally bad terms with their parents. So, she circulated with people like Serge and Jean Robert lived by his wits. At times he agreed to keep women company for pay.

"Well, good morning, Penelope. Did you sleep last night?"

"A bit." She situated herself in a chair across from him.

"Surprising to say the least," Jean Robert commented without turning away from his paper.

"What kept you here?"

Jean held a hand up and rubbed his fingertips together in the universal sign for 'money'.

"Oh, of course. Well, I suppose this one will need to go on my tab, dear."

At last Jean Robert turned and looked straight into her smoky gray eyes. "One more time, Penelope, but you must settle up before I do this again."

"I shall, but for now you got a pleasant trip to Laglio, and I assume the chef took good care of you last night."

Jean-Robert gave her a hearty laugh and a broad grin. "I had a superb veal chop as a main course and the chef for dessert."

"Brilliant! I had no idea you're bi."

"Not at all. The new chef is an awesome redhead from Edinburgh. I let her mop the kitchen floor with me after which I returned the favor." He punctuated the statement by taking a long slurping sip of his coffee.

"Delightful. May I watch next time?"

"I'm hoping there is a next time."

Jean Robert went back to his paper and a waiter served Lady Goldman's breakfast, prepared as ordered.

"God, Serge has a well trained staff."

"So I found out. Accommodating, too. But I suppose the laggards are floating somewhere near the bottom of the lake. That might explain the damn pollution." He waved his arm in the general direction of Lake Como.

"Now, Jean."

"Speaking of Prince Charming, where is the sick fucker?"

"I couldn't tell you. He left before I got up."

"Hmm. Well, you appear to be remarkably un-bruised."

"Yes, he was disappointingly gentle. I had a good time anyway. A few bite marks, but they are covered. Delicious!"

"I'm delighted you enjoyed yourself. Of course, you'll never get back in the family's good graces if you continue to keep such bad company. Speaking of which, I need to pay a visit to the kitchen."

"As you wish, but not on my nickel."

He shook his head and left Lady Penelope Goldman to breakfast alone. Jean-Robert Trieste reached the top of the steps and, finding no one in sight, punched a speed dial number on his phone. When connected he said only, "Ogre on the move. Location unknown."

Then he slid the phone back in his pocket he made a beeline for the kitchen and, with some luck, a morning assignation with the voluptuous Chef Mary Murdoch.

9.

Joey and Marlie left Saddle Peak Lodge in Marlie Stevens's "California car", a silver Jaguar XKR convertible. Marlie said she'd had 'one too many' and asked Joey to drive. With the top down they cruised through the tunnel on their way toward Malibu. A white Denali approached from behind at high speed and its driver flashed the headlights as he moved close to the rear end of the Jag, but he didn't pull over to pass. Joey stepped on the accelerator and pushed the XKR up to eighty. The joker in the Denali stayed behind her and kept flashing his lights as though he wanted to warn her. Or did he want to distract her?

With Joey's driving skills, outrunning the SUV would have been easy, but something bothered her and when she rounded the next curve she understood. A second SUV pulled out and blocked her lane of the road while the one following pulled up beside her. She had no option other than to slide dangerously to a stop on a gravel turnout area. The car spun around and Joey brought it to a safe halt, but a thick, disorienting cloud of dust surrounded them. Without warning cameras started to flash. Joey pushed Marlie down in her seat and whispered "Don't react. Don't do anything."

She walked calmly up to the man who had been driving the SUV sitting in her lane and asked, "Are you boys alright?"

"Sure, Jemima, we're fine. How about you?"

"Never better. How about your friend? Is he ok?"

"I'm great, Jem. Who you with? Where's Brian Stone?" asked the chubby one wearing cheap shorts and an expensive bowling shirt.

"Guys, you both say you're OK, but I have to wonder if you've been drinking, or maybe doing something stronger. What about your friends?" Joey waved in the direction of the Denali. The two louts' cameras flashed the entire time taking one photo after the other.

"No, Jemima, nobody else is here. Looking for some weed? Not a good idea considering the wreck you almost caused." The one with bad skin and worse hair grinned and slithered close enough for her to smell his fake designer cologne.

They wanted to punch her buttons and she got a new perspective on what Jemima and Marlie went through every day.

"I'll give you all the pictures you want, but let's talk over a couple of things first." She gave her best movie star smile and kept moving toward them.

"Sure, Jem, sure. Why don't we take a couple of your friend, too? How 'bout we make sure that poor woman wasn't traumatized by your dangerous driving." The smirking photographers began flashing away in the direction of the Jaguar.

Joey smiled and started turning around allowing them to take pictures of her as she maneuvered into a position between the two men. She continued turning and distracting them.

"First, you guys are the ones who are dangerous drivers. You could get yourselves or someone else hurt."

"Hasn't happened yet. The way we roll the other guy's always at fault." Mr. Expensive Bowling Shirt gave a snide and self satisfied laugh.

Joey laughed too as she continued, "Second, the car and its occupant are off limits. Period."

Neither one could ignore that kind of enticement. They both moved a step toward Marlie's car.

"Oh, one last thing, assholes. I AM NOT JEMIMA BURCK!"

Positioned in front of both cameramen Joey began to turn like an Olympic hurler as she thrust her foot into the groin of the guy with the cheesy cologne. He landed flat on his back with a thud and a gasping kind of groan. As she completed her turn she delivered a single stunning chop to the neck of the dude with the silk shirt. Frank taught her well. She'd held back a little with both blows in hopes of dazing them without a lot of physical damage.

The first target was still on his back and in considerable pain while his accomplice remained on his knees. The fog lifted from in front of his eyes in time to see Joey pick up their cameras and check the Denalis to make sure no other cameras or cameramen lurked inside. Satisfied she had the only pictures in her possession she turned back to the paparazzo as they regained their equilibrium.

"Sorry, guys, but you should be more respectful of people's privacy."

One of them sucked in some air and said, "Hey, you get in show business and this comes with the territory."

"Mistaken identity. I told you I'm not Jemima Burck or JemStone or whatever. Next time you see her ask if she has one of these." Joey held up her left hand and displayed the platinum and diamond wedding band Frank gave her. The ring definitely stood out but stopped short of being garish. The men's faces fell as the possibility started to sink in.

"Whatever. Nobody got hurt," Mr. Bowling Shirt said laboring to get to his feet.

"You guys don't look so good to me." Joey headed back to the Jag with their cameras still in hand.

"Hey. Whoever you are! What about our cameras?"

"Cost of doing business, fellas."

"Hey, they're worth some serious money. You can't just fucking steal 'em."

"You're right. Here's the deal. Stop by and pick them up at the Malibu Police Station tomorrow."

Joey got into the Jaguar and drove off. A half mile down the road Marlie pulled herself upright and stretched a little.

"That was awesome, Joey. I feel a lot safer with you on the job."

"What do you mean, "On the job"? They chased after me, not you."

"Well, now you understand what my life is like. You did a hell of a job anyway."

Joey stayed within the speed limits as much as she hated to waste a winding road and a fine car. She kept check on her rear view mirrors, but everything behind them remained dark until they turned south on the PCH near Marlie's house in The Colony.

10.

At some point Bart and Sally's confrontation lost its momentum. Less than an hour later they sat side by side at a conference table and worked furiously on their laptops until the early hours of the following morning.

Their hypothesis identified Ilya and Ivan as the perpetrators and the immediate goal was to identify a connection between the twins and the exchange's system. In time they would conduct a full forensic investigation of the events leading up to the "Flash Crash" as the media had now christened the event, but for now they would be satisfied to confirm their hypothesis.

Without thinking Sally stood on one shoe and wobbled to her right. She caught herself by putting a hand firmly on Bart's shoulder then pulled away as though she had touched a hot stove. Removing her remaining shoe she started pacing the floor in a rectangular pattern around the table.

"I don't bite." Bart spoke without looking at her and she ignored his remark.

"Did you find anything in Dumb and Dumber's files over at Fluid Dimension?"

"Nah. They're wiped. Looks like they folded their tents." Bart remained focused on his computer.

"Good thought." Sally hurried back to her laptop and started working the keys at an incredible rate.

"Here!" She pointed at the screen. "They're on their way to Paris. At least they had tickets to be. Let's see if they boarded. The passenger log says they did, but on a later flight. For some reason they flew from here to Vegas to New York before getting on a plane to Paris. They're due to arrive soon." She checked her watch. Meanwhile, Bart worked his own keyboard with renewed zeal.

"Hot damn! I found the little beauty!"

"The what?"

"Ivan's Ferrari. I hacked into the security cameras at the airport. He pulled in at 4:15. Level 3, Row B." Bart wrote the information down and grinned at Sally. "The car is in short term parking, but he went to Paris."

"I'm surprised he didn't use valet. He loves that thing."

"Ivan might not be planning to come back any time soon. Maybe he saved enough cash to buy a new car? Ten new cars?"

"Are you guessing or hoping?"

Bart feigned preoccupation and ignored her.

"I think I'll tag the location and check up on the little red Ferrari from time to time. It's the least I can do for a colleague who had to leave his fine ride in a precarious location. I'd hate to have someone steal it."

"Someone?" Sally got up and resumed walking her pattern around the room.

"Sure. Airport garages are notorious for high levels of theft. With a fine car like Ivan's you can't be too careful."

"I'm sure airport security does a fine job."

"Hey, I'm just sayin'. I'm sure Ivan would do the same for me."

"What? Hack into the airport's security system to keep tabs on your ten year old Outback? Of course he would." Sally laughed out loud.

"WHOA BABY! Here it is."

"What?"

"One of Ilya's email accounts. I think I'm in."

"'I think I'm in?' Bart, either you are or you aren't. At your age you should be able to tell." She gave a sly, suggestive laugh. For someone who hated cussing Sally's humor tended to drift toward the gutter.

"I am definitely in!"

"That's more like it, big boy!"

Considering their recent fight Bart could only stare at her in utter exasperation.

"Can't be this easy," he muttered as his fingers flew over the keys.

"What?" Sally moved to a position behind Zeigler and looked over his shoulder.

"Here." Bart pointed at the screen. "Ilya sent a large file to a foreign address minutes after the market collapse started. Didn't think he'd be so sloppy."

"Let's not forget, we're talking about Ilya. Sometimes he's naïve. In fact, that's an understatement, but I'm sure we won't find a trace of Ivan."

"OK. I'll save this on my flash drive and we're done. Now, what do we have here?"

Bart opened the file on his computer and was shocked. The source code appeared to be an elegant, sophisticated piece of work. He wondered if it would align with the notion Sally shared earlier. The data might take days to go through, maybe longer, but their excitement only increased.

"Did you send me a copy?" Sally sat back down at her laptop.

"Sure did, dear."

Sally thought about firing off a snappy retort, but Bart remained absorbed and paid little attention. Sally suddenly realized she hadn't eaten since around noon the day before.

"I'm going down to the café. Do you want anything?"

""Please. How about a latte and a chocolate croissant, or donut or cookie or, all three? Whatever." Again, Bart didn't turn from his work.

"Sure. A One Step Special coming right up."

"One Step Special?"

"Yeah, one step closer to death. How can you eat such junk?"

"How can you not?"

Sally headed out the door without responding. Bart watched through the glass office wall as she walked away. Barefoot, in her four hundred dollar dress, her cute butt twitched back and forth in a seductive way. Back and forth; the same as her personality. She was mesmerizing and maddening. "Why here? Why me?" he wondered. By the time she looked back Bart's gaze was refocused on his notebook.

Fifteen minutes later Sally returned, but it seemed like seconds to Bart who was immersed in his work. She waltzed through the door balancing two trays.

"Here you go, sport. Your One Step Special."

Bart's tray held a large latte, a croissant, a donut, and three chocolate chip cookies. Sally's held a salad Nicoise and a cup of green tea.

"Ah, what have we here? A healthy green salad just like mother used to make! Thank you." Bart started to reach for the salad.

"You're welcome, but if you touch my salad I'll kill you a whole lot faster than the junk you eat."

"I wouldn't think of touching your fine salad," Bart said with a salacious laugh.

"You're very wise, Mr. Zeigler." Or are you?

Neither one took more than a few bits before tearing back into their work.

11.

Monday

Serge spent the day in Milan, but he did not go to his office. Friedrich took him, instead, to the Hotel Principe di Savoia where he went directly to a top floor suite reserved for Grosserkopf's use.

He made calls on and off during the morning and checked his laptop often. By the time all of his trades settled he turned a profit of almost fifty million euros on the now famous "flash crash". The Prime Minister's personal account received a third of the proceeds as did the firm. Serge should have been much happier, but the Prime Minister's unknown future expectations overshadowed the pleasure of the moment.

Anya called mid-morning.

"What have you got for me?" He asked with his normal abruptness.

"As you would expect, the design of the program is brilliant, but I still lack one small, critical piece."

"Critical?"

"Yes. The program requires a reset with each use."

Serge flew into a rage. "Dr. Kovitch, did you not tell me you received all of the code?"

"Yes." She replied with a dry choke.

"And I paid out twenty million for something you are now telling me is incomplete."

"No, sir. The file is complete, but I need the password."

"Do not mince words with me, Doctor. I do not need to tell you how important this is, do I?" Serge's rage escalated another notch.

"No."

"I want to meet with you in person at noon and I expect a full update." Serge's voice became chillingly calm. He terrified Anya and with good reason.

"Where?

"Friedrich will pick you up at the office." Serge hung up without giving Anya a chance to respond.

On the other end Anya tensed at the sound of the abrupt disconnection. Not known for his patience, Serge's sense of urgency frightened her. She had to be well prepared for her face to face meeting though she already knew only a precise solution would satisfy her intolerant boss. The prospect frightened her. After a quick phone call she turned to her computer and began working in dead earnest.

At the Principe di Savoia, Serge received a guest. In addition to being on Serge's secret payroll, the bulbous and awkward Rudolph Geisler was Interpol's senior expert on Internet crimes and criminals. A small profit participation had been worked out in exchange for Rudy's on-going cooperation. By ordinary standards Herr Geisler had become a wealthy man, but his pittance was cheap insurance in Serge's mind. He didn't enjoy meeting with the boorish Geisler, but occasionally liked to peer into the traitor's eyes and probe his loyalties. The cynical Malroff presumed a man like Rudy to be on his competitors' payrolls as well. Perhaps even the Prime Minister's. If his suspicions ever proved to be true Serge would kill the fat man himself.

Serge intended to keep the meeting short. The ill mannered man, dressed poorly as usual, seemed to have come straight from an all night work session. He had.

"Rudolph, you seem exhausted," Serge said solicitously. He meant, "You look like shit."

"Yes, Herr Malroff, I have been working many hours since the crash of the American market."

"Then please sit. Would you like coffee or tea?"

"Tea", he said abruptly as he flopped down on an elegant yellow damask chair. His cheap brown suit looked like a smudge on the furniture.

"Of course." Serge served him personally and offered a plate of croissants. Geisler took two.

"What important project requires such diligence?"

"The crash. The market crash in America", the slob mumbled between slurps of tea and mouthfuls of croissant.

"What aspect is of interest to you?"

"Don't think it was an accident. I believe someone triggered the sell off. Only a theory at this point, but I'm investigating the possibility."

"And your bosses asked you to investigate?"

"I'm doing this on my own. Unless they think a threat comes from the EU they don't much care who did what to the Americans." He shoved the last of the croissant into his mouth and eyed Serge expectantly.

"Please, help yourself to more food. You appear famished." Porcine as well, but what the hell?

Without hesitation Rudolph replenished his plate and sat down again. "I think someone tested a virus and caused the crash."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because of the timing. There are safeguards in the exchange's system, what they call circuit breakers to keep trading from going out of control. They shut down at a certain time of day and I think the event coincided."

"Explain." Serge already knew the answer, but wanted to hear where how well Rudy's theory squared with the facts.

"With all the programmed traders set to react, in seconds an event can start. Like striking a match. Only hissing for a fraction of a second and then the fire starts. What's the word? Catalyst, that's it. I think this works just so."

"Go on." Serge wondered if the man might be smarter than he gave him credit for. Even so he remained a distant third behind Anya and the twins.

"I am at that point now, still looking for the code or its traces in the American system." Rudy polished off yet another croissant and made short work of a small torte. "I must be careful when I go into their system. Since September 11th the government is secretly monitoring trading activity at a much higher level. Like your country in the old days, no?"

"How long will your investigation take?" Serge ignored Rudy's last comment, but picked up a valuable tidbit about American intelligence gathering.

"I'm not certain. I think a self destruct sequence was written into the code to be triggered when the routine was completed. So, my investigation is made much more difficult. I will need weeks, perhaps months. Maybe longer." Geisler inhaled the last of his tea.

Serge had to give him credit for his insight and for providing him with a new perspective. He began to wonder about the Rusikov brothers and this Thor's Hammer they had sold him. Was it everything they promised? Now that he knew where Interpol's investigation stood he wished he had as good an assessment of the Americans.

"Well, Herr Geisler, I know you are a busy man. I do not wish to detain you from your work." Serge got to his feet signaling an end to the meeting.

"Always good to see you." He lied. Moments later the message registered with his slovenly guest who slowly arose and offered his hand to his host who reluctantly grasped it

"Thank you for coming."

"Yes." Rudy Geisler responded tersely as he lumbered out of the beautifully appointed suite. Serge was delighted by his departure though the session had been informative. His investment in this toad of a man may prove valuable, but he had to be careful. Perhaps this inferior creature was playing him. Time would tell.

Serge checked his watch and was pleased. He had just enough time to fit in a massage before lunch. He rang the concierge and requested the services of a specific masseuse before going into the bathroom to get ready.

12.

At Marlie's insistence they met for lunch at her Malibu beach house which gave them the benefit of privacy and an excellent meal prepared by the hostess herself. A little before noon the door bell rang signaling the arrival of Persephone Andreadis.

Joey formed her impression of the singing sensation and guitarist solely by having seen her on a music awards show. On TV she appeared in torn jeans and a tight tank top, her long blond mane raked into something wild that she tossed around with abandon. In person the twenty year old had her hair pulled back with a bright green ribbon and was neatly turned out in a short skirt and silk shirt Joey had seen in Saks Fifth Avenue.

"Persephone, I'd like you to meet my good friend, Joey Beretta."

Joey held out her hand but the younger woman stood still and eyed her suspiciously.

"Marlie, who is this?"

"This is Joey Beretta." Marlie smiled knowingly.

"Unbelievable! Bloody unbelievable!" Persephone took another moment before stepping forward to grasp Joey's hand, laughing aloud as she did.

"Jemima Burck?" Joey asked. She attempted a smile even though the whole "Jemima" thing was wearing thin.

"Precisely! I saw Jem and Brian on the beach yesterday and we talked for quite awhile. My god, you two must be twins separated at birth." The girl's British accent seemed to intensify with her excitement.

Marlie turned toward her good friend with a "toldjaso" smile. "Looks like you can even fool Jemima's friends."

"Wonderful."

With the introduction out of the way Marlie escorted her guests to an elegant round table overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The conversation got straight to the point.

"I guess this all started over a guy. He's a computer geek from San Francisco. A mutual friend introduced us months ago. He and his brother create video games although I think Ivan, that's his name, doesn't work as hard as his brother."

"How so?"

"We only went out three or four times, but he was always talking about traveling and spending a lot of time in places like Las Vegas gambling. He liked to party and hit all the high profile places. That was my biggest problem with him."

"Why?"

"I know my shows seem pretty wild, but I don't do the club thing often. I'm happy at home with a few good friends. I thought when he realized what I was like things would naturally come to an end."

"They didn't?"

"No." Persephone took a bite of the crab cakes Marlie had prepared and looked out across the shoreline.

"Has he harassed you?"

The girl laughed before she answered. "No, but he keeps sending me things."

"Such as?"

"Sometimes gifts too expensive to keep like a Cartier watch. Mostly he's sent flowers and bottles of wine. In a way he's been sort of sweet, but I don't want to encourage the guy."

Marlie Stevens frowned at the comment but said nothing.

"How long has this been going on?"

"A few months: maybe a little longer."

"Has he called or tried to see you?"

"No, but he keeps sending me emails. Joey, that's the creepy thing. No matter how often I change my personal account he finds me and sends me more notes. I gave him my home phone number but he only called once."

"Now that does seem odd."

"I feel as though he's saying "I can find you wherever you are." Do you know what I mean?"

Joey nodded in the affirmative.

"So he hasn't done anything to really frighten you?"

"No, just the gifts and the creepy thing about the emails."

"So far, Joey, but we don't know what he might do next." Marlie was being the mother hen though Joey knew she had the girl's best interests at heart. She'd been the victim of several stalkers early in her career and tended to be a little paranoid about "admirers".

"Persephone, what do the emails say?" Joey was asking for Marlie's benefit.

"Not much. They're short, ordinary notes like you'd send to a friend every now and then to say "hello" or ask "what's up." Not provocative."

"Something seems a bit off, but I don't think you should worry about it." Marlie frowned again. Joey continued, "Even so, I'd be pleased to send you a proposal for our services. I understand you're going on an extended tour soon and I know S3 can help you with that. I'll get our LA office to deliver an agreement to your manager by tomorrow afternoon."

Marlie smiled and Persephone said, "Excellent." She handed Joey cards with her agent's and manager's contact information.

With the business completed the three women finished their lunch and Joey took the opportunity to get to know her new client a little better. The young Brit came from a good working class family and was well grounded and thoroughly likeable. Joey felt like she was making a new friend. She had the same feeling when she met Marlie for the first time.

Afterwards, Marlie drove Joey to the Legacy Aviation FBO at the Burbank Airport. She'd decided to splurge and take a charter flight back to Florida. She wasn't in the mood for anymore of the distractions caused by mistaken identity. Perhaps one day soon she'd get the chance to meet Jemima Burck. In a way she wondered how she might feel seeing her "twin" face to face.

Marlie pulled her Jag through the gated private entrance and parked next to the hangar.

"So, what do you think?"

"I liked her a lot. Do her fans know she's a lot different than what they see on TV?"

"Costuming is the only difference between the girl you met today and the one on stage. The rest is choreography and perception."

"Costuming? I never thought of it quite that way."

"That's Hollywood, sweetie."

"Sure is." For better or worse Joey was fast becoming a member of the showbiz community and getting more deeply rooted every day.

"Cheer up, Joey. I'm just doing my part to send you good clients."

"Frank says I should start paying you a commission."

"Tell him it's a deal."

"Commissions are paid out of my budget. We'll need to negotiate."

"No need. I just appreciate knowing my friends are well taken care of."

"You can count on S3."

Joey pulled her carry on bag and purse out of the car. She self consciously turned the sides with the "JB" monogram inward. Displaying her Legacy Platinum Club card Joey checked in at the front desk and a cheerful receptionist to her the operations director wanted to speak with her.

"I'm sure it isn't a problem." The girl said with a pert smile.

Tyler Marks appeared and behind the counter and introduced himself. He still had the swagger of the military pilot he used to be.

"Mrs. Beretta, we scheduled you to fly in a Model 31 Lear. A fuel stop is required, but this is a repositioning flight so the rate is discounted fifty percent. I hope that's OK."

The frugal Joey Beretta was happy to save money.

"I'm good with that, Tyler. Thank you."

"Certainly, Mrs. Beretta. Also, your pilot in command will be Captain Seth Murdoch. Please let me introduce you."

"Now that's a problem, Tyler. I don't want that old goat flying me," she said in a loud voice.

"But Mrs. Murdoch, he's our most senior pilot." Before Joey could respond a deep voiced Texan spoke up behind her.

"If I'm not good enough then fly it yourself you ornery little gal!"

To Tyler's surprise Joey squealed with delight as she spun around to jump up and give the tall man a peck on the cheek.

"Marlie, this is the man who taught me how to fly. I'd like you to meet Seth Murdoch.

Marlie gave Seth a hearty handshake.

"I'm glad to meet you, Captain. I believe you know my husband."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Stevens. I've flown on your Citation X with your husband quite a few times."

"He tells me you play polo up at Santa Barbara?"

"Yes ma'am, I do." In fact, Seth Murdoch, having grown up around horses, was an accomplished professional player who divided his time between the high goal circuit and aviation.

"Of course. I know he enjoyed spending time with you. He loves horses as much as airplanes and he's been talking about taking up the game of polo ever since. I don't' know when he'll find the time, but I'm glad we got the chance to meet." Marlie gave him a big movie star smile and the silvery haired pilot actually blushed.

"Yes ma'am. You and Mr. Stevens are welcome at my ranch anytime at all." Turning to Joey he said, "We're ready whenever you are."

Joey turned toward Marlie and gave her a hug as Seth picked up her bags.

"I'll call you tomorrow. Don't worry about your friend. We'll take care of her. I promise."

"Thanks, Joey. Have a safe flight. We'll talk soon."

Marlie headed out of the building the same way they had come in. Captain Murdoch ushered Joey through a security door opening to the tarmac where a gleaming white Lear Jet with black and gold trim was waiting.

"Why don't you sit up front with me for the takeoff? See what this little rocket is like."

"I'd love to. Is it legal?"

"I'm rated to fly this bird solo, I'm a Certified Flight Instructor, and you're the customer. I guess we can do whatever we want."

"Then let's go, Captain."

Fifteen minutes later the little Lear rocketed down the runway and Joey the speed junkie was absorbing the rush of rapid acceleration. For the following five and a half hours plus a fuel stop in Shreveport, she would enjoy the plane, Seth's company and the cathartic absence of business and clients to worry about. Dave, the co-pilot spent the trip napping on the comfortable divan in the back. He looked like he could get used to being a passenger.

13.

Jack and Gabe sat in rapt attention listening to Sally and Bart's update. They had torn apart the program Bart retrieved the day before. The architecture of the source code appeared complex though its function remained rather simple. Even so, unwinding it was a tedious task and they should have been wiped out, but instead they seemed energized: especially Sally. Their overview took a little over a half hour.

"We now believe it was this code, most likely launched by Ilya and Ivan Rusikov that caused the securities market to meltdown on May 6."

"Because?" Jack was a man of few words.

"First, and most important, I can match the code with a transmission that was sent from Ilya Rusikov's computer to a recipient in Europe, and, second, because the code resembles something Sally was working on."

Gabe interrupted, "I'm confused. Why were you working on code to crater the stock market?"

"I wasn't, Gabe. I built a model so I could engineer a shield against it. I was getting close, too."

"Were you working on an assignment for a client?" Gabe looked baffled.

"No, I did it on my own."

"Because?"

"I told you, a friend of mine ran into Ivan and Ilya Rusikov recently. Ilya was drinking a lot, but he can't hold his liquor and got rather chatty. Before Ivan could haul him away my friend had a pretty good idea where his project was headed. She gave me the details later. I figured if they were even thinking about manipulating the market I should get a head start on engineering a fix. I also wanted to see how hard it would be to hack into Wall Street and precipitate significant movement without being detected."

"Still competing with your old Stanford friends?"

"I was just doing my job, Gabe. As I recall you hired me for my curiosity as much as my engineering skills and I've never made a secret of being competitive with everyone." Sally gave Gabe a smug smile. He didn't like it, but what she said was true.

"So exactly how far did you get with this project of yours?"

"Almost finished, but I have to say, Ilya was a week or two ahead of me."

"I can't believe you'd admit to it, Sally. Don't let me hear you say that outside this office," Gabe gave his protégé a thin smile.

"Count on it." Sally shared a conspiratorial wink with her boss and continued. "Besides, who knows how long they've been working on this thing. If it took them three or four months I'll need at least another week or so to sort it out." Even then she knew exactly when the brothers got the idea, but she chose to keep the information to herself.

Bart jumped into the conversation. "We thought it looked as though it was collaborative, something created by a team of developers and engineers."

Sally remained silent. Gabe asked, "At Fluid Dimension?"

"That doesn't seem to fit. The Rusikov brothers may be corrupt, but most of those guys are wrapped up in creating apps and games and commercial kinds of stuff. They're recreational hackers for sure, but they aren't crooked at this level."

"I don't think Ilya is, either," Sally said a little too quickly and sounding protective of her former student. She added, "But he is competitive where his brother is concerned. My friend told me he claimed to have done something to eclipse anything Ivan created."

"Interesting. And scary. I think we should run with the assumption that one or both of them are the perpetrators."

Gabe did not mention that he had just gotten some intel that would seem to substantiate Sally's theory, if that's what it was. His conversation with the McLean based client had been very informative.

Jack, asked, "So what's your next move?"

"It's not the program itself, Jack. It's what Sally and I call the "key". It's like a password that starts this thing in motion then shuts it down. It may even initiate the 'self destruct' routine that causes the whole thing to evaporate without a trace, at least not one we've been able to identify yet."

"You'd have a hell of a time making a case against these guys in court." Jack was the company CLO as well as co-founder.

"Impossible is more like it, but we're working on that from another angle."

"But here is something interesting. This program, we call it "Blitz", appears to require a new trigger routine every time it's used. You couldn't just pick up the code we have and make it work: not the way it did on Thursday afternoon."

"How do you think it works?"

Sally jumped in. "There are multiple segments. There are steps built into the process that require the pass codes in order to proceed to the next stage. I'm guessing either Ilya or Ivan created random code generators tied to Blitz. The program recognizes sequences as matching those existing within a pre-defined universe of possibilities." And Blitz is just as stupid a name as Thor's Hammer.

"Since the original destroyed itself, we can't be sure what symbols or values they used to generate pass codes. Hebrew, Cyrillic, Greek, or anything else you can imagine." Sally drummed her fingers on the table and added, "You could digitize the sound I just made, for that matter, and you've got a pass code."

"Regardless, the Rusikovs have kept whatever it is to themselves. If they did this all on their own they'd have no reason to share the information. If not, the information is their security against whoever they're working for."

"So, what you're saying is, at least for now, nobody could run this program again without the brothers?" Gabe had a disconcertingly serious look on his face as he asked the question.

"That's our opinion," Bart said looking at Sally for confirmation. She shook her head casually in the affirmative.

"And, once again, how certain are you the Rusikov program initiated the 'flash crash'?"

"A very high level of probability given what we extracted from Ilya's email." Sally sat back and exhaled, seemingly for the first time during the meeting. Bart jumped into the conversation again.

"Last but not least, we have identified the recipient of the code Ilya sent."

Gabe listened intently as Bart went on.

"Her name is Anya Kovich. That didn't mean anything to us until we realized she was formerly known as Anya Ospenskya. She is from Ukraine and is a world class engineer and developer. For awhile she worked for Kaspersky Lab in Moscow. Then, about four years ago, she married a guy named Hans Kovich. He's dead now, but he worked at a Milan based hedge fund called Grosserkopf, Haslich & Archloch, Gbh."

"They would certainly have use of a program like this."

"Better still, Anya went to work at Grosserkopf right after she and Hans got married. She's there now."

"You know this because?"

"We hacked the company's HR files. She's listed as a 'Special Operations Director'. Whatever that is it pays three hundred thousand euros a year."

Jack and Gabe looked at one another.

"Serge Malroff's company."

"Anybody know what killed Hans Kovich?"

"No."

"Any bets he did not die of natural causes?"

They both had grim smiles on their faces as they adjourned the meeting and headed for Gabe's office.

14.

Serge's massage was interrupted by a call from Moscow, and he was in a foul mood. The Prime Minister was thinking aloud about another test run of Thor's Hammer though he was vague about when. Vagueness was unlike him. The conversation left Malroff wondering if the wily ex-KGB man was just probing for information. His stress levels shot up. No matter what part of his body the masseuse worked on the result was the same. Nothing. He sent her on her way and swallowed a handful of aspirin.

His attempts to call Ilya and Ivan were unsuccessful and went straight to voicemail. Their phones were probably off, and the last information he had put them in Paris. Serge dispatched two of his former colleagues, now freelancers, to locate the wayward brothers. He hated having his future at the mercy of those low rent mercenaries, but he needed immediate action.

Malroff showered in alternating hot and cold water, dried himself and was about to get dressed. When he heard a knock at the door he realized he had been in the shower longer than planned. If she was on time that would be Anya. He slid into a hotel robe and answered.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malroff, am I early?"

"Come in." He was no more brusque than usual, but Anya was put off by his attire. Serge had been known to randomly demand sex from employees and she didn't want to share in that experience.

"Come in. I don't have all afternoon." Serge sensed her reluctance and a thought was planted in his head. One not previously there and he may have acted on it immediately, but his headache returned. Had he thought his situation through more clearly it would also have obvious that she was his best hope of freeing himself from Ilya and Ivan.

"Wait here. I had a massage and was about to get dressed." Serge headed into the bathroom.

As Malroff was dressing, she poured vodka on the rocks for herself drinking half the peppery liquor straight away. She refilled her glass and dropped a wedge of lime in for good measure.

Anya felt a little better with the strong liquor in her system. She relaxed a bit and asked, "May I fix you a drink, Mr. Malroff?"

"Krug," he growled.

Finding a bottle of the fine champagne already opened she filled a crystal flute which she left on the table. She was returning to the living room when Malroff reappeared. She was relieved to see that he was wearing trousers and an open collared shirt.

"So where is my wine?"

"Excuse me. I am sorry." Anya cursed herself for groveling so quickly for this military school goon. She had two master's degrees and a Ph.D. after all.

"Sit." He picked up the champagne flute and gestured toward her in a haphazard kind of toast. They both took a sip of their beverages and sat down opposite one another on velvet upholstered couches.

"I need to know of the status of your work with the code sent by the Rusikov brothers."

"I have made much progress but a lot remains to be done."

"This tells me precisely nothing." Serge's nostrils flared with anger.

"Let me be more clear."

"Please," he interrupted sarcastically.

"I understand the program and how it works."

"Then you can reproduce the event?" he interrupted again.

"Not fully. The Rusikovs built a very sophisticated routine that acts like a combination trigger and password. It also controls certain critical steps of the process."

"This means what?" He asked the question even though he already knew the answer.

"I have identified the places where the password is required. It is the password itself that I am still working on."

"Why is that any more difficult than the rest of it?"

"Because the brothers used it like a lock and key. You have to reload the trigger code every time and to do so you must have the passwords. When it was used on May 6 the code automatically destroyed itself. The clean copy I have has no trace of the passwords."

"I ask again, Dr. Kovich. What is the problem?" Serge gulped down his champagne.

"I can't reproduce a password when I have no idea what its source was."

"I do not understand what you are saying."

"Most passwords are letters or numbers or combinations of them, but it is possible to derive a digital code from almost anything. It could be in any language or alphabet, numbers or symbols, or even hieroglyphics."

"So what is your problem? Can't you write a program that tests all of those possibilities?" Serge was not a stupid man and realized that what he was asking for was virtually impossible and her answer fueled his anger.

"I am trying to do that, but without a specific direction to pursue the task is highly complex. Even if I were successful I don't know how long the program would have to run to come up with a solution." She was beginning to confuse herself with her own doubletalk.

"Then don't let me keep you. Get out of here and back to work." He spat his words out as he gestured harshly toward the door.

Anya didn't waste time disagreeing with him. She rose quickly and headed to the door only to be intercepted by a wild eyed Serge Malroff who slammed her up against the wall. Her back hurt and the air had been forced from her lungs.

Serge put his hands on her breasts and pushed so hard that it was almost impossible for her to breath. She began to gasp and, for whatever reason, that seemed to excite the man. He pressed his entire body against hers and drove her harder against the wall. With his face directly in front of hers he spat out, "You have one week, Dr. Kovich. One week to get me what I need. Do you understand?"

The woman gasped but was unable to get enough air in her lungs to respond. She merely issued a choking cough.

"I repeat, do you understand?"

Anya choked once more as she tried to answer. Serge removed his hands from her chest giving her momentary relief, but then he put one large hand at her throat and began to choke her again. This time she was sure he would kill her. As her head started to spin she realized from his movements that strangling her was exciting to him in a completely disgusting way. "Please God", she begged, "don't let this be my last recollection of life!"

Somewhere and somehow her prayer was answered. Just as she began to black out Serge released her and let her fall to the floor.

"Remember, doctor, you have one week!" With that the lunatic stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Anya sucked in as much air as she could in hopes of regaining her senses. Luck was with her and in minutes she was in the elevator headed to the ground floor. Her clothes were wrinkled and she was still dizzy, but otherwise she had survived. Grateful to her God she walked slowly and carefully from the hotel and got into a cab. Retrieving her cell phone from a pocket she dialed a number from memory. Her new friend picked up on the first ring.

"Jean-Robert Trieste," the soft, pleasant voice answered.

"I need help."

She listened for a moment then gave instructions to the cab driver. Perhaps this would be Anya Kovich's lucky day.

15.

Frank Beretta and his First Mate, Billy Sawyer, finished giving the Belle a thorough scrubbing to remove salt spray from their run back across open water.

In celebration of a job well done they uncapped a couple of Heinekens and sat with their legs dangling from the dock.

"This is one beautiful day to be alive," Billy said appreciatively.

"I'll drink to that." They both had a lot to celebrate beginning with the moonless night on Bimini when Frank stepped into a fight and saved Billy's life. Three against one didn't sit well with him and he never shrank from playing equalizer. Billy had given a good account of himself but he was hurt and he was going to loose until Frank's natural talents tipped the scale in his favor. A twenty year friendship began.

"I have some Cohibas in my cabin. Do you want one?"

"Sure."

Billy headed toward the boat leaving Frank to the breeze and the sounds and smells of the water. Before he returned Frank's phone buzzed. Caller ID displayed a Virginia area code and he picked up on the second ring.

"Yes." Frank never used names with Harry Brooke. In some ways the pervasive post 9 / 11 electronic surveillance had pushed spy craft back fifty years as code words, veiled messages and dead drops crept into regular use.

"Are you open this week?"

"Yes."

"I'll check my client's calendar. Let's stay in touch." Frank was on notice to look for an encrypted message from the former Senator.

Billy ambled down the dock and handed Frank a Cohiba, already trimmed. They lit their cigars with Frank's old Zippo and contentedly watched the smoke spiraling toward the sky. Frank's phone vibrated again. Joey was calling to let him know they were on the ground in Shreveport for refueling.

"We should be home in about two and a half hours."

"Can't wait."

"Neither can I, you old stud. You're going to be sleeping with a movie star tonight."

"What?"

Joey started laughing and ended the call with, "Seth says we gotta go. I'll explain later. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Joey's on her way home?"

"Yeah. She is." Frank got up from the dock and said, "Stay put, I'll be right back. I have to check some messages on the boat."

"OK. I'll be here." Billy continued puffing on his cigar and sipping a second cold beer.

Frank boarded Une Belle Femme and went straight to the owner's cabin where he pulled a laptop from the compact closet. To avoid having wireless transmissions detected he connected his computer by cable to onboard encryption equipment. A sophisticated antenna above the Belle's flying bridge established a link with a top secret satellite and transferred data in micro bursts. In moments Frank logged on and retrieved a message from Harry Brooke.

A CIA field agent is transporting a key member of the Malroff team to a safe house. POTUS not briefed on mission by CIA. Suspicious. Standby. Immediate action will be required. END

Frank shut the laptop down with a grim smile as he thought of his old enemy, Serge Malroff. If he was involved it was sure to be nasty business. He expected the next communication to direct him to end someone's life and he would follow orders as he had for almost forty years. The best warriors always undertake killing with a sense of foreboding.

Back on the dock he opened another beer and sat down to enjoy little Billy's company, but his thoughts turned to Joey. He wondered how much time he would be able to spend with her before duty called again.

"You OK, boss?"

"Sure, Billy. I'm fine. It's been a long couple of days and I'm anxious for Joey to come home."

"Nothing else bothering you?"

"Nah. Maybe I'm just getting old and ready to slow down."

"Sure. That'll be the day. You slow down?"

"What? You don't think I'd look good on a porch with a rocker and a blanket? Maybe a heating pad, too?"

"No I don't." Billy blew a jet of smoke at the fading sun.

"Well, we won't need to worry about it any time soon."

"Cheers!" Billy raised his bottle and they took long draughts of beer.

16.

Ivan Rusikov called room service and ordered a magnum of vintage Taittingers champagne and two ounces each of Osetra and Beluga caviar.

"Just a snack to carry us over to dinner."

"Come back to bed, I only want you for a snack." Madeleine was lying naked on top of the covers. It had been easy for the sometimes charming Ivan to convince her to postpone her homecoming in exchange for a few nights of serious partying at the Hotel George V. The greater challenge proved to be persuading Ilya to leave them alone.

"But we've been doing this for hours. I need to catch my breath." The girl was a sexual athlete and Ivan needed a respite.

"Perhaps you're right. I want to shower before room service arrives."

Maddie, as she liked to be called, got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom, comfortably indifferent to her nakedness. In passing she bent to kiss him allowing her full and natural breasts to brush his cheeks. Ivan, astonished by his own reaction, stood to pull her close to him. Her perfect body felt wonderful against his.

"So, should I wait to take my shower? Or, would you like to join me?"

"No. If I deny myself now I'll be even more passionate later."

"Whatever."
The beautiful girl smiled and disappeared into the bathroom. Ivan pulled his hotel robe around him and went to the bar to pour a glass of water. For a moment he wondered about Ilya, but Madeleine crept back into his mind and thoughts of his boring brother's activities quickly dissolved.

Two blocks away Ilya was holding court at a popular bar on the Champs Elysees. The clientele included a variety of people ranging from well off locals to world class players getting started on a night on the town. Ilya quickly picked up an entourage of friends as he bought bottle after bottle of good wine and platefuls of savory hors d'oeurves. One new acquaintance, a dark, hawkish man named Ali Mohammed al Zaribi appraised Ilya with sinister eyes. Of uncertain nationality and known as "The Sheik", Zaribi enjoyed his self-manufactured reputation as a member of the Saudi royal family. In truth, he was a disreputable arms dealer. The Sheik never missed an opportunity to cut a fat deal for himself and even hardened Jihadists considered him a "last resort". Two beautiful women accompanied the Sheik, one a blond haired French girl named Clara and the other a Turkish beauty he called Sevgili or "lover" in her native language. Clara sat quite close to Ilya and hung attentively on his every word.

"So, you are a computer engineer?" The man asked with insincere charm as he sipped his drink and puffed on a Davidoff cigarette.

"Yes, and you could also say I'm the best hacker in the world." Ilya gave a sophomoric grin and emptied his wine glass. Clara smiled as she leaned against him and allowed his hand to rest halfway up her soft, tanned thigh.

"Please tell me what that means. Forgive me, but I am ignorant of computers and the programs that run them."

"I can make any computer on the planet do whatever I want." The well lubricated Russian surprised himself with the boldness and abruptness of his own response. He started on another glass of wine and poured more for his pretty admirer.

"Most impressive. I imagine your talent is extremely valuable." The man exhaled a lung full of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling and wondered if this fellow was all he claimed or simply another drunk with a few euros to burn.

"I am well paid."

"Are you working on a project now, my friend?"

"No. I just finished one and I'm on vacation. My brother and I are visiting Paris to celebrate our victory."

"What victory, Ilya?" The sheik drank more of his scotch and gave his new acquaintance a reptilian smile.

"May 6th."

"What about May 6th?"

"I made it happen."

"Excellent. I salute you." The crafty Sheik beamed in false admiration. He was thoroughly confused until a member of his entourage whispered into his ear. A broad and dangerous smile overtook Ali's face as he leaned across the table to shake Ilya Rusikov's hand.

"Congratulations again, my friend. May I buy you a special bottle of wine to celebrate?"

"Yes, please." Emboldened, Ilya's hand slid higher on Clara's thigh. His fingers approached her private territory and she did not object.

Under Ali's clever manipulation the bonds of friendship grew quickly. If Ilya was all he claimed to be then he was a very valuable commodity. If not, he would eventually wake up in his own bed with a hangover and little recollection of the night before.

While Ilya slid ever deeper into his new friend's web, Ivan licked a hundred dollars worth of champagne and caviar from Madeleine's well-toned belly as she writhed seductively. The girl was a human aphrodisiac and Ivan had to remind himself not to become addicted.

17.

The hours after Anya Kovich left Serge's hotel became surreal and the experience exhausted her.

As Jean-Robert instructed her she took a cab to the airport, Milan – Malpensa. On arrival she was told to tell the driver she forgot her passport and direct him to a residential address. Arriving at the front door she rang the bell and was greeted by a deceptively calm looking man who ushered her inside without identifying himself.

"Where is Jean-Robert?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Kovich, but we don't have time to waste. Malroff's people followed you from the Principe di Savoia and we need to leave immediately."

Knowing the depths of Serge's cruelty and ruthlessness filled her with fear. If his men were close behind there wasn't a minute to spare and her universe of options had dwindled down to one.

The man sensed her anxiety and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he led her to the back of the house.

Motioning toward the door to a small bedroom the man said, "You will find clothes on the bed. Please change as fast as you can."

The tiny room immediately made her claustrophobic, but she forced a couple of deep breaths into her lungs as she examined the jeans and baggy, plain white blouse. A baseball cap with a hotel logo, sunglasses and a pair of Nikes completed the disguise. Anya changed clothes as fast as she could and departed the oppressive little room.

The man cast a critical eye over her and said with a wry smile, "Better. I wish we had the time for a real makeover, but this will have to do."

He grabbed her handbag, dumped its contents into a backpack, and dropped the purse on the floor.

"Do you have a smartphone?"

"Yes." She took it out of the hip pocket of her jeans.

"Please."

Reluctantly she gave him the device and looked on in horror as he crushed it under the heel of his boot.

"We can't risk being tracked. Come, Doctor. We must go now." Once more he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Anya tensed at this touch, but followed him to the back door and a narrow motor court. They got into a waiting black Jetta and departed quickly. The driver, another pleasant, non-descript young man smiled thinly and spoke without introductions.

"Would you like a bottle of water?"

"Yes, please." The weakness and hoarseness of her voice surprised her.

"Of course."

"Thank you."

"You are safe with us. In a short time you will be out of Italy." Alain drove deliberately and stayed with traffic, not attracting undue attention to their car.

That sounded good, but Anya was still scared. She knew how ruthless and powerful Serge was and now that he had the scent of her blood he would not give up easily or quickly. A sip of water cooled her throat, but did nothing to calm her foreboding.

"Where are we going?"

"Linate." That was the second and smaller airport serving Milan.

She drank the rest of the water and let the bottle drop to the floor. "Where do we go from there?"

"I don't know. My job is to deliver you safely to Linate."

"Oh."

Anya was an engineer, not a spy, so she had neither experience with this kind of thing nor any idea what to expect. Her anxiety heightened as the VW approached the perimeter of the airport. The driver kept glancing in the rear view mirrors as he gestured to the nameless man in back who unzipped a canvas bag and extracted a compact machine gun. The weapon looked like a movie camera with a short, nasty barrel protruding from one end.

"Don't worry, Doctor. This is just a precaution. We can drive very close to the airplane and you will have only a few steps to get on board."

The idea of flying on a small plane had not occurred to her, but her fears abated when the Jetta passed through a security gate and approached a white and silver jet. The door stood open and the Citation's engines where whining in anticipation of a quick departure. The car slammed to a halt close to the plane's left wing and Anya was grasped by the arm and pulled out. The man kept her protectively between the fuselage and his body as he maneuvered her towards the plane. Seeing the driver standing by the VW holding another machine gun was alarming, but there was no time to be afraid.

The Citation sat low to the ground so Anya fell into it more than she boarded it. A pair of hands pulled her inside, guided her into a soft leather seat, and secured a belt around her. The jet was in motion as soon as the door was closed. A terrified Anya looked to her left and saw Jean-Robert Trieste for the second time in her life. She began to cry.

"You're safe, Doctor Kovich. You're safe." The voice had the same calming, melodic lilt she remembered. She wanted to speak but could not.

"Don't worry, Anya. Everything is fine. We're leaving Italy."

Cleared for immediate takeoff the Citation proceeded without hesitation to the active runway. Without stopping the pilot turned the plane and advanced the throttles and, with a light load, they leapt off the ground and rocketed into the darkening sky. Anya managed to sit upright, but closed her eyes and pressed her head against the seat as if to shut out everything terrible that happened. What she couldn't force out of her mind was the leering face of Serge Malroff. When she finally opened them Jean-Robert was kneeling in the aisle in front of her holding a cup full of ice and two miniature bottles of vodka.

He handed them to Anya who poured the liquor into the cup and swallowed it quickly. He handed her more vodka and a thick sandwich from the plane's small galley.

"You may want to eat something before drinking those." She refilled her cup and put in on a table.

"Thank you. Thank you, Jean-Robert. I will never be able to repay you."

There was something about women from Ukraine that was stunning and Anya was no exception. Her creamy skin and thick blond hair were perfect. In the dim cabin light her pouting lips and feline eyes were very seductive. Jean-Robert found her altogether beautiful and had to take a deep breath.

"There is no debt to repay. Please, have something to eat."

Anya relaxed and followed his suggestion. The vodka had restored her courage though she wondered how long it would last.

"You've had a hell of a day, haven't you?"

"I cannot begin to tell you." Her lips trembled and she cursed her weakness.

"Did you leave a lot behind?"

"Everything." Tears welled up in Anya's eyes once more, but it didn't take long for the vodka's effect to put Anya to sleep.

Jena-Robert covered her with a blanket and sat studying her pretty face in the soft glow of the cabin lights. In ten years he'd never once questioned his orders from CIA, but now he wasn't so sure.

18.

"Lear Five Three Lima Golf, turn to heading zero nine zero final for runway nine left Palm Beach"

"Roger, Palm Beach. Lear three Lima Golf turning heading zero nine zero."

Seth smiled at Joey and said, "It's your airplane. Our landing speed is going to be one twenty-six so trim your nose up a little and hold that. We're going to fly a lot longer final approach than you do with the Maule but at this speed it'll seem shorter."

Joey took the yoke in her hands without hesitation. Seth admired her assertiveness and self-confidence.

"That's perfect. You hold us on course. I'll handle the radios and help with the throttles."

Joey had an excellent touch, a natural feel for stick and rudder. Plus, the wind was blowing straight down the center of the runway. Five minutes later Joey made a perfect touchdown. As the nose wheel gently touched the concrete Seth deployed the thrust reversers.

"We're home, Mrs. Beretta. Well done!"

"Thank you, Captain. That was amazing."

"So were you. You are one of the best natural born pilots I ever met."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Not hardly little gal. Not hardly." A former Navy flight instructor, he was not a man to pass out compliments cheaply. Not about flying, anyway.

Joey was still grinning when the plane came to a halt in front of the Legacy terminal. She leaned over and gave her smiling mentor a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks again, Seth."

"You are very welcome. Any time you want to learn to fly this thing you just let me know. First we'll have to get you a multi engine rating, but the way you handle a plane that should take about five minutes." They both laughed.

Frank waited on the tarmac and she gave him an enthusiastic wave from the cockpit. Frank smiled calmly and gave her and the Captain Murdoch a little salute. Seth returned it with a wink and a smile.

By the time she ran through the check list with Seth, the door had been opened and Joey ducked out quickly in her eagerness to get to Frank. In seconds she had her arms wrapped around his neck as she planted a big kiss on his lips.

"Frank, you old stud. I'm glad you got to see me again."

Beretta laughed at her intentionally cockeyed greeting and gave her a long kiss. From the cockpit Seth Murdoch observed the lovebirds. Somehow Bogart and Bacall crossed his mind every time he saw them together.

Frank turned and started to walk toward the terminal doors with his arm firmly around his beautiful wife's waist.

"Mrs. Beretta!" It was Dave, the co-pilot running toward them with Joey's bags in hand.

"Dave, thank you. And thanks for letting me ride in your seat."

Dave smiled and handed over the bags. "I should thank you for letting me ride in yours. That was the first time I ever traveled in the back. It was pretty nice." Joey leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. The young pilot blushed.

"You and Seth and I will have to take a trip together again soon."

"Yes ma'am." Dave turned and trotted back to the plane to help Captain Murdoch close out the flight.

"So, now you're a Lear Jet pilot?" Frank stepped back and grinned at his wife.

"Sure am. I have almost six hours and two cycles in my log book to prove it."

"Just so you're not expecting one of those under the Christmas tree this year."

"A Lear Jet? Of course not. I want a Citation X so I can get to California faster." Joey giggled.

"No problem, Sport, but remember, that's about twenty million less you'll have to spend on something else." Frank laughed as spoke facetiously to one of the most frugal women on earth.

"OK. I'll think about it. Meanwhile, why don't you take me home and help me remember why I adore you?"

"There's only one reason?"

"No, but there's just one reason on my mind at the moment."

"Glad I brought the Cobra."

"You're too slow, can I drive?"

"No. I don't want to waste precious time on traffic tickets."

"Haven't had one in years, but that's OK, Frank. You drive."

Twenty minutes later Frank was pulled over by a Palm Beach Police officer. He got off with a warning, but they were fifteen minutes later getting home, and compensated by being naked before they got through the door. They spent the next hour making love in their own intoxicating and exhausting way. When they were through Joey whispered into Frank's ear.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything good that's ever happened to me."

"I love you too, Joey."

"One other thing, Frank. You never told me why you put one of your security guys on Persephone Andreadis. "

"Because she's connected to someone of interest."

"Ivan Rusikov?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

"Perhaps nothing, but his name is on a watch list."

"A list? That's all?"

"Yes." There was more to the story, but Frank had other things in mind.

"Wonderful. Is my name on a list?"

"Yes. Mine."

Joey smiled and jumped out of bed.

"C'mon you old stud. Let's take a swim."

The dark silhouette of her naked body against the shimmering pool lights proved irresistible, as usual. Frank grabbed Joey and carried her to the pool thinking about the rewards and the ironies of clean living.

19.

Gabe walked into his office and found Sally asleep with her head on the table. Bart was nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning!"

"Huh?" The semi-comatose Sally was only twenty-six, but working for forty-eight hours straight had taken its toll.

"I said, 'good morning', Sally. Where's your colleague?"

Sally shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair while struggling to focus on Gabe through hazy eyes.

"Colleague?"

"Bart."

"No idea."

A knocking sound came from the center of the table.

"Here I am."

Sally looked down and saw Bart's grinning face leering up between her knees. She snapped her legs together.

"BART! What are you doing?"

"Sleeping until you guys woke me up." He started to crawl toward Sally causing her to push her chair away from the table.

"I brought you two some breakfast." Gabe held out a couple of cups of Starbucks, bagels and containers of fruit.

"Thanks." Sally reached for a cup of coffee.

"Yeah. I'm so hungry I could eat something healthy." Bart stood beside Sally who glared as she opened one of the plastic boxes of mixed fruit.

"Gabe, thanks for not bringing granola." Bart smeared cream cheese on a half of a bagel.

"What's wrong with granola?"

"That stuff is ok if you like reconstituted cardboard."

"It's good and it's good for you Bart."

"No, Sally, it's a conundrum. Why go out of your way to eat healthy so you can live longer and have less fun?"

"Define 'fun'."

"Steaks on a charcoal grille, chocolate croissants, In 'n Out burgers."

"If your scope is that limited then I guess you have a point."

"Just sayin'. Nothing like a little In 'n Out. Especially if Mr. Jack joins in."

"Bart!"

The banter was interrupted by Gabe's desk phone. He answered straight away and gave his super stars a stern look to quiet them.

He muted the call and said, "I need five minutes to take this in private and then I want an update from the two of you."

Bart and Sally headed toward the coffee bar downstairs while Gabe returned to the caller from Virginia.

Five minutes later they returned and found Gabe scribbling furiously on a note pad. As they walked in he conspicuously flipped to a blank sheet.

"Let's move through this quickly." Gabe motioned toward the phone.

"Hello. Dr. Ramsay. Mr. Zeigler."

Sally couldn't contain herself. "Please call us Sally and Bart."

"Fine. Please tell me what you know about the program?"

Bart jumped into the conversation. "We are almost certain it is the work of the Rusikov brothers."

There was no response on the other end.

"We have a copy of the code and we are still struggling with the key."

The anonymous caller wasn't surprised to learn they had a copy.

"My compliments. I assume you retrieved your copy from Dr. Kovich's computer."

"Yes, we did." But how did you know that?

Sally spoke up. "I can tell you the key works in three ways. It allows access to the program so you can change parameters and initiates the launch of the program and controls duration. Then, and most importantly, it directs the program to destroy itself. The key must be reset every time you run the program and it can't be reset without a password."

"We're still working out how the brothers generated the passwords." Bart seemed a bit too anxious to participate in the conversation.

Their caller, apparently privy to confidential information, said, "It was not 'the brothers'. I am persuaded that this was primarily the work of Ilya. Ivan may have written some of the program itself and there may have been a little collaboration on the key, but Ilya was the only one who knew about the password and how to generate new ones."

"That's weird." Sally wrinkled her nose but said nothing more.

"Not so weird, Dr. Ramsay. These people were working for a man who is known for mistrust and violence. A little insurance would have been a very wise thing to have."

"So, it was a package deal? Both or nothing?"

"Perhaps, but it's also possible Ilya could reproduce this entire program by himself."

"Really?" Bart sat back and shook his head skeptically.

"Interesting." There was a trace of skepticism in Sally's voice. She got up and started to walk around while she thought that idea through. In her mind, Ilya just became the most wanted man on the planet. That's not the way this should be working out.

"That's great." Bart said a bit sarcastically.

"Not really, Bart. It is imperative that we figure out how Ilya generates the password then links them to the program." The sense of urgency in Gabe's voice hadn't been there earlier.

"A needle in a goddam haystack," Sally said without blanching at her own language.

"No shit," Bart blurted out. Sally glared hypocritically, but Gabe's wagging finger and icy stare backed her down. "Yes, Bart. 'Shit' is a good summary." The voice on the line sounded familiar to Sally, but she couldn't place it.

Bart resumed with, "Of course we will continue to search for a solution."

"We need your best effort and we need it quickly." With that the line went dead and the three of them sat in Gabe's office looking at one another.

"Who was that," Sally demanded in a rare display of patrician entitlement.

Gabe said nothing.

"That wasn't worth a whole hell of a lot."

Sally started to speak again, but Gabe cut her off. "This is of the highest importance and I need both of you to focus. Get out of here at least until tomorrow morning. You've been going at this for two days straight so go get some sleep, pull yourselves together.

"Fine!" Sally put her shoes on, grabbed her laptop and headed out the door.

"Like I said, we didn't learn a whole hell of a lot." Bart followed Sally's path out of the office.

Not necessarily. We just heard enough to sign a man's death warrant. Gabe picked up the phone and dialed a number he had written on a scrap of paper. It connected with a throwaway cell phone.

In an elegant little country chateau in Burgundy a freshly bathed Anya Kovich put on clean clothes and prepared to sit down to the first decent meal she'd had in days. The fear had subsided and her host, Jean-Robert Trieste, was nothing if not polite and accommodating, and it was a welcome change from that slathering ogre, Serge Malroff.

20.

The randy Ivan and the lovely Madeleine woke very late the next morning. Ivan scanned the room for a bottle that might have some champagne left in it, but was unable to find one. Maddie, as she liked to be called, was lying on her stomach and remained very still. Her naked body was still an inspiration to Ivan who began to caress her buttocks.

"No, my dear Ivan. I must have food first. Even I have limits."

"Of course. What would you like?"

"An omelet, bread, some bacon and a whole pitcher of orange juice."

"Is that all?"

"Let me think while I go into the bathroom." She got up and walked away from the bed stretching her arms as she went. Ivan admired the view while picking up the phone and calling room service.

"Maddie, do you want anything else?"

She popped her head out the door and took a toothbrush from her mouth. "A couple extra eggs in the omelet." She smiled and disappeared back into the bath.

Ivan finished placing her order and started to join her when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller id. Serge. He decided not to push his luck and picked up. Serge was in an unusually bad mood.

"Where the fuck have you and your brother been?"

"We are in Paris for a little relaxation and celebration."

"Celebrate? What do you have to celebrate?"

"The success of our program, of course. I assumed..."

"Assume nothing! I need you and your brother here in Italy immediately."

"Why?" On second thought he should have passed on questioning Serge when he was in that bad of a mood.

"Why? I'll tell you why. Because I own you. I goddam own both of you. Do you fucking understand me?"

"Yes."

"I will send a car for you in an hour."

So, he already knows where we are. Ivan started to speak, but the phone line was dead. He jumped up, pulled on a pair of jeans and grabbed a shirt from his bag. Buttoning the shirt as he walked, he headed down the hall to look for his brother. The door to Ilya's suite was unlocked. His carry on bag was on the floor near the sofa, but there was no indication anyone slept in the room.

Shit! Where the hell was he? Ivan fished a cell phone out of his jeans and called Ilya's number. It went directly to voicemail. The phone must be off. Why? He picked up the house phone and dialed the front desk.

"This is Ivan Rusikov. My brother and I are traveling together. He is in suite 15A."

"Oui Monsieur Rusikov. How may I help?"

"I am trying to locate my brother. Has he ordered room service or used hotel transportation?"

"I will inquire, Monsieur Rusikov. May I call you back in a moment?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Ivan paced around the room like a caged tiger for what seemed like an hour. Everywhere he looked he found no sign of Ilya having been in the room. A ringing phone interrupted his inspection of the suite.

"Yes?"

"Monsieur Rusikov. I have checked with the staff. The bell captain saw your brother early last evening. He left the hotel on foot. The captain asked if he needed transportation, but your brother said he was not going far and preferred to walk."

"Does your man know where he went?"

"Your brother said he was going to the Hotel Le Fouquet on the Champs Elysees. There is a lively cocktail crowd in the bar. Do you know where the hotel?"

"Yes, I do. Thank you."

"Should I inquire of the concierge at Le Fouquet?"

"Yes, that would be helpful. I'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

"Very good, sir. My name is Alain. Please look for me at the concierge desk."

Ivan hung up and patted his pockets to make sure he had cash and a wallet then ran out the door towards the elevators. Once in the lobby it was easy to find Alain.

Upstairs Madeleine emerged from the steamy bathroom as the room service waiter knocked on the door. She grabbed a hotel robe and, barely covering herself, let the young man in. Ivan was gone so she signed the check and gave the man a generous tip. After all, she assumed it was on his account. No matter, her father was one of the largest auto dealers in Europe and Maddie Linder never worried about money. Without concern for Ivan's whereabouts she sat down at the dining room table. Round the clock sex left her famished and she approached her breakfast with gusto.

In the lobby Alain shared information with Ivan.

"I spoke to my friend at Le Fouquet. Your brother is a distinctive man and easy for my friend to remember."

"When was he there? Where did he go?"

"He arrived in the early evening and apparently made friends quickly. He stayed until late."

"When did he leave?"

"Monsieur Rusikov, I would suggest you see my friend in person. I have a car waiting to drive you. Ask for Remy."

"Thank you." Ivan shoved some cash into Alain's hand as he walked out the door and into a black Rolls Royce. The ride took less than five minutes and he told the driver to wait.

"Where can I find Remy, please?"

"He is just over there, sir." A bellman pointed toward an ornate desk in the corner of the lobby. A good-looking man of about forty sat behind it. He was alert and immediately identified Ivan as the one his friend Alain called about.

"Monsieur Rusikov, my friend Alain tells me you are seeking information about your brother."

"Yes. I'll appreciate anything you can tell me." Ivan looked at him in a way that made it clear he would be generous with Remy.

"Please, Monsieur, have a seat. Would you care for coffee?" Ivan took a chair but declined a drink.

"As I told Alain, your brother arrived around six-thirty, perhaps a little later. He went to the bar where he was very generous in buying drinks and food. He made friends quickly."

"Yes, I'm sure he did. When did he leave?"

"He stayed late, perhaps twelve thirty, and left with one of our regular customers, Sheik Ali al Zaribi."

"Is this Sheik al Zaribi staying here?"

"Oh, no sir. He comes here often for a drink, but he lives in a townhouse in Parc Monceau. It is not far. Here is the address." He handed Ivan a piece of ivory colored paper.

Ivan put a hundred euro note in Remy's hand and dashed back to the waiting Rolls. Traffic was heavy and it took longer to drive the short distance than it may have taken Ivan to run it.

On arrival at Zaribi's elegant townhouse he banged the large brass knocker hard against the black lacquered front door. An elderly English butler answered.

"Yes." He was neither enthusiastic nor overly polite.

"Is Sheik al Zaribi here?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know when he will return?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know how I can reach him? He was with my brother yesterday and I am trying to locate him."

"I am afraid not, sir. The Sheik left the city last night. I do not know where or how he can be reached."

"Do you know anyone who does?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't say, sir."

Ivan peeled another hundred euro note off and gave the money to the butler. The man regarded the cash with indifference and said,

"Sir, I'm afraid I still couldn't say."

Ivan handed the man a card. "Alright. Here's my cell number. Please call me if you're able to remember anything."

Ivan turned to walk away, but not before hearing the butler say, "Nice is lovely this time of year, sir. Don't you think?" When he turned back the door had been closed.

21.

The Khamsin cruised slowly about a mile off the southern coast of France. Ilya was in the company of a beautiful woman and being pampered by the crew of his new friend's yacht. With the kind of mind that focused with intensity on one thing at a time he gave no thought to being hundreds of miles away from Paris or that his whereabouts was unknown to Ilya. It would never have occurred to him that he was supposed to be the 'key' to Thor's Hammer. His attention was consumed by the bare breasted Clara who massaged lotion on his back while he sipped a potent Bloody Mary.

Ivan spent the short ride to the George V on his cell phone. On arrival his bags awaited him and a bellman quickly loaded into the trunk. In moments the car pulled away and Ivan left the hotel without speaking to Madeleine who finished breakfast then went to the hotel's spa for a massage. She was as indifferent to his departure as she was to him. Her father was rich and Ivan just another slice of fun in a life promising many more.

Serge Malroff could not afford the luxury of indifference. In his last call the Prime Minister made clear his intention to move up the timetable for another event. Under different circumstances he would have tried to talk the Prime Minister into using other means of disrupting the financial markets, but now he couldn't risk raising suspicions. He wondered how soon the old KGB boss's network would inform him that Serge didn't control the program or its creators. That would be fatal. He dialed both their cell phones and got no answer. Enraged, he hit a speed dial number and got an instant answer.

"Those fucking Rusikov brothers flew from New York to Paris. They arrived there a couple of days ago. I want them found. Find them immediately! I don't care what you must spend and I don't care what you do. You've got two days. Do not fail!" He ended the call and leaned back in his seat. Serge closed his eyes and did not open them until Friedrich pulled into the motor court at the villa in Laglio.

The hotel limousine delivered Ivan Rusikov to the Euro Jet FBO at leBourguet. He had arranged for a private jet to take him to Nice though he wasn't sure how he would pick up Ilya's trail. The FBO's concierge informed him of an unexpected delay, made apologies, and introduced Ivan to his pilot. His luck would change within moments.

"Mr. Rusikov, this is Captain Jacques Renard."

"Captain."

"Monsieur Rusikov. I am sorry for the delay. We had a larger plane ahead of us and so our refueling has been slowed."

"A few more minutes won't matter."

"Thank you for understanding. This normally doesn't happen but, confidentially, Sheik al Zaribi's plane came back from Nice and had to be refueled."

"Interesting. Where is the Sheik traveling to today?" Ivan acted impressed.

"He is not. His plane is based here and is chartered when he is not using it. He traveled to his yacht yesterday. I know nothing more about his plans."

"The sheik obviously lives quite a luxurious life." He'd seen pictures of the yacht Khamsin in magazines.

"Yes, he does, but you seem to be doing rather well yourself. We scheduled a wonderful Gulfstream IV to take you to Nice and it appears we are ready to get underway. May I escort you to your plane?"

"Yes, thank you." At least, he thought, I've got a lead to pursue.

The two men boarded the jet and Ivan took a seat. Upholstered in tobacco colored leather and accented in dark woods, the Gulfstream IV embodied luxury. For a moment Ivan allowed himself to smile and enjoy his luxurious surroundings. Unlike his brother, however, he had the sense to realize Serge could bring everything to an ugly ending. Soon. Time was of the essence and caution would be critical or everything he had worked on for the past two years would collapse on his head.

As the plane climbed into the sky and turned south Ivan closed his eyes and tried to reason his way through his next steps. Back at the private jet center a member of the ground crew stepped into a corner of the hangar and made a call on his cell phone.

"G-Five to Nice. VP-BXX." The man's message was short and he returned to his normal work routine in moments. In a luxurious dacha the Prime Minister's secretary handed him a folded piece of paper bearing only one handwritten word, "NICE". The Prime Minister smiled and dropped the paper into a shredder beside his desk.

Hearing two "clicks" on the line, Rudy Geisler put down his headset and sent a one-line message to a standard Gmail account. "G-IV Nice. VP-BXX". Then he stepped outside and lit a cigarette. The world was becoming a complicated place. Now it was harder to tell the good from the bad. The man on top of the bubble seemed to change daily and retirement looked better every day. The toad smoked a second cigarette then went back to work.

In McLean, Virginia the email was received, read and deleted. Harry Brooke picked up his phone and passed the information along to Frank Beretta.

Ivan allowed the cabin attendant to bring him a double Goose on ice which he swallowed in one draught. Feeling nothing he asked for another.

His brother continued to enjoy the ministrations of Clara and settled into the hedonistic lifestyle of the MY Khamsin. Ilya ate a lunch of crab, prawns, and octopus and drank champagne, perhaps too much champagne. Though he and Clara hadn't had sex yet, few mysteries remained to be revealed. She'd not bothered to put on her bikini top as they lunched at a sun drenched table on the top deck of the Sheik's floating pleasure palace.

Ilya didn't once wonder where his host was nor did he give a moment's thought to his own brother. Instead, he poured champagne on Clara's breasts and began to lick the effervescent wine off. Life was good, no?

Two decks below, in his teak paneled library, the Sheik mechanically finished his prayers without giving a genuine thought to what Allah would think of how he lived his life. Many pious Muslims would despise him even more than they hated the falsely demonized Americans. Fuck them, he thought. He had much work to do. Convinced of the foolish Russian boy's value he set about finding a way to monetize his asset. He flipped on his multiple computers and set to work. As with all opportunities, time was of the essence, but Ali, the consummate bargainer, had a shrewd sense of timing. He focused on identifying his list of buyers and hoped his task wouldn't take long.

On one computer screen he could observe his guests up on the sundeck. Keeping the boy happy until he figured things out should be easy.

Upon Ivan's arrived at the Smith FBO at the Nice airport a Mercedes convertible awaited him at the end of a regal red carpet rolled up to the plane. He enjoyed this life and hoped he would be able to keep it. He started the rented car and headed toward the harbor. Hell, just staying alive would be a challenge but the rewards, if he survived, would be incalculable.

22.

The rest of Serge's ride home passed without any more calls from Moscow, though he remained in a dismal mood anyway. He had a raging headache, his minions had picked up only a thin trail of the Rusikov brothers in Paris, and in a matter of time the Prime Minister would put the final squeeze on him. Failure would cost him his life and the deathblow would be dealt quickly. The man was nothing if not decisive and swift.

Serge's sat phone rang as Friedrich guided the Maybach into the villa's elegant but compact motor court. His agent in Paris was calling and he answered on the first ring.

"Speak."

"Sir, I believe I located both brothers."

"Believe? What the hell does that mean?"

"I know where they went. They traveled separately, but they both flew to Nice."

"Why did they separate?"

"I don't know. Ivan flew there this morning on a chartered jet."

"And?"

"His brother flew down last night. He traveled with Sheik al Zaribi on his personal jet."

The double dealing son of a bitch! Serge smiled at the good news. The Sheik had no true convictions and no allegiances other than his addiction to money though he feigned being a pious Muslim for business reasons. Alternatively, if the Sheik had Ilya, Serge could be sure of two things. Ilya was safe and he could be bought. Unless, of course, Ilya himself was the double dealer. That would have been easier to believe of Ivan. Ilya might be a genius, but in Serge's mind he was also a guileless fool.

"Where are you?"

"I'm about to get in a plane to fly to Nice. My colleague has already arrived."

"Call me when you arrive."

"Yes. I will."

Before he hung up Serge added, "Find Ilya first. Ivan will catch up. But, remember this, notify me prior to taking any action." Until proven wrong, Malroff operated on the assumption he was being double-crossed and, if so, Ivan masterminded the scam. If so, he would pay for that. Serge hated to deal with an operative whom he had never met, but at least the man was making some progress. He'd need to suspend his natural distrust a little longer and wait to see what surfaced.

Friedrich opened the car door and Serge walked up the steps to his house. He felt a little better and noticed Penelope Goldman's Porsche Boxster tucked into a corner of the motor court. Perhaps he would have time for a little diversion and diversion was Penelope's sole purpose in his life.

Duccio opened the front door seconds before he reached it.

"Good evening, sir."

"Is Lady Goldman here?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about her friend?"

"He is not here, sir, nor is he expected."

"Excellent."

"May I place your dinner order with Chef?"

"Steaks, rare, Frittes, and a salad. A bottle of Margaux. She can select the vintage."

"Very well sir."

"I want to dine on my balcony tonight. I will call the kitchen when we are ready to be served."

"Understood. I presume you will not be taking calls."

"Correct."

"I understand, Mr. Malroff. Have an enjoyable evening, sir."

Without a word Malroff took the elevator to the third floor. He swept open the doors to his suite and found Lady Penelope Goldman lounging naked on his sofa. At five nine she had the body of a professional tennis player though her breasts were large, firm and natural. The sight of her sent a charge of electricity through him.

"Serge." She moved in a way intended to expose more provocative parts of her anatomy.

"Penelope. I am a little surprised to find you here this evening."

"Today seemed like a good day for a little abuse. Are you disappointed to see me?"

"No, nor am I disappointed to find your traveling companion gone."

"He is harmless and I find him amusing." Penelope stretched in a lascivious and seductive way.

"Useless is a better word," Serge said sarcastically as he headed toward his dressing room.

"Serge, let me give you a massage before dinner. Perhaps a hot bath?" She got up and padded toward the dressing room door. As she passed through the doorway Serge grabbed her long hair and slammed her up against the wall. He pressed himself against her from behind without releasing his firm grip on her hair which he pulled until her head bent back.

"Perhaps I should give you a massage first."

"Delicious."

Serge requested dinner a couple of hours later, but neither he nor Lady Goldman were seen again until Serge appeared downstairs the next morning, freshly showered and impeccably dressed in a trim custom tailored suit. Having already instructed Friedrich to bring the car around he strode straight to the front door.

As he passed he said casually, "Duccio, Lady Goldman took a fall in the bath. Please have her attended to immediately."

"Yes sir, right away, sir."

Serge Malroff walked out the front door and straight into his waiting limousine.

"Milan, Friedrich."

"Sehr gut, mein Herr."

"I'm not going to the office. Take me to the Principe di Savoia."

"Of course, sir."

Serge raised the partition and leaned back in his seat. He took a split of champagne from the small refrigerator and drank from the bottle. He believed Penelope's left shoulder to be dislocated and she might have a mild concussion. The inconvenience of dealing with her injuries discreetly concerned him more than her wellbeing. The phone buzzed and he forgot about her.

"Yes."

"Ivan is at the Hotel Imperator and Ilya is aboard the Khamsin. The yacht is supposed to be cruising to Monaco, but the captain has not reserved dock space as of twenty minutes ago."

"Good. Stand by for instructions, but don't loose either one of them. Don't loose them, do you understand?"

"Understood."

Serge hung up the phone and smiled for the first time in days. He might survive this yet, but he had to think his next steps through carefully. The clock was ticking more rapidly than Serge imagined.

23.

The Brooke Law Firm occupied a small brick building on the fringes of McLean, Virginia. Situated unobtrusively amongst a stand of ancient trees it went unnoticed by most passing motorists.

When Olivia Walker Brooke arrived only Harry's elderly black Lexus occupied the parking lot. She parked her own car close to the door and entered the office without noticing the silver Cadillac that had been following her since she left home. If they did their job well Olivia might take years to catch on to the rotating teams of security officers her father in law had eschewed for years.

Sitting in a high backed crimson chair, the sound of the office door opening distracted Harry from his early morning news feeds.

"Good morning, Harry."

"Olivia," the former senator brightened at the sound of her voice. "How are you this morning?"

"Honestly, Harry, I'm not sure. A couple of weeks ago I was getting ready for class every day at this time." She referred to her former role as a professor at Georgetown Law.

The old gentleman gave her a kindly smile as he stood to greet her with a hug.

"Why don't you try this one on for size?" He asked pointing to the smooth leather chair he had vacated.

She did so without hesitation while he made himself comfortable in one of the guest chairs facing his own antique desk.

"My predecessor passed away without warning so I had no one to turn to," he offered. "Harrison, of course only occupied the chair only a few times during what was supposed to be his transition into my role."

Until then Olivia hadn't thought about her late husband occupying this same chair during his short secret life. The thought made her uncomfortable and her always observant father in law noticed.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you. However, the fact remains, you are now following in your late husband's footsteps. I am certain you will do him and me proud."

"Thank you. I'm fine, Harry. I just a realized how little I knew about my own husband and about you."

"What we have done has been in service to our Country. Of that much I can assure you."

Harry Brooke smiled and glanced at the portrait of Thomas Jefferson hanging above the counselor's desk.

"Olivia, perhaps the principal reason I chose you was the thesis you wrote on Jefferson while still a student at Georgetown. You correctly sited all the reasons for the existence of the office of Legacy Counsel and instinctively understood the danger Jefferson and Washington and Franklin were men in. All the signers were. By declaring independence they'd willingly risked a noose in exchange for a chance at freedom. The end of the war didn't end the danger. A false step or a failure of the experiment could have put them on the gallows in England. They grew up understanding the monarchy and living without one for the first time was like being on the high wire without a net. The existence of the Legacy Counsel, as we now call the President's personal "fixer", hedged their bet and gave them a wild card to play if needed."

"And now I'm not yet fully on the job and we're making a decision to kill American citizens."

"No, Olivia. It's not the counsel's job to make the decision. That rests with the President. Our job, your job, is to make certain his wishes are carried out expediently and secretly."

She started to speak but Harry Brooke continued, "The world has changed so much since September 11th. A paranoia grips our country and the intelligence community is on the verge of anarchy and chaos. That the CIA is in competition with our old enemies for a computer program is one thing, but their goal of acquiring an untraceable source of cash is unacceptable. To compound the insult, they are operating totally outside the purview of the President and, in my opinion, bordering on treason."

"If challenged they'd deny it, Harry."

"Perhaps, but they won't get the opportunity. Bringing Dr. Kovich into the fold is critical. Doing so efficiently is the job of this office with the help of Frank Beretta."

"I don't know him well, Harry, but he seems to be a good man."

"Even you have no idea, Olivia. Frank has gone above and beyond the call of duty on behalf of these United States on more than one occasion and done so fearlessly and without expectation of any recognition."

"A real Patriot."

"Well put. Frank Beretta is certainly that and this world needs more men and women like him."

"This is a new world."

"Soon it will change yet again. Killing individuals outright will become obsolete and wars will be waged in an electronic world. Yet, it will be more dangerous and the stakes will be much higher."

"The ability to totally disrupt commerce?"

"Yes, and that's only the tip of the iceberg. I foresee a day in your lifetime when, by flipping a switch, a terrorist will be able to throw an entire nation into chaos. Perhaps the world."

"A definite and chilling possibility."

"As I would hope you would. So now we fire a preemptive strike. Two Russians will die so we can deprive Serge Malroff of their skills and two Americans will die to deprive our own CIA of the young woman who may have deciphered their source code."

"The Rusikov twins I can understand, but the notion an entire agency of our government has gone rogue is more difficult."

"Not the entire agency, Olivia, but a part of it and until we're sure we understand how deep the malignancy is embedded we can take no chances. That's why this job is so important. We operate in total and absolute secrecy and serve only our client."

"I do understand, Harry and I promise you I will do my best to live up to the responsibility you are entrusting me with."

"Let me give you this piece of advice. If sending people to their deaths ever becomes easy you should quit this job immediately."

"Thank you."

"Now, I need to introduce you formally to the most important member of your team. You will rarely meet him face to face, but rest assured, you may trust him with your own life."

24.

Sally Ramsay had taken a hot shower and was towel drying herself when she heard someone's fist make a brutal attack on her front door. Jumping out of the shower she grabbed a robe and headed toward the living room of her Menlo Park condo.

Looking back at her through the peephole was the smiling, distorted face of Bart Zeigler looking as though he had just slain a dragon.

The grinning fool! He's actually cute. If he'd only pay a little attention to himself he might be hot. A haircut and some decent clothes would be a good start.

Sally pulled her robe around herself and yanked the door open.

"Bart! What are you doing here?"

"Thought you might like to take a ride with me."

"A what?"

"A ride. You know, "top down, wind in your hair, nice evening". All that kind of stuff."

"Why? Besides, you don't own a convertible."

"Put some clothes on and come take a look."

"Are you completely crazy?"

"Sure, but I'm a lot of fun, too. Let's go."

Why not?

"Alright. You come in and sit down while I get dressed."

"Fine, but remember, we're not going to a cotillion. Jeans will be fine, if you own any."

"Sure," was Sally's surly answer as she headed in the direction of her bedroom.

"Help yourself to the bar. There are beers and soft drinks in the refrigerator if you prefer." She called over her shoulder as an afterthought.

Wow. A bar with a refrigerator. At the price of local real estate I'm doing good to have one in my kitchen.

"Thanks." Instead of getting a drink Bart wandered around looking at the many framed photos of Sally and her friends and family. One was with Mom and Dad on the family sailboat, a very large one, off the coast of some tropical island or the other. In another she was with a man Bart did not recognize until he noticed that the photo was signed by the late Robert Mondavi. Yet another of her as a young girl was taken on the rocky coast of Maine. Sally was with her father and then President George H. W. Bush. Well traveled and well connected, very well connected he thought to himself. He was drawn to a large photo of her in an elegant white dress. She was on the arm of her father who looked dashing in white tie and tails. He guessed correctly it was of her debut. The name on the matting read "Sarah Brooke Ramsay". Sarah, huh? Next he saw her Stanford graduation photo. The woman he believed to be her mother was absent. He wanted to continue his tour of her photographic history, but Sally reappeared in the living room.

Bart his surprise to find her dressed in tattered jeans and a white oxford cloth shirt tied at the waist. The curves concealed by her work clothes were now plainly visible and sent Bart's mind to places he wouldn't have expected. Her hair was still wet and combed straight back. She hadn't wasted much time on makeup but Bart immediately saw how beautiful she was. He felt as though he was looking at her for the first time and the vision took his breath away.

"OK, Bart. Here I am, dressed as instructed. What's up?"

Bart had a hard time getting his brain and tongue to synch.

"Bart! Get it together! What do you want?"

"C'mon, let me show you. We're going for a ride so bring your house keys."

Sally stepped into a pair of sandals, grabbed her keys and cell phone off a console table, and headed toward the door thinking this better be good. "Good" did not describe what she found sitting at the curb. It was Ivan Rusikov's red Ferrari California.

"Sweet flaming Christmas, Bart! Are you out of your mind?"

"Again I ask, 'what do you think?'" Bart smiled calmly.

"I think you "boosted" Ivan's car from the airport garage." At some level this stunt impressed her, but she didn't need a felony charge as an accomplice.

"I removed this fine machine from a high risk environment in order to protect my friend and colleague's valuable property."

"You stole it so it wouldn't get stolen?" Sally scratched her head.

"An oversimplification, besides, I have ID and documents that would satisfy the CHP if we get stopped." Bart held out a fake driver's license and Fluid Dynamics ID with his own picture. They identified him as Ivan G. Rusikov.

"These are pretty good. You got a side business going on?"

"Only for personal entertainment."

Sally shook her head and for a moment Bart thought she was going to turn around and go back inside.

"C'mon, Sally, how about a short ride?" Bart walked out to the car and opened the door.

"OK. A short one." Sally got in and pulled the seatbelt around her. This was a big step up from Bart's old Subaru though she had been in the car only once when her BMW ran out of gas. Bart jumped in with relish and, to Sally's amusement, used his smart phone to start the car. The V-12 sounded sweet.

"That's a wicked app, Bart. Does Steve Jobs know about it?" she asked pointing to his phone.

"Only two people do and they're both in this car."

"Probably best it remains that way."

"Agreed. I call it "N-Zo". I wrote it just for this car."

"Another thing, doesn't this car have some kind of an anti-theft system?"

"Yeah, but it's broken. Too bad, I hope it's under warranty for Ivan's sake."

"I hope the thing's 'broken' for our sake."

Sally relaxed in her seat a little.

"Definitely. Where to, Ms. Ramsay, or should I say, Sarah?"

"Doesn't matter, but please stay under the speed limit. By the way, only my mother calls me 'Sarah'." Sally shook her head and wondered if she might be the crazy one. Bart pulled away from the curb and gunned the powerful car just a little. His passenger put a hand on his arm and shook her head.

"Bart, go slow."

"Yeah. Ok." Bart revved the engine again and accelerated to just a mile or two over the limit. Damn it was a sweet ride. In his dreams he wanted to drive down to Carmel and head south on the PCH to see how it handled there.

"Do you want to ride down to Carmel and grab a bite to eat?"

Sally frowned a little and looked at her Rolex then shook her head and said, "I have some work to do and I'm not dressed to go out, anyway. Besides, I don't think it's a great idea to push our luck with this car."

"You look awesome and you're already out. Let's drive down to Santana Row for a cocktail or two."

Sally agreed because she wanted to and because her friends were rarely seen at Santana Row. A short while later they sat at an outdoor table at Left Bank. She ordered a gin and tonic and Bart ordered a Blue Moon. By the time the drinks were served Sally's mood had changed and she seemed pre-occupied. She became quiet as they finished their drinks and rather than order a second she asked Bart to take her home. He reluctantly agreed and drove her back to Menlo Park in silence. If it had been a real date Bart would have been depressed, but it wasn't and he was at the wheel of a new Ferrari. What the hell? Live a little.

"Thanks for the ride and the drink, Bart. I've seen a whole new side of you." And I'm not sure I dislike it.

"Yeah. I'm multidimensional. Maybe we can do this again sometime?"

"Maybe. I don't know, Bart, but if we do how about something less felonious like, not in a stolen Ferrari for instance." She got out of the car and walked toward her building. With a casual wave over her shoulder she disappeared without looking back.

Bart sounded a note of the car's horn and pulled away from the curb. Sally looked amazing and her ass was even more impressive in tight torn jeans, but for now he was just a kid with a new toy and a short time to play with it. For grins he cruised over to In 'n Out and went through the drive-through. He wasn't hungry so he only ordered a soft drink, but the looks they gave him made it worthwhile. The sun hadn't set yet so he got back on the 101 and decided to give in to his wish to drive down to Carmel. He struggled to stay anywhere close to the speed limit.

25.

The Berettas arrived home from an impromptu pleasure cruise and found Billy "Billfish" Sawyer waiting on the dock, anxious to putter with the boat. That would leave Frank a little more free time to spend with Joey instead of hosing and scrubbing down the Belle.

"Doesn't look like you caught much," Billy said with a sly smile.

"Catch and release, Billy. We had a fine time." Joey smirked in a response that confirmed any suspicions Billy had about how the two lovers spent the afternoon.

"So long as you two had a good time. That's what's important in life."

"We always have a good time, Billy. You know that."

"Yes ma'am, I certainly do." Billy smiled and mopped the beads of sweat off his forehead then replaced his white cap embroidered with "Une Belle Femme" in dark blue lettering. He adjusted the mooring lines securing the yacht and busied himself with setting out the equipment he needed to start washing down the boat. Frank remained on board taking a call on his sat phone.

"Billy, when Frank comes out tell him I went up to the house to take a swim."

"Sure thing." The cheerful Bahamian waved as he poured a soap solution into a big bucket followed by a strong jet of water.

Joey jogged up the dock and across the public bicycle path running behind their house. On the other side she opened a gate and made a dash to the glistening pool.

Finished with his call Frank stepped off the boat then spoke quietly to Billy for a minute before striding purposefully up to the pool and jumping in. Moments later he surfaced with Joey riding piggy back on his shoulders.

"Hey, fellah. Are you a pool hopper or do you have an invitation?" She referred to the young locals who frequently roamed around the neighborhood randomly diving into available swimming pools. After all, the Palm Beach population dropped by half during the summer. Why should all that water go to waste?

"I've got a standing invitation from the beautiful woman who lives in this house."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. Would you please tell her I'm here?"

Frank laughed at his own joke while Joey slugged him square on the shoulder. He picked her up and carried her out of the pool. Uncharacteristically, he seemed a little out of breath when he put her down on a striped chaise lounge.

"Good thing my feelings aren't easily hurt, Frank Beretta."

"Yes, yes it is. But tell you what, how about I take you out for dinner to make up for my lack of consideration?"

"Sure. Where do you want to go?"

"How about Michelle Bernstein at Omphoy? The room has a wonderful ocean view."

"OK. When?"

Frank checked his watch and said, "An hour and a half?"

"Cool. That gives me time to go back in the pool." Most women would have been pressed for time, but Joey wasn't 'most women'. She could put herself together in less than a half hour, including a shower, and come out looking amazing.

While Joey dove back into the pool Frank picked up a towel and walked through the French doors leading into his small, cozy library. He lifted the phone and made a couple of calls, the first of which was to the restaurant to reserve a table and the second was to Legacy Aviation.

An hour and a half later they were seated at a table with an excellent view of the Atlantic. The waiter was cheerfully taking their drink orders.

"I'd like Smirnoff Silver on the rocks with a wedge of lime, please." It was Joey's signature drink though she was known to vary and order olives instead.

"Diet coke for me."

"Not drinking booze tonight?"

"Well, about that, Joey. I have to make a trip later tonight and I don't want alcohol in my system."

"Oh. That kind of a trip." It had been awhile since Frank had been called way like this. When he did it was always serious business. Deadly serious.

"Yeah. I got the call as we were coming back to the dock."

"How long"

Frank gave her a sardonic smile. "As usual, I don't know. A week. Maybe a little less to wrap things up."

The waiter served the drinks and stepped away to allow them time to enjoy their cocktails and look at the menu.

"No apologies." They clinked glasses.

"And no regrets." Joey said returning what had become the couple's signature toast. It perfectly captured the essence of their lives together. They touched their glasses together again gently and Frank hailed the waiter.

After an excellent dinner of tomato salads and curried snapper, they shared a large serving of vanilla ice cream. Frank paid the bill and moments later they were in his '62 Rolls Royce convertible headed north on A1A. He considered the Rolls the "flagship" of his collection of convertibles and he and Joey loved cruising along under a warm starry sky. On their first anniversary Frank gave Joey a restored '85 Porsche Turbo cabriolet for her twenty-fifth birthday. He put a card on the windshield saying, "When you were five this car was new and that's how you make me feel. Happy Birthday!" Known as Silver Streak she had a hard time keeping the car within the speed limits and was on a first name basis with everyone on the Town of Palm Beach police force.

Joey reclined the seat a little and looked up at the darkening sky. A few stars were visible, but it looked like rain may be coming in.

"When do you have to leave?"

"About an hour from now." Frank checked his watch. He was wearing his old Rolex GMT Master. It was his 'lucky' watch from his days in the Corps and he was always wearing it when he took one of these impromptu trips. Joey assumed that whatever he was doing was dangerous, but even after their ten years together she'd never asked. Her stoicism wasn't unnoticed by Frank who loved her all the more for it.

"OK." Joey found she was tearing up and bit her lip. Somehow this evening seemed different: like they were saying goodbye. She had a feeling that was hard to shake and she didn't like it.

Joey reached over and took Frank's hand and held it as he drove home. She imagined being a teenager on the way home from a date knowing she'd soon have to say good night on the front porch. To someone else that may sound silly, but Joey's childhood had been devoid of those kinds of normal experiences. Over time she had filled in the blanks with her own romantic notions. In the end, though, Frank more than made up for it. He was her whole family, boyfriend, lover and a lifetime of wonderful things all wrapped up into one person, and a damned good looking one. How lucky can you get?

Frank stopped the car in the drive near the front of the house.

"I'm taking the Audi to the airport. Would you put this car in the garage for me after I pull out?"

"What if I scratch it?"

"Then we'll fix it." Frank gave her his 'kindest guy in the world' smile.

"OK." Joey jumped into Frank's arms and stayed just a little longer than usual. Frank kissed her just a little longer than usual.

"Gotta go, baby. I'll see you soon."

"Not soon enough."

Frank smiled and gave her a little salute as he got into the Audi and backed out of the garage.

Joey felt a tear run down her cheek as she watched him drive past the front gate and away. She gingerly eased the Rolls Royce into the garage and shut its powerful V8 off. The automatic garage light turned off and she just sat in the dark for a few minutes, alone with her random and disquieting thoughts.

An hour later Frank was at the controls of a Gulfstream V headed east over the Atlantic Ocean. In the right seat was a good and trusted friend whose deep, soothing Texas drawl was both welcome and familiar. Once more unto the breach!

By then Joey was sitting by the swimming pool sipping a Drambuie on the rocks and listening to Norah Jones singing The Nearness of You over the outdoor sound system. Though sentimental, maybe even a little hokey, the song perfectly suited her mood, as did the shimmering underwater lights casting flickering shadows on the walls of the house. A .32 automatic hid under a cloth napkin on the table beside her. She felt alone for the first time in a very long while.

26.

Bart Zeigler was in love with a beautiful Italian and he hoped the affair would never end though he knew otherwise. After grabbing a drink and a bite to eat at the Hogsbreath Inn in Carmel he headed home enjoying the crisp evening air and clear night sky.

Approaching Santa Clara on 101 he realized he had no plan for what to do with the car. Parking a new Ferrari at his apartment building might attract too much attention and his fake identification as Ivan Rusikov would be useless. He noticed an old garage door opener clipped onto the visor. The gadget seemed antique in contrast to the high tech sports car, but a perfect solution nonetheless. He'd drive over to the Rusikov's house and return the Ferrari to its owner, in a manner of speaking. Most days Bart rode his Buell motorcycle to work so leaving his trusty Subaru at the airport created no problems. The walk home was less than four miles and he ran 5k every other day. Excellent! He had a plan.

Twenty minutes later he found the address on the car's registration. The windows were dark, but automatic perimeter lights cast a glow on the corners of the restored craftsman bungalow and illuminated the dense landscaping. Neat wicker furniture decorated the front porch. The place ran contrary to any expectations Bart had of the Rusikov brothers. As he turned into the driveway a flickering light became visible in a second floor window on the side of the building. Had someone left a TV or computer monitor on?

Rocked by a sudden surge of guilt over his car theft Bart didn't linger to see if anyone appeared in the upstairs window. He eased toward the rear of the house where he expected to find the garage. Distracted by the unexpected light and trying to think up a cover story he nearly ran into a low slung black car parked in the compact motor court. A BMW Z-4. He didn't need to check for the SBR-Z4 license number to know the slick little convertible belonged to Dr. Sally Ramsay. What the hell brought her to the Rusikov house at this hour? Alone?

Bart pushed the button on the remote control and the second of two garage doors began to rise. He slipped the Ferrari into its bay, shut the motor off, and closed the overhead door behind him. As he sat in the dark he listened to the clicking of the hot metal of the V-12 engine beginning to cool. A metallic blue Volvo stood in the next bay. Ilya's. On the far wall Bart noticed green lights glowing on a security keypad. A jolt of jealousy accompanied Bart's realization that Sally seemed to be in possession of the Rusikov brother's alarm code. Bart got out of the car and tiptoed to the door leading out in the direction of the main house. On closer inspection the key pad appeared old and part of a mediocre off the rack system. Imagine! Two world class hackers protecting their home with low rent antique alarm equipment.

Even though he'd used up his ration of luck for one day curiosity trumped his better judgment and he decided to take a look in the house. He stepped into a covered breezeway leasing to the kitchen door and navigated by the faint light of the decorative landscape lighting. At the French doors he froze. A tiny dot of red reflected on a glass pane and gave away a security device positioned on the wall behind him. Bart cursed himself for underestimating the equipment and wondered if it was a motion detector or camera. Either way he was busted but he preferred not to be identified as well. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and turned his eyes up to scan for a similar device above the door. None were visible so he boldly stepped into the kitchen and stood still for a minute to let his heart rate drop. Noise came from upstairs that sounded like a TV. Bart treaded softly across the tiled floor to an arched entrance into the great room and listened again. Odd. It sounded like a porno movie unless, of course, a hell of a little party was in progress upstairs.

Fewer than ten steps into the room something hard jabbed into his left kidney. He turned and found himself looking into Sally's blue eyes. They were cold and angry.

"Don't move or I'll crack your skull with this." She held up a cricket bat. A cricket bat?

"Sally, don't shoot! I mean don't hit me!" He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt back and moved his face into the dim light.

"Bart? What the hell?"

"I don't respond well to profanity."

"Suppose I had a gun?"

"What if you did? You'd shoot someone for breaking into a house you'd already broken into yourself?"

Sally began to say something but stopped herself. She stood her ground and glared at Bart. Meanwhile, the action on whatever she was watching upstairs started to reach a crescendo. The moaning became louder and clearer. Could it be?

Without a word she turned on her heel and flew up the steps. By the time Bart caught up she'd made the last key strokes to shut the computer down. He thought she pocketed a thumb drive from one of the USB ports but couldn't be certain.

"Sally, before you say anything, what's up with the security system? Is that a camera in the breezeway and is it on?"

"Only a motion detector and it's not armed." She crossed her arms in front of her and scowled.

"You know this because?"

"I just do, Bart. Alright? Now let's get out of here." She stomped across the room and down the stairs then stood waiting for him to come down.

"OK, but I'd still like to know what brought you to the Rusikov's at this hour."

He allowed her to drag him through the kitchen and out the French doors. In a flash she tapped something into the security keypad and pulled him out into the motor court where they stood in dim light facing one another. She still had hold of his arm and from the way she looked at him, Bart let himself believe she might kiss him. Perhaps she had the same thought, but the mood didn't last. Sally pulled away from him and marched off to her car, turned, and said, "So where's your Subaru, Bart?"

"At the airport, and I put the Ferrari back in the garage."

"I suppose you need a ride home?"

"I certainly had no idea you might be here. I'd planned to walk."

"Get in." Sally climbed behind the wheel and Bart didn't have to be asked twice. He slid into the firm leather seat and belted himself in.

"Thanks."

"Not necessary. I couldn't let someone abduct you or run you down on your way home." She gunned the BMW out of the driveway and treated Zeigler to a high speed, hair raising ride exceeding anything he'd done with the purloined Ferrari.

Sally brought the Z-4 to a squealing halt in front of Bart's apartment building and sat for a moment in silence. Bart expected her to speak, but she stifled whatever she may have been planning to say. When she turned towards him Bart did the unimaginable. He impetuously leaned over and kissed her on the lips before bailing out of the car. It happened quickly but he thought she might have kissed him back. Not giving Sally a chance to speak he said, "Thanks, Sarah. I had a wonderful day."

Expecting a rebuke he stepped back a few paces, but the pretty blond sat looking at him, a cute smile on her face. A different smile. Nice. She bobbed her head gently in the affirmative and drove away. As he walked to his apartment the faint taste of her lipstick lingered and his heart raced. He also felt the remote control to Ivan's garage in his hip pocket. Bart Zeigler went upstairs with a grin on his face.

Half a world away Ivan Rusikov smiled and put his iPad down. He'd watched the security feed from his house and he had to admit, Bart surprised him with his bold theft of the Ferrari. Sally proved predictable, though, or was it reliable? Whatever. Things were going his way.

Ivan picked up the iPad again and sent a brief message before returning to bed and the marvelous Italian girl he met at the hotel bar earlier.

Sally threaded her car into the parking garage and ran up the stairs into her apartment. With Bart still on her mind and a smile on her lips she jammed the thumb drive into her laptop and went to work. He's a sweet boy. What have I gotten into?

27.

Serge spent nearly two days at the Principe di Savoia without leaving his suite. In reality he hid only from himself because he knew he would have to answer immediately if the Prime Minister called. Of course, he had Penelope to think of as well. She suffered from a mild concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Duccio had instructions to keep her at the villa to recuperate. Serge didn't suffer from guilt over her injuries. After all, she knew the risks of a relationship with him. No, he simply wanted to avoid being around her in her wounded condition. Finally, he considered Anya Kovich. In his mind she had admitted her incompetence and he had every right to treat her as aggressively as he had. Then, she left the hotel and betrayed him leaving no doubt. Perhaps he had not gone far enough with the traitorous bitch. The thought fanned the rage in him as well as his sexual appetites. With a twisted smile he went into the bath and showered but not before calling for a massage.

His phone rang as the masseuse arrived. He answered and received an update from his agent in Nice. The yacht Khamsin continued to cruise aimlessly off the coast while Ivan and an unimportant young Italian woman had a suite at the Hotel Imperator.

"Good. Report to me immediately if anything changes."

"Of course." The sinister man signed off.

Serge's mood deteriorated as he realized he still had no plan for dealing with the Prime Minister other than killing Ivan and abducting Ilya from the Sheik's hospitality. A tempting thought, but messy and difficult to conceal. He needed the password mechanism. After that they could all go to hell.

The masseuse finished putting a crisp white sheet on the portable massage table and smiled in greeting. She had been here before. Serge let his robe drop and stretched out. Between his own delicious rage and her skilled fingers perhaps he would find some release from the nauseating headache pulsating inside his skull. Maybe then things would be clearer to him.

For her part, Lisel, the petite Austrian masseuse didn't let him down and forty minutes later Serge climbed back into a hot shower and a better mood. He'd tipped the girl generously for her services and for her silence and sent her on her way. As he slipped into a fresh silk dress shirt and tailored trousers Serge finally realized that without the Rusikovs, Anya became his sole means of getting control of Thor's Hammer. She may be the only one capable of reproducing Ilya's program for generating the passwords. Either he had to have her back or he had to track down Ilya. As for the Prime Minister, well, he would have to lie to him. Always a dangerous strategy with someone as wily as his former master, but claiming the Rusikovs were the ones who betrayed him might gain him enough time to retrieve Anya. With her under control the balance would again tip in his favor. If successful, his client may manage to forgive or at least tolerate his fumble. Afterwards those self centered, unreliable twins became expendable and he hoped to kill them himself. The bastards! If he realized they no longer had any value the Sheik might get rid of them himself. Either way, the Rusikov brothers were headed toward an early end.

Serge picked up a phone he dialed from memory.

"Call me on my private line when you are free to speak." He hung up without waiting for a reply then poured another generous glass of champagne. His cell buzzed.

"Yes."

"How may I be of help?" Serge heard the fat man lighting a cigarette. A filthy and potentially fatal habit for someone in poor physical condition.

"I want to report a missing person."

"Excuse me?" Geisler issued a choking cough as he spoke.

"My highly valued associate, Dr. Anya Kovich has gone missing. I am concerned and I must find her. Can Interpol help?"

"I will investigate and call you."

"Do so quickly. I fear she has been abducted and she must be returned safely and immediately. Do you understand? I need her returned to me immediately." Serge caught himself as his voice rose in agitation.

"Yes." The toad hung up.

Malroff downed the champagne and threw the fragile flute at the fireplace. Small splinters of glass exploded from the corner of the hearth. He picked up the phone and called for someone to clean up the mess and took the bottle out on the terrace where he sat looking blankly at the Milanese skyline. Serge Malroff had finally created a scheme that couldn't be resolved solely with cash and that realization did not comfort him.

A few hours later, a Gulfstream V from Bermuda arrived at le Bourguet. From two vantage points sequestered figures observed in silence as the elegant jet taxied to a stop in front of the Legacy Aviation hangar. Each one held an infrared scope at the ready waiting for the pilots to shut the taxi lights off. As they did so both observers scanned the cockpit. Neither the pilot, a youthful, pudgy-faced man nor his co-pilot, a handsome Frenchman, was the man they sought. There was a third crewmember on board, probably a steward, who operated the door. As he descended from the plane the stalkers realized he was not the assassin they called 'Habu'.

A chauffeur stepped from a waiting limousine and the crewman handed him two Louis Vuitton carry on bags. The plane's only passenger strode down the stairs revealing herself to be a well dressed and regal strawberry blond of about forty and not a target of their surveillance.

Both of the spooks had the unhappy duty of reporting to their masters. Their intelligence was wrong. Habu had not arrived contrary to what field intelligence reported earlier. The calls did not go well and the men hastily vacated their hiding places as they scurried off to regroup.

Meanwhile, as the ground crew came out to service the Gulfstream, the woman walked casually to the Mercedes S550 in the company of her chauffeur.

"Welcome back to Paris, Lady Hartwell."

"Thank you." As she got into the car, she added, "By the way, Marcel, I've reserved a room at the Crillon this trip."

"Very well." He closed her door without questioning why she chose to not use her own elegant townhouse. In moments the big sedan departed the tarmac. Elisabeth, Countess Hartwell sat back in the comfortable seat and looked out the window. She loved Paris and always delighted in visiting, even on business. Life on Bermuda was beautiful, but one could tolerate Paradise only for so long. As she sat sipping a bottle of water she toyed absent-mindedly with her single piece of jewelry. A twenty-carat emerald in a heavy pendant hanging on a solid gold chain. The magnificent stone once belonged to a Russian princess and it still did. Before her marriage to a British peer Lady Hartwell had been known as Princess Ekaterina Yusupov, survivor of a line of aristocrats that included one of Rasputin's killers.

As the S550's taillights faded from view the man handling the fuel lines to the jet worked the buttons on his cell phone then returned quickly to his duties.

Following an uneventful drive into the city Elisabeth registered at the Crillon in a room reserved under the name "Dr. B. Franklin". She had an omelet and a half bottle of decent wine then made a short phone call before going to bed. Tomorrow, she imagined, would be a busy day.

28.

An associate of Jean-Robert's from Langley, Virginia had arranged for the house in Aquitaine. From the outside the place had the appearance of a slightly foreboding pile of stones. The old manse sported a turret and, of all things, a real moat. A deep grove of trees obscured the building and isolated it from its surrounding twenty hectares of vineyards and open land. Despite its medieval features someone had obviously taken care in planning and landscaping the grounds adjacent to the home.

Logistically, a small plane or helicopter could operate out of the field in back and the nearby river added to the variety of escape routes available. To Jean-Robert, the encircling stand of trees worked to conceal the building from an intruder or vice versa. A sophisticated security array including infrared cameras in various treetops monitored the area on a continuous basis. Nonetheless, he would have to remain vigilant. He and one other person formed the castle's solitary line of defense should someone come for Anya. She was still suffering from the shock of being displaced and forced to endure an exhausting day of travel designed to throw off pursuers.

Jean-Robert told Anya that the chateau's owner rarely visited anymore and, for the most part, she rented it out to vacationers. The one person on premises full time was Todd, the good-looking young American who had been hired to improve the vineyard's yield and quality. He hailed from northern California and had worked with a number of the prominent growers in Sonoma County. So, other than Todd and the weekly grocery delivery no one ever came close to the house.

They arrived late in the day, around sunset, having taken a circuitous route and a variety of means of transportation ending with an elderly Range Rover. Exhaustion had begun to set in, but she managed to share in a light meal of homemade bread from the village, cheese and a little of the wine produced on the property.

She crashed early and, as Jean-Robert gave her no schedule for the following day, slept until mid-morning when she awoke to find a hearty breakfast prepared and waiting on the sunny terrace. Without asking how Jean-Robert knew she was awake she took a seat at the black wrought iron table. The heavy chairs had cushions covered in black and white fabric and reminded her of an elegant old movie set. Jean-Robert seemed pensive, but the sun was warm on Anya's face and the eggs and bacon smelled wonderful.

"No one is close to the house."

Todd smiled at Anya as he walked toward her. He wore heavy boots and carried a shotgun over his shoulder. Patting a square leather pouch he said he was thinking about going off to hunt quail after he checked on the winery.

Jean-Robert stretched out on a chaise lounge pretending to read a book while he continuously scanned the backside of the property. More heavily armed than Todd, Jean-Robert kept his weapons at the ready.

"Can I get you something for breakfast?"

The young man declined and she asked, "Would you like tea?"

Anya motioned toward the chair next to her and Todd seemed anxious to accept her invitation. "Thank you." The man's boyish smile and tousled blond hair made him seem younger than his twenty-five years. He sat down, resting his shotgun against the edge of the table. Anya poured a cup of tea from a delicate Limoges pot.

"You know, this little castle doesn't seem like much in the dark, but in the morning light it's delightful."

"Yes it is." Todd took a sip of his tea and pulled his sunglasses off revealing his intelligent blue eyes.

"Where are you from, Todd?"

"Los Angeles, but I grew up in Petaluma. I've been working in vineyards since I was very young." The story rolled off his tongue in a convincing way and Anya never questioned its authenticity.

They all spent the next half hour making idle conversation about the weather and the vineyard and what the grapes would be like that year. Todd predicted a fine harvest and high quality grapes.

"I liked the wine we drank last night. Delicious."

"From the harvest of 2006 and a bit acidic to my taste, but very popular. I think this year will be much better." He glanced at his watch and said, "As a matter of fact, I need to get down to the winery office to check a few things. I'll be back in about an hour or so."

Jean-Robert nodded and suggested to Anya that they move inside as the sun grew hotter. She agreed and they walked together into the stone floored great hall with its charming country furniture and massive fireplaces at either end of the chamber.

"Jean-Robert, may I use a computer?"

"I have to ask why." He smiled and even acted a bit embarrassed.

"Something is bothering me about the code I got from the Rusikov brothers and I'd like to be able to follow my hunch."

"I'll get you a laptop." Jean-Robert strode up the circular stairs concealed in the turret. On the second floor he went to his own room, extracted a Mac Book from his duffle bag, and returned to Anya's side.

"This will allow you to access the internet through a satellite, but try to work off line as much as possible."

"Thank you." Anya took the machine and sat in a comfortable wing backed chair close to the fireplace. She worked quietly throughout the afternoon. Todd had returned and started puttering around in the kitchen. Jean-Robert, he told her, was walking the perimeter of the woods. From her window she could see him moving slowly along the bank of the pond where the water formed a natural moat encircling the castle. Intent on his mission, Jean-Robert moved like a stalker on the trail of substantial game.

29.

The morning found Bart in a cheerful mood. He parked his Buell motorcycle illegally on the sidewalk and trotted up the steps to the third floor. He expected to find Sally pacing her corner cubicle or eating a healthy breakfast from the company kitchen. Instead, her workspace stood empty.

Bart walked to the opposite end of the building and the area outside Gabe's office. The room was dark, but his assistant, Jerry, sat at his at his own workstation.

"Hey, Jerry. Have you seen Sally this morning?"

"She called earlier and left a message. She said she would be out all day today."

"Sick?"

"Dr. Ramsay didn't say nor did I ask." The gregarious Jerry never made eye contact and barely acknowledged Bart's presence. Odd, he always called her 'Sally'. Why Dr. Ramsay all of sudden?

"Gabe in today?"

"No. He's on the east coast. Won't be in until tomorrow morning."

Bart knew better than to pry when Gabe made one of his impromptu trips to one corner of the continent or the other.

"OK. Thanks, Jerry."

"Sure thing." Jerry continued working on his computer.

Bart started back toward his own office but couldn't resist the sophomoric compulsion to go looking for Sally. Bart mounted the Buell and worked his way out of morning traffic on Palo Alto's narrow streets. The near gridlock conditions were a perfect example of why he chose to ride the motorcycle most days. Twenty minutes later he arrived at Sally's apartment. As a couple exited the building he caught the door before it closed and locked. He bounded up the three flights to her floor, but got no answer when he rang the bell and knocked on the door. He tried one more time and even called her phone before giving up. Just to be sure he exited through the parking garage to see if her BMW was in its space. Empty.

Bart rode into the little motor court behind the Rusikov's house, but found no sign of Sally's car. He looked in the side window of the garage, for no reason in particular, and satisfied himself she had not hidden it inside.

Before leaving he remembered that he had not yet checked his email for the morning. Perhaps she sent him a message. Wishful thinking? A quick review of his incoming messages revealed nothing from Sally, but one jumped straight off the screen at him and turned his blood cold. The mail had been sent by Ivan Rusikov.

GLAD YOU ARE HAVING FUN WITH MY CAR. MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE THE TANK FULL.

Bart nearly dropped his iPhone in his haste to scan for the cameras. He saw none and checked the time the email was sent. Late the prior evening, about the same time he and Sally left this house.

Where the hell was Sally?

Bart revved up the Buell, cruised back to the office, and spent a couple of worthless hours staring at a blank computer screen. By noon he realized he was wasting his time and left for lunch. He ended up at the Stanford Mall. In a near manic fit, he got a haircut, or whatever you call it when they charge fifty dollars. Then he bought a thousand dollars worth of clothes in Neiman-Marcus. A thousand bucks and he was still able to strap the packages safely on the back of his motorcycle. Not a whole lot to show for the money and certainly not his usual MO. What the hell? Gabe had just given him a raise and a larger stakeholder position. Why not blow a little cash and stimulate the local economy? He chuckled as he admitted to himself the economy wasn't what he wanted to stimulate.

He rode home and put his new clothes away then made a sandwich and poured a beer. He finished his lunch and thought about going back to work, but decided to play hooky for the afternoon. An hour later he opened his notebook on a high top table in Starbucks and went through a systematic analysis of all of the facts they had assembled on the "Flash Crash Virus". He'd run this exercise a couple of times before both with and without Sally and he couldn't shake the notion that he was missing something.

After a second black tea with three packets of sugar he finally gave up. On his way home a few more pieces of the puzzle fell into place and Bart knew immediately that he was on the right path. Executing a dangerous one-eighty in the street he rode back to the office. Fast. He left the motorcycle on the sidewalk near the front door. Against the law, but so what? Taking the steps two at a time he went straight to his workstation where he remained for most of the night.

30.

She felt a rough pair of hands dragging her out of bed. She fought back but he was stronger and had her on the floor in a heartbeat. The show of strength terrified her. Then his hand clutched at her throat and the other tore away at her shirt. Before she could resist the shirt lay in shreds and the calloused hand squeezed and pawed at her bare breasts. She screamed, but no one heard and nobody came to help. Somebody help! Please, somebody help me!

He crawled on top of her and held her down with the weight of his body. He stank of cheap cologne and his breath reeked of beer and cigarettes. The foulness filled her head along with terror. She heard torrents of blood rushing in her ears. The bastard released his grip on her throat so he could take hold of her shoulders and hoist her onto the bed. She managed to strike at his face with a free hand. The blow barely connected, and he smiled down at her, a leering vicious smile. That's when he drew back a fist and hit her in the mouth.

"That'll teach ya'. That'll teach ya' some respect."

His hands ranged all over her body and he moved against her in a way that scared and disgusted her. Blood trickled from her lip and as she reached up to brush it away he hit her again, but not before ripping her panties off. The feel of his flesh writhing against her own naked body overwhelmed her. The vomit rose in her throat but from somewhere deep inside so did the rage.

He slapped her with the back of his hand and told her to stay put or he'd kill her. She believed him. The dizziness took her the brink of passing out. Then she'd have no chance to defend herself. The slimy creature raised himself up just enough to unzip his blue jeans and start to wriggle out of them. The sight of his naked body hit her like a whiff of ammonia and her head cleared. Then everything got quiet. As if in slow motion she rolled on her side and pulled a child's aluminum baseball bat from under her bed. Joey extended her arm as far as she could, then swung the little bat down on the attacker in the widest arc possible. She aimed for his head, but he'd moved enough that his shoulders and upper back took the brunt of the strike. Still, the blow stunned him and the attacker rolled away from her. In that split second she sprang out of bed and headed toward the door but in her quiet, floating world the door seemed to be getting farther and farther away. She turned and saw the bastard holding onto the calf of her leg. He leered at her and started to get up. Before he had the chance she drew back the bat again and took a full swing. This time she connected and a spray of blood encircled his head. Gore spewed over the bed, the wall and on her. She vomited and fell to her knees. When she looked up she was staring into the face of the lunatic with the ruined head. His eyes burned wildly and his thick tongue slurred,

"Ya kilt me ya fukkin bitch! Ya no good fukkin bitch!"

Joey Beretta woke with a scream that echoed from every corner of the house and cut through the floor to pierce the heart of kindly old Billy Sawyer who always stayed in the guest room upstairs when Frank was away. Drenched in sweat she tried to stand, but immediately vomited on the polished wood floor of the bedroom.

"Frank! Frank!" Joey got no response so she sat on the floor and cried. Sweet Jesus not again. Not now. This isn't supposed to happen.

She hadn't lost her senses and knew that Billy would be at her door any minute. She stumbled into her bathroom and washed her face. Joey got a glass of water and some mouthwash and wrapped herself in a soft bathrobe. Back in the bedroom she threw a towel on the vomit beside her bed and sat on the bed cross-legged like a little girl. Billy Sawyer knocked on her door.

"Joey, it's Billfish. Are you alright?"

"Yes."

Apparently she didn't sound convincing.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Billy. I had the dream again."

"I'm sorry, Joey. What can I do for you?"

"I'll be OK. I want to clean up then I'll be fine."

"I'll be in the kitchen if you decide you need anything."

"Thank you, Billy."

God bless Billy Sawyer. He'd lived through these nightmares with her for a long time and agreed to never tell Frank. The dreams themselves were worse in the beginning and they only happened when Frank was away. She hadn't had an episode in nearly four years and hoped they were over and done with. Apparently they were not. She also knew that Billy would be in the kitchen brewing a pot of hot water for tea so she cleaned up the floor then stood in a cold shower for a few minutes before pulling on a pair of shorts and an old ragged sweat shirt.

She dragged a comb through her hair and walked out to the kitchen just as Billy was putting the teapot, some cups and a couple of oatmeal cookies on a tray.

"Let's sit outside, Billy." The man nodded and followed her outside to a large round table that overlooked the lap pool. Joey turned the underwater lights on. The blue shimmer had a calming effect.

She looked into Billy Sawyer's kind and gentle eyes as he poured a cup of tea and, without asking, laced it with a little brandy. Two big tears welled up then ran down her cheeks.

"Damn, Billy, I thought this was over." She wiped her tears on the sleeve of the sweatshirt.

"Maybe it'll be twice as long till the next one. Might not even be another one." Billy smiled and held his tea cup up.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Remember what I said the last time. Like my Momma would have told me. Something bad happens it's always followed by something good. A bad thing happened to you and it put you on a path that took you to Frank. Just like me. One night three men tried to kill me. Almost did except Frank jumped in and saved me. We been together ever since."

"I know, Billy, and I believe what you're saying. I just get so scared. It makes me feel out of control, and that scares the hell out of me." And the fact that I could kill someone.

"Everybody gets scared, but you're one of the bravest people I ever met. You fought back. You were all alone, but you fought and you won."

Somehow Billy always made her feel better, but he looked away when he spoke again.

"Something I never have told you was this. Two of the men that tried to kill me were my cousins and the other one was my uncle. They lived down the road from me on Bimini. They were supposed to be my family. Supposed to be, anyway. They tried to steal from Momma and I caught 'em. That and too much whiskey is what started the fight. Since Momma died you and Frank are the only family I have."

"Billy, I'm so sorry." She knew that Frank had killed one of the men outright and severely injured another. The third, probably a cousin, was killed during a robbery a few years later.

"Me, too, but like I said, something good came of it."

"Amen to that, Billy, amen."

For awhile that sipped hot tea and ate some of Joey's favorite cookies. Billy always remembered that she loved oatmeal chocolate chip. Eventually a smile formed on her face as she put her hand affectionately on Billy's arm.

"It'll be OK, Joey."

31.

A pretty woman walked along the Champs Elysees in the direction of the Jardin des Tuileries. With a taught body in designer jeans and a white linen shirt she did not go unnoticed. A blond pony tail poking out of an old cap with a "Ritz Carlton- Amelia Island" logo seemed to identify her as American. She blended in with the crowd of tourists from the US who filled Paris despite terrorism and the bad economy. As she walked she swung a canvas tote containing a tourist map and ingredients for lunch alfresco. The name "Novartis" on the bag associated her with some aspect of medicine, a physician, perhaps.

Like most tourists she walked along the boulevard at a leisurely pace stopping to look in a shop or consult a small guide book she took from her canvas tote. She bought a bottle of water from a street vendor and moved on toward the Louvre arriving at the Pyramid entrance a little before noon. Rather than go down the escalator she wandered around the courtyard enjoying the sunshine and glancing at her watch, implying that she was waiting to meet someone.

A good-looking middle aged man arrived less than ten minutes later. He wore Ray Ban sunglasses similar to the woman's and a Ritz Carlton baseball cap over his graying hair. Approaching from behind and put a hand on her shoulder in a familiar, gentle way. In response she turned with a smile that implied a long and intimate relationship.

"Have you had a good morning, dear?" He gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

"Outstanding. I spent a lot of your money on frivolous things."

"Frivolous?"

"Oh, you know, things to use on our trip that I will never use again." Anyone listening would associate the conversation with the normal banter of a married couple.

"So long as you enjoy your purchases, dear. Would you like to have some lunch before we tackle the Louvre?"

"An excellent idea." She took him gently by the arm and led him toward the archway leading out to the River Seine. As they walked she opened her tote bag and displayed a couple of baguettes, some cheese, fruit, and a four hundred euro bottle of Margaux.

"So, you have been shopping. May I compliment you on your choice of wine, Dr. Franklin?"

"Thank you, Dr. Franklin. I thought we might sit by the river, the way they do in the movies. You can be Cary Grant and I can pretend to be Audrey Hepburn."

The American doctors smiled at one another and held hands as they meandered along looking for the perfect spot to sit and enjoy their lunch. It didn't take long to pick a place with a view of the Musee d'Orsay across one of the most photographed places on the River Seine. They sat on a low wall and she out a small colorful cloth and arranged the bread and cheese and fruit on a plate. She passed the bottle and a corkscrew to Dr. Franklin who removed the cork with the skill of a surgeon then took a couple of paper cups from her bag and handed them over with a whimsical look.

"Indeed. Margaux from paper cups? Cary and Audrey would have been amused don't you think?" He filled the cups and gave her one.

"To you, Katya." Frank Beretta toasted his dear friend.

"To you, Frank."

"I believe Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. It's hard to imagine the terrible things that have happened here over the past century." Frank took a sip of the delicious wine.

"Yes, and especially so for me. After all, this is where we met and under decidedly unpleasant circumstances. As Dickens said, 'It was the best of times it was the worst of times'."

"That is a fair summation."

"You gave me my life, Frank." The pretty woman leaned over and kissed Frank tenderly on the lips and he kissed her back.

In another time and place, in a world without Joey, Katya might well have become Mrs. Frank Beretta.

"It was my privilege, Katya."

"You're the last of the White Knights, Frank, and we're fast running out of damsels and dragons."

"Damsels, perhaps, but the dragons seem to be staging a comeback."

The woman looked at him with intelligent and knowing eyes. "I'm afraid you may be right."

"Well, tomorrow we shall venture into their territory and find out."

They took their time finishing their lunch then walked back to the Louvre where, under the cover of the crowd, they each went their separate ways. They would not see one another again soon.

32.

The Khamsin continued its leisurely cruise along the southern coast of France cutting a graceful track eastward while its owner zeroed in on a buyer for his human cargo. He had been on the phone non-stop and was glad to end an exhausting conversation with a notoriously radical politician. Reputed to be a member of Hamas, the organization never laid public claim to the obnoxious and inflammatory man for obvious reasons. Unburdened by principles, the Sheik smiled and began to count the money that would flow into his coffers. If some oppressed and downtrodden people benefited fine, if not: so be it.

"Yes, my friend, I will look forward to seeing you in the morning."

The man on the other end of the line reiterated his travel plan and verified the yacht's location.

"We will be holding a position a few miles off the coast of Monaco. Your pilot can radio our ship for specific coordinates once the helicopter is airborne."

"Very well."

"May you travel safely, my friend."

The Sheik hung up the phone and flashed a broad and larcenous grin. This time he might win the trifecta. He would get cash up front, a percentage of the money made with the use of this young fool's program, and, possibly, curry favor with god. Though not a true believer, a little of Allah's goodwill couldn't hurt, could it?

Meanwhile, Ilya and Clara were lying contentedly on the sun deck having consummated their new and blossoming relationship, more than once. Ali had watched some of their coupling on his monitor. What a joke on the stupid boy, the Sheik thought to himself. He'd paid Clara well for her services, but the look he saw on her face made him wonder if she now expected a large bonus. If she had any idea how much he stood to make on this young man her expectations would be outrageous. It wouldn't bother him to kill her and feed her to the sharks. Debt cancelled! He'd have to think about that.

He lifted the phone on his desk and pushed a single button. On the bridge a chime signaled his call and the Khamsin's master, Captain Randy Kruger, picked up at the first tone. The Sheik filled his captain in on his plans to receive an incoming helicopter in the morning. He smiled as he hung up knowing his instructions would be carried out with precision. Randy Kruger tolerated nothing less from himself or his crew.

Things came together far better than he expected especially since, a few days earlier, he had never met Ilya Rusikov and had no idea what his capabilities were. The technical details remained a little fuzzy to him, but no matter, he had created an aggressive market for this white haired genie. In less than forty-eight hours he would have the Palestinian and Serge, the obnoxious Russian, bidding against one another. He preferred life on his yacht, but perhaps he needed to remind himself to spend more time in Paris as this trip proved to be quite lucrative indeed.

An hour earlier Serge had had a disconcerting conversation with the Prime Minister. The wily former spymaster was in a jovial mood and that in itself was worrisome to Malroff.

Serge, anxious, rang his agent in Nice.

"Where is Ivan?"

"Still staying at the Hotel Imperator. He and a girl went out earlier. They took a rental car and drove down to the harbor. After lunch they went back to their room."

"Has he had contact with his brother?"

"Not in person. The other one remains on board Khamsin. My colleague went out in a powerboat early this morning and located the ship. They are about four kilometers off the coast and twenty kilometers east of Monaco."

"Where is the yacht going?"

"Nowhere quickly. It's cruising at around eight knots and doesn't seem bound for any specific destination."

"Do you remain confident about taking him while at sea?"

"Yes. I'll need another man to handle our boat. I already have a bloke waiting for my call."

Serge had many questions, but held them. In this rare instance he preferred to know only as much as necessary to close the deal.

"Alright. Tomorrow night, plan on tomorrow night. I only want to hear from you when you have him with you and you are on your way to our rendezvous."

"Understood."

If everything went according to plan Serge would soon have Ilya in his custody and with him the key to unleash "Thor's Hammer" again. He had reason to be optimistic, but something about his short conversation with the Prime Minister nagged at him. The man sounded too calm and too cool under the circumstances. It was the way his former boss treated people who had become expendable. The thought frightened him, but perhaps he was over-reacting. After all, he still had much value. As the head of Grosserkopf & Haslich he managed enormous amounts of cash and generated even greater profits. A lot of the money benefited the Prime Minister personally and more went to causes important to him.

He must be jumping to the wrong conclusions. He poured himself a drink and called for Friedrich to get the car. Suddenly, he wanted to go back to Laglio.

Serge's henchmen were sitting at an outdoor café drinking beer and eating fresh oysters as they talked about their plans. Boyd and Jeremy, no last names, were decently dressed, but they had the hard look of brawlers and what sounded like Australian accents.

"Our biggest risk is weather."

"And the speed of Khamsin." Boyd added.

"The reports call for calm seas and it will be a quarter moon."

"Let's hope. If the weather turns bad they'll run from it. The Khamsin is a new yacht and fast for its size. They could be gone in a hurry."

"That's the risk we take. Is our friend ready?" Jeremy held his empty glass up and nodded to the waiter. Refills appeared immediately.

"Yes. He'll meet us at the boat. We will leave by noon so we can pick up the Khamsin during daylight. Then we'll move off and hold a position well astern until sunset. We'll track the ship on our radar"

"If all goes well we will be able to retire on our earnings."

"Here's to that." The smaller of the two men hoisted his glass of beer.

"Right." They knocked their glasses together and started on a second dozen oysters.

The Sheik, meanwhile, poured another scotch and drew on a Monte Cristo cigar. His guests had stopped copulating long enough to join him for dinner and they all gathered in the main salon for cocktails. A crewmember loaned Ilya a blue sports jacket and he managed to make himself respectable. Clara proved to be much sexier in a low cut short black dress than she had been parading around the sun deck in the nude. The Sheik raised his glass in a salute.

"Tonight, my friends, we shall have a marvelous dinner. Our chef always impresses me with his imagination. I hope you enjoy the meal."

Ilya gave his host a silent grin and took a big swallow of the wine. At the moment all he could focus on was the stirring in his crotch every time he looked at Clara.

While Ilya was up to his ears in debauchery Ivan was on the phone. One call, one man, and the deal was done.

"I will deliver what you are seeking only after the initial deposit has been made at my bank."

"Understood."

"I will contact you when that happens and arrange delivery."

"Understood." The buyer didn't waste his breath talking. Ivan liked that.

"The money will be deposited in my account not later than day after tomorrow?"

"Yes." There was no further conversation. Perhaps the world could be made less complicated after all.

Ivan was proud of himself. Provided the money hit his account by the agreed upon time, of course. There was only one loose end for Herr Geisler to deal with and a phone call to Tel Aviv would take care of that.

Francesca came out of the bath wrapped in a towel.

"Put on something pretty. We are celebrating." Ivan gave her one of his most sincere smiles.

33.

After sunset Frank stowed his gear in a rental car and left Paris. The drive to Aquitaine required more than five hours and he wanted to arrive and be in place before the sun came up. He had a couple of thermoses, some sandwiches and bottles of water in a canvas bag on the seat next to him. The rest of his equipment was stored in the trunk.

As he drove through the darkness he thought of Katya's remark. "Last of the White Knights." He smiled at the notion though he did not share her perception. He regarded himself as a soldier, nothing more and nothing less. He served his country when asked, never shrank from a mission and always gave a hundred percent.

Lately, though, he wondered if he had outlived his usefulness. The skills he'd been taught were as sharp as ever, perhaps better with experience. But now he found himself questioning the wisdom of his orders. Back when he first met Katya the Cold War remained a reality though the eastern block was in decline. The divisions were becoming well defined and so were the players. With no gray areas things somehow became quite simple and his mission equally clear.

By the mid 80's the Russian leadership knew the fractures in the union were irreparable. KGB leaders postured and positioned themselves for survival and power once the inevitable collapse of the communist regime occurred. A man named Serge Malroff lived and worked in Paris then. The city had a large population of upper class Russians whose ancestors came to France to escape the October Revolution. Cosmopolitan and capable in several languages, he blended in nicely and covertly ran agents and dirty tricks for KGB while managing investments on behalf of its senior leaders. Ostensibly the cash went to fund "the cause", but that was an old cover story. In truth, the funds benefited a select few individuals who paid Serge handsomely to keep making money and maintain his silence. He did what they expected of him and cultivated well placed patrons in the KGB hierarchy, some of whom still held power today. So, when Serge allowed his personal idiosyncrasies to hold sway they not only looked the other way but also protected him.

Under the guise of running operatives and collecting leverage, Serge ran prostitutes and drug traffic on a grand scale. Though highly profitable, money was secondary to a man whose psyche tended toward the sadistic. His enjoyed ensnaring young girls into his prostitution enterprise with physical violence, drugs and blackmail. Then, he used them as he pleased, frequently for his own pleasure, and discarded them. Most often they wound up dead. In Russia he told his superiors he needed these girls to ensnare the sexually perverted westerners and gain leverage over them. Unfortunately, Katya fell prey to Serge, but in a slightly different way. Descended from a once powerful and excessively wealthy Russian family, Malroff considered her a prize catch and stalked her for nearly a year before the opportunity to entrap her materialized.

Months after her nineteenth birthday Serge swept her into his nightmare world and held her with drugs, death threats on her few living relatives, and when necessary, physical violence. He told her he had her brother killed "as a warning" though Malroff may have had nothing to do with the murder. He claimed responsibility and, as they say, "perception is reality". For other reasons Serge came to the attention of POTUS who, through his Legacy Counsel, ordered Malroff's elimination. The client considered it "killing two birds with one stone". Remove a psycho and cut the bosses back in the Kremlin off from a reliable source of cash. Frank accepted the mission without reservation. Execution proved to be another story, however.

In the process of stalking his prey, Frank became sympathetic to Katya Yusupov and the inhuman circumstances in which she found herself. Held solely for Serge's own sadistic pleasure, he kept her close to him constantly. Perhaps, in a way, the lonely soldier fell in love with her. Maybe that's what the "White Knights" do. They fall in love with the damsel in distress, if only for a little while. Then they battle the dragon and set her free. Though he chose not to dwell on the disaster, the result was inescapable. He won her freedom, but in the process, Serge managed to get away. His empire fractured and left with a painful and permanent limp, Serge's fury went unabated though his benefactors shielded him behind a cloak of darkness. Frank felt the sting of failure and would not soon have a second chance. Meanwhile, administrations changed in America, the Legacy Counsel elected not to reveal itself to one president, and during its dormancy, Malroff resurfaced as a "legitimate" businessman. He set up a hedge fund and operated out of offices in Switzerland and Northern Italy. Frank received no further authorization to pursue Malroff who, as a result, prospered for decades and enriched America's enemies.

Seeing Katya earlier in the day was bittersweet. Their lives had taken different paths once she had been freed of Malroff. She married well to a British nobleman, but he died not many years after and her natural thirst for adventure brought her into contact with MI6. She helped facilitate a number of successful operations. Twice she had done so for Frank in his work for the Legacy Counsel though recently she had been out of circulation and living a good and quiet life in Bermuda. In truth Frank could have called others for this mission. As he drove alone in the darkness he wondered if he asked Katya for help because he wanted to see her again, or needed to validate his own desire to go after Serge one final time. Probably not. He never doubted his love for Joey and he required no further incentive to move to obliterate the ogre, Serge Malroff once and for all.

He passed by the city of Bordeaux and drove west, parallel to the river and deeper into the Province of Aquitaine. Using a red filtered penlight he checked his map. A few kilometers down the road he found a good place in which to conceal the car. Taking his pack from the trunk he set off on foot using a hand held GPS for directions.

By dawn he had positioned himself under a stout row of grape vines. From there he had one clear view of the small chateau through a thirty meter wide break in the tree line that followed the contour of the lake forming a natural moat around the old stone structure. The terrace and the leaded glass windows of the great hall were clearly visible. He accurately estimated the distance to be just slightly over eight hundred meters, a relatively easy shot for someone of his skill. He had cut pieces of grape vine as he moved along the precisely spaced rows of plants and wove the material into his Ghillie suit. By sunup he blended perfectly into the dense vines where he would lie in wait. He rested, thought of Joey, and prepared himself to do his job. A custom sniper rifle was at his side. He crafted the weapon on equipment kept in the warehouse he used to store and work on his cars. The weapon was well matched to targets at this distance and far easier to carry than a .50 caliber long range gun. 7mm Remington Supermagnum rounds were perfect for the job. Running his hand along its length he remembered with unsettling clarity each and every individual he'd shot with the gun. Time, place and target had all etched themselves into his memory. He regretted having to take a life, but he always understood why. As his, and now Joey's motto went, 'no apologies and no regrets'. Things became much easier when you had a clear sense of the benefit to be had for taking someone out of action. He couldn't allow himself to dwell on the past now, but he sat in the chill of the night air knowing this mission would haunt him for a long time to come.

34.

It was a beautiful morning to be on the water with clear skies and only a slight breeze out of the east-northeast. The azure Mediterranean was calm and the Kiwis, Boyd and Jeremy, were enjoying themselves as the big Riva day boat they rented skimmed over the sea at about forty knots.

The henchmen had gotten up early and decided to try to get a visual identification on Khamsin. They defined a search area within a fifty mile radius of Monaco and figured on finding her to the east-southeast. If conditions remained the same they would be able to cover a lot of water in the time they had available. Boyd, the more cerebral of the two, wanted to be back in the harbor at Nice by noon allowing them to refuel the boat, go over their plans to abduct Ilya, and meet up with their accomplice. Bringing someone else into an assignment always made Boyd nervous, especially a job as important as this one would be. He could already see a comfortable retirement in his future and he didn't want anything or anyone to fuck it up.

As Boyd handled the helm Jeremy opened a bottle of lager and took a long drink.

"Plenty of time for that after the job is done. Get rid of it, Jeremy."

"Like hell. It's my breakfast, mate."

"And it'll be your last if you screw up anything today." Boyd glared but kept his hands on the wheel. They were traveling at more than forty-five miles an hour and the boat was nearly forty feet long. It would be a train wreck if he lost control.

Jeremy thought about staring him down, but instead just tossed the bottle in the air and watched it drop into the gleaming white wake that fanned out behind the speedboat.

"Right. Plenty of time for that later," he smirked. Boyd's big brother routine pissed him off, but he had to admit, there was a lot of money on the table.

Boyd pointed to his left and yelled over the wind and engine noise, "There's Monte Carlo."

Both men admired the view of the principality from three and a half kilometers out. The sun glinted off its bright buildings, old and new alike and the harbor was full of the most luxurious yachts in the world. Perhaps Monaco would be a good place for them to retire. No taxes and an endless supply of beautiful women.

"Do you think we should check out the marina basin? Maybe Khamsin put into port."

Bart thought for a second and said, "Not a bad idea. We won't have to get too close. She's two hundred and fifty feet long and has an unusual radar mast."

Jeremy nodded in acknowledgment and Boyd turned the boat to bring the bow into alignment with the entrance to the channel. They noticed a helicopter lifting off directly ahead.

"Probably taking off from one of the yachts moored over there." Boyd kept a firm hand on the wheel.

"Right." Jeremy made do with a soft drink for breakfast and that diminished his already limited flair for conversation.

The Jet Ranger flew in their direction and they watched as it approached. The helicopter passed by at high speed as it headed out to sea.

"Wonder where he's going in such a bloody hurry?" When both men turned around to follow the chopper Boyd immediately pulled back on the throttles fast enough to knock Jeremy to the deck.

"Hey, what the fuck?"

"Shut up." Boyd snatched up a pair of binoculars from the console and scanned to the south of their boat. Jeremy dragged himself to his feet and strained to focus on the object capturing Boyd's attention. Then he realized it was Khamsin.

"Imagine? We've been so busy playing tourist we were looking the wrong direction. There she is, mate. The bloody Khamsin in all her glory."

The elegant black-hulled yacht appeared to be stationary at a point about three kilometers south of their position and the helicopter seemed to be on course to intercept it. Boyd wasted no time turning the Riva a hundred and eighty degrees. He backed off on the throttles and headed in the direction of Khamsin at a sedate twenty knots.

"Let's see what happens."

Jeremy just grunted in reply as he rubbed at the bruised spot on his ass and pulled another Coke from the refrigerator. As they looked on, the Jet Ranger slowed and made a wide turn around the ship. Khamsin, already turned into the light wind, was ready to receive the incoming craft on a broad platform astern. The pilot impressed Serge's goons with his skill as he approached Khamsin and, in a delicate maneuver, landed softly on the helipad.

Boyd put down his binoculars moments before the helicopter exploded in a fireball that engulfed the stern of the yacht and sent flames and black smoke hundreds of feet into the air. Within seconds another explosion and an accompanying flash erupted just below the forward section of bridge and main salon. This time it was different. The hull blew out as though Khamsin had been hit by something on the opposite side. A missile?

The stricken yacht was sinking quickly and with it Boyd's chances for a wealthy retirement. He shoved the throttles forward and aimed his boat toward the conflagration. They had covered less than half the distance to the doomed ship when a third explosion erupted from the middle of its once beautiful hull. Khamsin was already dying, but the last hit was the coup de gras. By the time Boyd and Jeremy arrived at the scene the megayacht had vanished. Burning patches of oil, plumes of dark smoke, and scattered bits of wreckage were all that remained on the surface. Through the smoky haze Boyd was able to discern the white wake of a very fast boat moving away. It was at least a kilometer off to the south and picking up speed. He knew he could never catch it and didn't try. Instead he circled the debris field hoping in vain to find a survivor. Preferably, Ilya Rusikov. They found no one, not even a floating corpse, and Boyd understood instinctively that that was precisely the result the killers had been aiming for.

"What the fuck?" He hammered his fist into the console and drew back bloody, skinned knuckles.

Jeremy didn't say a word as he threw his soft drink overboard. He pulled a couple of lagers out of the refrigerator. He handed one to Boyd and plopped himself down on a white upholstered swivel chair near the helm.

"Two million euros blown to freakkin' hell." Boyd wiped his bloody hand on his shorts and took a long pull on his beer.

There was no point in leaving the scene: that would only look bad. The authorities were already on their way. Worse, he had to call Serge in the short time remaining before they arrived. In moments what started out to be the best day of his life had gone straight to shit. Fuck it all to hell! He drained half the bottle of beer. Boyd stabbed the buttons on his phone and was rewarded with an immediate answer. The sour man delivered the news as quickly and succinctly as he could. At first Serge said nothing then erupted with an angry "Find Anya Kovich. DO IT!" The line went dead. Boyd's mood strangely improved. A new assignment and maybe another shot at a payday. Then, the authorities arrived.

Malroff, dangerously enraged, sat staring out at the lake with thoughts spinning through his head like a maelstrom. Anya had to be found and returned to him immediately. He got up but felt unsteady on his feet. Stress aggravated the leg injury and caused his thigh muscles to cramp. A string of curses followed in his wake as he hobbled down the hall to the room Penelope Goldman occupied. Before he opened the door he stooped and went back to his own suite where he rummaged through an assortment of containers in his drawer full of medications. Taking three or four pills from one he popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a half a bottle of water. Past experience told him relief would come soon and as he waited he picked up the phone and dialed Duccio's desk in his small office downstairs.

"Yes, sir."

"I need a masseur sent. Now."

"Of course, sir."

"Remove Lady Goldman from my house. Do it now!"

"Yes, Mr. Malroff." Serge knew Duccio would obey his instructions without fail. He didn't love Penelope by any means, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to torture and kill someone. It would be inconvenient if that person were Penelope Goldman. Then he went back to obsessing over Anya Kovich.

35.

The morning began perfectly. Warm sunshine added a touch of hominess to the chateau and Anya was regaining a sense of stability in her life. Though she knew this was temporary, at least she had a routine she could attach herself to if only for awhile. Plus, she had made real progress with the Rusikov's programming. She acted on a hunch, but felt as though she was on the right track. Perhaps she'd be able to work on the computer again today.

Todd had breakfasted early and left a note saying he walked down to the winery. Anya hoped Jean-Robert would agree to take her there later. She'd love to tour the quaint little building. Meanwhile, she prepared a brunch of baked eggs and ham in cassoulet dishes she found in the kitchen.

Finished his own meal, Jean-Robert sat pretending to read a newspaper as he scanned the perimeter for intruders. His gun was propped against the empty chair next to him. Anya began to ask him some question or another when she heard a hissing sound that elevated her adrenalin levels. The world around moved in slow motion. The hiss ended with a muffled thud as the right side of Jean-Robert's head exploded in a cloud of pink mist. The man's body lurched off the chair and he landed splayed out on the stones of the terrace floor. She came from Ukraine and grew up with danger. The frightened woman automatically flung herself to the ground where she remained face down. Those few seconds became surreal and the vision of Trieste's brutal death etched itself in her memory. Later she would mourn the loss of a man who answered her call for help and showed her kindness, but just then she feared for her own life.

Flat on the warm stones, terrified and sobbing, she remembered the day at the Principe di Savoia when she begged her God not to let her last recollection be such a terrible one. He brought her deliverance then and she made a similar supplication now. At the end of her prayer she opened her eyes and found herself engulfed in a pool of blood flowing from Jean-Robert's head. Once again unconsciousness delivered her from her suffering. As she drifted into darkness she became aware of someone else's presence. It was a man. She could not see him, but she heard him and she felt him. His gentle fingers touched her lightly on her neck and cheek. He calmly asked if she was alright. She would only remember being able to grunt in response to the question. Then the man floated away.

The next sound she fully comprehended was the voice of a woman. She was kind but strong and expressed concern rather than fear. The effect calmed Anya.

"My God, what has happened here?"

Anya tried to move, and once again, a gentle hand put pressure on her and a disembodied voice directed her to "Please remain still. Can you tell me your name?"

"Anya." She began to regain consciousness. As her senses returned, the stone floor felt warm and wet and sticky. The sun was hot on her back and though she remembered what happened she was without any concept of time.

"Please do not move, Anya. Where you are injured?"

"No."

"You don't know?"

"No. I am not hurt." She suddenly sat up and opened her eyes. The effect overwhelmed her and she felt herself begin to pass out again. The woman caught her before she fell back on the rough stones. This stranger whom she had yet to see cradled Anya's head in her arms while her confident, intelligent hands and fingers examined Anya's torso and abdomen. As Anya regained her senses she realized her upper body was drenched in blood. She looked like a shooting victim herself.

"Very good. You don't seem to have any wounds."

"Jean-Robert, he's dead isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Oh god." Her mind raced. Jean-Robert dead? Now she was on her own. Who was this woman?" Anya was still groggy.

"I am sorry, but he expired before I arrived."

Anya was fully awake and suddenly became wary. "Who are you? Why did you come here?" She sat upright. Pleased not have been overcome by dizziness.

"My name is Elisabeth Hartwell. I own this house, but more importantly, Jean-Robert was a friend of mine and I have helped him with his work from time to time. I know about your situation. I need to get you out of here as soon as possible."

Anya didn't respond. She just sat on the rough stone terrace trying to process both the events of the morning and the things this woman said.

"You are a mess, but you are looking better. Your color is good. Are you able to stand up?"

"Yes." With only a little help Elisabeth, whom she could now see was a pretty blond woman, she slowly got to get to her feet. Lady Hartwell put an arm around her and directed her toward the house.

"Do you have any idea who did this?"

"No. The shot must have come from the vineyard."

Elisabeth appeared more concerned and said, "Yes, we should leave right away."

Anya looked down at the caked blood covering her shirt and the woman immediately said, "Don't worry. I have some clean clothes in my car. You can change as we drive, but you need to come with me quickly."

Lady Hartwell's sense of urgency seemed genuine and Anya made an immediate decision to put her trust in this woman who claimed to be a friend of Jean-Robert's. What choice did she have?

A dark green Renault sedan stood in the drive near the front door. Anya got in while Elisabeth opened the trunk and pulled out a small travel bag which she handed to Anya. She climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. They drove across the draw bridge and away from the pleasant little chateau. Anya would not miss the place.

As the Renault passed through the deepest stand of trees a man stepped from behind dense foliage and leveled an automatic rifle at departing vehicle. A red dot appeared on the back of Elisabeth's head, but before the gunman fired his head exploded in pink froth and his corpse collapsed to the ground. Fortunately, Anya did not witness the death of Todd, the second CIA operative.

Elisabeth pointed to the bag saying, "You will find some baby wipes in this. I always travel with them."

While they drove away from the chateau, Anya managed to wipe the blood and bits of gore off then put on a clean white sweat shirt. She felt a little better, but the sight of Jean-Robert's bloody head kept coming back to her.

"Where are we going?"

"The airport in Bordeaux. A plane will be waiting for us." Sensing Anya's apprehension she added, "Jean-Robert asked me to arrange for you to travel to the US if anything happened to him."

"The US?"

"Yes, he believed that would be the safest place for you, and we've made arrangements."

It was a lie, of course. Elisabeth knew Jean-Robert Trieste to be part of a rogue CIA operation. She didn't have any details beyond what she said and wondered briefly how much Jean Robert himself had known. Either way, transporting Anya to America was not on Trieste's agenda. No matter, the story seemed to calm her down.

By the time they got to the airport Anya started to come down off the adrenalin rush. Beth had given her a chocolate bar to keep her energy up, but shortly after the Gulfstream 550 took off she fell into a sound sleep.

Just as well, she has a long trip ahead of her. Elisabeth pulled a soft blanket over the sleeping woman then sat back and lost herself in her own thoughts, toying with her huge emerald pendant all the while.

As the sun set on the chateau, Frank started to climb down from his hiding spot in the trees. He'd shot the second CIA man from that vantage point then elected to remain hidden until darkness fell. Beretta hadn't expected any other targets and none showed up. At the same time, the little aerie had been a good a place for an aging assassin to pause and reflect. In his preferred element he had even managed to doze for a while in his perch thirty feet above the forest floor. Once on the ground he hiked back to his car and drove off into the growing darkness. His mission was far from over.

36.

Ivan showed no surprise when a local commentator announced, "unexplained explosions destroyed the luxury yacht Khamsin off Monaco." He continued, "Two vacationers from New Zealand witnessed the disaster and tried to render assistance from their boat. However, no survivors were discovered. Recovery operations are underway, but authorities believe, given the massive size of the explosions, progress will be 'difficult'."

"Well, Ilya, here's to you," Ivan said as he clicked off the TV. One less mouth to feed and a lot more money for me. A smile spread over his thin lips as he calculated his windfall at over twenty-five million euros. Better yet, there was more to come, much more. He was filthy rich and beginning to believe he would get to live to enjoy his wealth. Excellent! He had already decided to abandon any claim to Ilya's partnership in Fluid Dimension along with the rest of their lives in California. With no reason to think about going back to Palo Alto he was free to start shopping for a home in Cannes or Monaco as originally planned. Let Zeigler enjoy the car and the girl for as long as that would last.

In Palo Alto Bart arrived at work early, dressed in new dark blue Zegna slacks and a blue Hugo Boss shirt. Certain he had figured out a big part of the puzzle, he felt confident he'd be able to sort out the rest of it by the end of the day. After an hour and a half on his computer he took a break and walked over to the executive section. Jerry labored away, as usual, but Gabe's office remained dark.

"Good morning, Jerry."
The young man waved a hand without taking his eyes off his monitor.

"Is Gabe here today?"

Jerry shook his head in the negative and Bart decided not to question the boss's whereabouts.

"Is Dr. Ramsay in today?" He asked having no idea why he didn't call her "Sally", but before Jerry answered, a voice behind him said,

"I'm Sally Ramsay."

Bart turned to find Sally holding out her hand to complete her self introduction. So, he shook it and in a flash, she recognized the transformed and rather gorgeous man in front of her to be none other than Bartholomew Zeigler.

"Hi, Sally. Long time no see." What's up with her?

She yanked her hand back as if from a scalding kettle of water.

"Bart."

He had difficulty interpreting the tone in her voice: a question or a statement?

"Yes."

"Bart." She stopped, at a loss for words, but her eyes ran from his feet to the top of his head and back. He's a truly transformed specimen, and just when I was getting used to the old one.

"Yes I am," he said then asked, "Are you alright?"

"Sure, I'm fine."

She was unconvincing and appeared flushed as she turned and walked away in silence.

"Sally, I need to talk to you about the source code. It's important." He watched the back of her head bob up and down in the affirmative. Without looking back, a flustered and confused Sally Ramsay gave a cryptic little wave and walked away.

"What the hell does that mean? Jerry, what's wrong with her?"

"No idea." This time he peered up at Bart and realized the guy was clueless. No intuition. It's a wonder straight guys ever get laid.

"Damn." Bart trailed off after Sally.

With Bart gone Jerry laughed out loud until he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. Somebody might get lucky tonight. Then again?

Sally hid in the restroom feeling more juvenile than she had since sixth grade and an incident involving a boy named Geoff something or other.

She struggled to form a hypothesis to explain how a haircut and new clothes could so thoroughly transform a man though she already knew the answer. They couldn't. Meaning? Oh shit, this is going to be so damn complicated.

When a flummoxed Bartholomew Zeigler caught up with her, Sally had returned to her workspace and was at least giving the appearance of concentrating on her multiple computer screens.

"Sally, why did you walk away?"

"Bart, what came over you?"

"What?"

"You look nice. Very nice." She almost blushed as she spoke and she had the same smile on her face he'd seen when she dropped him off at his apartment. Bart noticed but decided to play cool. Besides, he had big news to share.

"Oh, thanks." He paused for a second before bounding down another avenue of thought. "Listen, I've been trying to work out this whole theory of the Rusikovs and the "Flash Crash" and I believe I'm on to something."

"Really?" "Oh, thanks?" That's it?"

"Yeah. We've been going the wrong direction with this. I'm pretty sure Ilya's program is bogus."

"What do you mean by 'bogus'?"

"I'm sure the code would work, but I think they used it as a smokescreen for something else. Our copy was a delivery system for the real virus, one that's still in the NYSE's computers somewhere."

"And what led you to that theory?" Which happens to be a pretty good one.

"I went over to Ivan's house last night to pick up the Ferrari."

"You did what?"

"Yeah, he told me I could drive his Ferrari, but that's not what's important."

"He 'told you'? When did you talk to him?"

"Wait. Just listen to me and then I'll tell you about the car."

Sally plopped down in her desk chair in complete bewilderment while Bart rumbled on with enormous enthusiasm.

"So, while I was there I decided to check out Ilya's computer, the one upstairs."

"How did you get in?"

"First five digits of Pi. I watched you arm the system the other night. Not creative at all, but Sally, do you want to hear about this or not?"

She thought I'm not sure I do. She said, "Of course, Bart."

"Alright. So, I stayed at their house quite awhile. I got into Ilya's system and started looking for the program. I located the files he sent to the Russian woman, Dr. Kovich, the same as the one you retrieved from her computer."

"So?"

"I don't think it matches the one they used on May 6th. I've been looking for another string of code buried way deep in the NYSE's system. There is no evidence of the "May 6th" code anywhere in that system. So, what if there was a second file attached to it? One designed to get left behind after the other one, its host, obliterated itself. I'm not convinced the program we have would even work again. It's not like we can make a test run on the stock exchange."

"If you're right why did they send the file to Anya Kovich?"

"I'd say because they were ripping her boss off. I'd bet he paid them plenty for the program."

"And the virus you think stayed behind?"

"To sell to somebody else. If I worked the scam I'd sell the use of the program, but keep control. Ilya's not so slick, but Ivan is. I'm sure of that."

"You are a fountain of information. How are you so sure?"

"I found other stuff in the computer. Some weird stuff, too." He held up a thumb drive and waved it at her. "What's on here plus a little more is backed up in secure storage. I'm the only one who can access those files." Bart gave a triumphant smile.

Oh shit, again. I wonder what files he's talking about. Thought I wiped all of them clean.

Jerry walked into Sally's oversized cubicle with eyes turned down and a somber demeanor.

"A news feed came in reporting Ilya Rusikov is dead."

As Sally and Bart struggled to process the news he continued.

"He was supposed to be on a yacht owned by some arms dealer known as 'The Sheik'. The boat blew up and sank in the Mediterranean somewhere near Monaco. No survivors, so far."

"What about Ivan?"

"No mention."

For a moment Sally appeared shaken, but she regained her composure and said, "I guess this puts Ivan in the driver's seat."

"That was his plan all along." Bart leaned against a little round conference table and regarded Sally without expression.

"So you're saying he planned Ilya's death?"

"Of course not. I doubt Ivan goes around blowing up yachts, but I'd bet a year's pay he'd already cut a deal with someone besides Malroff."

"Any idea who?" Sally turned toward her computer screens and searched for news of the yacht sinking.

"Maybe."

"Care to share?"

"Not yet. I need to do some more work before I come to any conclusions. This whole situation will be very political and I want to talk to Gabe before I go much further with an investigation."

Without responding Sally leaned over in a way Bart imagined she'd planned to give him a better view down her shirt. He took full advantage, but he felt a twinge of guilt.

"So, did you find anything else interesting in the Rusikov's computers?"

"Only on Ilya's. It didn't have much to do with this program and I didn't pay a lot of attention."

"Oh?"

Jerry returned looking like a man on a mission.

"Bart, Gabe is calling and he wants to talk to you."

"Can I take it here?"

"No. He wants you in his office." Meaning, the secure line. Jerry was uncharacteristically deferential to Bart.

37.

Frank took a circuitous route and two different rental cars before driving into Nice at mid-morning, tired, hungry and anxious to check into his hotel. The most recent surveillance showed Ivan still in residence at the Hotel Imperator with no indication he would be leaving soon. Great! Frank needed a short respite.

Beretta checked into an old and well regarded place less than two blocks from Ivan's garish twelve-story hotel. Twenty minutes later he ordered a room service breakfast large enough to satisfy a lumberjack. Afterwards he stood under a much needed hot shower. He let the soothing water pelt him in a relaxing rhythm, but his brain raced on as his body struggled to shake off the stress of the past forty-eight hours.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget the two CIA field agents lying dead by his hand. Those guys used to be on the home team, but somehow the game changed when he wasn't looking. In fact, they were part of an "off the charts" secret operation designed to get control of a computer program with the capacity to siphon money from accounts worldwide. "Siphon" being the PC word for "stealing". Anya Kovich, they believed, had the key to the program. Their bosses at Langley wanted to create a revenue stream to support "black ops". In other words, a source of cash untraceable by anyone, including POTUS. The sitting President was not one to tolerate renegades and he had his hands full. "Spook world" as Frank called it, continued to grow geometrically. Post 9-11 paranoia, anger, and vigilante mentality had given rise to the germ-like growth of an intelligence culture burgeoning at a cost that would enrage the average American tax payer. "Spook world" was populated by bright, exceptional people adept at finding ways to fund their projects from off the book sources. But, in Frank's mind, if they were a part of the American Republic they had to be accountable to someone. Who would that be if not POTUS?

In his younger days he'd sworn allegiance to the Marine Corps, the United States and its Commander in Chief. Over the years circumstances created an opportunity for him to serve the President in a very direct and secret way. Now, as a result of that pledge, he'd killed two of his countrymen at a lovely little French chateau on a beautiful morning he would just as soon forget. The idea of refusing the order never entered his mind. As a soldier he'd forfeited that right the moment he accepted his first mission, but for once that did nothing to ease his conscience.

Frank finished dressing and the room service waiter knocked on the door. The slender man, Jules by name, carried a tray laden with a large Gruyere omelet, frittes, fruit, bread and a pot of tea. Jules set the tray up near the balcony and left happy with a handsome gratuity in his pocket. Frank Beretta spent the next half hour savoring every morsel of his breakfast.

One man remained for Beretta to kill for his country and one to kill for himself. Afterwards, perhaps he'd think about disengaging his tired ass from this crazy game. It was high time to let someone else carry the water. He smiled remembering his last birthday when Joey blurted out in fun, "Damn, Frank, you're old enough to retire." At the time he signed on for the job he'd never thought to ask about the retirement plan or even if there was one. The notion made him laugh. He sat back and enjoyed the view.

Not far away Ivan tried to disengage himself from the libidinous Francesca and wondered how much longer he would find her appealing. Many women had shared his bed, but only one or two managed to hold his attention for long. He was usually the one to bring an end to his liaisons though there had been exceptions. Just once did he recall being used by a woman the same way he used them. The experience gave him a sort of perverse pleasure. And remembering brought a smile to his thin, pale lips.

"So, Francesca, what do you want to do today?"

"I thought I'd sit by the sea and rest. Perhaps read a book."

"I was thinking about doing a little shopping."

"Where?"

"Monte Carlo. I believe I'm going to be around here for a lot longer than I'd planned, so I scheduled a tour of some real estate."

"Sounds like fun, but would you mind if I stay here and enjoy the sun?"

"No, not at all. We'll have a wonderful dinner this evening."

"I can't wait." The pretty woman gave him a kiss, rolled off the bed and went to put on her bathing suit.

While Francesca got herself together the phone rang.

"Mr. Rusikov, this is the concierge, Fabrizio."

"Yes."

"A gentleman arrived with a delivery for you. I believe it is the new automobile you were expecting."

Ivan checked his watch. The salesman was punctual. He hadn't told Francesca he'd bought a Lamborghini Murcielago. Why should he? But, as this would be his new home, he needed a new ride. It amazed him what could be done with a single phone call and an American Express Centurion card.

"Please tell the gentleman I'll be right down."

"Tres bien, Monsieur Rusikov."

With no farewell for Francesca he hurried downstairs to admire his purchase. The gleaming silver car looked like it was going a hundred before he even started it. The Murcielago was fast and would outrun a lot of things, but Habu was not one of them.

38.

The Lion's Hill

Bermuda

Katya didn't enjoy lying, though her life and occupation obliged her to do so as a matter of survival. She and Frank both prized their personal integrity in a way that seemed contrary to their actions. Hypocrisy? Katya hadn't reconciled that yet nor was she certain where she stood with Anya Kovich, though she knew Anya's safety would depend on another deception.

The younger woman descended the main staircase after an uninterrupted night's sleep, her first since she left the Principe di Savoia.

Getting a good look at Elisabeth's home impressed her. The Lion's Hill was one of the most admired private homes on Bermuda and had been in her late husband's family for four generations, eventually to be passed on to a fifth. The childless Elisabeth had only a life estate after which the historic house would go to whichever niece or cousin of the late Earl's remained alive.

"Your home is beautiful," Anya said walking slowly into the bright and colorful sunroom. Its broad view of the sparkling ocean boosted her spirits.

"Thank you. My husband and I took great pleasure in our visits here." She motioned for her guest to have a seat. "Would you like some tea?"

"Please." Anya sat in a wing back chair covered with a bold green and white floral slipcover. She relaxed a little as Elisabeth handed her a cup and wondered at the delight of living peacefully in such a house.

"Thank you."

Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a handsome middle-aged man resplendent in what appeared to be a naval uniform with the insignia of high rank.

"Is that your husband?"

"No, his father, but the resemblance is striking. The Admiral died here not so many years ago. He'd lived a long and healthy life." And I aspire to do the same.

"He was a very handsome man."

"Yes, he was."

Lady Hartwell may have continued with her musings but for the arrival of an elegant, elderly black man dressed in a khaki suit, crisp white shirt, and blue and green striped tie, the Hartwell colors. Two huge dogs followed him. Black Russian Terriers.

"Good morning, Lady Hartwell. I am happy you had a safe journey." His Oxbridge accent sounded decidedly upper crust and very British.

Somewhat to Anya's surprise her hostess rose and clasped the man in a warm embrace after which she greeted each of the big dogs and hugged their shaggy heads.

"I'm pleased to be back." The elegant woman turned to her guest and introduced the man as "Edward Pendleton." Then she pointed to the Black Russian Terriers and said, "And these are the loves of my life, Sasha and Tatiana." The dogs stretched out on the floor indifferently.

"It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Kovich." The man gave a courtly bow and regarded her with an irresistible smile.

"Anya, Edward is the manager of The Lion's Hill, a post he's held for nearly forty years and three generations of Hartwells, and he is the one responsible for preserving and caring for this wonderful house. There is much history here." Lady Hartwell had genuine affection in her voice.

"What I have seen so far is beautiful Mr. Pendleton. I was just thinking how delightful it might be to live in a place like this."

"I would be privileged to give you a tour of the house and gardens later," he said showing Anya another beautiful smile. He turned to Lady Hartwell and asked, "Meanwhile, may I arrange for breakfast to be served on the terrace for you and your guests?"

"Yes, that will be fine."

"Yes, ma'am. Your other guest, Mr. Bowman, has landed on the island and will be arriving here soon."

"Good. Thank you, Edward. You always know more of what goes on around here than I do."

The man gave her a knowing, almost intimate smile and a slight bow of his head as he departed the room.

"Who is Mr. Bowman?" Anya had a look of consternation on her face.

"If you remember, I told you my mission was to get you out of France and on to the United States in the event something happened to Jean-Robert." Elisabeth toyed with her large emerald.

Anya nodded affirmatively but behind her intelligent eyes there was wariness.

"Mr. Bowman is here to help with the last part of that mission."

"Is he with the government?"

Elisabeth laughed and said, "No, Anya. Gabe Bowman..."

"Gabe Bowman, the founder of Dynamic Integrity?"

"Yes, the same. Do you know him?"

"Of him. He and his firm have developed some of the best firewalls and security systems in the world. I'm sure what I know is only the tip of an iceberg. I spent a lot of time during the past few years looking for ways to defeat his work." She smiled a little, but was more than curious as to what role he played in her situation.

"Good, I'm happy to hear you are acquainted with Gabe's professional background. I will allow him to give you the specific details of his proposal."

"Proposal?"

"Of course, Anya. We helped you to this point because you wanted to get away from Serge Malroff. A wise decision, I might add. Unfortunately, certain complications brought you here, but this is not a gulag. You are free and you have the right to make your own decisions. Neither Gabe nor I are in a position to order you to do anything." Being realistic, her universe of options was rather small, but why mention the obvious?

"I'm anxious to hear Mr. Bowman's proposal. I have no desire to return to Europe soon nor do I ever want to see Serge again."

"That's very wise. I know only too well how much so. Now would you like to take a walk outdoors?"

"Yes, very much."

The women exited the sunroom through large French doors opening onto a broad sunny terrace with a breathtaking view of the ocean. Because of its location on a high promontory the vista spanned more than two hundred degrees. In the center, under a big blue and white striped umbrella stood a long glass topped table set beautifully with a bowl of fresh colorful flowers. The place looked like a movie set as had the terrace at the chateau. Anya shuddered and tried to put the murder scene out of her mind.

"Are you alright, Anya?"

"Yes, fine. I had a slight flashback to the chateau."

"I understand. Let's sit and have a bloody mary while we wait for Gabe."

"Perfect."

Sasha and Tatiana trotted outside, followed by Edward Pendleton carrying a silver tray with glasses, ice and the ingredients for what turned out to be delicious bloody marys.

"Edward, you're a mind reader."

"No ma'am. Merely a life-long observer of behavior patterns."

Elisabeth smiled as the man handed drinks to her and to Anya.

They were toasting one another when a balding, pleasant looking man of fifty was ushered onto the terrace by a member of Lady Hartwell's staff that Anya had yet to meet. But, based on his appearance, she wanted to. About her own age, dark haired and handsome, the man appeared to be Hispanic.

"Lady Hartwell, your guest, Mr. Bowman." He had a trace of an accent in his voice and Anya, gifted with languages, guessed he spoke Castilian Spanish as his native language.

"Gracias, Jorge." The young man smiled and left with a very slight bow and a twinkle in his eye.

"Lady Hartwell, it's wonderful to see you again." Gabe stepped forward and extended his hand which Elisabeth Hartwell shook assertively.

"And you as well, Gabe. Please, I must insist that you call me Elisabeth."

"Of course, Elisabeth." He turned and extended his hand to Anya.

"Dr. Kovich, I am Gabe Bowman and I'm very happy to meet you."

"Not as pleased as I am to meet you, Mr. Bowman."

"Gabe, please call me Gabe." He took a chair next to Elisabeth and tucked immediately into a Bloody Mary that Edward handed him, but not before making a polite toast.

"To friendships, new and old."

Over the next half hour he laid out his proposal while Anya pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. His generous proposal included a new home, a job and a new life in California. Also, at least temporarily, a new identity to keep her safe until Serge Malroff posed no further threat. Gabe seemed to think dealing with Serge would not be an issue, but Anya remained skeptical and with good reason. On the other hand, what choice did she have?

Elisabeth listened and watched with relief at Anya's willingness to buy into Gabe's proposal. It was an honest one and would bring an end to the deception they had played on her to get her out of France.

"I will agree to your proposal, Gabe. When do we leave for California?"

Gabe reached out and shook her hand.

"I am delighted, Anya, but before we move ahead with your relocation to California I have something I need you to work on remotely. The matter is of extreme urgency."

Anya looked confused.

"I'm asking for your evaluation of a code I brought with me. I need you to design countermeasures that defend against this program." He added, "This is not a test. You have a job with us regardless, but I believe you are best suited to this task and it is very important."

"Then of course I will do as you ask."

"Excellent." Gabe handed her a thumb drive and the soft leather satchel he was carrying. She was thrilled to find a new computer inside.

"I'll begin work immediately, Dr. Bowman."

"Please. Call me Gabe, and by the way, I'm a dropout, not a 'Doctor'".

Anya was still smiling when Gabe rose from the table and excused himself to speak with Lady Hartwell. Upon her return Elisabeth was surprised to see Anya, obviously a dog lover, making fast friends with Sasha and Tatiana. An excellent quality, she thought, especially around her dogs. Though docile in appearance, they were trained to kill on command and would do so without reservation.

Gabe returned to the terrace, but just long enough to apologize for having to make an abrupt departure. He was headed to Virginia for a meeting though he did not disclose that to Anya.

"I think it will be easier for you to work here without distractions. While you are working on that I will make final arrangements for your travel to California."

Anya smiled, but felt overwhelmed and in need of reassurance.

"Anya, I'm delighted to have you working with us. I know you'll love Northern California. Our team at Dynamic Integrity is first rate. You'll enjoy the challenge of working with them as well."

Anya gave the pleasant man a more robust hug than either one of them expected and Gabe reciprocated with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

In less than an hour his G-5 headed westward, piloted by Captain Seth Murdoch.

39.

After a sound night's sleep Frank spent the first hour of the morning running along the promenade with the rising sun at his back. In his mind he carefully settled on a strategy for dealing with Ivan then dedicated the remainder of his run to thoughts of his wife. He'd recently noticed, and without humor, the decline in his stamina and an unhealthy sentimentality over Joey. Back at the hotel he enjoyed a hot shower and another hearty breakfast then called the concierge to arrange for a rental car, a convertible, to be delivered to him.

Dressed in freshly laundered khakis and a plain white polo shirt Frank went down to the lobby and found a shiny black Mercedes SL55 being driven up to the entrance.

"Doctor Franklin, your car has arrived." Albert, a member of the staff smiled and held out the car keys.

Frank looked at the flashy Benz and failed to fully disguise a reaction. He'd asked for a Volvo or some other more pedestrian car.

"Is there a problem, Dr. Franklin?"

"No, Albert, the Mercedes will be fine." It won't attract as much attention as a Ferrari, anyway. And, the damn thing is fast. Couldn't hurt.

"Very well, sir." Albert gave him a relieved smile.

Frank tipped the concierge ten euros, slid behind the wheel and familiarized himself with the controls. Then, with a friendly wave, he headed off into the sunny blue Mediterranean morning. With no particular destination in mind he decided to take the short drive over to Nice to surveil the Negresco. Afterwards he would play things by ear.

Not far away Ivan was getting accustomed to his new Lamborghini as he drove eastward in the direction of Monte Carlo. He looked forward to driving the route of the famed Gran Prix then taking a tour of a couple of residences. He had spoken with an agent the day before and she became positively giddy at the prospect of showing him two properties she assessed as "perfect for your needs." Buying a home in Monaco is required to qualify for Monegasque citizenship and, hence, the key to paying no income taxes for the rest of one's life. Ivan figured he could make all the money he wanted and never need to expend the effort to hide his income from some tax man or the other. That would leave more time to make more money.

Ivan enjoyed his new toy. The sleek and brutally powerful car suited him and he anticipated driving to Italy or Germany where he could cruise at much higher speeds. Even so, he could already feel the urge to buy a new Ferrari or perhaps a Bugatti Veyron. Why not? Money was no longer a limiting factor in his thinking. So, he tooled around Monaco until he became bored then drove to the Hotel Metropole where he was to meet the real estate agent. As he took a seat at the Lobby Bar his phone vibrated. The caller id displayed the name "Serge M". He sent the call straight to voicemail and smirked to himself. Let him wait. I have more important things to do. The next caller, however, could not be ignored.

"Yes, sir." He answered deferentially as he always did with the Prime Minister.

"How soon will you deliver your work product to me?" The man seemed to have a greater sense of urgency than usual.

"I saved the file on a thumb drive. It should be delivered by courier rather than electronically."

"Send it to my agent in Zurich. Do you have his contact information?"

"Yes, sir."

"Make certain it is done today."

"Yes." He apparently failed to conceal his concern about being paid. The understanding had been for payment in advance of release of the code. The sly Prime Minister picked up on his reticence.

"Do not worry. You will be paid upon receipt of your work." He hung up without giving Ivan time to respond.

Once I give up the thumb drive I have zero leverage. On the other hand, considering whom I'm dealing with, what are the options?

Ivan was drinking a Compari and soda and considering his next move when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It startled him for a moment.

"Monsieur Rusikov?"

Ivan turned quickly and found himself face to face with one Claire Montaigne, the real estate agent.

"Monsieur Rusikov, I apologize for startling you. I am Claire Montaigne." The woman extended her hand as she introduced herself. Ivan shook it firmly and invited her to sit at the bar with him.

"Yes, perhaps for one quick drink before we visit the properties I have selected for your inspection." Claire was a bundle of energy and a spectacular sight to boot. She had flaming red hair that appeared to be natural. She possessed a striking but not conventionally attractive face. However, her body was very well proportioned. Unfortunately, her choice in clothes was amazing. To Ivan, her dress looked like a fruit salad had exploded all over it. Not surprisingly, she appeared to be a regular at this bar.

"Kir?" the bartender asked.

"Oui. Merci, Henri." She smiled cheerfully at the man and he produced her drink almost immediately. Looking at Ivan's now empty glass he asked, "Another Compari, Monsieur?"

"No. Vodka on the rocks." The bartender chuckled as he poured a stiff Grey Goose and garnished it with a wedge of lime.

"Merci."

"Tres bien." Henri turned to another customer. Claire flopped a brochure on the bar while making a half assed toast Ivan couldn't understand.

"I thought we would go to the small penthouse first, Monsieur Rusikov. The building is a bit older, but it is quite close to the hotel and a most desirable area."

Ivan's cell phone vibrated. Serge again, and once more he sent the call to voice mail laughing to himself as he wondered if he should go outside and look for a mushroom cloud in the eastern sky.

"I'm sorry for the interruption Claire, but this morning has been much busier than I expected."

"Of course, Mr. Rusikov. Most of my clients are busy all the time."

The phone buzzed again and this time displayed a Zurich number.

"I must take this call."

"Of course." The bizarre woman downed her drink and ordered a second.

"Hello."

"Monsieur Rusikov, I understand I am to receive a package from you."

"Correct."

"Do you need to confirm the address for delivery?"

"No."

"Very well. I will await your package." The toad hung up the phone without listening for a reply from Ivan.

That was my first warning. Ivan's nerves twitched for the first time in days so he took a long pull on his drink then spoke so as not to give the colorful woman a chance to speak.

"Claire, you will find me to be a man who makes important decisions very quickly. Unfortunately, I must attend to pressing matters with a colleague in Switzerland."

"But Monsieur Rusikov, I can assure you these properties will not be on the market long."

"I know. I am purchasing the penthouse. Please have the documents drawn up and sent to me at the Hotel Imperator."

Before the startled agent could speak he put a hundred euros on the bar and walked away. Smiling, Claire Montaigne replaced the bank note with her company credit card. She'd just made a six million euro sale in less than fifteen minutes, a record, even for her. Now all she had to do was close the transaction.

40.

Frank walked along the promenade enjoying the sun when his sat phone buzzed. Harry Brooke in Virginia.

"Yes." He knew the line to be secure but couldn't shake the old habit of being very spare with his conversation.

"I have new intel. My client has informed me that time is of the essence and he wants to move on to phase two of the engagement immediately. Repeat, immediately."

"Understood." Frank pocketed his phone and stood for a moment looking at the tranquil waters of the Mediterranean. He didn't relish this turn of events. Killing Ivan at close range was not something he wanted to do and making it happen quickly changed the paradigm even more. He was a sniper. He stalked bad guys and eliminated them from a distance. Frank never fancied himself a spy and certainly not a murderer, but his normal MO was not how this operation would go down. There were few options and his ability to think on the run and improvise would be tested.

In less than a minute he had the Hotel Imperator desk operator on the phone.

"Bon jours. Monsieur Rusikov, sil vous plait." He had excellent French grammar skills, but the accent was most often mistaken for German or Dutch.

"I will put you through to his room."

"Merci."

The phone rang without answer and the hotel operator came back on the line.

"Is there a message?"

"Non. Merci beau coup. Au'revoirs."

"Au'revoirs, Monsieur."

Well, at least he had confirmed that Ivan was still in the hotel. That was a start. He walked back along the promenade des Anglais until he was directly across from the Imperator. As he tried to work out what his next move would be, a silver Lamborghini pulled loudly up to the front of the hotel, its driver none other than Ivan Rusikov. Frank walked casually across the busy thoroughfare and into the capacious and garish lobby. He watched Ivan waiting for an elevator and nonchalantly joined him and another guest as they continued their wait for the car. From then on common sense played a greater role than spy craft in getting to Ivan's floor. Frank got off two floors below with the other passenger then took the stairs arriving in time to catch site of Ivan entering one of the suites. Now he had the room number.

Once again, without a lot of thought, he walked down to the room and knocked on the door. Frank could hear Ivan talking, he presumed on the phone. Ivan continued talking while he opened the door. Covering the smart phone with his hand he asked, "Yes?"

"Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I might have a word with you about your car?"

"My car?"

He started to say more but apparently the person on the phone was speaking into his ear. Ivan held up a hand toward Frank and continued his conversation.

"That's fine, Francesca. Enjoy yourself and I will see you in an hour."

"Sorry again. Didn't mean to interrupt you and your wife."

"My girlfriend. Now, what about my car?" Ivan seemed perturbed.

"I'm a guest in the hotel. I noticed you pulling up in the Murcielago. I'm a Ferrari owner, but I'm thinking about getting one. Wondered how you like it."

Ivan's attitude improved a little.

"Actually I also own a Ferrari. I took delivery of the Lamborghini only this morning. I've driven no further than Monte Carlo and back. I guess I'm not a good person to ask, but I can tell you I think I like the Ferrari better."

"Thanks, then. Sorry I disturbed you. Say, may I buy you a drink in appreciation?"

"Well, my girlfriend won't be back for awhile." Ivan appeared to give the invitation serious consideration, but Frank decided there was no time like the present to take action.

He struck like a snake stepping quickly into the room and delivering a stunning chop to Ivan's neck. Before Ivan crumpled to the floor Frank propped him up on his rubbery legs. Assessing the situation with blinding speed he noticed an open door leading onto a fairly wide balcony. Without a wasted moment he manhandled Ivan toward the door and in a single dance like motion waltzed him over to the railing and flung him off. The fall would be about a hundred and twenty feet onto concrete and certainly should be fatal. Frank wasted no time looking over the edge to verify the result. He stepped back gracefully and exited the suite. There was no one in the hall and he could only detect the location of a few security cameras. So, he lowered his head and ducked into a stairwell. Frank Beretta walked briskly to the ground floor and left the building by the main entrance.

A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and surrounded Ivan's body. Frank ambled casually that direction and inquired of someone in the fringe of the throng what was going on.

"A man fell from the hotel."

"I am a doctor. Does he need medical help?"

The woman pushed Frank forward through the crowd yelling, "This man is a doctor."

When he emerged into the center of the onlookers he found Ivan to be most decidedly dead. The back of his skull appeared to be crushed. A handsome, middle aged woman knelt beside the corpse trying in vain to find a carotid pulse.

"This man has expired," the American doctor said somberly. She scanned the throng to see if the other physician was still standing there, but he was not. In this day and age why get involved if you don't have to, she asked herself. I'll be answering questions for hours myself. I wish I could just walk away.

Frank wandered aimlessly down the promenade until he found an agreeable bar where he ordered a scotch on the rocks. The sun set lower in the sky and his mood fell with it. He'd been lucky, or so it appeared, but an unsettling thought remained. So, now I'm a cold blooded killer. Is this what we've come to? Shooting the CIA agents was bad, but tossing the young hacker off the top floor was worse. He drank the scotch quickly and ordered another that he sipped more slowly as the sky grew dark.

An hour later he walked back to his hotel, collected the Mercedes from the private garage, and drove in the direction of Cannes. Letting the cool night air's calming effect wash over him he thought alternately about the woman he adored and the man he had just pitched off a hotel balcony. In a way he felt he now understood Joey better and he loved her more than ever.

He returned to the Negresco after midnight and sleep would not come easily. When dawn arrived he expected to be on his way to Geneva and then on to Milan and a long awaited encounter.

41.

Serge got word of Ivan's death ahead of the public news reports. His agents, Boyd and Jeremy, remained in Nice owing to their inability to detect even a hint of Anya Kovich's whereabouts. Boyd called his boss to report the latest.

"Now there are no more Rusikovs." All the more reason to find Anya.

"True enough, Mr. Malroff. We're still working on the Kovich woman, but her trail is cold in three different cities."

"Perhaps you are looking in the wrong cities!" You fucking idiots!

"Excuse me?"

"I recommend you focus your attention on Bordeaux. Kovich was last seen at the Merignac Airport." Serge gained the information only hours earlier, but had no reason to give up leverage by saying so.

"Bordeaux?"

"Yes!" Serge's anger roiled up. "I suggest you and your colleague deal with this situation now! You two owe me for fucking losing Ilya Rusikov. Drag her ass back to Milan."

How the hell did he figure? Boyd listened for further instructions, but realized Serge had hung up on him.

"What's up?" Jeremy casually opened another beer and scanned the promenade for women who appealed to him.

"Like always with that bugger. He says we should go to Bordeaux."

"Bordeaux? That's a bloody day's drive from here."

"Yeah. His highness says somebody spotted her at the airport, but not when or which airlines." Boyd needed to make some fast money. Serge's comment about them 'owing' him sounded like he was being set up. His wariness increased and his motivation dissipated in proportion.

"Tell you what, Boyd, I say we go have a look, but let's have one more night in Nice. We can head out in the morning." Jeremy jumped to his feet and moved toward a trio of Croatian girls he'd spotted.

Oh, what the hell? Boyd followed after Jeremy to make sure the fool didn't get lost before dawn, but the closer he got the younger the girls appeared to be. He could tell even at a distance they were drunk or well on their way. The thought of university kiddies out on a binge scored low on Boyd's list of priorities so he turned and headed to a little bar he knew and more mature company. Screw Jeremy. If he was in the car in the morning, fine. If not, Boyd determined to go to Bordeaux alone.

While the search for Anya continued, she remained hard at work on her project for Gabe. The Lion's Hill was a wonderful place and Elisabeth an impeccable hostess. Since her arrival the day before she'd toured the formal gardens with Mr. Pendleton and later walked down to the estate's private beach. The dogs tagged along and spent their time close to her wherever she went. Anya correctly surmised Sasha and Tatiana were her guardians, and they proved to be agreeable companions.

The young woman was as obsessive as most math and science types tend to be. She'd been at work at her computer for more than eight hours straight when Elisabeth insisted she take a break for cocktails and dinner.

"I'm not sure Gabe expected you to finish your task in a single day." Elisabeth spoke with a motherly concern Anya found endearing.

"I understood the project was urgent and besides, I love my work."

Mr. Pendleton arrived, as if on queue. Dinner, he said, would be served in an hour. He took their drink orders and vanished to fetch their cocktails.

"As a little girl I loved puzzles and math and computers. I was not so crazy about science although my grades were good. Fortunately I had the opportunity to study computer engineering at the University. They wanted to send me to medical school, but suddenly the government put on a lot of pressure to train people in computer science."

"Yes, the man who is now Prime Minister promoted the initiative. A good move on his part if you ask me. I understand you have distinguished yourself in your field."

"I should have done more. I got married and moved to Milan with my husband where he worked as a systems architect for Grosserkopf. I went to work at the company because of him. After he died I took charge of his department. The tasks are complex but not very creative."

"And, of course, that put you square in the middle of Serge Malroff's world."

"Yes."

Mr. Pendleton returned with a gin and tonic for her Ladyship and vodka for Dr. Kovich.

"There's a nasty piece of work for you."

"Do you know him?"

"Too well, but let's just say you and I were in similar situations and we both escaped. Few have been so lucky." If not for Frank Beretta I'd as likely be dead.

"I'll drink to that," Anya said raising her glass.

Elisabeth smiled and took a sip of her cocktail. The young woman had a genuine quality she appreciated. Indeed, Lady Hartwell found herself growing fond of Anya Kovich.

Over the next hour the women enjoyed good conversation and a delicious dinner of fresh lobster. Afterwards Anya returned to her computer and planned to work until she depleted her powers of concentration.

At about two in the morning she was ready to quit for the day. She'd run endlessly through the code and became frustrated by her inability to 'connect the dots' as they say. To her regret she had too little time to thoroughly review the program while working at Grosserkopf and then she had no reason to suspect the thing might not work again. The supposed "trigger" perplexed her and the entire body of code failed to make sense. Perhaps she needed to put everything aside for awhile: regain her perspective.

Anya leaned back and exhaled deeply, knowing how much she hated trying to go to bed on an unresolved problem. Sasha, who had been sleeping next to her chair got up and rested his chin in her lap looking for a little attention. Tatiana remained in a sound sleep a few feet away.

Anya scratched behind the big dog's ears and whispered, "So, Sasha, what do you think?" The dog peered at her with dark, gentle eyes.

Remembering an old professor she'd admired she said, "Sasha, I believe you are smart enough to ask 'If a thing doesn't work now why would you assume it worked before?'" Sasha shook his head and Anya laughed at him. Then the little epiphany came.

Who said it did work? Serge? He only thought that because the Rusikovs told him so. She had fallen into the same trap and now, looking from a different vantage point, she postulated that the program itself had been skillfully constructed to support a false conclusion. Part of the mystery became quite clear and the thought made her laugh out loud. The Rusikov brothers had conned Serge out of twenty-five million euros, but she did believe they had done something to tamper with the market, and she had a good idea where to begin searching.

Pouring a cup of rather tepid tea for herself she re-booted her computer and went back to work with a fresh burst of energy. This time she expected to succeed.

Anya began to test the depths of the Rusikov brothers' deceit while Serge Malroff worked himself down from a fit of blind rage. Not long after receiving news of Ivan's supposed suicide he got a call from the Prime Minister, his first in days. Once again the PM requested delivery of the complete code and directed Serge to prepare for a second event "soon". Malroff found the message disquieting so soon after Ivan's death. The clever old spy never once mentioned Ivan or his demise, however, and Serge did not bring it up. Serge was crazy but far from stupid and correctly intuited some direct relationship between Ivan and the Prime Minister.

I was right to suspect Ivan. The double-dealing son of a bitch! Worse, the little bastard is already dead and I am deprived of the pleasure of killing him. Slowly.

The enraged Malroff broke several small pieces of furniture before he calmed enough to dial a number from memory.

"Yes."

"I need leverage!" He spat his words into the phone.

"Yes, you do." Rudy responded in a calm, almost amused tone.

"Make it happen!"

Serge hurled his phone at the wall and went to tend to the nosebleed that erupted during his near apoplectic tantrum.

42.

"Ivan Rusikov is dead."

Bart didn't sugar coat the message. Sally swiveled her desk chair away from him, removed her eyeglasses, and stared out the window. He knew she was crying though she did her best to conceal it. Bart gently clasped her shoulders and Sally rested one hand on his.

"I know you were friends." Bart wanted to continue. Sally cut him off.

"No. Not recently, anyway, but I didn't wish him dead."

An odd way to express bereavement, Bart thought.

"He fell from the balcony of his suite at Hotel Imperator in Nice. The French press is speculating suicide. Despondent over Ilya's death."

"That didn't happen. Somebody killed him." Sally gave a sarcastic laugh and twisted back and forth nervously in her swivel chair. Under the circumstances Bart was uncomfortable for noticing that her short skirt was riding up her thighs, but the discomfort didn't make him like it any less.

"How can you be so sure?"

"They were incredibly different people and not connected the way people think twins are supposed to be. Ivan never loved anyone more than he loved himself. Not the kind of guy to commit suicide. Especially over Ilya."

"Who would kill him?"

"Bart, contrary to what you may think I am not an expert on all things Rusikov." The pretty little blond stood up and Bart became distracted. The Louboutin stilettos flattered her already perfect legs and butt. He had a hard time focusing on her words.

"We knew each other, OK? But the Rusikovs lived in a different world. Suddenly they're both dead. They were good looking and smart and seemed to have a lot of things going their way. Now they don't, and it's spooky when death catches up with people your own age."

"I really am sorry, Sally, but I can't help wondering what they were into. Dying within days of one another is more than a coincidence."

"I agree." Sally had a grim scowl on her face.

"We've had a long day."

She checked her Rolex Yachtmaster and said, "It's only four-thirty."

"Stress doesn't punch a time clock and we don't either. Let's go have a drink or two and unwind."

Sally noticed that Bart Zeigler wore yet another pair of designer slacks and a pale gray silk shirt. She was past denying his attractiveness and that made her nervous, though only for an instant.

"OK, but I have a couple of things to do first. Why don't you pick me up at my house at six?" She squeezed his arm and gave him a sliver of the same smile he'd seen that night in the car.

"Alright. Six." He started to leave then turned back and put a hand gently on her shoulder and said, "Sally, I am truly sorry for the loss of your friends. Whatever else, they were people, just like us."

You have no idea, Bart.

"Thanks, Bart. I'll see you later."

"OK." Bart started walking toward Gabe's office. Sally gathered a couple of things from her desk and headed out the door without speaking to anyone.

Bart stood in Gabe's unoccupied office and looked on as Sally drove out of Dynamic Integrity's parking lot. He made a call on the secure line and the conversation lasted less than five minutes. Bart spoke to Jerry on his way out.

"I'm leaving the building, Jerry, and I won't be in until late tomorrow morning."

"Fine, Elvis, it's not my day to watch you." Jerry chuckled but never looked up from his screens. Ha, ha! Elvis leaving the building, Get it?

If Bart did get the joke he never acknowledged it. He walked straight to his work area, picked up his new cashmere sports jacket and headed for the side exit. The sight of Ivan's Ferrari California in his parking space gave Bart momentary pause. He would have to figure out what to do with the car now that Ivan was dead. He slid behind the wheel and drove off in a somber state of mourning more for the impending loss of the Ferrari than its owner. What the hell? Enjoy it while it lasts. After a quick stop at home he cruised over to Sally's condo.

At five till six he rang her doorbell.

"Bart, come in and sit down." His enthusiasm seemed to have cooled since they left the office and she added, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. Are we still going out for drinks?"

"Let's have a drink here. Afterwards we can decide what we want to do about dinner." She led him to the couch and motioned for him to have a seat. When she moved to the bar he got a better view of how she was dressed. A short, white dress clung to her delicious body and from all appearances she wore nothing underneath except Sarah Brooke Ramsay. She was barefoot and even without the stilettos her legs and ass were bellissimo! How could it have taken him so long to recognize her physical perfection when she was right in front of him?

Sally poured a couple of drinks and turned back to her guest. It seemed she had put Ivan's demise out of her mind.

"You may not know this, but I'm half Southern. My Momma's family is from Kentucky. This is a mint julep. Drink it." She directed him with a hint of the dominatrix voice surfacing. He liked it.

"Jesus, Sally, this is straight bourbon with a weed sticking out of it."

"Jack Daniels and a splash of simple syrup, but it's not a weed, son. That's fresh mint grown on my patio." Taking a long pull on her julep she slid down on the couch beside him. Sally rested her head on Bart's shoulder and the two of them remained quiet for a moment, each wishing for a glimpse of the other's thoughts.

"Bart, you seem tense, what's wrong?"

"I'm fine, Sally."

"No, you aren't. You're not in a good place. What's up with you?"

"Alright." Bart fished in his jacket pocket and extracted an envelope which he handed to Sally who immediately started to laugh. The page was a monthly statement for an American Express Centurion account. The only charge for the prior month was for the purchase of a Lamborghini Murcielago from the dealership in Nice, France.

Sally continued laughing hysterically.

"What's so funny about two hundred thousand euros. And, I don't even have an American Express card. Oh, yeah, I also don't have two hundred thousand euros in spare change." Bart sounded a little frantic.

Sally wiped her eyes and smiled. "So, the dead guy got the last laugh, almost."

"What? Ivan did that?"

"Sure. You said he told you it was OK to use his Ferrari. You didn't think it was free, did you? Look, give me this and I'll take care of it."

"Sally, I can't let you pay that bill."

"Who said anything about paying? I said I'd 'take care of it'. Don't worry so much." She was standing very near to him and her dress clung so closely to her skin that every line and curve was plainly visible. Bart's breathing picked up.

"What do you have in mind?"

"This is a game we used to play. Ivan, Ilya, and I started at Stanford. We'd create accounts in one another's names and charge something very expensive. The challenge was to see if your opponent could get out of it without actually paying the bill." Sally took another sip of her drink and, in doing so, spilled some down the front of her dress.

"Shit. Now I'm going to have to change clothes."

"So who's the winner?" Bart asked, oblivious to her comment.

"I was until now, but it seems Ivan went out on top. Don't worry; I'll fix this before we go to dinner." She gave a seductive toss of her blond hair as she dropped the credit card bill over her shoulder.

"If you can do that I'd say you are one righteous hacker." Bart was a little buzzed from less than half his drink.

Her eyes bored directly into his and the dominatrix voice said, "Bart, I am the best in the world." She gave him a new kind of a smile as her dress dropped to the floor.

"Now, let's see how good you are."

The air was sucked out of Bart's lungs, but in that same moment he praised himself for having foregone a look at the video he downloaded from Ilya's computer. The vision of seeing Sally naked for the first time seared itself on his brain. She pushed him back on the couch and straddled him as she took his hands and put them on her bare breasts. Sally was breathing in a gentile pant and he was dizzy to the point of blacking out. Indeed, the clean living Bart Zeigler had found his addiction.

43.

Frank had too much on his mind to enjoy the picturesque train ride to Geneva. He planned to be at his bank in person when the fee for his work in Bordeaux was paid and he had the contents of several safe deposit boxes to deal with.

Over the years he accumulated caches of supplies ferreted away in strategically located bank boxes around the world. For the most part they contained passports, credit cards, modest amounts of cash and gold, and a variety of easily concealed weapons. Such were the small tools of his trade, though he'd only had to rely on them twice in thirty years. He was willing to abandon most of them if things came to that. However, the boxes he maintained in Geneva required his personal attention. One held over twenty-five pounds of C4. He kept the high-powered explosives in reserve for a special occasion: one he hoped would include Serge Malroff.

Times had changed since he locked the stash away. It seemed like a hundred years ago when he brought the stuff across the border from France in the trunk of a Citroen. Purchased from an old acquaintance, a former MI6 operative, the claylike bricks had a long and sordid history. Now, removing the material would be more difficult, though far from impossible.

Staring blankly out the train window he carefully planned his activities for the following day, memorized his schedule, and alternated between dozing lightly and thinking about Joey. He wanted to call her, but knew she would become concerned. Joey understood. He never called when he took these kinds of trips. To break that protocol could set her brilliant mind in motion and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

In some ways Joey reminded him of himself, but he credited her with being far smarter. Frank was clever, street smart, and above all else, lucky. Over the years he believed a heavy ration of luck allowed him to pull off some of the legendary stunts he'd attempted. Most considered him modest, but Frank Beretta called it "common sense". On the other hand, would a man with common sense blow himself up, be resurrected under another identity, and live someone else's life for decades? Clearly skill came into play somewhere in the equation.

In Frank's mind Joey was the smart one. She'd earned a GED at sixteen with the highest score in Alabama, literally fought her way out of a toxic home, and gotten herself halfway through college in eighteen months. When he first met her she was close to graduation and working as a cocktail waitress to pay the bills. In those days, before 9/11, part of the 'cover' for Frank's business included providing security for bars, restaurants, hotels and a couple of strip clubs owned by Hal Marden, a retired New Jersey cop and Rat Pack wannabe. Joey, known as "Joan" at the time, worked at his club in Pompano Beach. The tips were good and the hours fit her schedule. Beretta never cared for those places, no matter how 'classy' they tried to be, but one particular night he stopped in to talk to Marden and the visit would change his life.

Frank had played the scene over in his mind more times than he could count. Even a decade later he closed his eyes and imagined the perfume and liquor sodden air of Hal Marden's Club Indigo. Frank sat at a corner table waiting for Hal to finish an intense conversation with his bar manager. Without halting his assault on his employee Marden raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and motioned toward Frank.

Beretta looked in the direction of the club owner's gesture and saw Joey for the first time. She was about five-six with unusually thick ash blond hair hanging to her shoulders and wearing a different uniform than the other waitresses. Black stilettos, dark hose, and a short, clinging black dress with long sleeves ending in white French cuffs fastened with faux diamond studs. The neckline of the dress descended far enough to reveal she wore no bra and her breasts were firm, real and perfectly shaped. Had those been her only charms he'd have ordered a drink and likely never seen her again, but even the dim lights of the club couldn't conceal something more than beauty. Her skin glowed though she wore little makeup and her smile had an engaging sincerity, but it was the cold depth in her striking, ice-green eyes that riveted Frank. He'd seen the combination of fear and anger before. Instinct told him there was more to this girl than just face and body, a lot more. The gold nametag strategically placed above her left breast read "Joan – VIP Lounge".

"Good evening, sir. My name is Joan. May I serve you something from the bar?"

He gave her one of his own sparkling, genuine smiles.

"I'm Frank Beretta. Would you bring me a Glen Morangie on the rocks?"

"Of course, Mr. Beretta."

"Call me Frank, please."

She smiled and he enjoyed the way she glided away to fetch his drink. Then his thoughts turned to Katya. She'd had the same look in her eyes when they met signaling a girl in trouble: not the kind of trouble you get fixed in a clinic. Frank, the White Knight, sensed a damsel in distress.

Moments later she returned with his scotch.

"Thanks, Joan."

"May I bring you anything else, sir?" The sweet smile mesmerized him and he didn't want her to leave.

"My company provides security for Club Indigo, but I don't come here often. Would you tell me about the "VIP Lounge"?" he asked glancing at the nametag.

"Of course, Mr. Beretta. I can give you a tour if you like."

Frank anxiously agreed but Hal's impromptu arrival interrupted them.

"Frank, I'm sorry. I need another fifteen or twenty minutes with my guy." He motioned vaguely toward the beverage manager standing by the bar.

Beretta glanced at his Rolex for effect. "No problem, Hal. I'll be happy to wait." The man seemed relieved.

"Thanks, thanks a lot." Turning to the beautiful waitress he said, "Joan, please bring Mr. Beretta anything he wants and put it on my account."

"Yes, sir."

Hal left at a near run while Frank picked up his drink and gave the interesting young woman an appraising look.

"Let's take that tour."

Joan motioned for him to follow her to the entrance to the VIP Lounge which turned out to be a private bar and garish, velvet upholstered seating area. There were multiple private rooms off to the side. The main room was empty except for a bartender.

"Jeez, did Elvis decorate this?"

Joan stifled a laugh.

"Mr. Marden spent a lot time personally overseeing this project."

"No doubt. What do you do here?"

"This is for VIP members only. I manage beverage service in this lounge."

"Well, this room is much quieter than out on the main floor."

"Sometimes." Her eyes turned down.

"What are the rooms to the side for?" As if I don't know, but I've got to keep this conversation going. I'm not usually at a loss for words.

"Private dances." Her green eyes flashed before she again looked away.

"Well, it doesn't seem terribly exciting in here now. Are things always this way?"

"Sometimes I wish, but no, Mr. Beretta, that's not the case." Seeing his glass empty she reached to take it and their hands touched. Joan pulled back too quickly to escape Frank's notice then walked over to the bar and had a fresh drink poured for him. Her smile remained, but the sparkle faded a little. She handed Frank the glass and a clean napkin.

"On weekend nights the VIP can stay busy until five AM."

"That takes a lot out of your personal life." Frank sipped his scotch and waited for her response.

"I go to school during the week so the schedule is great for me. I have no family and no social life. The money is good and pays my bills. It's ok. At least for now." Sipping a tonic water and lime she lowered herself into a club chair and Frank did likewise. He'd guessed right on her height. With four inch heels she almost equaled Frank's height of five-eleven. He found himself attracted immediately but her eyes said she was not free.

"I can't imagine someone as pretty as you without any social life." He was distracted by the view of her legs as she shifted in the chair across from him.

Joan smiled, but otherwise ignored his remark about her looks. "Until I graduate college I'm restricted to work and school. Period."

Hal Marden walked in.

"Oh, there you are." He said to Joan, "Good idea to bring Mr. Beretta in the VIP. This room is a lot quieter this evening. Perhaps we should meet in here?" He looked to Frank for a response.

"Fine with me." Beretta sat back and made himself comfortable.

"Good. Joan, would you bring me another, please?"

Joan brought Hal straight bourbon from the bar and put the heavy glass on the table with a "VIP" embossed napkin. Their meeting was not long, more of a social call to let a client know that the owner of Silver Star Security took a personal interest in them. Besides, Hal was a known source of original quality documents including passports and driver's licenses, a skill Frank always found useful. Hal had no complaints or problems with S3 and seemed to be anxious to get back out to the action. The men parted company with Frank saying he might stay for 'one more.'

"Please bring Mr. Beretta another drink." Hal motioned to Joan and headed out the door at a trot.

Frank waved to Joan signaling he had changed his mind. She seemed disappointed. Imagination or wishful thinking on Beretta's part?

As Frank left the room he pressed one of his business cards into her hand and said in a low voice, "If my company or I can ever help you in any way please call me."

"Thank you, Mr. Berretta, I will remember that."

"It's 'Frank', and I hope you do." He walked out of the VIP Lounge with no expectation of seeing the beautiful young woman ever again. Six weeks later he received a call in the middle of the night prompting him to rush immediately to her rescue.

Then the dream ended. Frank had dozed until the train reached Geneva and now he had to stay on a rigid schedule with a checklist of things to accomplish.

44.

The Lion's Hill

Bermuda

Anya answered a gentle knock on her door expecting to see Edward Pendleton with a cup of tea on a small silver tray. Instead she found Jorge Aguierra with his riveting dark eyes, handsome face, and electric smile. She'd been working nearly all night and immediately became self-conscious about her appearance.

"Good morning, Dr. Kovich."

"Uh, good morning."

"I'm sorry if I am intruding. Edward is out and he instructed me to bring you tea at seven thirty." Jorge held up a tray with tea, fresh biscuits, and some orange marmalade.

"Oh, no, but I worked most of the night. I must look awful."

"Not at all, Doctor. If I may say so, you are quite the opposite." He turned the smile up a notch.

"Eres muy amable, Senor Aguierra." And you're also very good looking.

Jorge nodded and delivered the tray to a small table on the narrow balcony overlooking the ocean.

"Muchas gracias."

Anya followed him and seated herself at the little wicker table

"Danada. Pudeo ofrecerte algo mas?"

"No, gracias. He estado comiendo mucha comida deliciosa en la Colina del Leon." And, if I keep eating this way a man like you would never give me a second glance.

"Yes, the food is excellent here. Doctor, you speak Spanish quite well." Jorge's bright smile widened as he spoke.

"Languages are a hobby of mine. With no social life hobbies come in handy, Senor Aguierra."

"Eso va a cambiar. Eres muy Hermosa." That will change. You are very beautiful. His smile and soft eyes captivated her.

"A vy krasyvyy cholovik." And you are a beautiful man, she whispered in her native language.

Jorge's eyes betrayed his understanding of her remark, but Anya didn't notice. She sipped her tea and tried to recall when she'd last been with a man or thought of one in that way. Karl died more than three years earlier. Perhaps the time had come to start thinking about returning to a normal life, and Jorge Aguierra would be an excellent place to start. Serge Malroff had deprived her of enough although he had paid her decently and she discreetly re-invested the funds in well-protected Swiss accounts. She may be a refugee, but one not entirely without resources. The thought of her secret nest egg and the progress she'd made on her project buoyed her spirits. A smile parted her lips as she enjoyed the sun, the sea, and the promise of a new life in California.

After tea she bathed and dressed in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt selected from the clothes Elisabeth had sent to her room. Fortunately for Anya the two women wore the same size and Lady Hartwell generously shared her wardrobe.

Refreshed, she picked up her computer and went back to work. She was angry with herself for having taken so long to realize she was looking in the wrong place. The code the Rusikov brothers sent to Grosserkopf, Haslich & Archloch was what they used to call a "red herring". They had been lured into wasting time while all along the real threat remained embedded in the stock exchange's computer system. The decoy carried the primary code in and then destroyed itself after depositing a brilliant and dangerous virus. And Serge Malroff paid those two twenty-five million euros for a useless piece of work. To Anya's way of thinking he deserved to be cheated, though she now realized he would gladly kill her for her failure to identify the hoax. She thanked God for helping her get away when she did, then found herself wondering just how far Serge's reach extended. To California? Could she ever feel safe as long as he lived?

Pushing her fears aside she made a few keystrokes and traveled back inside the NYSE's computers. After several hours of searching she located the string of code. The task would have been longer, but she had a detailed outline of the system architecture she'd found among Karl's private files. She spent the better part of two more hours analyzing the elegant little program and mapping out a rudimentary defense against the Rusikovs' implant. She code named the impressive virus "Intruder". Designed to remain dormant until someone goaded it to wreak havoc, "Intruder" then returned to hibernation mode and awaited instructions to repeat the process.

Anya was impressed with the brilliance and seeming simplicity of this work but she was also respectful of its creator. It would be unwise to take anything for granted. In her mind whoever wrote this code was nothing short of magical. The activator code remained a mystery, but she created a means of isolating Intruder from external instructions to do its sinister job, or so she hoped. Her firewall merely cut off communications while doing nothing to modify "Intruder" itself. That would take her weeks of intense effort at minimum.

As Anya's familiarity with "Intruder" grew she realized how the virus resembled one her husband had described to her in detail. He'd received it from someone he met in cyberspace who went by the pseudonym "Suspicion". Karl believed "Suspicion" to be the most talented hacker he ever encountered. He regarded this mysterious person as "Incredibly powerful, almost a magician." Apparently he sought out worthy opponents and challenged them to overcome codes he had written. Karl was trying to work out a defense against one of Suspicion's viruses at the time of his death.

Anya felt exhilarated but happy to reach a temporary stopping point in her efforts. She saved her files on a fresh thumb drive and dropped the little device into her pocket. She was anxious to share her news with Elisabeth and Gabe Bowman. Then, another unsettling notion struck her.

If the Rusikovs were brazen enough to cheat a man like Serge Malroff out of a fortune they must also have had a plan for Intruder. Who would they try to sell that little bomb to? It made no sense for them to keep Intruder solely to manipulate markets for their own benefit. This thing had the potential to be a weapon and nowadays weapons of that magnitude had become priceless to a growing list of unsavory characters. All the more reason to disappear quickly into the landscape of northern California.

Even as she called Gabe her excitement was tempered by an unresolved notion that kept turning over in the depths of her brilliant mind. Some important dots remained unconnected and she was compelled to continue trying.

Her conversation with Bowman was brief and he seemed delighted.

"I will make all travel arrangements and be back in touch with you late today. You've done an outstanding job, Anya."

"Thank you, Gabe. I believe I'm on the right team for the first time in a long while." As she said the words Anya felt the weight lifting from her shoulders. Her fresh start was just around the corner.

"I'm pleased to hear the good news. I need a couple of days to transport you from the island, but meanwhile I want you to relax and enjoy your time at Lion's Hill. The estate is beautiful and I envy you. I know Lady Hartwell will be pleased to have you as her guest."

"It's wonderful here, Gabe, but I am anxious to get started in California."

"And you will, very soon. I assure you every possible precaution is being taken to ensure your safety." He saw no reason to upset her by elaborating on how seriously.

"Thank you again, Gabe. I appreciate your concern, and I'm sure I will enjoy remaining at The Lion's Hill a little longer." Perhaps I'll have a little time with Senor Aguierra.

She was beginning to sound steady once more.

"By the way, you might want to familiarize yourself with the history and background of MIT. It may come in useful in your new life."

"OK?" Now she sounded confused. Gabe laughed.

"I know I'm being cryptic. Just trust me."

"I already have: with my life." Her voice was clear and cheerful, but her words were sobering to Gabe Bowman.

"I will not let you down, Anya. None of us will, I promise."

"Thank you. See you soon."

"Yes. Bye for now." Gabe only lived on the fringes of "spook world" and rarely came close to physical danger. He did not take Anya's words or his promise to her lightly.

45.

Boyd Duncan left his drunk and horny partner Jeremy in Nice and traveled to Bordeaux where he walked into yet another flight service center at Merignac Airport. He'd already been to two others, and no one had any recollection of seeing Anya. This one, operated by Legacy Services was his last shot. Lights blazed inside, but no crewmen were visible on the tarmac. Boyd walked up to the partially open hangar door and observed a man at work. In company coveralls and standing beside a gleaming private jet he was cleaning the windscreen.

"Hello, mate."

The fellow looked in Boyd's direction and gave him an indifferent smile.

"Bon jours." Boyd said making the effort to be polite.

"Bon jours," the man responded without enthusiasm as he turned back to his work.

"Parlez vous anglais?" Boyd's French was decent, but his accent grated on the natives.

"Oui." The fellow reluctantly stopped his polishing and walked to where Boyd stood in the narrow opening. His name, Robi, was embroidered in white stitching on his dark blue Legacy coveralls.

"Could you tell me if you've seen this woman?" He held out a recent photo of Anya. He had printed the jpeg on a cheap machine, but the likeness was good. The man took the wrinkled paper from Boyd and studied the image for a moment before responding.

"Oui. I mean, yes." Robi managed a thin smile and motioned with his hand. "Please, come in."

"She is my sister-in-law and I need to get hold of her. A family emergency." It was a stupid and costly lie.

"I think I remember. She came here in the past few days traveling out of the country on a Gulfstream. I refueled the plane myself. I can look for the service card if that will help you." A twinkle showed in Robi's eyes as he rubbed his fingers together representing "money".

Looks like it'll cost me, but finally, I caught a break. I might make a few bucks yet and get that asshole Serge off my back.

"Outstanding, mate." Boyd withdrew a wad of cash as he stepped deeper into the hangar.

"Come with me." Robi motioned for Boyd to follow and led him to the rear of the cavernous building and through a door marked "Operations". They were in a small office with two desks a few chairs and walls filled with charts, schedules and aircraft photos. A battered refrigerator stood against the back wall next to a row of filing cabinets.

"Would you like a beer while I search for the card?"

"Sure. I'd appreciate that."

Robi opened the cooler and extracted a couple of bottles of beer. When he turned around he held a Browning 9mm pistol with a noise suppressor attached.

Boyd didn't have time to process what was happening before Robi shot him once through the forehead. He crumpled to the linoleum floor where he lay on his back, his dead eyes staring at the cold fluorescent light on the ceiling.

Robi removed the cash from the dead man's hand and calmly returned one of the beers to the refrigerator. He uncapped the other bottle and toasted the corpse.

"Here's to ya' mate." The compact Frenchman quietly set about disposing of the late Boyd Duncan's mortal remains.

46.

Usually Joey took Frank's absences in stride, but so far she hadn't been able to shake the tension. Full of nervous energy she finished her daily five-mile run in near record time.

The heat and humidity were at an unseasonable level even for Florida and her running clothes were drenched in sweat when she got home. Entering the side yard through a crisply painted white wood gate she began stripping off her shorts and tee shirt while trotting toward the swimming pool. Rounding the back corner of the house she kicked off her shoes and jumped feet first into the blue water, allowing herself to sink to the bottom and enjoying the instant relief she'd been thinking about every step of the last two miles of her run.

Joey spent ten minutes in the pool and not more than twenty in her getting ready. She headed out the door looking elegant in a short black and white dress and black Gucci flats.

"Did you forget your briefcase?" Billy tossed her soft leather satchel and Joey, agile as a cat, turned to snatch it out of the air.

"Sweet move, Joey."

"Billy, thanks. You saved me a trip back from the office."

"You're welcome. Oh, did I tell you I won't be here until late tomorrow night? Frank asked me to take the boat to Ft. Lauderdale to have some mechanical work done."

"OK." Her voice sounded less than convincing, but she gave Billy a bright smile anyway.

"I can reschedule. The work isn't critical."

"No, Billy. Frank wants it done and I don't want you to change your schedule." With a stern look she said, "I'm serious."

"You're a hard lady to argue with. OK, then."

Joey blew Billy a kiss and tossed her bag into the Cobra still parked in the port cochere. Adjusting the seat a little she fired the car up and said to no one in particular, "Let's find out what his old Ford can do."

Billy laughed as she peeled out of the driveway and ran the powerful V8 up to a high note before shifting gears. Joey, too busy showing off, missed the older Jaguar pulling away from the curb in front of a neighbor's house.

The old Cobra hummed as smoothly as a Swiss watch and a short time later she arrived at the office without as much as a wave from a police officer. She had to admit, the faded blue XKS with two blond "country club" types aboard made a slow pass by her parking. The men in the Jag watched Joey walk into the building before heading south toward the Breakers golf course.

She fought off the impulse to visit Frank's empty suite and went straight to her own office.

"Good morning, Jill." She said with a bright smile.

"Good morning, Joey. Looks like your day is off to a good start."

"Yes, thank you. I had an excellent run and I just drove the doors off Frank's old Ford. That car's no match for the Porsche." She grinned.

"That's encouraging."

None of Joey's staff comprehended her obsession with fast cars, her Porsche in particular, but as a boss her virtues far outweighed her few vices so they all just chuckled and got on with their business.

Joey went to her desk and started the day by responding to emails. Half an hour later she was on the phone catching up with voice mails when Jill appeared in the doorway giving a hand signal indicating an important call on hold. Joey disengaged from her conversation in progress with the polite promise of a call back later.

"Joey, I'm sorry to interrupt you."

"No problem. I was talking to Marlie Stevens. Personal chatter, not business."

Jill still looked apologetic as she said, "Gabe Bowman is on the line. He asked to speak with you in Frank's absence."

"Of course. Please put him through."

She didn't know Gabe well, but his company, Dynamic Integrity had been a client of Frank's for as long as she could remember and S3 billed them a lot of consulting hours during the year.

"Good morning, Gabe, this is Joey Beretta."

"Mrs. Beretta, good morning. Thanks for taking my call." Joey remembered Gabe to be a slight, balding man with a pleasant face. On the phone he had a rich baritone voice like the guy who did the narration on movie trailers.

"Please, call me Joey."

"I shall. Joey, I'm sorry for the short notice, but I'm flying into Palm Beach later this morning. Would you be available for lunch? I have am urgent business matter I need to discuss with you."

"Of course. What time does your plane arrive?"

Some muffled conversation went on before Bowman came back on the line.

"The pilot says we should be on the ground by eleven."

"Fine. I'll be happy to pick you up at the airport if you like."

"Frank's team already arranged transportation. Why don't I come straight to your office?"

"Perfect."

"Thanks. See you in a couple of hours. I'm sorry for being evasive, but I'll fill you in as soon as I see you."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you, Gabe." Joey switched to another line and dialed Mac Larsen, Frank's head of operations.

"Good morning," the former Secret Service agent answered in a cheerful voice.

"Mac, good morning. Are you able to come down to my office for a moment?"

"Of course, Mrs. B. Two minutes."

In precisely two minutes Mac's six foot four inch frame filled a substantial portion of her doorway. At forty he remained as fit as he had been during his years as a Gator football star. He paused at the door waiting for an invitation to enter. A naturally polite man, his courtliness had been honed by a long stretch in the Secret Service and on POTUS's security detail. He still adhered to a dress code that had him looking like an investment banker even in the heat of Palm Beach.

"Mac, please come in." Joey smiled. She never stood on formality, especially in her own office, but she motioned for him to take a seat knowing he'd automatically pause by the chair.

"Thank you."

She cut right to the chase. "What can you tell me about Gabe Bowman?"

"In what regard?"

"He just called from his plane and asked for a lunch meeting. He told me you already arranged transportation for him so I thought you might fill me in on what's going on."

"I got the transport request a few minutes before you took his call. He has reservations at the Brazilian Court tonight but is unsure if he'll stay. I have security on standby in case he does. He asked me to arrange secure transportation for a new DI staffer. A high profile target. Beyond that the client will have to brief you." His smile was polite an unapologetic.

Joey recognized he wasn't going to part with any additional information. Frank hired Mac for his sphinx-like discretion and secrecy was key to the corporate division's success so she backed away from the subject.

"Alright. Thanks, Mac. I'll be anxious to learn more from Gabe."

The meeting ended and Mac began to leave the office, but not before adding, with a twinkle in his eye, "The Boss says, 'don't scratch the old Ford."

"Thanks, Mac."

A message from Frank. Somehow he must have sensed her apprehension and wanted to let her know he was alright. Damn I'm a lucky girl. Joey smiled, now able to relax a little and better contemplate her meeting with Gabe.

47.

Menlo Park, California

"Jack was right."

Bart heard a soft voice whispering in a long tunnel followed be sweet laughter. He slept on, loving the dream.

"C'mon. Wake up." A hand touched his shoulder, gently shaking him. Through sleepy slits he got a hazy vision of Sally Ramsay leaning over him. She wore a short colorful silk robe that hung wide open in front and her perfect breasts were perfectly visible. Must be a dream.

"What was Jack right about?" What the hell? If this is a dream why not participate?

"Us, Bart. He said we should 'get a room'. I'm glad we did. What about you, baby?" She slid into bed beside him and he felt her body press against him through the soft slick fabric of her robe. Sweet.

"Yeah. Right. Get a room." Bart mumbled before coming wide awake to find himself staring directly into the big blue eyes of Sally herself. Her warm breath came closer and before he could say anything she took his face in her hands and kissed him aggressively.

Surfacing for air she said, "You'll find mouthwash and toothpaste and everything else you need in the bathroom. Why don't you check that out while I get us some orange juice?" Ever the polite hostess.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, popped out of bed, and danced from the room with each step revealing one or the other of her fabulous buns. Bart never felt the need to pinch himself before, but this time he did, just to be certain.

Still a little groggy he rolled out of bed, embarrassed to find he was naked. Dream or not I guess we're well beyond worrying about that. Imagine?

The feminine master bath, clad in pink and crème colored marble smelled of Sally's favorite perfume and sported a big walk-in shower. She'd laid out a complete set of 'man appropriate' toiletries beside one of the two sinks. Bart wondered if she had a lot of male guests and whether debutantes routinely showed their lovers this kind of hospitality. Whatever! He turned the big chrome handle marked "shower" and was treated to a symphony of no less than six spray heads spewing hot water in every direction. He stepped in and luxuriated in the relaxing surge. By comparison, his own shower would never look the same. Twenty minutes later he dropped a single use toothbrush in the trash and emerged from the bathroom showered, freshly shaved and wrapped in a towel wondering where he left his clothes.

Sally called out, "Bart, I'm in the kitchen."

Her voice had a new musical tone and he couldn't wait to hear it again. He found his hostess seated at the black granite-topped bar sipping a tall coffee. A place had been set next to hers with an elegant linen placemat. A square white plate rested on it. A glass of orange juice waited next to an octagonal white cup ready to be filled with coffee. She'd also laid out biscuits, assorted fruit, and a selection of preserves. A guy could get used to this.

Bart stopped behind Sally's stool and without thought or reservation put his hands gently on her shoulders then leaned over and kissed Sarah Brooke Ramsay lightly on the neck. In response she did not speak; she purred. A guy could get used to that, too, he thought sliding onto the stool next to hers.

"We missed dinner last night, didn't we?"

"Yes, Bart, we did," she said feigning a demure smile.

"We pretty much did it everywhere in the house, didn't we?"

"Yes, Bart, we did. Four times if memory serves me." Sally sipped her coffee without looking at him, but he knew she was smiling her little smile.

"Imagine." Zeigler took a fig from the plate and began to cut it.

"Yes, just imagine. You invite me to have a drink after work and wind up taking advantage of me again and again and in my own home no less." She tried but couldn't deliver the line with a straight face.

"Holy shit! Work! What time is it?"

"Bart, calm down. I already sent Jerry emails. We're not going to work today."

"What?"

"You heard me. You're 'incapacitated' and I had a 'family emergency'."

"What's your family emergency?"

"I'm taking you to Sausalito for lunch. Ever been there on a sailboat?"

"No. Sounds like fun." Said the man who had worked nearly every day of the past four years.

"It will be, but first, you need to try the preserves."

"What?"

Without breaking eye contact Sally let the top of her robe fall as she seductively rubbed strawberry preserves on her nipples. The dominatrix tone seeped back into her voice.

"I made them myself, Bart. Try my preserves."

What was a polite man to do but comply with his hostess's request? After all, both she and her preserves looked delicious and he was beyond resisting anyway.

Hours later, as they set out across the bay on a forty foot sloop Bart discovered Sally to be an expert sailor. The smile on her face and the sparkle in her eyes as she made the elegant boat dance over the choppy water of San Francisco Bay etched a picture in his mind. This brilliant, complex, sexy woman promised to take him on the ride of his life and any recollections of the videos from Ilya's computer erased themselves from his memory.

Sally wrestled with a stream of conflicted feelings about Bart as she tacked away from the wake of an outbound supertanker. God, this is really going to get complicated! A tiny tear trickled down her cheek. She blamed the wind.

48.

Frank spent a busy day in Geneva transferring money from one account to another, drafting and signing letters and documents, shuffling the contents of various safety deposit boxes, and arranging for the use of a private plane to fly to Italy himself. Then, he arranged the bricks of C4 in a brief case that he loaded into the trunk of his rental car.

Just before noon he enjoyed a light lunch at the offices of his Swiss attorney and friend, Karl Kreisler.

"The world has become a complicated place, has it not?" Karl was a multi faceted intellectual prone to thinking aloud in broad philosophical concepts.

"Compared to what, Karl?"

Kreisler smiled at his pragmatic friend. "Compared to a hundred years ago. Even fifty years ago."

"What about five hundred years ago? The Inquisition?" Frank puffed lightly on a Cuban cigar as he baited his intellectual sparring partner.

"Come now, Frank. You know better. Those days were not complex. One was right or wrong, guilty or innocent, and alive or dead. No, not complicated." Karl spoke English with only a trace of a German accent. He was, after all, a Princeton graduate with a Harvard law degree.

"Sounds like a summary of my life."

"Ah yes, the life of a soldier and one in which there is great honor. Surely you haven't lost sight of the greater benefit of what you do?"

"I was trained not to, but I do, Karl. You, of all people, know that. Too much for your own good." He took a sip of his wine, a California chardonnay from Largesse Vineyards, and the smooth taste pleased him.

"I am interested when a dedicated soldier like you questions the veracity of the direction he is given. In the long ago past you wouldn't have had the perspective, education or inclination to question authority. Where once it was black and white it is now all muddled in shades of gray."

"So you believe the 'information age' is not good?"

"It is wonderful, but we are, how shall I say, at an 'awkward' stage in its evolution. We will all be better off eventually, but first we must learn not to drown in the sea of information available to us."

"Drown? I don't think so, Karl. I'm more concerned that the medium will become a weapon. What if the wars of the future are all fought in a different dimension? In cyberspace?"

"What makes you think we are not there now?"

"Did I say that?"

The fastidious lawyer smiled at this friend.

"I stand corrected. I inferred so from your use of the future tense."

Frank gave a thin smile and paused, as if choosing his next words very carefully.

"Karl, the paradigm is shifting and I wonder how our enemies, old and new, will react as they discover ways to use our own technology against us. Warfare at a cyber level might seem bloodless at first, but over time prove more devastating than an atomic arsenal."

"A world thrown into mass chaos? Chilling."

"Do you remember The Sorcerer's Apprentice?"

"Yes. An amusing fable and, perhaps, a wise one."

Beretta blew thin jets of cigar smoke toward the high ceiling then raised his glass in a toast.

"To the wisdom of fables."

"You're an interesting man, Frank. A romantic, an intellectual and a warrior all in one person."

"You overestimate me, I'm afraid. I'm just an old soldier."

"Salute." Karl toasted his friend before switching subjects.

"As much as I am enjoying our repartee I don't want to loose sight of the business purpose of our meeting." The efficient lawyer lifted a thick sheaf of heavy bond paper from his desk.

"These are the documents you asked me to draft for you. I have time to review them with you if you wish. All of the assignments of assets are as you requested as is the trust I established here in Switzerland."

Frank nodded in agreement and the two men spent the next hour going through the various items until Frank was satisfied. Taking the lawyer's fat black fountain pen in hand he put his signature on the appropriate sheets. Done.

"Frank, I will retain the originals here in my office. No action will be taken until your death which I hope is a very long while. Will you be keeping copies in a safe deposit box?"

"No. I now have only one box and it is covered in the envelope I gave you." The answer had finality to it.

"Then I will follow your new instructions to the letter."

"Good. I know I can rely on you."

"Your faith is well placed." The lawyer opened the dark wood box on his glass-topped desk and offered Frank another cigar.

"Thanks, Karl, may I take one 'for the road'?"

"Of course, please do."

Beretta took another cigar and tucked it into the breast pocket of his blue blazer. No real Marine goes into combat without a cigar in his pocket.

After a brief farewell the two friends parted company. Frank completed the last of his banking business then returned to his hotel. The ravages of too little sleep had begun to wear on him so he went downstairs to the gym for a strenuous workout and, afterwards, to the spa for an hour long deep tissue massage. Later, he poured a couple of Grey Goose miniatures into a glass of ice then studied the room service menu. It was going to be an early night. He still had many things to accomplish before he departed for Laglio and sleep was critical.

After a meal of steak and pomme frittes he stretched out in bed and thought about Joey until he dozed off.

Anya, tense from her marathon work session, had a hard time getting to sleep. After midnight she stopped trying and padded out onto the narrow balcony to enjoy some fresh air and relax to the sounds of the surf. The sea breeze felt warm and gently encircled her body, naked beneath a thin linen shirt. She leaned out over the railing and spread her arms like a sea bird.

Below and unnoticed by Anya, Jorge Aguierra reclined in an old hammock with a beer and cigar as he, too, tried to put the day to rest. He quietly watched Anya and their earlier conversation crept back into his thoughts. And you are a beautiful man. He'd been smiling over her words all day and now, seeing her lean, toned body and her rounded breasts silhouetted against the dim lamp light he acted impulsively.

Jorge stepped out of the shadows and called to her in a soft voice little more than a whisper.

"Anya, Buenos noches. Por favor disculpeme."

Seeing Jorge's smile sparkling in the low patio light below sent a delightful frisson up her spine.

"Buenos noches, Sr. Aguierra."

"I see you are having trouble sleeping, too."

"Si. Estoy mui tenso," she said knowing he must be able to see through her shirt and making no effort to conceal herself. Hoping he liked what he saw.

"Tense, eh? May I bring you something to help you relax?"

"Yes, please."

"A brandy or cognac?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Sr. Aguierra." Her excitement only grew in the time it took for Jorge to collect a bottle of Hennessy and two snifters and ascend the wide staircase leading to the guest bedrooms.

Anya answered the gentle tap on her door almost immediately and gave Jorge barely enough time to put the bottle and glasses down before kissing him with a passion that had been building for a long while. Three years to be precise. She guided his hands to her breasts and began helping him out of his clothes. When Jorge lifted her easily and carried her to the bed Anya felt safe in his arms.

As he gently slid between her thighs she thought she heard him say, "A krasyva zhinka, Anya." And you are a beautiful woman, Anya. But she was quickly caught up in the moment and couldn't be sure. She found him assertive yet gentle and their coupling left her satisfied and spent.

49.

A Mercedes G Class pulled up to the main entrance of S3's offices off Royal Poinciana Boulevard and Gabe Bowman stepped out into the warm Florida sun. But for the magnetic pull of Silicon Valley he'd have been tempted to move Dynamic Integrity's headquarters to Palm Beach with its great climate, beautiful beaches, and no state income tax.

Joey met him in S3's small, elegant lobby.

"Gabe, welcome. I'm happy to see you again."

"A pleasure, Mrs. Beretta.

"'Joey', please." She put a hand on Gabe's shoulder and directed him toward the executive offices.

"Once again I'm sorry for the short notice, but a situation has come up. I need S3's assistance."

"Frank is traveling right now. Mac Larsen and I will do whatever is necessary to meet your needs."

"I already spoke with Mac this morning, Joey, and he told me Frank specifically recommended that I talk to you about our situation."

Joey hid her surprise but thought it unusual for Frank to refer a corporate client to her without advance warning. She guided Gabe into the company's board room. A dining table for two had been set up.

"I'll make every effort to help you, Gabe. I took the liberty of arranging for lunch in here." She handed him several menus and added, "We can order takeouts from one of the local restaurants. They all have excellent food and here we will be able to speak freely."

"Of course." Gabe glanced at his watch. "This will work better for me because I need to get back in the air sooner than expected. I'd planned to stay in Palm Beach overnight, but our mission changed."

Our mission? Joey wondered at having never been part of a corporate side 'mission" as Frank labeled them.

Jill stepped into the room carrying bottles of FIJI Water and a small note pad. Both Joey and Gabe took only moments to order their lunch: a lobster and crab salad for her and a crab salad sandwich for him.

When Jill left Joey turned to Gabe and said in earnest, "So, welcome to Palm Beach and how can I help you?" Her green eyes narrowed as did her focus on the work at hand.

Impressed, Gabe began cautiously, "The mission we are discussing is classified at the highest levels. I will tell you what I can and nothing more. Please don't think me rude."

Joey nodded.

"This week S3 rescued a high value computer scientist from a hostile environment."

"S3 meaning Frank?"

Gabe didn't speak though his face answered Joey's question. He continued, "This individual is in a safe but temporary location. A new identity has been arranged for her and, with that in place, she will join my team in Palo Alto."

"How soon?"

"Two days if we stay on schedule."

Joey scratched on her note pad and Gabe said, "Dr. Anne Fitch requires intense security until the threat against her has been eliminated."

Joey wondered how the threat would be eliminated and why the Federal Marshal wasn't providing security. As if reading her mind Gabe continued, "Knowledge of Dr. Fitch's existence is restricted to an extraordinarily small number of people. S3 is already involved in the mission and we don't want to widen the circle. Then there's the short time line."

"I understand." Joey was excited by the challenge though a bit put off by the secrecy. Was Frank involved in eliminating the threat? She kept her questions to herself.

"I realize there is a lot of work to do." Gabe withdrew a single sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Joey. "This is the contact information for Jerry Bachman, my special assistant in Palo Alto. He is the only other person with detailed information about Dr. Fitch. Jerry is available to you 24 / 7, but should only be contacted per the instructions I have given you."

She shook her head affirmatively.

"Let me make this point clear, the primary threat against Dr. Fitch is abduction. She is of exceptionally high value to our adversaries so her physical safety is as important to them as it is to us."

Joey opened a notebook computer and wrote methodically while Gabe tucked into his thick sandwich.

"I presume arrangements have been made for a residence for Dr. Fitch."

"Yes. The building has interior corridors with few entry points and an internal parking garage. Frank and Mac recommended the location from a half dozen choices."

"Alright. We'll monitor the situation and if the threat level continues I will probably suggest additional measures in the apartment. With more lead time I would have leased a unit and installed a pair of covert agents in the building as tenants."

Gabe smiled. "Done. I have a certain amount of influence with the building owner."

"You're making life too easy for me, Gabe."

"I only wish that were true, Joey."

"Will Jerry fill me in on the specifics of Dr. Fitch's travel arrangements?"

"Yes, but I can tell you. She's flying on Dynamic's corporate jet. The plane is managed by Legacy and we'll be landing at San Jose. We'll clear customs through Legacy's FBO."

"Good." Joey sent a command to the wireless printer on a side table and a sheet of paper quietly appeared. "This is a quick outline of my plan." She handed the page to Gabe and continued, "We will embed agents in Dr. Fitch's building. In a town like Palo Alto it's important that the agents blend in. They and backups will be on duty or on call 24 / 7 until we are certain the threat level drops. I'll go to California to make sure all of the necessary elements are in place and to meet Dr. Fitch's plane. I'll talk to Jerry about her transportation and routes to and from work."

"You are as meticulous as your husband, Joey. I'm glad to have you on board for this mission. I've got every confidence in you and S3."

"Thank you." At last Joey took a few bites of her salad but Gabe was a man in a hurry, so there was little time for small talk.

"I hope the next time I come to Palm Beach I have a chance to stay long enough to enjoy the town."

"Let us know in advance. We'd love for you to stay at our house and Frank never misses an opportunity to take his new boat out fishing."

"Well, I'm sure I'd be safe staying at the Beretta's personal residence." He chuckled a little and said, "One day I will accept your kind invitation, but for now, I need to be on my way."

"Of course." Joey walked the slight, balding computer whiz to the entrance where they shook hands and parted company.

The Mercedes whisked Gabe to Palm Beach International Airport and moments after his arrival he boarded a G550 and was airborne on his way to Bermuda. As the plane leveled off Gabe turned to the big, athletic man who filled the seat across the aisle.

"That went well. Your boss should be pleased with the result."

"He'll be happier when he knows Mrs. B is in California." Mac Larsen pulled on his aviator style shades and leaned back.

"And I'll be happier when Anya Kovich is in California. Excuse me. I need to erase that name from my memory. I'll be happy when Anne Fitch is in California."

At the office Joey contacted Jerry Bachman then catalyzed a storm of activity arranging for her own travel, selecting temporary security agents from the "California pool", and scheduling the installation of "non-invasive" security devices at Anne Fitch's future home.

The work kept her mind from wondering what danger Frank was in as he "eliminated the threat". She was new to this side of the business but, ever resourceful. Minutes on her computer verified that Gulfstream Five-Zero Delta India filed a flight plan from Palm Beach to Bermuda. Now she had something else to wonder about.

50.

Geneva, Switzerland

Frank got up early and ordered a room service breakfast then grabbed a quick shower and shave while he waited for it to be delivered. Dressed in his standard khakis and polo shirt he was checking the aviation weather when his meal arrived.

The bellman wheeled the serving cart into the room, provided setup service, and left smiling with a generous gratuity in his pocket.

Frank finished jotting down the particulars of the weather report and was pleased to note that it called for clear skies all the way to Milan. That meant he could do a little sightseeing since his route would have him flying over the eastern edge of the Alps.

Picking at his European breakfast of thinly sliced ham, boiled eggs, cheese and bread he thought back on his conversation with Karl. Times were changing to be sure, and it was fast becoming impossible to separate the good guys from the bad. Effectively, in his mind, the emergence of "spook world" had muddled them together. Good guy one day and bad the next, and worse, since 9-11 all of the clandestine agencies were in competition with one another.

Over the past week he'd killed two men who, not long ago, would have automatically been regarded as "friendly." They were CIA field ops guys, for god's sake, and why were they dead now? Because their masters wanted a woman named Anya Kovich to run a secret program that would, in effect, give them financial independence from the federal government. Bad enough that they felt no moral allegiance but who knew what might happen when they had no financial dependence either? To make matters worse, the Commander in Chief was dependant on a man he'd never met, handled by a counselor he rarely saw, to rectify a situation that didn't exist, at least not officially. Pretzel logic. Then there was the Russian. Ivan Rusikov. He was dead at Frank's hands because he was trying to sell the money making software scam to someone else and his brother was likely dead for the same reason., Beretta had his own suspicions about who blew up the Sheik's yacht and he knew Mac was already pressing their contacts in Israel, but that was a matter for another day.

Munching on the last bits of his breakfast Frank looked out on the city with a quixotic smile knowing that he was going to kill once more, but this time it was solely to close out an old account.

The brief case containing the C4 rested gently on the bed. Twenty sticks of highly explosive material that looked like modeling clay. Its former owner had packaged soft material in airtight plastic and Frank double wrapped them to prevent detection by bomb sniffing dogs though that was not of great concern while the material remained in his bank vault. Now, with luck and the help of the crew at Legacy's FBO at Malpensa in Milan he would deliver that case to Serge Malroff's doorstep: very soon.

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in or I'll blow your house down!"

Frank chuckled to himself as he gathered up his few bags and got ready to drive out to the airport. By the time he arrived, took care of the rental car, and pre-flighted the rented Pilatus single engine jet prop it would be past mid-morning and he was getting anxious to take in the sights from the air. He'd waited a long time to settle his account with Malroff and he was going to savor every minute of the experience.

As Frank guided his Audi A3 toward Cointrin, a flurry of activity erupted at The Lion's Hill. Just before dawn an S3 security officer captured an intruder at the jagged perimeter of the estate and Mac Larsen who had arrived late the prior evening was interrogating the unfortunate in a dank cellar beneath the garage.

Unaware of the intrusion, Anya was awakened by a hairdresser and makeup expert who had been summoned by Lady Hartwell to help her make the transition from "Anya" to "Anne". It was apparent from the beginning that disguising Anya's natural beauty would be difficult. So, they decided to go with making her 'different'. That meant a radical haircut and a complete change of hair and eye color, courtesy of contact lenses.

Before she'd had her morning tea her naturally blond hair was on its way to dark red with copper highlights. Then she got a break for breakfast before the stylist chopped her shoulder length hair into a much shorter and slightly spiky look that reminded Anya of a pixie. Lady Hartwell pronounced her to be "cute", but Anya, wasn't so sure.

As the makeup expert worked deftly on her face she could hear Lady Harwell in the background fussing over pieces of new clothing for her 'temporary' wardrobe. One thing was certain, however, she would be leaving Bermuda with more in hand than she'd had departing Milan, or worse, Bordeaux.

For traveling Anya dressed in worn designer jeans, a tank top, and a plain black hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with a fashion designer's rugby inspired logo. All the better to blend in with the Palo Alto locals, she was told. She wasn't so sure: the skull looked a little ominous to her. The stylist made a few unnecessary adjustments to her hair as she slid her feet into a pair of Italian sandals. With the addition of contact lenses that transformed her cool blue eyes to hazel Anya Kovich ceased to exist: she had become Dr. Anne Fitch, PhD and Dynamic Integrity's newly recruited Chief Research Officer.

By the time Anne made her first appearance on the terrace Mac had returned to the house and was seated with Gabe and Elisabeth at the elegant wrought iron table. They treated her to a round of applause although, in her own best interests, Mac and Gabe both wished that somehow her looks could have been subdued. In their male opinions she was even more attractive now than she had been a few hours before. And that was pretty damned attractive. The two men exchanged glances but said nothing.

"Anne, you look marvelous," was Elisabeth's greeting. "You'll blend right in with the California crowd."

"Thank you. I hope so." The newly self-conscious Anne Fitch fidgeted a little in her chair, but she did sincerely want to fit in.

"You certainly will." Gabe added his reassurance. Perhaps too well.

"You have my vote," The recently divorced Mac Larson surprised himself with his level of enthusiasm.

Then the time came depart and saying 'goodbye' to Elisabeth Hartwell was much more difficult than Anne would have expected. Suddenly she was overcome by visions of the terrible circumstances of their meeting and recollections of Elisabeth's comforting voice and caring hands making sure she had not been injured. As if that were not enough, during her short time here she had grown to truly love The Lion's Hill and all its residents, not the least of whom were Sasha and Tatiana who now stood beside her with their tails wagging. Tears formed in her eyes and she choked on her own words of gratitude.

"Anne, you will always be a welcome guest here at The Lion's Hill. All you need do is ring me up and let me know you're coming to visit." Anne hugged her and Lady Hartwell an elegantly wrapped gift into Anne's hand.

"A little remembrance of your visit here and, perhaps, a bit of good luck to go with you."

"Thank you. Thank you for my life."

Princess Ekaterina Yusupov choked back tears remembering the time she looked into Frank Beretta's dark eyes and spoke those same words. She pulled herself together quickly and regally and answered with the same words Frank had spoken to her.

"It has been my privilege."

The women embraced once more and as they separated Katya said, "I know we will meet again soon."

As the small entourage headed toward a black Range Rover waiting by the front door, Lady Hartwell whispered into Gabe's ear, "Take good care of her. My instincts tell me that she is a special girl and deserving of very special care."

Gabe nodded in agreement.

Less than an hour later Anne, Mac and Gabe were comfortably nestling into the soft leather seats of Dynamic Integrity's Gulfstream jet. They had a long flight ahead of them and many things to do once they arrived in California. The plane was well away from Bermuda when Anne remembered the gift. She opened the little box to find a small gold pendant engraved with the Hartwell family crest accompanied by a handwritten note from Elisabeth:

You will always have a safe haven at The Lion's Hill.

51.

On the return trip from Sausalito Sally showed Bart some of the basics of sailing then turned the helm over to him. The young math whiz fast recognized the relationship between steering a sailboat, geometry and physics and soon became addicted.

"Sally, I love it. Let's sail out under the Golden Gate and wander the world." He sounded half serious.

"Whoa, Captain Cook. I promised to return my friend's boat sometime this year."

"We could steal her."

"Eight hours away from the office and you turn into a sailing bum." Sally said with a happy smile, "Yesterday a respected engineer; today a pirate. I seem to bring out the best in people."

Bart frowned realizing he hadn't thought about work all afternoon. "Yeah, I guess Gabe would miss us."

"There is that. My father keeps a boat down at Marina Del Ray. She's a sloop, too, but a lot bigger than this one. We've sailed her to Hawaii at least a dozen times. One day soon we'll go down to LA and take her out."

"Sounds good." Bart tried to be nonchalant but he started the day hooked on Sally and now he found himself hooked on her favorite sport as well. He took the invitation as evidence she had longer term intentions for him. At least he wasn't a "one night stand". Good to know.

Back in San Francisco, Bart, the sailing newbie, regarded stowing the sails and the mundane clean up effort as fun and made fast work of helping Sally. Soon they retrieved her car and headed back to Menlo Park.

"Do you want to stay at my house again tonight?" She asked in a matter of fact way.

"I hadn't thought about it." Bart hid his elation.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I didn't know I had the option."

"Now you know. What's your answer?"

"Of course I want to stay at your house tonight."

"Bingo. Right answer, Bart." Sally's soft fingertips stroked his cheek then she rested her hand strategically on his thigh for the remainder of the ride to her condo.

When they arrived at her building Sally asked, "Are you going to need to pick up some clothes from home?"

"Yeah, I probably should."

"OK. You go ahead while I clean up."

"Sure."

"Do you mind stopping by Tamarine on the way back? I'll call in a take-out order."

"No problem."

Sally gave him a rather chaste kiss on the cheek, all things considered. Bart drove off in the BMW wondering if he should pinch himself again. As soon as the front door closed behind her Sally raced to her laptop and attacked the keys. First, she ordered dinner and then took care of a lingering piece of business.

Bart completed his assigned tasks and returned to find Sally dressed in bright green shorts and a white polo shirt. She sat barefoot and cross-legged on the couch listening to Diana Krall having selected a "romantic" playlist on her iPod before interfacing with a powerful Bose base system.

"While you hang up your bag I'll take care of the food. I'm starved, how about you?"

"Since all I got for breakfast was preserves, yeah, I'm hungry." He smirked; she grinned.

"Then go. Stow your stuff and clean up a little. I'll have our meal on the table by the time you're done." To Bart's surprise she ignored his remark about 'preserves'.

Bart followed instructions then headed to the kitchen where he assumed they'd eat at the bar.

"I'm out here." Sally's soft voice drifted from a formal dining area perched above the living room on an elevated podium. Candles twinkled and a low gas fire glowed in the big central fireplace. Andrea Bocelli sang in the background and a delicious meal of giant prawns, Empress Rice, fried Calamari and grilled vegetables beckoned.

Bart held Sally's chair then seated himself across the table. He discovered an ivory colored envelope bearing his name written in Sally's distinct, precise script. He hadn't thought of her as the kind of girl who left mushy cards, but he may have misjudged her in a lot of ways. Sally smiled as Bart opened the envelope with curiosity.

Inside he found a copy of a confirmation of adjustments to his Centurion Card account. The charges for the Lamborghini had been reversed and the statement showed a 'zero' balance.

"Sorry, I forgot to take care of this when I promised." She purred, "Seems I found something better to do at the time."

"Thank you."

"By way of amends you are now an American Express Centurion cardholder in good standing. Your card will arrive by UPS and, in consideration of your substantial business, the card fees have been waived for the next five years." She sounded like a call center agent, but Sally's eyes twinkled and the tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth showed as she shared the information.

"But, Sally."

"Just put the card in your drawer. You never know when unlimited credit may be useful." Sally handled her chopsticks like an expert as she popped a piece of fried Calamari into her mouth.

"Sally." He wanted to protest but her cute pout seduced him.

"Eat your dinner Bart. The food is excellent and you won't get dessert unless you clean your plate."

After a tasty meal they stretched out on the couch and listened as a mellow guitar blanketed the room. Bart recognized Sally's continuous use of background music as an artistic reflection of her moods and, for the first time, noticed a Steinway tucked into the opposite corner of the living room.

"How long have you played piano?"

"A long time." Her voice was soft and dewy with contentment.

"Will you play for me?"

"Yes, some other night." She snuggled into the crook of Bart's arm.

In the firelight and safe refuge of the big, cozy couch they began the inevitable process of sharing more personal details of their lives.

Bart told the story of a suburban kid from Denver where his Dad still practiced oral surgery. Mom stayed at home when not raising money for good causes and Bart described himself as 'unremarkable'.

"Unremarkable? How old were you when you dropped out of MIT?"

"Eighteen."

"And you were a junior. You should have been planning for high school prom."

"I suppose." Bart sounded uncomfortable.

Sally spoke into his ear in a husky whisper, "You're so smart, baby, and I think brains are hot."

"So do I, Sally. Looks to me like we're both in the right place."

Bart told her that, as a teenager, he wrote a scheduling program for manufacturing, but got cheated out of a fortune by a slick venture capital guy. She already knew the story, but it was the first time he told someone how badly it hurt to be ripped off. After that, he said he'd gone to work for DI and concluded with, "not much else to tell." She knew better, but didn't press.

Sally described herself as the "unconventional product of a politely and thoroughly dysfunctional home". To Bart it sounded a little like a prepared sound bite. She said her mother carried on a lengthy affair with a South American polo player while her father, a third generation philanthropist and public servant, worked and traveled. From boarding school to Stanford she'd pretty much raised herself with the exception of 'family' vacations and visits to her maternal grandparent's home. The same life described in her vast treasure of photos.

Within the past year word leaked out that the elder Ramsay and his foundation had been robbed of hundreds of millions of dollars by a crooked New York fund manager named Bluestone. Ambassador Ramsay retreated to his condo in Santa Monica where he lived quietly, working on behalf of charities and writing a history of the early US. Sally said he'd been fighting depression and alcohol abuse since the news of his financial situation surfaced and spent time at a private clinic. His physical condition looked bleak, but she refused to sell his sailboat, the one they'd toured the Hawaiian Islands on during happier times. One day, she hoped, they would sail together once again.

After midnight they walked hand in hand to the bedroom, stripped off their clothes and climbed into bed and one another's arms. Exhilarated but exhausted they closed their eyes with gentle guitar music still serenading them. They would remember the occasion as far more intimate than the prior evening's sex fest. Bart fell asleep with a smile and a new vision of how their lives might be. Sally allowed herself to share his optimism in her dreams.

52.

The plane carrying Anne Fitch had not yet crossed the east coast of the United States when Serge Malroff received a phone call from a familiar Swiss number.

"Yes."

"Your employee has gone."

"Please give me information I do not have, imbecile."

"Insults are not productive." Rudy had sprouted a pair of balls.

"Then tell me why you are calling at this hour."

"I told you the woman passed through Merignac Airport. Now I understand the man you sent to investigate is dead."

"He was an idiot!" Serge held his fury in check, but only with great effort.

"Even so, my investigation led me to believe she left on a plane bound for Bermuda." Rudy enjoyed having the upper hand but with a guy like Serge it was dangerous to feel comfortable.

Bermuda. The mere word stung him. He knew Katya Yusupov had entrenched herself in the safety of her late husband's estate there. Lady Hartwell indeed. Ever since the meddling bastard Frank Beretta took her from him she managed to remain just beyond his grasp. How he regretted not killing her when he had the chance. Insufferable bitch.

"Do you know or are you guessing?"

"Suspicion, guess, instinct? Who cares? Did KGB teach you nothing?" Once again Geisler dared to insult and Serge's temper flared.

"Alright! Your point is made. Where is Anya Kovich?"

"On her way to the United States, I imagine, if she hasn't already arrived."

"I want her!" Serge began to lose control.

"I cannot help you. Since 9/11 I have not ventured across the American borders. You are on your own."

"On my own? On my own, you son of a bitch? How dare you? I own your ass you fucking fat pig!" Rudy hung up but Serge ranted on.

The bastard's insolence inflamed him and another tantrum ensued. The rage abated only after he had flung everything off his elegant desk and dropped into his tufted leather chair. A thin line of blood trickled from his nose.

With the Rusikovs dead and Anya gone his prospects grew dim. If Geisler's intel proved correct, the CIA now had control of Anya. Perhaps a bargain could be struck. Insolent or not Geisler had it right about the level of paranoia and chaos in the American intelligence community. Serge needed someone with the cunning and, if need be, brute force to get him what he wanted and he knew the time had come to call on a true professional. Known to him only as 'GraveRobber', he believed the man to be even more loathsome than Rudy Geisler.

Stress aggravated the wound Beretta left him with decades earlier and now these nosebleeds plagued him. Serge limped across his office to discover he had hurled a heavy ashtray into the bar and broken the crystal decanters of liquor. A rare single malt scotch soaked into the wood veneer of the cabinetry and dripped onto the inlaid floor. He opened the door and screamed into the villa's capacious grand hall.

"Duccio! Duccio! Come to my office. Now!"

The master's resounding summons reached Duccio in his far off office adjacent to the kitchen. He set off to find out what troubled his belligerent boss, only too aware of the name the rest of the staff called Serge. Ogre. Perhaps they had it right.

While he waited for his faithful servant's arrival Serge withdrew a cell phone from his pocket and dialed an international number from memory. A dozen rings later he heard a booze tainted, slurred Louisiana accent. Serge visualized its owner festering in a seedy backwater dump and not the luxurious Pensacola condo where the call was being taken. Hardly a way for a warrior to end up Serge mistakenly assumed.

"Yo." Some kind of grating music played in the background. Zydeco.

"Are you in a position to talk?"

"Standin'up. Good enough for ya?" A hoarse laugh followed.

Even Serge knew better than to mince words with the former Gunnery Sergeant.

"Alright. Do you recognize my voice?"

"Yep."

"Do you remember our last conversation?"

"Yep."

"Are you able to deliver the package I told you I may one day need?"

"Yep."

"Are you sure?"

Those poorly chosen words dangled in front of the man like a red flag before a bull. He lashed out at Serge.

"Lissen, asshole, and lissen real good. Maybe I am drunk and they say I'm crazy, but I'm not fuckin' stupid and I'm not fuckin' dead. So, yes, asshole, I'm goddam sure."

Before Serge could open his mouth to speak the weather beaten soldier returned to his sanguine, short questions.
"When?"

"Immediately."

"Where?"

"I'll communicate as we agreed."

"OK. How much?"

"Your lucky day. I'm offering a bonus. One million if you deliver in less than forty-eight hours. Half a million more if you can perform in less than twenty-four."

"Plus expenses?"

"Yes."

"Done, motherfucker." The man hung up leaving Serge to wonder if he'd made a deal with a professional or a lunatic. The answer would come minutes later when Serge's desk phone rang. Geisler. He picked up immediately.

"Yes."

"GraveRobber is in motion."

"Are you certain? I talked to him less than five minutes ago."

"As sure as I am of my own name." Asshole! "He called for the information you instructed me to give him."

"He didn't sound sober enough to walk five feet."

"Guy doesn't drink a drop. He has his cover pretty well perfected don't you think? He fooled you." Geisler hung up.

"I don't care what he does so long as he delivers." Once again Serge Malroff was talking to himself. He threw his cell phone on the floor.

"Duccio, bring me a bottle of scotch!" Serge slammed the door behind his departing servant but then, as an afterthought, opened it again and bellowed,

"Duccio! Where is Penelope Goldman?"

53.

A view of the Alps from twenty-thousand feet always proved breathtaking, even for a pilot who had flown the route at least a dozen times.

The Swiss built Pilatus performed efficiently allowing Frank to relax and enjoy the panorama. Frank hoped the beautiful afternoon might be a harbinger of good fortune. With a little luck he would be on the ground in less than forty-five minutes and on his way to Laglio. Clearing customs at Legacy in Milan posed his next and highest hurdle before delivering a long overdue ending to Serge Malroff.

The approach into Malpensa passed without event and Frank taxied the plane up to the tarmac at Legacy on schedule. The ground crew rolled a red carpet out to the plane's large cargo sized rear door as Frank stepped down to be greeted by the local operations manager and an Italian Customs agent.

Frank handed over his declaration and a British passport identifying him as Dr. Bennett Franklin. He shook hands with the Legacy official, Felix Brundage.

"Felix, good to see you again."

"My pleasure, Dr. Franklin. Is your luggage in the cargo compartment?"

"Yes. I'm traveling light. Just a duffel and a briefcase."

The man nodded to one of his crewmen who in turn removed Frank's bags and carried them inside for inspection.

Beretta and Felix made small talk by the plane then proceeded into the lobby of Legacy's facility. The Italian customs agent approached Frank and handed him his stamped passport.

"Enjoy your stay in Italy, Dr. Franklin."

"Grazie, Signor. Arrivederci."

"Arrivederci, Dr. Franklin."

Frank's blood pressure dropped by half and he exhaled deeply. The cloak and dagger stuff, never his forte, was starting to wear him out.

"Feeling better?" Felix Brundage fixed a knowing smile on his company's good and long time customer.

"You have no idea."

"May I offer you a drink?"

"Why not?"

"Excellent." The Austrian athlete took Frank by the arm and guided him in the direction of his office where he poured two glasses of Glen Morangie Scotch, Sherrywood finish.

"Here's to a successful visit to Italy, Herr Beretta."

"Danke schoen, Herr Brundage." The men toasted one another.

"To justice." Frank said.

"And those who advance the cause."

"Before I leave don't let me forget to grab my map case out of the plane." He referred to the kind of square edged black case favored by commercial pilots and trial lawyers.

Felix flashed a knowing smile.

Less than an hour later Frank sat behind the wheel of a rented Alfa Romeo with his bags stowed in the boot. He enjoyed the drive from Milan to Lake Como, and under different circumstances would have looked forward to another visit at the Villa d' Este. He and Joey vacationed at the hotel on their first anniversary, but this wasn't a pleasure trip. He did, however, anticipate the satisfaction of knowing he'd fulfilled his old promise to eliminate Serge Malroff.

He knew Malroff's Kremlin bosses eventually reined him in, but the fact did nothing to mitigate the contempt Frank Beretta felt for the man. The misery he'd brought to the young girls he'd ensnared in his hellish world of drugs and prostitution was beyond redemption. Serge turned them into sex slaves, serving their master in a drug-induced haze of compliance. Of all of them, Katya found herself in the worst circumstances. Despised by Malroff and his handlers because of her noble family's former status in Russia, she had the misfortune of being physically attractive to the psychopath and worse, she had the spirit of a warrior. It was a combination Serge found irresistible. The pig rewarded Katya's beauty and courage with frequent rounds of abusive, perverted sex. At other times, provided Serge had not bruised her face, he sent her off to entertain a small retinue of his deranged friends.

His failure to destroy Malroff still pained Frank. This time he would succeed without distraction. So, he drove on with a sense of determination and focus he had not felt in years. The White Knight embarked once again on a virtuous quest.

While Beretta planned their fateful rendezvous, Serge humped frenetically on top of a naked and frightened Penelope Goldman. As his excitement approached a crescendo his hands tightened, vice-like, around her neck. To this point she'd been a willing partner because his brutality somehow complimented her own dysfunctional, drug addicted needs, but he'd become enraged in a way she'd never seen. He spun out of control and now terrified and nauseated her until a blessed darkness descended over her and brought relief. The ogre continued to hammer away at the pale, limp woman until he had satisfied himself then he rolled off and walked nonchalantly into his bathroom for a steamy relaxing shower.

A half hour later he emerged from the bath and found her in the same position in which he'd left her. He gave her an indifferent glance and concluded she was not dead, although he had no idea how extensive her injuries may be. Whatever. He had grown tired of her months ago and already begun to think about her replacement. Serge picked up the phone and rang Duccio's desk downstairs.

"Duccio, I am going out. I believe Lady Goldman is not feeling well. Please make certain she is taken care of." Serge spoke with a tone of indifference.

"Immediately, sir." Again? "Will she require medical attention?"

"Perhaps, but first, tell Friedrich I want to go to Milan. I'll be staying at the Principe di Savoia."

"Of course, Signori." In Duccio's mind Penelope Goldman must be seriously injured if the cowardly brute was running off to Milan. Let the servants clean up his mess yet again. Duccio dialed the discreet doctor's phone number.

Duccio was relieved his boss had gone by the time Dr. Federico Farnazzi climbed the staircase to the villa's master bedroom. The doctor, famous for his private spa and cosmetic surgery practice also discreetly served their special needs. His modern and expansive complex included a private and exclusive drug rehab center on a well guarded and secluded stretch of the lake's shoreline. Celebrities, royals and rich trash often spent time drying out at the doctor's facility where he fawned over them pretentiously. Many became repeat customers.

Penelope began to stir as they entered and, after a brief examination, the doctor recommended she be moved to his clinic. The two men gently carried her from the bedroom and went downstairs by elevator. They placed her on the rear seat of Dr. Farnazzi's Mercedes. Duccio rode in the back with Lady Goldman as they drove her the twenty kilometers to the Farnazzi Clinic.

Penelope Goldman would not die nor would she ever see Serge Malroff again.

54.

Joey Beretta worked late finalizing details of her plans for Anne Fitch's security and reviewing the specifications of monitoring equipment installed in her condo. After some thought she decided to assign two freelance agents from LA to Dr. Fitch. Joey trusted the pair implicitly and would run them herself at least until the woman settled into her new home and established work patterns. Perhaps the move was overkill, though something about this assignment made her nervous and, as Frank taught her, "Your gut's the smartest person you know. Listen."

Joey left the office tired, but still enjoyed pushing Frank's Cobra hard, trying to beat her time on the way to work. She pulled into the drive and smiled at the sight of Billy Sawyer's Honda Pilot silhouetted against the garage by the dim the landscape lighting. She'd been hoping she wouldn't be alone at the house that night, but didn't check the dock to look for Une Belle Femme.

A physically courageous woman capable of defending herself, Joey feared being alone far less than a possible return of the damn nightmare. That thought terrified her. "Enough!" she said aloud. Get on with packing, have a nice drink and a little dinner, and before you know you'll be off to the airport. It's just one night. She thought perhaps the time had come to get the dog she always wanted.

At the touch of a button the house lit up and one of three garage doors opened. She carefully eased Frank's favorite car into the bay between her beloved Porsche and the regal old Rolls Royce. The big convertible dwarfed the two sports cars and seeing the Rolls reminded her of the drive home from dinner less than a week ago. How much longer would it be until he came back to her? She wondered. At least she had gotten word he was safe, but her desire to have him there and in bed with her went undiminished. The thought of Frank 'in bed' put a smirk on her face and she strolled into the house with plans for his homecoming on her mind.

One habit she'd developed during her years with Frank was to keep a couple of travel bags packed at all times, a silver one for cold weather and a dark red one for mild or warm climates. She pulled the red leather bag out of her closet, inspected its contents, and tossed some extra odds and ends in for good measure. Done. She headed to the kitchen and mixed a martini according to her own recipe consisting of one cocktail shaker, three large ice cubes and as much Smirnoff Blue Label as she felt like pouring in. Shake until frosty, pour into an appropriate glass, and drop in a blue cheese stuffed olive. Perfect. She turned on a little music and headed for a needed soak in the Jacuzzi.

A hot bath and two martinis left Joey relaxed and enjoying a mild buzz so she skipped dinner in favor of turning in. She sat naked on the edge of the bed while setting her alarm for six AM, then casually removed the 9mm automatic from her bedside table and concealed it under the mattress. Joey checked behind the nightstand and found some comfort by wrapping her fingers around her trusted aluminum bat. She shut off the lights and slid between the sheets still thinking of Frank. What the hell? I'm alone here. Feeling like a teenager she put a hand gently between her thighs and thought about the old stud until her physical relief quickly gave way to sleep. Whatever gets you through the night!

The time on the opposite side of the Atlantic approached five AM and Frank was returning to his modest hotel having spent most of the night checking out Malroff's villa. Even stealing deftly around in the shadows he'd found the ancient house both beautiful and impeccably restored. The structure climbed three stories above the lake with two levels of terraces plus a large balcony on the top floor, which Frank assumed flowed from the master suite. Obviously Malroff lived a grand life on his viciously won fortune. Frank regretted that so fine a piece of architecture would become a casualty of his final duel with its owner, but sometimes collateral damage could not be avoided.

He'd thought about postponing his surveillance mission until daylight, but his arrival an hour after dark proved fortuitous. Lights blazed from most windows on the ground and third floors and Frank's first view of the front of the house was of Serge strutting out the grand main entry and into his Maybach. The big silver car rolled through the elegant old gates and sped off. Less than fifteen minutes later an older Mercedes GLK arrived. A man appearing to be in his mid-fifties alighted and walked quickly up the steps. He carried what looked like a medical bag and was met at the front door by someone who appeared to be the major domo. Frank recognized the doctor to be Farouk Farnazzi, Serge's old drug dealer. He stifled the desire to put a bullet in the back of Farnazzi's head and held his position in the lower branches of a tall tree.

Less than a half hour later Dr. Farnazzi, aided by Duccio, carried a woman to the vehicle. Wrapped in a blanket her form was limp and seemed badly hurt as they gingerly placed her on the rear seat. Both men got in and drove away. The sad vision of another woman broken at the hands of Serge Malroff steeled Frank's resolve. Poor girl. Serge is apparently unreformed and, most assuredly, unrepentant.

Emboldened by seeing both Serge and one of his staff members gone, Frank took the opportunity to reconnoiter. The ex-marine heard no dogs on the property and saw no sign of other employees inside, at least not near the main entrance. He found the same at the back of the house where a breeze off the lake sent a light chop lapping against the hull of an elegant wood hulled speedboat moored at Serge's dock. Never pictured him as the nautical type.

As he advanced around the southwest side of the building he saw two people in the kitchen. A pretty woman in a starched chef's jacket and a young man in a plain white shirt sat at a table near a stone fireplace having a meal. He made a mental note of their location and labeled the staff as "friendlies". When the time came he wanted to minimize the number of casualties.

Frank seized the moment and walked boldly up onto the terrace. From what he could see of the elegantly furnished rooms, the house was empty on the first level. He ascended a curved stone staircase to the second terrace level and found all of the rooms to be dark. Still uncertain when Serge or his houseman might return he pressed on to investigate the third floor. Access to the balcony above came by climbing the heavy copper downspout fastened to the side of the building. Frank worried about the sturdiness of the spouting with every inch of his fifteen foot ascent.

Once on the balcony he stayed close to the wall until he found a safe vantage point affording a line of sight directly into the master suite. The bed looked trashed and a man's and woman's clothing littered the floor. The tall French doors stood open and Beretta tentatively approached. The only audible sound came from a gentle breeze ruffling the trees so he poked his head into Serge Malroff's private quarters. The decor established by gilt and ornate furniture bore Serge's self inflated signature. An enormous mirrored wall reflected an expansive view of the opposite lakeshore. The presence of warm damp air indicated recent use and conjured an unpleasant vision of Serge showering before going out for the evening. Frank walked quietly to the bedroom's main entry and cautiously opened the door just enough to get a sense of the villa's center gallery. Large and open all the way down to the ground floor, the space was imposing. A jump to the first level would not be an option. Beretta left the house by the same route he had taken in and slipped quietly through the trees to his car about a half kilometer away. He retrieved a small canvas satchel from the trunk and returned to the villa for one last walk around the property. Satisfied that he would be ready for his encounter with Serge he drove back to his hotel to get some rest. All he needed to do now was to wait for Malroff to return.

55.

She felt a rough pair of hands dragging her out of bed. She fought back but her attacker proved stronger and had her on the floor in a heartbeat. The show of strength terrified her. Then his hand wrapped around her throat as the other tore away at her shirt. It lay in shreds while his free hand pawed at her naked breasts. She screamed, but no one heard and no one came to help. Somebody help! Please, somebody help me!

The dream started again, now even more real than the last time. His hands are all over me. No, wait. There's more than one. Two? Did Buzzy bring his idiot brother? What's the screeching sound?

The men in Joey's bedroom weren't unimpressed by the physical beauty of her nude body spread out in front of them, but their orders were clear. If they harmed the woman in any way they forfeited the million dollars not to mention the two added bonuses only GraveRobber knew about.

The screaming alarm was starting to awaken her and they had to be quick. One of them drew a loaded syringe from his jacket pocket, plunged the shining needle into her left buttock and rammed the plunger home. See if it works as fast as it did with the guy on the boat.

Jesus! Fuck. That burns. This isn't a dream! What the hell is going on? Frank!

The anger boiled up and Joey snapped wide-awake realizing too late that her situation was very real. Before she could reach for her trusted baseball bat the powerful drug began to take effect and she drifted into a semi-conscious state, but not without catching a glimpse of one of her attacker's faces. Do I know him? That's not my damned step-father. Couldn't be. I killed him. Who the hell? What's the god awful smell? Then it was darkness.

Without a wasted moment the assailants wrapped her in a blanket. One of them slung her over his broad shoulder as they ran outside and headed toward the dock where their black speedboat idled quietly, ready to make a speedy getaway. From the time they smashed the glass door into they spent less than four minutes inside. At a run they took ninety seconds to get back to the boat and were pulling away before the flashing lights on the police and rescue vehicles could be seen illuminating the palm trees in front of the house. A screaming fire truck arrived moments later.

At every step of the mission the abduction had been exceptionally well coordinated, expensive, and perfectly executed. The speedboat traveled about three miles from the Beretta's dock up the Intracoastal Waterway to a point north of Peanut Island where a big luxury yacht cruised slowly south awaiting their arrival. The two men and their comatose victim spent very little time on board. A helicopter sat on the stern deck, its turbines whining in anticipation of an immediate departure. GraveRobber handed a thick envelope to the pilot who stepped down from the aircraft and relinquished the controls to the former SEAL. As the Jet Ranger lifted off and headed east the flames engulfing the house became clearly visible near the north end of Palm Beach. Fortunately, Joey's drugged state spared her the sight of her love nest burning to the ground.

GraveRobber's accomplice looked at him and asked, "What was the point of torching the house?"

"Personal satisfaction for the man who pays our salary." And an extra half million for me.

"Doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Doesn't have to. Look at it this way. Tomorrow, you're a half million richer. Five hundred grand for a day's work and a free ride to Italy. Nothing to complain about, is it?"

"You're right. House don't mean shit to me, Tommy." The man looked out the window and into the dark night sky.

"You're right, my friend, it doesn't." GraveRobber pulled a second hypodermic from his pocket and jammed the needle into his hapless friend's neck. He lurched against his restraints, but had just moments to register a look of fatal understanding as the potent drugs took effect. In an elegantly choreographed move Tommy unhitched the man's harness, raised the door latch, and shoved him out into the blackness a thousand feet over the ocean. And another half a million for me, the killer thought.

The Beretta's house fast became a circus of frantic activity as valiant efforts were made to save the structure. Two special ops people from S3 arrived moments before the police. Mac Larsen pulled up minutes later. Mac didn't relish the prospect of breaking this news to the boss, but he'd erased the word 'easy' from his vocabulary long ago. He identified himself to the officer in charge.

"Mac Larsen, S3 Security."

"Mr. Larsen." The officer nodded his head in recognition.

"Any signs of anyone in the house."

The man gave a frustrated look at the inferno. "Pretty hard to tell at this point. So far no indication anyone got out, assuming they were home."

The garage sat nearly a hundred feet from the main structure and seemed to be in no immediate danger. Without a word Mac strode assertively up to the side window and looked in. He found himself choking back emotion when he counted three cars inside including the black Porsche. He rounded the building and checked the dock. Une Belle Femme pulled gently against its mooring lines.

As he collected his thoughts in anticipation of calling Frank the only witnesses to the crime drove down a side street in their blue Jaguar. One used a headset to speak to his boss in Langley, Virginia. The men had grim looks of satisfaction as they disappeared into the night.

Mac withdrew his cell phone and speed dialed a number.

"Frank, this is Mac. We have a situation in progress."

"Go ahead." Frank's sounded tired, but he was alert and fully engaged.

"Your house is on fire."

A moment passed in silence before a calm steady voice responded.

"Casualties?"

"Uncertain. I just arrived and the fire department is at work now."

"Cause?"

"Also uncertain. Frank, I did look in the garage and counted three cars inside plus a Pilot in the drive. The boat is at the dock."

"You need to go down and check for Billy as soon as you can."

"Will do."

"10-4. Your thoughts on Joey's condition?"

"Just a guess at this point, Frank. I think Joey was abducted."

"A better option than burned to death. Theory?" Frank sounded cold but Mac knew he was using every bit of his training and self control to stay professionally focused on the facts. That was his best chance of helping Joey and staying sane himself.

"An alarm registered on our system, but it was an intrusion, not fire. It took five minutes before the fire alarm triggered."

"Maybe. Devil's advocate says the first alarm was tripped by an incendiary device being tossed through a window."

"Maybe, but the infrared sensors in multiple rooms were triggered. Two people entered through the library, one of them went into the living room. Then the sensors picked up three people in the bedroom."

"We won't know until somebody actually gets inside to confirm." Frank could hear the lack of optimism in his own voice, but without knowing Joey was safe his world would collapse.

"Fair enough. All we can do is wait, but my gut tells me I'm right. I'll pull a special investigation team together immediately and keep you up to date on what's happening at the house."

"Understood. Let me know as soon as you have anything."

"Roger."

Mac signed off abruptly, but Frank knew how difficult the call had been for his friend and colleague. Nevertheless, deep in his soul he was sure Serge Malroff had a hand in this. His first inclination was to retaliate immediately against his best target, the villa. Frank rarely allowed emotion to cloud his judgment for even a moment. Fortunately, the hardened warrior quickly regained control and hunkered down to wait for more precise intel.

Beretta dropped a couple of ice cubes into a small glass and covered them with scotch. There would be no more sleep, with or without the liquor so he pulled on a pair of running shorts and an old sweatshirt and sat in the room's only armchair with his feet on a flimsy old table. Burning his house had to be directly connected to his last encounter with the Russian sonofabitch.

"Little pig, little pig. I'm going to blow your house down."

It was Frank who made the threat. Now he hoped he hadn't lived to regret it.

56.

Anne Fitch's arrival in California proved uneventful; perhaps anticlimactic. After a short fuel stop made prudent by unexpected headwinds, they flew straight to San Jose where they cleared customs at a private hangar.

Anne stepped off the plane, shook her new auburn hair in the balmy Northern California air, and immediately felt as though she were home.

For the first time Anya presented a US Passport identifying her as Anne Fitch and she reminded herself to start responding to the name Anne as if she'd done it all of her life.

The young customs agent handed her the documents and said, "Welcome back to the United States, Dr. Fitch."

"Thank you." She smiled first at the customs agent and then at Gabe Bowman.

"Welcome home, Anne." Gabe put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Anne gave him a grateful hug in return.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to be here."

Gabe directed her toward the tarmac where a silver Denali stood waiting for them. An S3 security officer manned the wheel, but Joey Beretta was not there to meet them. Mac Larsen at S3 advised Gabe in advance without giving a specific reason for Joey's absence. A natural born anal retentive, he worried for hours, but those concerns were soon put to rest by the S3 agent in charge of Anne's protection.

"Mr. Bowman, my name is Bobby Conrad and I'm managing security for Dr. Fitch."

"Bobby Conrad the Auburn quarterback?" Gabe kept his addiction to college football a dark secret.

"Yessir. The same." When he smiled it revealed something about his face that made his mouth appear misaligned. An Iraqi IED was to blame and Gabe remembered the news stories about the incident. Anya from Ukraine noticed instantly. Anne Fitch said nothing.

"You had a hell of a career, Mr. Conrad."

"Did you go to Auburn, Mr. Bowman?"

"Hardly. I'm a college dropout, but at least I'm free to support the teams I like."

"Yessir, that would be one advantage."

"Please forgive me for not making introductions. Anne Fitch, Mr. Conrad."

"Dr. Fitch." The man enthusiastically thrust a welcoming hand at her.

"Please, call me Anne."

"Your bags have been stowed in the vehicle. If you will follow me." He motioned toward the waiting SUV and they all walked in that direction.

A half hour later they toured the townhouse that would be Anne's new home.

"It's beautiful, Gabe." Anne stood in the middle of the living room looking out at a private walled garden complete with a small fountain bubbling water into a riot of colorful flowers.

"And the furniture is perfect." Everything had been upholstered in the bright, cheerful colors she enjoyed.

"My partner's wife, Carroll Button, is the one who took care of that part."

"I can't wait to meet her." Anne's voice trailed off as she ran to the kitchen like a kid on Christmas. Her apartment in Milan had been upscale by local standards, but this was too much. All new granite, stainless steel and oiled walnut accented the décor.

The rest of the tour went the same, with Anne overwhelmed by her home and its furnishings. Finally, glancing at his watch, Gabe said, "I am scheduled to meet with Jack at the office. Why don't I leave you to get comfortable and settle in a little? Bob can acquaint you with the security plan S3 developed for you." He picked up a key fob with an Audi logo. "Oh, here are the keys to your car. An A5 should be in the garage."

"Gabe, I don't know what to say. This is so much more than I ever expected."

"Don't worry. We plan to make you work for it."

"Great. When do I start?"

"You've already made a lot of progress."

Anne cut him off in her enthusiasm.

"I know I'm close to another breakthrough on the stock market matter."

"In what regard? You said you already figured out how to isolate the virus."

"I only view that as temporary. I'm working on identifying who actually wrote it and a way to eliminate it."

Gabe didn't attempt to disguise his surprise.

"I thought the Rusikovs wrote the code."

Anne shook her head. "I'm pretty sure they did not, at least not the whole thing. My husband was working on something when he died and I think the person he was in communication with may have been involved with this. There are a lot of similarities in the work."

"You don't know who that was?"

"No. I never did. I'm not sure Karl knew the person's name. The hacker went by the pseudonym "Suspicion". I guess that says a lot." Anne wondered if she'd said too much.

"The name doesn't mean anything to me." Gabe glanced at his watch again. "I need to get to the office, but why don't you have Mr. Conrad bring you over later, say, about six thirty? I'll give you a tour of the building and we can all grab a bite to eat."

"Gabe, if you don't mind, I've had a long day and I have a lot to adjust to. I'd like to stay in and work on a few things then get a good night's sleep. I'll plan to come in early in the morning."

"I understand. I'm told the refrigerator and bar are stocked so you aren't without groceries. We'll see you tomorrow then." He gave her a hug and made a quick exit.

Gabe was driven to Dynamic Integrity's headquarters where he was surprised to find Sally and Bart sitting side by side at a small conference table in Zeigler's cubicle. Hard at work, they paid little attention to his arrival.

"Well, I see you two learned how to play together while I was gone."

Sally stifled a laugh. Bart bobbed his head.

"Something funny?"

She said, "no" and he said, "yes". Sally looked up for a second and said, "whatever" with a half smile and half smirk. Gabe walked away. Children.

"You two can fill me in on your progress tomorrow." He continued walking without looking back.

"Sure thing, Gabe. Tomorrow."

Maybe I should travel more. Gabe continued across the floor, found Jack, and pulled him into an empty conference room.

57.

Frank Beretta always said there is no such thing as a perfect plan, and Tommy's brilliantly executed abduction of Joey Beretta proved to be no exception. The first phase went off without a hitch. He disposed of his accomplice and flew on to Grand Bahama Island where a Boeing Business Jet stood waiting at the airport. Arrangements had already been made with the local authorities to expedite the transfer of a 'celebrity' passenger from the helicopter to the jet. A little money proved very persuasive and besides, the security detail worried more about outbound flights headed toward the US and not Europe.

The plane's flight plan called for a direct route to Nice, France. During the flight across the Atlantic they spared no effort to insure Joey's delivery without as much as a bruise. She remained sedated and belted into a comfortable bed in one of the luxurious jet's private cabins. At a cruising altitude of more than forty thousand feet she had nowhere to go, but Tommy intended to deliver his valuable cargo precisely as instructed. With the elimination of his cohort the payday stood at two million dollars. Seeing the exchange rate working against him he wished he'd demanded payment in euros, but he knew renegotiating with Serge would not be an option. C'est la vie! At least he'd opted for a big expensive plane on Serge's tab.

The bigger planes carry at least two cabin stewards, but given the circumstances, they had only the flight crew plus a woman named Tori. Tommy brought her along to help with Joey. She was a trained nurse anesthetist with a gambling habit and Tommy's occasional sex partner. In exchange for a few days at a Bahamian casino, a fistful of cash and a free ride to Italy she made an easy recruit for the mission. Besides, Tommy kind of liked her and she proved useful in the absence of a real stewardess to take care of him. They'd been drinking Roederer Cristal, also on Serge's bill, and initiated themselves into the "mile high club" several times.

"Hey, Tori, would you get me one more glass of champagne? There are a couple of bottles in the galley." Tommy leaned back into the glove soft leather upholstery as though he were the chairman of a major corporation.

"Sure." The perky, petite brunette retrieved a fresh bottle from the refrigerator and two glasses from a large, polished wood cabinet. In her absence the phone next to the GraveRobber's big swiveling seat buzzed with an incoming call from Serge.

"Good morning, boss." For a moment he was almost cheerful.

"Perhaps. What is the status of your traveling companion?" Serge asked flatly.

"Couldn't be better. Sleeping like a baby."

"There has been a change of plan."

"What do you want me to do?" Tommy instantly became suspicious of any changes at this stage of an operation, particularly from Serge.

"I want you to deliver her to the private clinic of Dr. Farnazzi. Once done your responsibilities will be fulfilled."

Interesting. Originally his obligation was only to deliver Joey to the airport at Nice. There, she would be picked up by Serge's people and Tommy would be paid. In cash. This looked like a new kink.

"Transportation?"

"A car from the clinic will be waiting for you at Malpensa."

"Our flight plan was filed for Nice and not Milan."

"Change it. Corporate jets do it all the time."

"What about payment?" Tommy, already suspicious, began loosing patience; always a dangerous proposition in dealing with Serge.

"You will receive your payment at the clinic."

He heard Malroff hissing the words into the phone. The conversation raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Major deviations from plan didn't sit well with Tommy, but his options were limited: he and Malroff both knew it.

"Changes create opportunities for problems, but I guess we'll have to deal with it." His protest fell on deaf ears.

"You are being well paid to meet my requirements. Don't fuck this up." Serge's temper boiled over and he hung up having issued his warning.

"Is something wrong, Tommy?" The girl handed him a glass of champagne but the wine no longer seemed appetizing.

"I suppose not. Serge just dictated a change of plan." He put the glass down without taking a sip. He stared out the window awhile then turned to face Tori Bates across a rosewood dining table. He now regretted having gotten her involved in this.

"Tell you what. Why don't you go check on your patient while I think things through? We need to get her coherent enough to walk her off the plane and into a car."

"OK." The girl gave him a smile and quick kiss before heading aft toward the stateroom.

By the time they entered Milanese airspace, Tommy had a backup plan in mind. Then, things started to go wrong. Due to the change of flight plan they arrived at a busy time of day. The plane spent longer on approach than normal and wound up in a queue taxiing up to the FranzJet FBO. On arrival the big plane was sandwiched between two other corporate jets on the tarmac.

For her part Tori did an outstanding job of getting Joey ambulatory while keeping her drugged enough to remain compliant. She struggled a little dressing the pharmaceutically dazed woman in a pair of jeans and a black cashmere pullover. Fortunately she had sandals that fit Joey. The woman was in no condition to navigate on stilettos. With Tommy on one side and Tori on the other, they maneuvered Joey to the door of the plane and started down the portable stairs toward a classic black Mercedes 600. The car bore the garish loge of the Farnazzi Spa and Clinic on its front doors.

Halfway down the steps the remaining dominos in the GraveRobber's epic plan came crashing down. A teenaged girl stepped from behind the next plane, a chartered sixty passenger Challenger hauling rich New York prep school kids around on a summer tour of Europe.

The teenager called out, but something seemed wrong to her. The woman she presumed to be Jemima Burck didn't seem well. The man and woman were holding her up. Jemima looked sick or maybe on drugs. Serious gossip.

Tommy's grip on Joey's arm tightened reflexively and Joey tried to pull away. Drugged or not she had a low tolerance for being manhandled. The rest of the walk to the Mercedes proved awkward at best.

"Jemima, what's wrong? Are you alright?" The girl stood near the tail of the plane and snapped a few pictures with her cell phone.

The chauffeur, already out of the Mercedes, held the back door open. When he spotted the girl taking pictures, a goon name of Mario emerged from the front seat. Wearing a custom suit and a permanent scowl he headed in her direction, but before he could take action the kidnappers and their victim were in the car. Time for a hasty departure. All the while, Hayley Carmody, a rich kid from Connecticut pounded the keys of her BlackBerry. Her photos went viral in less than a half hour.

When the limousine arrived at the Farnazzi Spa and Clinic a dozen paparazzi and a wire service stringer milled around the gated entrance awaiting the arrival of Jemima Burck. They stood in front of the limo trying to get photos until Mario unfolded his bulk from the car and lumbered toward them.

A quick thinker, Tommy thought over the notion of opening the back door and shoving Tori out. The photographers would be on her like bees on honey and their cover might be enough to save her life. He mulled a moment too long as Mario forcibly cleared a path and the driver accelerated through the gates even as they began closing.

Mario stood behind the ornate ironwork glaring out at the photographers. In his warped mind he envisioned himself gunning them all down. Keeping a barrier between Dr. Farnazzi's famous clients and the press was a big part of his job and he attacked his work with a passion. The buzzing little insects needed to be exterminated and he wanted to get started. The chauffeur stopped the limousine about three car lengths inside the gate.

"Hey, Mario, are you riding or do you want to walk the rest of the way?"

"Yeah, I'm coming." Unhappy, the big man trudged to the car and wedged himself into the front seat.

58.

A man dressed in tan chinos, a white open collared shirt and a blue sports jacket walked into the Palm Beach offices of S3 and strode confidently to the desk of Jill Kline who would later describe him as "perfectly non-descript". He appeared to know where he was going and with whom he wished to deal.

"Good morning, sir. May I help you?"

"It is I who can help you." The man was expressionless as he withdrew an ordinary white envelope from his jacket pocket.

"Excuse me?"

"If you wish to see your employer again, follow these instructions."

The man placed the envelope on the edge of Jill's desk. Before she could react he turned and walked out. A few seconds passed before the stunned woman's brain processed her visitor's advice. She sprang to her feet and ran toward the main entrance screaming all the while.

"Mac! Mac Larsen! Help me! Help me!"

The nimble Larsen took scant seconds to drop his phone, vault over the desk, and intercept Jill at the office's front door.

"Jill, what the hell is going on?"

Rather than answer she grabbed the big man by his shirtsleeve and dragged him out onto the sidewalk.

"Jill, you have to tell me what's going on. Calm down." He put a hand gently on her shoulder.

"A guy came up to my desk. Blue jacket and tan pants. We have to find him." She pulled on Mac's shirtsleeve again. He followed her with an eye peeled for the man she described. The parking lot contained a handful of cars and no men in blue jackets.

"Jill, what did this guy do?"

"He said, 'if you want to see your employer again follow these instructions."

"What instructions?"

"A letter. He left a letter on my desk."

Mac did an immediate about face, sprinted into the building, and directly up to Jill's desk. It took her more than a full minute to catch up with him.

"Jill, stand back. Let me take a look at this first."

"Why?" Jill asked the question, but obeyed his instructions. Mac fished in his pocket for a pair of rubber gloves then gingerly held the envelope up to the light.

"Do you remember the anthrax attacks after 9-11?"

"Yes." Jill, you dunce!

She watched as the ex-secret service agent thoroughly inspected the still sealed envelope. Satisfied it contained no threats he motioned for Jill to follow him into Joey's office.

"This looks OK. Let's see what's inside." He took a letter opener from the desk, slit the top edge of the envelope, and extracted a single piece of plain white paper. The sheet bore a short message typed in caps:

FRANK: YOU HAVE THE WOMAN I WANT AND I HAVE THE WOMAN YOU LOVE. CALL ME.

"What the hell? Does this mean Joey's alive?" Jill peered up at Mac Larsen, her face a question mark.

"The fire department couldn't find any trace of her at the house so my guess is 'yes'. I worried about kidnapping from the beginning."

"At least she's alive." Jill's feeling of relief was tempered by Mac's response.

"For now." He had a grim look on his face as he picked up the phone on Joey's desk and dialed a number from memory. There was an answer before the second ring.

"Mac."

"Frank, we need to talk."

"Go."

"A guy delivered a message to Jill this morning. He said, 'if you want to see your employer again follow these instructions'."

"What were the instructions?"

"A single sheet of paper. "You have the woman I want and I have the woman you love. Call me."

"Serge." His voice remained steady, but Frank labored to keep his pulse rate level.

"I agree. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing for now. I'll get back to you."

"Standing by." Mac hung up and gave Jill a wry smile. "Boss says 'stand by' until he gets in touch."

"Like I said, at least we know she's alive. She'll be back soon."

"From your lips to god's ears, Jill." Mac lumbered out of the office carrying the envelope and sheet of paper in his still gloved hand. He'd have it examined, but he already knew there would be no prints, nothing remarkable about the type and no DNA on the seal. Worth a shot, anyway.

Frank picked up one of his cell phones, the one set to route calls through his Palm Beach office number. An expert could eventually trace the call back to its source, but in this case, that was the point.

A pensive Serge Malroff sat in his suite at the Principe di Savoia when his phone buzzed with a call being forwarded from his office.

"Well, the Big Bad Wolf."

Frank chose to ignore the smirk in Serge's voice.

"Your stooge visited my office. What do you want?"

"I'm surprised you need ask. I want Anya Kovich." The psycho's voice became smooth and self satisfied.

"I don't have her." Beretta said flatly.

"You can get her. Just do it!" Malroff maintained his calm almost cheerful demeanor.

"If I don't?" Frank goaded his nemesis to see how he'd react.

"You deprived me of a playmate once. I've been looking for a replacement for years and your little Joey is such a beautiful thing. I wouldn't mind keeping her around to play with for awhile." Now he spoke with the cheerful lilt of a psychopath. He thinks he has the upper hand, just like the last time.

"Serge, tell her you blew her house up and see how playful she is."

"You're wasting time, Frank. Call back when you have Anya."

"One last thing, Serge. One way or the other, you're dead."

"Of course, Frank. You said that the last time."

Frank hung up and dialed another number.

"Katya, I need your help."

59.

The ringing phone startled an already nervous Jill Kline.

"Good morning, S3, this is Jill Kline."

"Jill, this is Marlie Stevens." The normally garrulous and friendly Marlie sounded hurried and abrupt.

"Yes ma'am. Good morning. How may I help you?"

"Is Joey there?"

"No, Mrs. Stevens."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Uh, not precisely."

"I assumed not."

"Excuse me?"

"I tried her cell phone and got voicemail. I called the house and got nothing, not even voice mail. You're telling me you don't know where she is and now there's this Jemima Burck thing."

"What about Jemima Burck?"

"It's on the internet. Jill, is Frank there?"

"No, he's out of the office."

"Can you reach him?"

"I believe Mac Larsen can if it's an emergency."

"I hope not, but here's the thing. A friend called and told me about a post some kid has on the internet. The pictures are Jemima Burck getting off a plane in Italy supposedly on her way to some clinic."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Marlie was wound up and getting impatient. She took a deep breath before continuing.

"I know it's not Jemima because I saw her here in California. I spoke to her face to face less than two hours ago. Those pictures have to be of Joey. Is she sick? Is she in trouble?"

"Do you have the name of the clinic or can you give me the web site where the pictures are?"

Marlie did both and signed off with, "Keep me posted on what's going on, Jill. She's one of my best friends."

Jill Kline immediately shared the information with Mac and together they looked at the girl's internet posts. As a point of reference they pulled up pictures of Joey and Jemima and aligned them side by side. Only then did the fabled resemblance strike Joey's two Palm Beach based co-workers.

"Holy shit!" Mac gave Jill an apologetic look. "Sorry, but god almighty, I never realized they looked that much alike."

"Don't apologize to me. I work with her every day and I didn't either."

Mac had Frank back on the phone in less than thirty seconds.

"Frank, we may have a break. Marlie Stevens called Jill to tell her about a web post saying some kid spotted Jemima Burck getting off a plane in Italy. Says she's going to the Farnazzi Clinic. The thing is, Mrs. Stevens says she was with Jemima in California today."

"Of course, Farouk Farnazzi. He's as bad as his pal Malroff. Makes perfect sense.

"You know him?"

"Yeah. That's valuable intel, Mac. Thanks to you and Jill."

"Of course. Do you want me to dig into this clinic?"

"Yes. I need as detailed a layout of the facility as you can put your hands on."

"10 – 4. I'll post the data in your file ASAP. What else?"

"You said someone spotted her getting off a plane. Commercial or private?"

"Didn't say. The picture looked like a large plane, but I'll get right on it."

"Call Seth Murdoch at Legacy if you need help with the plane."

"Will do."

"Thanks again."

"Sure thing, Frank. Talk to you soon."

Frank's brain shifted into overdrive and he had to force himself to slow down and stay on target. Farnazzi had been close to Serge for decades. The derelict doctor kept Serge's stable of underage prostitutes in an addicted state and it was he who managed the pharmaceutical cocktails that wiped out years of Katya's life. To think of Joey now in his hands chilled Frank to the bone. On the positive side, the clinic was located just over twenty kilometers from Frank's position and Katya would be arriving soon. At least now he had details for her. They needed to move fast to free Joey before he could attack Serge. Frank grew impatient as he put a call through to Katya on board her plane. He gave her a succinct briefing then listened as she spun a brilliant plan off the top of her head.

"Katya, there is no way I can repay you."

"I am in your debt, Frank. We'll get Joey back for you, I promise. I'll be in touch."

Frank stepped out on the small terrace of his cheap hotel and opened a pack of Davidoff cigarettes he'd bought the day before, his first in more than a decade. This would require precision and a lot of luck. "There's no such thing as a perfect plan".

He now regretted getting Joey involved with Anya Kovich. If Serge and his ghouls realized Joey knew her whereabouts all bets would be off on an exchange. Even so, he had to assume Anya would be in danger and he act accordingly. Frank picked up the phone and made a call to Mac Larsen. Half an hour later Anne Fitch's security detail was doubled at home and at work.

As he sat watching the cigarette smoke rise into the warm air Frank promised himself he would not repeat the mistake he made when he set Katya free. Serge Malroff would not escape this time, but it couldn't be at the expense of losing Joey. He trusted Ekaterina Yusupov with his own life. Now he had to trust her with one far more precious.

The sun shown in a cloudless azure sky and a gentle breeze rippled across the lake. Frank Beretta poured a little vodka onto a couple of ice cubes in a small glass and lit just one more cigarette. Then he picked up his cell phone and made a bold move.

"Well, Mr. Big Bad Wolf, do I have your attention?"

"Yes." Frank took a deep breath before continuing. "I want evidence Joey is alive." Serge started to speak but Frank continued. "If you give me that I will give you the details of how we are to transfer Anya and Joey."

"As you must know I am in Italy. How soon can you be here?" Good, he thinks I'm in the US.

"I'll have to get back to you."

"And where is Dr. Kovich?"

"Nice try. I'll tell you once you've given me the proof I asked for. Until then you need only know she is safe."

"Your call, Frank. You understand what's at risk. Unfortunately, I am a busy man. I am returning to my villa tomorrow. Be there within forty-eight hours with Dr. Kovich. If you are not I cannot guarantee the return of your wife."

"Remember what I told you, Serge."

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm dead no matter what. I'm not scared yet Beretta, but you should be. Soon I will pay Joey a visit. Afterwards I may not want to give her back. Perhaps she will not want to come back." Serge's cold laughter filled the phone.

Frank had the information he was looking for. He downed his vodka and checked his watch before deciding to take a drive over to the Farnazzi Spa and Clinic. An hour later he passed the elegant and imposing main gate of Farouk's glamorous retreat for rich, drunk, addicted and sagging women from around the world.

He'd seen a satellite map of the property so he already knew the gates were at least a half mile from the spa and the winding drive ran mostly downhill to the lakefront where all the buildings were located. For about five minutes he continued along the main road running parallel to what he believed to be Farnazzi's property. An approach from the road might prove difficult although he noticed an abundance of tree cover. Lake front access would be faster, but it was fully exposed. Katya committed herself to one way in and one way out. Not optimum in Frank's opinion.

Frank drove the Alfa Romeo back to his hotel while turning the scenario over in his mind. This time he had Katya to help him. Once he got word Joey had been rescued Serge was good as dead. Based on his past actions Serge would expect Frank to go after the damsel in distress first. He had to be in position to strike within seconds of Joey's release. There would be no chance for the bastard to escape again.

60.

As they approached the main entry to the crisp, modern spa buildings Tommy intuited the collapse of his grand scheme and saw his head on the block. Instead of pulling up to the porte cochere the chauffeur passed the building then took a hard right and drove down a single lane road taking them to a well concealed service entrance.

Two attendants, a man and a woman dressed in bright colored medical uniforms waited with a wheelchair. As the car came to a halt Mario jumped out first. Without warning he yanked the back door open and tossed Tori out. She landed like a rag doll on the asphalt. Then he took hold of Joey's arm and jerked her toward him. The narcotics had slowed her reflexes and she badly missed the left she'd aimed at the big man's throat. Mario only laughed as he wrapped her in a bear hug while the female attendant jabbed a syringe into her butt and shoved the plunger in. By the time Mario dropped her into the wheelchair Joey had already begun to feel drowsy. He followed the attendants to the door as they wheeled their new 'celebrity' patient into the building.

Tommy the GraveRobber realized Serge had something other than a big payday in store for him and his chances for escape would never be better than at that moment. The chauffeur yanked the car door open and grabbed for his arm, but Tommy, from his sitting position, delivered a powerful right upper cut to the man's crotch. He got a solid hit. The air went out of the driver's lungs as he collapsed on his knees and began to vomit. Wasting no time Tommy burst out of the car and ran into the woods following a path he'd been eyeing for the last minute or so.

Unfortunately, a terrified Tori Bates picked herself up off the macadam and bolted in pursuit of the GraveRobber. Mario took a full five seconds to evaluate the situation and another few seconds to size up his options. He elected to conserve energy so, without taking a step, he drew his noise suppressed .32 automatic and shot Tori twice in the back. Tommy heard the sounds and understood what happened. The poor girl died where she fell. Her accomplice never looked back. He just kept running. The arrogant Mario took up pursuit but not before pausing to kick the chauffeur in the groin several times for his carelessness.

The delays gave Tommy a scant few seconds to perfect his getaway scheme. He darted uphill through dense foliage and then, as Mario wasted time brutalizing his colleague, he started climbing and didn't stop until he got half way up a sixty-foot tree and sequestered on a heavy limb. Thinking his quarry would instinctively head downhill toward the lake Mario ran on in that direction. Hoping to go undetected Tommy decided to settle in on his thick branch and wait until dark. That would be hours away, but he needed time to think through his next move.

With her kidnapper treed in the woods, Joey was taken to a small suite on the fourth floor of the main building. The floor contained only six suites and was served by a single elevator. Traffic to the VIP floor was controlled and kept to a minimum. As most clients were celebrities recovering from cosmetic procedures, detox, or both, privacy was essential. At the time, the entire floor was vacant and had been kept so in anticipation of Joey's arrival. Nonetheless, a smiling male attendant sat on a chair outside Joey's rooms. The man passed the time reading a paperback novel while the female attendant stripped Joey, dressed her in a set of the spa's pajamas, and tucked her into bed. The woman left with plans to come back later to insert an IV with more sedation. Before exiting the suite she called downstairs to alert Dr. Farnazzi's office of the new patient's status.

Farnazzi picked up his phone and stabbed at the keypad. The voice sounded cheerless as usual.

"Malroff."

"This is Farouk. I wanted to tell you the patient you are concerned about has been taken to her room and she is resting comfortably. Very comfortably."

"When will she be able to have visitors?"

"Anytime, although we require an hour for her medication to burn off. That is, if you want her awake for you first visit." Farnazzi gave a low, suggestive laugh.

Serge smiled at the thought of how much fun he could have alone with Frank Beretta's beautiful wife, but he put those notions out his head for a moment.

"What about the other two?"

Now it was Farnazzi's turn to be nervous.

"I am told Mario shot the woman and she is dead."

Indifferent to Tori Bates he asked, "What of the man?"

"Mario is pursuing him now. He ran into the woods, but I am sure he'll be dealt with quickly if he hasn't been already."

"Assume nothing! The man is not an idiot. He is clever and he is dangerous."

Serge became furious and Farouk felt beads of sweat erupt on his forehead.

"Our grounds are fully secured. We will find him and deal with him." He tried to sound authoritative, but knew he was weakening to Malroff's anger. In the past he treated many women who were victims of the crazy Russian's libidinous attention and he sent scores of others to the abusive hands of Serge's friends. Farnazzi realized all too well what the freakish bastard was capable of.

"I want him dead! See to it personally."

Serge, still in his hotel suite, picked up the house phone and bellowed at the concierge.

"Send Lisel up to my room now."

"Sir, Lisel is not on duty. May I arrange another masseuse?"

"Find Lisel and bring her here. Immediately." Serge slammed the phone down before the man could respond then stomped into the bathroom for a hot shower.

From his clandestine perch Tommy detected an increase in the number of stalkers on the ground. So far he'd heard no indication of guard dogs. He was surprised, but hoped none would appear before he got off the property. He managed to keep his pulse rate under control, but he felt rage building. Forty-eight hours earlier he racked up a shitload of bad karma when he killed a man to grab his share of the payoff. Now, GraveRobber realized Serge Malroff planned to cheat him out of the two million dollars from the beginning. What's more, the bastard caused the death of a woman Tommy liked, perhaps even loved in his way and was trying to have him killed. Tommy had already resolved to kill Malroff in retaliation, but somehow that didn't seem like enough. He needed to re-evaluate his options. What the hell? He had plenty of time left until darkness fell.

Down in his elegant office Farouk Farnazzi poured a glass of water and tried to calm himself. His intercom signaled a call from Gia Mascara, his personal assistant.

"Doctor, I have an English physician calling. He says he needs to speak with you."

"Who is he?"

"Palmer. Sir Geoffrey Palmer?"

Farnazzi reflected on the name and responded in an instant.

"Yes, of course. Put him on the line." The woman did so immediately.

"Sir Geoffrey. This is Dr. Farnazzi."

"Doctor, thank you for taking my call. Given your position I presume you have an idea who most of my patients may be."

Half the Royal Family.

"Yes, of course, Sir Geoffrey. What can I do for you?"

"One of my patients is in need of seclusion and complete rest. Once that has been accomplished I will need to evaluate how to approach the rest of her treatment plan. Your facility is well suited to her needs. Discretion is essential, of course."

"I completely understand. Of course I will be happy to make every resource available to you. When will you want to admit your patient?"

"Frankly, Doctor, I wish you had her there now, but until her travel is organized I imagine it will be sometime tomorrow afternoon. This is a bit of an intervention and timing is critical."

"Certainly. I understand. I am putting my personal assistant at your disposal; just tell her what you need. Unfortunately, I have a critical situation to attend to downstairs, but Gia will give you my cell number. Please call directly if you need my immediate attention."

"I appreciate your help, Sport. This is a sticky situation. Speaking off the record, old boy, this has Her Majesty's attention. Given HRH's history with in-laws, well, you understand what I'm saying."

Her Majesty? In-laws? Farnazzi's mind raced to make connections and draw conclusions that were not there. Perfect. He thought. I may need friends in high places and soon.

"You can trust to our absolute discretion and expect the clinic's full cooperation as well as my own. I am at your service, Sir Geoffrey."

"Brilliant, Farnazzi. Can't thank you enough."

The doctor handed the call off to his assistant then ran downstairs to the service entrance. He was feeling better, even jubilant, but his respite would end when Mario told him they had lost Tommy the Grave Robber.

61.

An eastbound Gulfstream V crossed the French coastline on its way to Nice. The three passengers onboard huddled around a small conference table. Katya answered the plane's satellite phone in hopes of hearing the voice of one of the Royal Physicians.

"Yes." She listened intently and wrote two phone numbers on the pad in front of her.

"Wonderful news, Sir Geoffrey. Thank you for this. I am indebted to you. How will I ever repay this favor?"

On the other end she heard her kind friend say, "Counting you and your late husband as close friends is recompense enough. Any debt you feel you owe me is cancelled."

"I shall never forget this kindness."

Katya got a wistful glow in her eye. Not yet forty-five she felt out of time and place. Sir Geoffrey's gallantry was a rare commodity in an era obsessed with greed and self- promotion.

"May I presume Sir Geoffrey succeeded?" Edwin Pendleton put down his gold edged reading glasses.

"Indeed, Dr. Pendleton. He secured space for his patient, attended by you, at the Farnazzi Clinic. Here are the direct numbers for Farouk and his personal assistant. You are to call either one with anything you or your patient needs." She passed the note pad across the table.

"Brilliant." Edwin lifted his glass and took a sip.

"He also informed the clinic staff the patient will be watched twenty-four hours a day by her own private bodyguard. Her Majesty insists." Katya stifled a chuckle. "I wonder if the Queen knows my bodyguard is a refugee from criminal charges in Argentina."

"Me?" Jorge Aguierra pointed at himself and said, "I am much more than a bodyguard and far from a refugee."

"Indeed you are." Edwin gave his young friend a sparkling smile and a pat on the back.

"Correct." Jorge grinned as he lifted his own glass and touched it to Edwin's and Katya's. "Here's to a successful mission."

"Here, here."

"Now that we're in, so to speak, what is our plan?" Edwin fiddled with his reading glasses as he spoke.

"Simple. We confirm Joey Beretta's location, wait until the night shift comes on, and we take her."

"Simple?" Jorge asked with a skeptical wrinkle of his brow.

"Yes. Oh, did I mention we shoot anyone who interferes?" Katya pulled a nickel plated dart gun out of her travel bag. "We shoot them with these."

"Sounds like a plan." Jorge looked pleased. Edwin did not.

"Ten darts per clip. They're quiet, fast acting, and leave fewer souls on our already burdened consciences."

Edwin preferred sedation over bloodshed and perked up a little on the positive news, but Jorge's brain raced ahead.

"What about big game?"

"Farouk is mine." Katya reached back in her bag and extracted a 9mm automatic with a noise suppressor.

"Nice. That should handle him."

"Yes, it should." Katya and Jorge high fived one another to Edward's dismay.

Katya despised Farnazzi as much as she hated Serge. She spent the last two of her teenaged years getting clean of the junk the good doctor had pumped into her veins, but still, she wasn't a cold-blooded killer. However, on behalf of herself and his other victims, she was quite willing to make an exception.

Katya pulled up an architectural scheme of the clinic on her computer screen and pointed to the half dozen suites on the fourth floor.

"We're supposed to be accommodated in one of the clinic's best and most private areas. The VIP level seems like the perfect place to sequester someone so I'm hoping they have Joey Beretta in one of the suites. If so, our job will be a hell of a lot easier."

"Let's hope. We're acting on unreliable information and a hunch. Mrs. Beretta may not be on the property at all. Then what?" Edwin always stayed grounded in reality.

"I'd prefer to consider the intel an educated guess, Edwin. If not I suppose you'll run me through detox and perhaps do a little something with my chin." Katya smiled at Edwin who always took a minute to catch on to a joke.

"Then I hope we're right for your sake as well." Jorge laughed aloud and toasted his colleagues.

"To success."

On the clinic grounds Tommy nestled in his perch, and settled on a course of action. The idea of taking Joey Beretta back and holding her for ransom tempted him, but, as he would be working alone and with few resources, his chances of success were slim to none. No, Tommy the GraveRobber resolved to get the hell off the clinic's grounds as soon as the sun set, hole up somewhere for the day, and storm Serge Malroff's villa the next night. He'd plunder the place for anything of value, then shoot the sonofabitch and hope to escape in one piece. The former gunney sergeant leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. In a couple of hours he'd be off this property and on a collision course with Serge. All of his precise planning, hard work and high hopes had come down to nothing more than a glorified home invasion. At best he'd pick up some goodies and kill Serge. Worst case: Tommy dies.

What the fuck? The goon squad killed his girlfriend, he'd been cheated out of millions and to make matters worse, Malroff's stooges had been planning to murder him all along. Count on it, Serge, if I only get one shot I won't miss.

Back in his studio apartment Frank poured another drink and lit his fifth cigarette in ten years. Bad habit or not he began to remember how much he once enjoyed smoking. Considering the results of his last checkup quitting hadn't proved worthwhile. Neither were regrets and Frank already made his position of them clear. He sipped his vodka and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Now everything came down to waiting.

62.

For Bart Zeigler the day began looking at the pretty, sleeping face of the woman whose company he quickly came to crave. He kissed her softly on the lips and from somewhere deep in her throat she made the purring sound he found adorable. With one more kiss he forced himself to roll out of bed and head toward the bathroom scooping up his BlackBerry along the way.

Between brushing his teeth and shaving, Bart's day got even better when he received an incoming email from a venture fund he'd been talking to. The investors agreed to give him ten million dollars for forty percent ownership of the app he created to start Ivan's car with. Ten million dollars! The firm also promised another five million to fund full development in anticipation of a sale to a big service platform.

Bart jumped up and down but stifled his urge to whoop and holler and run around the condo because he already determined not to tell Sally. Not just yet. He had a special moment in mind, and he had a lot of things to think through, not the least of which was how this might impact his work at Dynamic Integrity. If he left would Sally come with him? The happy new complications in his life put a distinct spring in Bart's step as he emerged from the bathroom fresh, showered and wrapped in a towel. He found Sally awake and sitting up in bed reading her email. Bart loved the look, naked except for a pair of old school "intellectual" reading glasses.

"Good morning, Einstein."

Sally self-consciously yanked the spectacles off.

"Hey, I thought you looked like a trifecta."

"Trifecta?"

"Yeah. Beautiful face, great rack, and an immeasurable IQ. That's the girl I love." Bart sat on the edge of the bed.

"You got two out of three right." She giggled and poked him playfully.

"What? You don't like your boobs?"

Sally glanced down at her chest and said, "No, they're fine, but my IQ is only one forty-eight. I hope it's not a deal breaker."

"One forty-eight? I don't know. Maybe I need to reconsider before I get in any deeper." Bart stood up as if to go.

"Oh come on. Give a dumb girl a break you fucking intellectual snob."

Sally laughed a deep sensual laugh as she pulled his towel off and dragged him into bed. They made passionate satisfying love, showered together, and got to work two hours later than usual.

At the office, Jack Button waited for an elevator and observed their arrival. Holding hands. An unrepentant romantic, he long believed this was inevitable. Plus, he had won a thousand bucks from Gabe. As they all got into the elevator he addressed them in his favorite language.

"Bon jours, Sally e Bart, C'est un beau matin."

"Bon jours, Jacques. Oui, il l'est certainement." Sally replied, her glow confirming Jack's suspicions and more.

"Qu'avez-vous faits deux?"

"Faire l'amour, Jacques, faire l'amour." Sally beamed and Jack winked as if to say "good for you."

Bart possessed only a modest command of French, but he understood Sally's answer when Jack asked what they'd been doing. "Faire l'amour: making love." He blushed and Jack smiled silently. It's about time.

At the top floor the romantic Mr. "B" got off the elevator and said, "Have a wonderful day, kids. Make something great happen."

With a casual wave over his shoulder he walked off toward his office.

Before they'd taken two steps Jerry Bachman accosted them.

"Well, there you are. I've been searching everywhere for both of you. Am I to presume you've been busy off premises?"

"You may presume whatever you like, Jerry. What's up?" Bart said unperturbed.

"Gabe wants to see you. He wants to introduce someone to you, but we can wait until you settle into your nest."

"OK, Jerry. Be there in ten."

"So now we have a nest?" Sally wondered aloud as the happy couple headed in the direction of Bart's workspace. They made good on their promise and arrived in front of Jerry's cubicle precisely ten minutes later. Seeing them, Gabe walked out of his office.

"Sally. Bart. Good morning. I looked for you earlier." Gabe glanced at his watch.

"Morning, Gabe. Sorry, but we had mechanical problems." Bart offered the lame excuse without thinking.

"Your car?"

Sally cut in, "No, Gabe. Bart brought some special equipment to realign my underperforming circuitry." Sally gave a deep earthy laugh, a new one on Bart.

Gave shrugged and gestured toward his office. "Come in, I'd like to introduce you to someone."

"Sure. No problem." They followed, with Sally still laughing, and found a young woman with short auburn hair at the conference table engrossed in her notebook computer. The young woman turned toward them to reveal a pretty, smiling face and delicate features. Bart continued smiling, Sally, not so much.

"Dr. Anne Fitch, I would like you to meet Dr. Sally Ramsay and Bart Zeigler."

They all shook hands and Gabe invited them to sit around the conference table.

"Through a mutual friend I found Anne hiding in a research lab at MIT and I asked her to evaluate our theories on the "Flash Crash" code. I believe Sally named it "Blitz".

Sally nodded affirmatively but said nothing. Bart noticed a little of the sparkle gone from her eyes.

Gabe Bowman continued. "Dr. Fitch successfully identified the true purpose of the code we've been working on and located a second string embedded in the exchange's system. I invited her to come work with us on what I hope will be a permanent basis. She will be a senior research associate."

"And here I thought we were the only ones hacking into the exchange." Bart eyed Sally and chuckled, but she gave a thin smile in return.

"Hardly. After a lot of work I recognized the program you had as a "red herring". It served as camouflage while a "sleeper" code inserted itself into the system and now awaits instructions." Anne's face lit up with an innocent smile.

Smart girl. I wonder how much else she's figured out. Wonder how surprised she'd be if she knew the 'camouflage' sold for 20 million?

"That's the direction Bart and I were headed with this. What are your conclusions at this point?" Sally sat back and fixed her most charming gaze on the newcomer.

Anya thought for a moment because she needed to be very careful how she worded her response. She wasn't ready to reveal the source or depth of her knowledge.

"I wouldn't characterize them as 'conclusions' yet. Gabe only asked me to try to validate the code you thought caused the crash and to see if I might devise a method of quarantining or removing it."

Sally, with a superb ear for languages, picked up the faintest trace of an accent in Anne's speech. She went on guard, but made no comment.

"So, Anne, were you successful in your project?"

"Partially. I wrote some code to disable the program's ability to receive instructions. The virus is still in the system, but I believe I can effectively remove it."

"Interesting. I worked out the same kind of a patch a couple of days ago." Sally reached in her pocket and dangled a thumb drive hanging on a silver key chain. She continued, "But, I tried to remain focused on removing the code altogether."

Gabe hid his surprise at Sally's revelation.

"Sally, I had no idea you'd gotten so close"

"You were traveling, Gabe, and I didn't think just a patch was the real objective of our work. I planned to update you later today." Her voice did not reveal her rising territorial instincts.

"You have a fair point about our objectives, but the ability to disable this virus is important. At least we have some measure of defense."

"You know me, Gabe. My focus gets pretty narrow when I'm in pursuit of something." She smiled at Bart then sat back and casually appraised Anne and Gabe sitting on the opposite side of the table. Their faces gave up nothing.

"Like a laser, Sally, and why you're so valuable to this team."

Sally, not in the mood for management "attaboys", smiled anyway. Gabe glanced at his watch and pushed his chair back.

"It's almost noon and I have a meeting in Santa Clara. I'll leave you three to get better acquainted," An abrupt benediction even for Gabe, Sally thought.

"So, Anne, are you living in the area?" Bart tried to make lighter conversation.

"I'm in a townhouse on Bryant."

"Amazing. We live on the same street." Sally put a hand possessively on Bart's arm.

Where 'we' live? Damn. I guess I owe Button a grand. Gabe shook his head and exited.

"I missed breakfast this morning and I'm starved. How about we go get a bite of lunch?"

To his surprise Sally responded enthusiastically.

"Sounds good to me," Anne chimed in. "I'm a stranger here so I'll be glad to learn about some of the local restaurants."

"Let's go to Zibibbo," Sally suggested with a pleasing smile.

"Then lunch it is," he said with gusto.

63.

On the road halfway between Milan and his villa Serge got a phone call from an associate at Grosserkopf. He tasked the man with tracking down the Rusikov brothers' bank accounts and finding a way to get his twenty million dollars back. They no longer had need of the cash. Besides, they'd conspired to cheat him.

"What the hell do you mean it doesn't exist?"

"Herr Malroff, I located every identifiable account they had. The combined balance is a few hundred thousand. Nowhere close to twenty million euros."

"Impossible," Serge stormed. "You will search again and you will continue to do so until you find my money. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course, Herr Malroff." The man, though polite, felt less intimidated by Serge than some of Grosserkopf's other employees. No fool, the fellow had been working on converting his own small fortune into gold for months. As a result he'd become fully transportable.

"I want my money. Forty-eight hours." Serge hung up without waiting for an answer.

Serge forgot or never realized "Leprechaun" could work both ways. In reverse the program hid large sums of cash as small deposits in hundreds of thousands of accounts. Later, "Leprechaun" harvested the money and repeated the process. Once broken into tiny denominations the funds became invisible.

Malroff spent the rest of the ride to Laglio drinking hundred proof vodka. His mood fell into decline and he was cursed himself for not bringing Lisle along with him. By the time she'd been brought to his suite back at the hotel he'd lost interest and her therapeutic massage skills, for once, failed to prove satisfying. No matter, he would be busy dealing with Frank Beretta and Anya. Then, with a clear mind he could relax, perhaps with Beretta's beautiful widow.

By mid-afternoon Friedrich guided the Maybach into the motor court at the villa. Unknown to Serge a Rolls Royce Ghost bound for the Farnazzi Spa and Clinic was setting out on the same route he had just traveled. The car's three occupants were a physician, a bodyguard-chauffeur, and a member of the Queen's extended family. The woman wore a colorful silk scarf over a wig of long dark hair. With large designer sunglasses it was impossible to identify the woman or her age.

Elisabeth sat on the spacious rear seat talking to Frank Beretta by satellite phone. He had positioned himself on the heavily treed lakeshore opposite Malroff's villa. The distance across the lake was only seven hundred yards. He'd bought a second hand kayak and secreted it in the dense undergrowth close to the water.

"We are less than an hour and a half away from the spa."

"Understood." Frank kept his conversation brief in the off chance someone wandered through the woods nearby.

"Edwin will contact you when we arrive and again when Joey is safe. Our plan remains unchanged since I spoke with you earlier. I want to be out of the clinic by just after nightfall."

"Understood. Good luck."

"To you, too, Frank."

"Thank you."

Frank clicked off the phone and settled back in his nest of branches and leaves sorry he'd bought cigarettes. He couldn't run the risk of having his position sighted so the smoking lamp was "off". His thoughts turned to Joey and the friends he'd asked to go into harms way to save her. Beretta had to believe he made the right decision.

Looking through a small spotting scope Frank detected no signs of activity other than sparse movement in what he now knew to be the kitchen. The dock and terraces were vacant and fluttering drapes created the only motion in the master bedroom. Serge's arrival on the opposite side of the house went undetected.

Frank rarely found himself in the field lying in wait without one of his custom made sniper rifles. Shooting his target from his present position would have been easy. With the equipment available a shot of eight hundred yards was almost routine. Having only open water between his location and the master bedroom reduced the margin for error. The portion of the C4 he'd set on the first night could be detonated remotely, too, though this time he wanted to make sure the pig would not be leaving when he blew the house down. Taking unnecessary risk ran contrary to Frank's style, but Serge Malroff had become an exception to every rule in the book. In fact, in nearly forty years in this line of work he'd only killed two men at a distance of less than a hundred yards. One of them had been Ivan Rusikov.

A mile down the opposite shoreline, the GraveRobber tried to decide which boat to steal for his assault on the villa. He'd found a private dock well situated for a theft. The place was secured by a chain link gate and fencing, but he could hop over in a single bound. Better still, a stand of trees and overgrowth screened the little marina from the road. With a choice of four different boats he settled on a small Zodiac with a fifty horsepower Honda motor. He was getting ready to hop the fence to check out the fuel tanks when he heard voices up on the road. Just a couple of kids, but the incident reminded him how keyed up he'd let himself become, so the GraveRobber picked a quiet spot in the shade, stretched out, and tried to calm down.

He'd been lucky the day before as his escape from the clinic's property turned out to be much easier than expected. Around dusk, as a search party swept the woods, a security guard stopped beneath Tommy's position to take an unauthorized smoke break. It would be his last. Slithering down through the branches Tommy held up on a limb about ten feet up before he dropped onto the unsuspecting man breaking his neck with an effortless twist of the head.

The guard wore a black quilted jacket and hat bearing the official "Spa" logos. An inventory of his weaponry revealed a 9mm handgun and a small machine gun, both with extra clips of ammunition. The hapless guard kept a hunting knife on his belt next to a cell phone and his wallet held a little better than a hundred euros. GraveRobber, living up to his name, donned the dead man's cap and jacket and snatched up the guns. He shoved the money and cell phone into another pocket making sure he turned the cell off in case someone was monitoring its GPS locator.

After hiding the guard's corpse under dense foliage Tommy set off straight up the hill. In under fifteen minutes he got to the road. The security fence didn't pose much of an obstacle and less than half an hour after he killed the guard Tommy hitched a ride and was on his way into the village. When he got out of the carpenter's small truck he handed over twenty euros in gratitude and left the cell phone under the front seat.

After a good night's sleep in a cheap room Tommy ate a big breakfast then set off up the lake to find an opportune place to borrow a boat. Now, only the wait for Serge remained.

64.

Thanks to Sir Geoffrey's intercession the 'royal' arrival at the spa went more smoothly than expected. Acting on her boss's instructions to "give him anything he wants", Gia arranged for one of the fourth floor suites at the opposite end of the hall from the one in which they imprisoned Joey.

On arrival one of the security officers waved the Rolls through the gates and directed Jorge to the same back entrance where Joey had been delivered the day before. Mario, on strict instructions from Farnazzi, exhibited his best behavior and offered his muscular assistance in shifting the new patient into a required wheel chair. The mystery client's identity remained obscured by her scarf and glasses, but Mario chuckled as he thought about how many unrecognizable celebrities had passed though these doors and under his own nose. They never look as good in person. Especially not when they arrive here.

Jorge turned the handsome Ghost around and parked the big car close to the back door. He stepped out and spoke to Mario in a serious tone.

"I'll be going out to fetch Sir Geoffrey in the morning and I'd like to park the car here for tonight. Will that be a problem? "

"Of course not, my friend. Only one other private suite is in use. No problem at all."

Jorge reminded himself this friendly guy was a cold-blooded killer as he leaned in even closer and asked, "Are any movie stars here?"

"You never know." Mario chuckled and gave his new friend a conspiratorial wink as he clapped him on the back.

Upstairs, the staff on duty greeted the trio and, following perfunctory introductions, disbursed to allow Dr. Pendleton to be with his patient. Elisabeth made herself comfortable in the private bedroom and Edwin took up a position in the elegant sitting room. Dr. Farnazzi soon arrived intent on making a grand show of introducing himself and somewhat surprised to find the royal patient attended by a black physician. His manner approached solicitous nonetheless. When Edwin Pendleton addressed him in an Oxbridge accent befitting someone of his perceived station, Farnazzi eased considerably.

"Dr. Farnazzi, Sir Geoffrey asked me to again extend his thanks for your graciousness," Edwin said offering the doctor a hearty handshake. "He plans to be here tomorrow to evaluate his patient and to update you on our expected treatment plan."

"Of course. I am anxious to meet Sir Geoffrey. Meanwhile, if I can assist you in any way you need only call. By the way, doctor, may I ask what your specialty is?"

Edwin leaned in close and in a low voice said, "Certainly, doctor, I am a psychiatrist and I specialize in addictive personalities."

"Indeed. I, too, practice in the area of addiction. I will be pleased to meet with you and Sir Geoffrey tomorrow. Please let me know how I may be of service." Farnazzi spoke with a leering smile that chilled Edwin to the bone.

You certainly do have experience with addiction from what I hear.

"I'm sure your expertise will prove invaluable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to speak with my patient before mealtime. It's been a long day. I want to see how she's holding up."

"I understand, Dr. Pendleton. I'll be in the clinic late this evening. Please call if you need me."

"Oh, before you go, there is one thing. Sir Geoffrey might be bringing a special visitor with him and security may be an issue. Are the other suites on this floor occupied?"

"Only one suite and we have our own security posted to insure the patient's privacy. We had a 'situation' here just yesterday with a celebrity, but that has been taken care of."

"I hope so. Nowadays one finds it impossible to avoid prying eyes. My assistant pulled up all the rubbish on the damned internet. The poor girl can't even get medical treatment without having her pictures all over the place. Jemima Burk wasn't it?"

"Of course you know I can't discuss the names of our clients." But, the self promoting doctor's smirk purposely gave him away.

"Understood, but that's not the point, old boy. If paparazzi start to snoop around with an HRH on the property, well, you know how damnably embarrassing that would be." Edwin feigned embarrassment for having dropped the "HRH" and Farnazzi snatched at the bait.

"We have guards at the gate and I have two more at the elevator entrance downstairs. I assure you we will not let anything happen to inconvenience a 'special' guest."

"I know you won't, Farnazzi. A bloody disaster for all of us otherwise."

Edwin gave a slight bow and opened the bedroom doors. As he exited Farnazzi managed catch a glimpse of the woman's dark hair and a riff of her soft voice as she asked for one of her bags. Somehow her voice sounded uncomfortably familiar, but he could not make a connection. No matter. Soon enough he'd identify his royal guest and eventually he'd be certain the name made the rounds on the internet, but only after she'd been released, of course. He might even get a few 'special' photos for his private collection.

Jorge went down to the car and retrieved another Louis Vuitton satchel from the trunk. Back in the suite he swept for surveillance equipment and found audio in every room and video in the bathroom. Somehow, nobody was surprised, least of all Katya. He disabled the bugs in the living room and started unpacking their weapons from the satchel. He lined up the three dart guns and a pair of 9mm's on the coffee table.

Katya tossed off the bedcovers and padded into the living room where the conspirators sat close together on the couch and finalized their plan. This had been a sketchy mission at best, but timing and luck were everything. No one, especially Tommy, might have predicted a teenaged girl with a BlackBerry would burn his well executed abduction. God bless her. Without Hayley Callaway, Joey's rescuers would be blind pigs in search of an acorn.

Jorge's surveillance confirmed Edwin's suspicion that the suite two doors down was their target. The hall contained three security cameras that couldn't be neutralized so once they made their move it would be all or nothing.

"There's a security guard in the hall and two by the outside door at the bottom of the elevator. There was another one by the car when I went for the bag, but I think he was just checking out the new Rolls."

Edwin had a grim look. This was decidedly not his cup of tea, but there is nothing he wouldn't do for Countess Hartwell.

"Jorge, you're best positioned to go down and make small talk with the guard. Find out if he has any information for sale. If not, Edwin and I will help persuade him." Katya loved life on the high wire and it showed in the kind of glow on her face. Edwin's handsome coffee complexion masked his fear.

Jorge smiled and nodded affirmatively. Working without a net fell within his comfort zone too. He gave them a salute and headed out the door.

As the sun began to set Frank got his first glimpse of Serge Malroff in more than twenty years and found his contempt for the man undiminished. Soon, little pig. Soon!

65.

"This is such a beautiful town. I can't believe how fortunate I am to have met Gabe."

Anne sat back and enjoyed the gentle California sun washing over the little café. She liked the Mediterranean cuisine and the place was only a few blocks from the office.

"Did he say you met through a mutual friend?"

"Yes. Dr. Roy Chun at MIT. He was my dissertation advisor and I stayed to do research work with him after graduation. I never left."

"We've not met, but he's well known. I had friends at Stanford who studied with Dr. Chun."

Bart secretly wondered if those friends were the Rusikov brothers and for a second, thoughts of Ilya's digital videos flashed through his mind. He shoved them aside and jumped into the conversation.

"I might have studied with him, but as we all know, I dropped out." He gave a smile as he went to work on a flatbread concoction.

"Dropping out is becoming fashionable these days." Anne said giving Bart a flirtatious smile. "Seems like everyone who's made a lot of money dropped out of somewhere."

"Yeah. Then they turn around and hire an army of Ivy League MBA's and JD's to run their companies." In truth, Bart remained a little sensitive about his lack of a degree. On the other hand, he just made ten million dollars. How many MBA's were doing that in this market?

"They need all the name brand B-School types for their IPO's. They make for good window dressing." Sally took a sip of Diet Coke and a bite of Bart's flatbread. She was definitely marking her territory.

"So, how long have you and Bart been together?"

Bart checked the time and said, "About forty-eight hours."

Anne laughed but Sally jumped in with, "Truly, Anne, I adored Bart the first moment I saw him. That was two years ago." She put a hand possessively on his shoulder. Bart could only shake his head wonderingly.

"Well, obviously you enjoy one another. It's great you can also work together. Dynamic Integrity seems like a wonderful place to be."

"An excellent place," Bart said with enthusiasm.

"Of course, I spent years in a concrete dungeon at MIT." Anne waved her arms saying, "Palo Alto is paradise to me." She was starting to get the hang of her new persona, but she reminded herself to not become too comfortable quite yet.

"Silicon Valley is beautiful and never dull, that's for sure. What were you working on at MIT, if I may ask?" Sally fixed her eyes on the newcomer.

"I've spent a lot of time doing things similar to your work. I was looking for hackers and viruses that might be part of a terrorist plot then designing ways to defend against them. It was a joint grant program funded by MIT, private sector, and Homeland Security."

"Must have been an interesting environment. I wonder who those private companies were." Bart was anxious to hear more, though he had no desire to be closer to the Federal Government than he already was.

"Very interesting, and I'd love to tell you about it, but most of my work was Top Secret." She gave him a demure smile.

"Homeland Security. It seems like the privacy Nazis are everywhere these days." Sally spoke in an indifferent tone though she surprised Bart with the first political statement he'd ever heard her make.

"Sally and I have been working parallel tracks on this "Blitz" program, but you seem to have managed to get ahead of us."

"I wouldn't say that. Gabe asked me to evaluate the program from my own perspective and with a goal of isolating and removing the virus. That's when I figured out there were two sets of code."

"That was relatively easy compared to quarantining or removing the real code." Sally gave Anne a cheerful smile, but Bart sensed her claws were at the ready.

"I'm still wondering why they developed such an elaborate program just to mask the insertion of another source code.'" Bart himself was on guard to not reveal how much information he had.

Anne was the first to speak. "I think it was to fool someone. Maybe these Rusikov brothers had a buyer for the thing. There's a market. Large scale cyber terrorism is close to being a reality. It's just a matter of time."

"So you think the Rusikovs were playing a dangerous game?"

"Correct," she responded. "Once I understood the structure it wasn't terribly difficult to find the second string of code, but all I've been able to do so far is to cobble together a means of isolating it from incoming instructions. I'm worried that whoever wrote it built in a backdoor I haven't located yet."

"They most likely did. The brothers were smart and if they were conning someone at that level I'd have to say they were even slicker than I imagined." Bart's thoughts returned to the Ferrari and the feeling his time with the car was drawing short.

"We were acquainted at Stanford," Sally said and offered nothing more. She knew the NYSE system architecture better than anyone and still wondered over how Anne absorbed it so quickly.

"Did you know them well?" Anne asked.

"I suppose, but after graduation I only saw them on occasion." Sally was matter of fact about it, but Bart wondered what "on occasion" meant.

"I'm sorry your friends are dead, but I wonder whether or not they wrote all of the code themselves."

"Why would you say that?" Sally asked a little too quickly.

"I'm not sure yet, but I think someone else may have been involved."

"Hmmm. Sounds like a first class mystery." Bart sounded intrigued.

"What makes you think that?" Sally asked in flatly.

"Several years ago I worked with someone who connected with a hacker known only by a code name. My colleague said this person was the 'best in the world'. I had a chance to look at some of their work and I'm inclined to agree."

"How does that connect with the Rusikovs?" Sally asked flatly though she was immediately suspicious of who she was really talking to.

"Maybe it doesn't, though there are similarities. Its almost as if the Rusikovs wrote what I'm calling the 'bogus' code and this other person wrote the really dangerous one still embedded in the NYSE's system."

Sally sipped her glass of wine thoughtfully and said nothing. Clearly she and Anne were destined to be competitors.

"So where is this person now?" Bart was finishing his lunch and already thinking about dessert.

"I have no idea. He went dormant about the same time I saw the files, sometime around three years ago."

"Why do you think someone so talented would go dormant?" Sally asked without expression.

"I should have said 'appeared' to. My colleague believed this person to be enormously powerful, a kind of cyber wizard who could manipulate systems almost at will. Someone like that could operate beyond detection for years."

"That's as spooky as the Singularity. Maybe they're right here with us." Bart held up his cell phone and peered at it.

"Or perhaps they're just over there at the next table." Anne laughed as she said it, but Sally gave only a thin smile.

"Motive?"

Anne smiled at her new friends. "We're all hackers of a sort. Why do any of us do what we do? The thrill and the challenge top my list. What about you two?"

"Yeah. That's me. 'The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat' as they used to say." Bart laughed, but having his first program stolen still pained him a little. He opened the dessert menu.

"We've all had our 'ups and downs'. What about you, Sally?"

"Truthfully, I joined Dynamic Integrity because I just wanted a shot at fucking the bad guys."

Bart winced a little. This was the first time he'd heard her drop the "f" bomb outside her own house and then it was in a sexual situation. He was also surprised by Anne's response.

"I'm with you, Sally. Here's to fucking the bad guys."

"And to having the wisdom to recognize who they are."

The two women clinked their wine glasses together. Bart put his menu down for a moment and wondered if this was the beginning of a long friendship or a massive rivalry. He decided to give the question due consideration right after the crème Brule.

66.

Jorge returned to the suite in an upbeat mood.

"Bingo!" He reported with enthusiasm.

"Bingo?" Edwin asked.

"Yeah. She is definitely in the room. I saw her."

"Thank god for a stroke of luck." Elisabeth said as she walked out of the bedroom. She'd dressed in dark jeans and a tee shirt and carried a soft, leather jacket with a Kevlar liner. The brown wig was gone and Katya Yusupov meant business.

"I took your suggestion. Cash is the big motivator around here. The staff seems to be accustomed to putting celebrity patients on display for a fee."

"Why am I not surprised?" Katya snorted with disgust.

"They run videos of clients in the bathroom, too. Not my idea of fun. I guess we already assumed something weird was going on."

"Farnazzi and Malroff are so goddam predictable. They probably get together and watch those videos over a couple of drinks and popcorn. Maybe invite a few friends in on a Saturday night."

"Sick," Edwin hissed, but Jorge pulled the conversation back on focus.

"So, here's the deal. They passed her off to me as Jemima Burck and gave me a peek as evidence. If that's Joey Beretta they really could be twins. Anyway, the nurse was on her way in to insert an IV with a fresh drip of sedatives. I'm supposed to go back in ten minutes or so for a more complete view of the 'goods'. It only costs another thousand euros."

"Utterly contemptible." Edwin was starting to warm up to the idea of causing some pain.

"Sums it up, my friend. I wanted to go ahead and put a bullet in the slime's head."

"Keep a grasp on your thoughts. You may get a chance." Katya laced and tied her black leather running shoes and made a final check on her weapons.

"Once the nurse leaves the male attendant should be the only staff person on this floor." Jorge checked and holstered his dart gun.

"Good. Our 'go' time is moved up to ten minutes from now, but here's what we'll do. Edwin will call Farnazzi to ask him to come up to consult. As soon as he does, Jorge, you retrieve Joey. Deal with the scum attendant any way you choose."

She snapped a fresh clip into her suppressed 9mm and racked the slide.

"Consider it done." The determination on Jorge's face left no doubt what he had in mind.

"Once I've taken care of my old friend Farnazzi, Edwin and I will come to the room and knock twice. We take the elevator down, but before we get out I want you to set off the car alarm. I'm hoping the noise disrupts the guards for a few second. We put them down and we're gone."

"Leaving only the front gate to deal with."

"Worst case we're in a car weighing three tons with six hundred horsepower." Elisabeth looked determined.

"Ouch." Edwin loved English cars, the Rolls in particular, and made an exaggerated cringing gesture.

"Don't be sentimental, Edwin. It's an overgrown BMW now and a rental at that."

"Still a damned fine car."

They smiled at one another. Katya Yusupov knew that apart from Frank she had no more reliable friends than these two men. She checked her watch and said, "Showtime, Edwin."

The elegant Mr. Pendleton picked up the phone and asked to be connected to Dr. Farnazzi.

"Dr. Farnazzi, this is Dr. Pendleton. I'd like you to take a look at my patient and perhaps render a second opinion. Are you able to come right up?" Receiving an affirmative response he ended with, "Perfect, old man. I'll expect you in a few minutes."

"Well done, Edwin. If I know Farnazzi he's headed this way at a dead run, so, we'd best be ready for his arrival."

Elisabeth went back to the bedroom and pulled the wig back on and the covers up to her chin. She held the 9mm in her right hand with the safety off. What big teeth you have, grandmother.

Edwin picked up a folder resembling a medical file and sat in a chair near the door. Jorge positioned himself outside the main entrance to the suite. Moments later the estimable Dr. Farnazzi stepped out of the elevator vestibule and strode up to Jorge who acted his part.

"Good evening, Doctor. Dr. Pendleton is expecting you."

Farouk Farnazzi walked into the room to be greeted cordially by Edwin.

"Thank you for coming up on short notice."

"Not at all. How may I assist?"

"First I would appreciate it if you to examine our patient. Afterwards we can discuss her file in private."

"Of course. I am pleased to be of service." Farnazzi could scarcely contain himself as he allowed Edwin to escort him into the bedroom. The lights were dim and they drew close to the bedside.

"I'd like you to examine some lesions that have developed." Doctor Pendleton turned on the lamp on the nightstand, but before he could pull down the bedcover Katya greeted her old torturer.

"Good evening, Farouk. It's been a long time."

For a moment he was confused and bent closer.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Unfortunately, we have." She pulled the wig off and said, "My name is Katya. You called me "Princess", but not out of respect."

The surprised man took several seconds to process what she said and then his eyes went wide with recognition. In those same moments Katya thought about all the ways she had dreamed of torturing this foul creature before killing him. They were just that; dreams. Farouk Farnazzi, MD, stood up and began to reach inside his jacket. As he did the patient raised her 9mm and put a single bullet into his throat. Given the angle, the slug tore through his brain stem and he died instantly. As the dead man's legs buckled Edwin grabbed the collar of his coat and guided the corpse gently toward the floor.

Elisabeth, already out of bed, stepped around Farnazzi's remains without looking down.

Edwin gave her a thin smile and allowed himself to think she had brought the man to a better end than he deserved. They picked up their satchels and headed for the door.

67.

Frank Beretta remained sequestered in his nest above the lakeshore. His restlessness grew as the sun set. If things went going according to plan they had already started to move at the clinic. Now he had to wait impatiently for the call telling him Joey was safe.

To get himself focused on what he needed to do he went back over his checklist and scanned the villa with his high-powered scope. Soon he would need night vision, but he expected to be in the kayak by then. Serge appeared in the center of his bedroom windows. The French doors stood open, as usual, and the drapes fluttered in a soft evening breeze. The man had just taken a shower and Frank observed his prey dressing for dinner for the last time. Had he not had other plans for the drug dealing pimp this would have been the perfect opportunity to take a shot.

As he lowered his Zeiss scope to the level of the shoreline he was surprised to by a Zodiac with a single occupant approaching the villa's docks. The small inflatable boat ran quietly on an electric trolling motor lending to the impression that its driver may not be expected. Frank hit the power zoom on his scope. Wearing dark clothes and a tactical vest the visitor was definitely not dressed for dinner. A holstered automatic and a compact machine gun in hand announced the guy's intentions.

Frank decided in an instant he'd rather be a participant and not a spectator. As he boarded his kayak and started to paddle across the lake he mulled over the possible identity of the unexpected arrival. It was true that Serge had many enemies both old and new. Frank's greatest fear was that the newcomer was CIA. He was still having a hard time reconciling the recent deaths of the two field agents in France.

With each stroke of the paddle Frank's kayak picked up speed and soon he became absorbed by the rhythmic exercise. The exertion helped balance out the adrenalin building in his system as he approached a showdown that had been on hold for decades.

At the clinic Katya's plan was moving according to schedule. While she dispatched Farouk Farnazzi, Jorge headed down the hall to Jemima Burck's suite with a wad of cash in his pocket. The attendant, Rene, had vacated his post so Jorge knocked softly and waited for the door to open. Rene peered out through a narrow crack making it obvious Jorge would not be admitted as planned.

"What's wrong, Rene? I thought we had a deal?"

"We do, my friend, we do. But you need to be patient. Someone is with her right now." He spoke in a hushed tone.

"With her?"

"Yes. I don't think he will be long, though. You are next."

Those words commanded Jorge to take immediate action. Using his jacket to conceal his weapon from the security cameras he pushed the door open and fired his dart gun twice at the horrified attendant. The first dart lodged squarely in his upper arm and the second in the neck. To be sure Jorge fired a third dart and hit him again in the arm. Rene, slowed by the tranquilizers, grasped for the darts in an attempt to remove them. Jorge pushed him back into the room.

"What are you doing?" Rene spoke slowly, on the verge of collapse.

"I'm with the hospital licensing board. We've had a number of complaints from patients about privacy issues."

"Huh?" The man slurred as confusion set in.

Seeing the bedroom doors closed prompted Jorge to waste no more time. He spun Rene around and, for good measure, cracked him on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. Rene dropped to the floor.

"I was joking, dumbass."

Jorge moved quickly, drawing his 9mm automatic as he gained momentum and made no effort to make a stealthy entrance. Mario stood by the bed with his back toward Jorge. The top of Joey's pajamas splayed open as the big Italian caressed her with his left hand and himself with his right.

Without turning around he said, "Not now Rene. Get out!" The words came out in a nauseating pant. Jorge raised his gun and fired a single, muted shot into the back of the perverted killer's head. A pink spray hit the wall in front of him as the man fell forward onto the nightstand.

The clattering sounds accompanied by Mario's fall appeared to register with Joey. She moaned a little and moved away from the noise. Perhaps she wasn't as heavily sedated as Jorge thought. It didn't matter. They had no time to spare. He gently pulled the IV from her right arm and covered her with a blanket from the end of the bed. As if on queue he heard two sharp knocks. Jorge bent at the waist and in a single powerful move lifted the limp woman onto his shoulder in a traditional 'fireman's carry'. In moments he stood at the entrance to the suite.

He opened the door and, as expected, found Edwin and Elisabeth, but their expressions were off. Something was wrong. Edwin turned his eyes hard right as if to signal before stepping forward slowly. Jorge had only seconds to back away before someone pushed Katya through the threshold with enough force to throw her off her feet. She landed on her butt and was followed into the room by a female guard. The compact, muscular woman's badge identified her as "Pauletta" and she had been sent to discreetly fetch Mario. She encountered Dr. Pendleton and his "patient" as she emerged from the stairwell. The woman packed the power of an athlete and carried a handgun.

Jorge's first thought was to protect Joey. He turned ninety degrees away from Pauletta but had difficulty bringing his weapon to bear from that angle. Edwin drew his dart gun and fired three or four times striking her twice. The tranquilizer's effect was not immediate. Pauletta had just enough time to target Katya who raised her own weapon to fire. Certain she wouldn't get a shot off in time Edwin stepped between them as he continued to pepper the woman with darts. Though one of them hit Pauletta in the face she still managed to get off a single round before Jorge dropped her with two taps from his Browning. The rescuers raced from the room.

Once in the elevator they all realized Edwin had been hit. His wound did not appear to be life threatening and they were able to press on. As they came to a stop Jorge set off the wailing car alarm. The disruption bought them seconds of time while the two guards tried to process what was happening. Seeing Edwin injured put Katya in a bad mood. She shot both men to death without reservation while Jorge loaded Joey and Edwin into the car. The Rolls was already in motion when she jumped into the front passenger's seat.

With Farnazzi and Mario dead, the guards at the main gate had not yet been alerted. Through an open window Jorge spoke to one of the men who grinned, swung the big gates back, and saluted. Jorge stepped on the gas and, with a crisp salute to the gatekeeper, accelerated down the road. It was a drive of more than an hour to Milan where a plane was waiting for them.

"He was certainly cooperative." Jorge grinned and rubbed his fingertips together signifying "money".

Katya sent Frank a text message before turning to check on Edwin. She had him stuff gauze into his shirt and told him to keep pressure on it. He'd be in pain but no immediate danger. Joey, though unconscious, had good color and was breathing normally. For the first time she peered into the face of the woman who captured Frank's heart and her thoughts were conflicted. At least she'd repaid part of her debt of honor to The White Knight.

68.

Beretta paddled to a stop at the villa's dock as his cell phone buzzed signaling the message he'd been waiting for.

Joey OK. Enroute to airport. Good hunting. See you on Bermuda.

See you on Bermuda? Possibly not. Frank wore a grim smile as he set about securing the kayak and gathering his pouch from the watertight compartment. He slid on a vest with large pockets containing the rest of the C4 and clips of ammunition for his side arm. He holstered his Glock pistol and picked up an Uzi from the small dry storage compartment. Ready to do battle he climbed the steps leading to the first level of terrace. Lights blazed in the grand salon, but the ornate room appeared to be empty.

He worked his way around to the kitchen in time to see the chef and her assistant scurrying out of the house. They took off at a dead run toward the motor court. Apparently the other intruder had given them the opportunity to bail out. Interesting. Frank stepped inside only to be overwhelmed by the smell of gas. He sensed that he and the mystery guest were on similar missions. Returning to the terrace he watched through the enormous windows as the mysterious attacker tried unsuccessfully to push Duccio out the front door. With the two of them distracted Frank decided to make his own move on Serge.

At the back of the house he retraced his earlier route and climbed the downspout to the third floor balcony. Frank, staying low, darted toward the open French doors and his showdown with Malroff. He stepped past the threshold with his Uzi held waist high. Serge, admiring himself in his fresh dark blue suit, caught sight of Beretta's reflection in the grand mirrored wall of his bedroom.

"Well, if it isn't the Big Bad Wolf. I was wondering when you would come skulking into my house."

"You must have been wondering a long time. I'm only twenty-five years late." Frank stood his ground though he did not move closer. The loathsome man turned to face him. Malroff's thin cold lips wore a cockeyed smile.

"Oh, no, no, no. I haven't thought a bit about your failure all those years ago. Although, as I already told you, I have missed my playmate. You see, I'm just getting dressed to go meet your beautiful little Joey though I admit I wondered if you wouldn't pay me a visit to beg for her release."

"No begging, Serge and no mistakes this time. You know why I'm here."

"Of course. According to you I'm dead. Except, it seems I'm not. And I thought you were a professional assassin. A dark agent of the CIA. So, why am I still alive?" Serge moved slowly toward the sofa with his hands up.

"Because I'm arguing with myself over how much pain I want you to feel before the end."

"Not very professional of you, Frank."

"True, but this isn't a sanction. It's personal, Serge. I wanted to look you in the eye while you die."

"I see."

A razor edged throwing star seemed to materialize in Serge's hand and he hurled it with impressive force and accuracy. Frank dodged to his right but could not completely avoid the spinning blades and they tore into his left shoulder. The vest offered a little protection but the wound stung like a son of a bitch and blood began to flow. Serge raised his hand to fling another star when a gunshot echoed in the grand atrium followed by an explosion that rocked the core of the house. The Russian sprang to his feet and dashed toward the doorway.

At the same time Tommy the Grave Robber burst into the bedroom. As he climbed the staircase to the third floor the loyal Duccio took a shot at him and, in doing so, set off a conflagration that turned the first floor into his own funeral pyre.

Tommy, singed and smoldering bellowed, "You bastard. Malroff, you owe me two million dollars."

Surprise registered on his face at finding Beretta standing just inside the terrace doors. The distraction proved costly. Before he could say anything more Malroff flung the other star at Tommy and this time with greater accuracy. The elegant little weapon found its mark and cut the man's right carotid artery. Blood began pulsing out of his neck and he reeled backwards clutching at his throat.

Serge never before met the GraveRobber though he now regarded the man to be a bungler and a colossal failure. He spat out, "I owe you nothing, you fucking imbecile." The crazed Russian followed after Tommy as he staggered backwards onto the open landing overlooking the three-story atrium. It was obvious to Frank what Serge had in mind and he simply looked on as he shoved Joey's kidnapper over the railing and into the raging fire. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend.

Beretta, like Katya Yusupov, had anticipated this moment, again and again visualizing what torture he might visit on the deserving lump of toxic humanity known as Serge Malroff. As Katya learned with Farouk Farnazzi, Frank understood that the time had come to have done with it. His Glock spit two rounds at Serge and the force drove him over the edge after Tommy the Grave Robber. Frank strode to the place where Serge had been and took off the vest full of C4. He dropped it on the floor and walked back into the bedroom. Standing in the open French doors and looking out at Lake Como he pushed a detonator switch.

Explosions ripped the villa apart breaking every window within a hundred yard radius. A fireball shot skyward and was plainly visible for miles. By the time the blaze got under control the roof had collapsed, as had the exterior walls above second floor. Serge Malroff and his home had been reduced to a smoldering heap of debris.

The local police arrived to find the chef and her assistant standing by the front gate in shock. They reported that a man had come into the house through the kitchen entrance and, at gunpoint, ordered them to leave. The chef's helper added that, as he was leaving, the intruder began turning on all the gas appliances. Not long after they exited there was a massive explosion. They both agreed that the man was medium height with grayish hair and an athletic build, but that was all the two living eyewitnesses remembered.

69.

The flight from Italy to Bermuda proved difficult for all of them. Katya remained with Edwin, sequestered in the plane's private cabin, as Katya tended to his wounds. Though conscious, Joey continued to suffer the aftereffects of heavy sedation. She had a splitting headache and the general feeling of severe jet lag. Fragments of memories began to surface in a disconnected way: the result of times she drifted in semi-consciousness during her ordeal.

Jorge Aguierra hovered attentively over her throughout the flight bringing her bottled water and food as she asked for them and, more importantly, offering her reassurance and company.

Joey was turned toward the window with her eyes focused a thousand miles away, though she spoke to Jorge.

"So I have you to thank for my rescue?"

"I helped," he said modestly.

"Sounds like something Frank would say. He's modest, too. I think he's a hero. Are you a hero as well?" She faced him, now fully awake, and for the first time Jorge got the full impact of her devastating ice green eyes.

Jorge smiled and shook his head "no". He looked nothing like Frank, but his dark features and kind face reminded her of him in a way, perhaps because he was so much on her mind. No, there was something else. She tried in near desperation to connect the dots.

"He must be quite a man." Jorge reminded himself to be careful to not reveal how well he did know Frank Beretta, at least for now.

"I can't begin to tell you." Joey turned back to the window and added, "Somehow you remind me of him." Wish I knew exactly why.

"I am flattered, Mrs. Beretta."

Joey, exhausted, dozed for the remainder of the trip leaving Jorge to check on Katya and Edwin in the small aft cabin. His injury turned out to be more severe than first thought, but the bullet had passed through and Katya expertly cleaned and dressed it. Edwin medicated himself with expensive scotch and, like the others, dozed comfortably for the rest of the flight.

Mac Larsen was waiting on Bermuda with a Citation X ready to take off for Palm Beach. They transferred Joey from the Gulfstream to the Cessna where she looked on as Jorge helped a shaky Edwin to a black Range Rover. She wanted to thank them again in person, but for reasons best known to themselves the odd duet had asked to keep an anonymous distance.

To Joey's surprise Jorge insisted on accompanying the S3 team back to Florida and, after a moment with Edwin and Katya, he jogged over and came aboard their sleek jet. Seeing Mac and Joey in the aft seats and obviously in serious conversation he strapped into a seat near the galley to give them some privacy.

"How bad, Mac?" Joey was asking about Frank, but Mac, unprepared for the subject steered a different direction.

He shook his head. "The kidnappers set fire to your house. It's close to a total loss, Joey. I'm sorry."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Billy?"

"He's fine. They drugged him with a dart gun. The garage apartments and pool house survived and Billy's been living on the boat since this all happened."

Joey smiled for a moment then her face turned cold as she laid out the question Mac Larsen dreaded.

"Mac, where's Frank?"

"I have no idea." He made eye contact with her though he seemed to be floating someplace far away.

"You don't know or you can't tell." Her voice trembled but still had a determined edge to it.

Mac shook his head. He had never seen fear in her eyes and the sight chilled him to his core.

"I do not know. As things are, I would tell you anything, classified or not, but I just don't know where he is."

"Is he alright?" Joey grasped at yet another straw, sounding uncharacteristically desperate. She bit hard on her lip to stave off the hysteria damming up in her.

"Joey, for the first time since I started working at S3 I'm totally out of contact with Frank. I wish I could tell you more." The strong man's voice quivered with pain and frustration.

"Jesus, Mac. My husband is gone, my house is destroyed and I still don't begin to understand where I've been or why. Nearly three days are missing from my life. I feel like I'm loosing my mind."

Mac's copious professional training vanished beneath his own grief. Not naturally gifted at providing comfort he sat in silence as Joey began to cry. Without warning Joey's anger crested and she slammed her fists into the armrests.

As if on queue Jorge appeared with a cup of ice in one hand and a wet cloth napkin in the other. He had two Grey Goose miniatures stuffed into his shirt pocket along with more tissues.

"Sorry, but cabin service was delayed due to weather."

Joey managed the faintest of smiles and wanly quipped, "I didn't notice any turbulence."

"Heavy rain." Jorge pointed at her tears and handed her a couple of Kleenex.

She smiled and even tried to laugh hoarsely. Mac Larsen exhaled for the first time in five minutes. He used the interlude as an excuse to "stretch his legs" and visit the lavatory. Jorge slid into the seat across the aisle from Joey. He pulled the vodka out of his pocket.

"I thought something a little stronger might be good."

"OK, but first I need to stretch myself."

Joey held out a hand for Jorge to help her. As she stood up the blanket dropped and she remembered too late that she still wore the silk pajamas from the spa. The top, barely fastened, fell open and exposed most of her torso to an embarrassed Mr. Aguierra who instantly diverted his eyes.

Joey squealed and yanked the cloth around her as she worked to fasten the buttons.

"I'm so sorry, but we didn't have any clothes for you to change into and because of Edwin's injuries we were in a hell of a hurry when we left Italy. You were barely awake and I carried you onto the plane, but I assure you..."

Mario! Mario, what are you doing? Shut up, Rene. Hands on my body. Rough. Just like the dream. Then a crashing noise. Another memory fragment floated to the surface and took Joey's breath away. She had to sit back down. He is a hero.

"Are you alright?" The intense look of concern on Jorge's face migrated to Mac's as he returned to his seat carrying a plate of sandwiches and a cold beer.

"No, but I will be as soon as I get some clothes."

Mac jumped in, "I can help with that. Jill packed a bag for you. It's in the back."

Joey turned toward the small door in the aft bulkhead and said with much relief, "Thanks, Mac. Thanks very much."

As soon as she ducked into the compact lavatory Mac leaned over and spoke to Jorge in a hushed tone.

"Does she know?"

"Not yet. I wanted to develop a rapport before telling her."

Mac sort of chuckled at that. "I don't think you have to worry. Besides, it's the boss's orders. Anything happens to him and S3 assigns its best agent to Mrs. "B". That's you, Jorge. Period."

"Sure, but when we tell her it will raise more questions about Frank. Are you ready to answer them?"

Joey returned to her seat interrupting the conversation. She'd dressed faster than Houdini opened handcuffs, run a brush through her hair, and managed to look good in clothes as simple as jeans and a University of Florida sweatshirt.

She looked at Jorge and said, "So, bartender, may I have that drink now?"

"Of course." He went to the bar for more ice and returned with drinks for everyone. Joey nibbled on a cold ham sandwich. A good sign.

"Gentlemen, I feel like shit, but it's a step up from how I felt hours ago."

Without thinking Jorge said, "To shit!" and made a toast.

"To shit," they all said in somber tones. Joey thought, and this is the best I'll feel until I see Frank again.

Mac had some sense of Joey's inner strength but her eyes were full of the weary sadness of a deeply wounded warrior. Jorge saw it too and felt protective, knowing he could take a bullet for his mentor's wife.

70.

At The Lion's Hill, Katya, as she now chose to call herself, sat on her elegant terrace facing the ocean and drinking a dry martini. Edwin Pendleton was beside her, his right arm in a sling and his feet propped up on the low, stone wall. The doctors pronounced him lucky to be alive, but he stoically described his wound as, "less than fatal." He took a sip of scotch and leaned back in the chair, letting the warm sun shine on his handsome face.

"Edwin, has it all been worthwhile?"

The bright and introspective man sighed and said, "Saving Mrs. Beretta was. As to everything else I suppose time will have to be the judge. The world is always changing, and we have no way of knowing the future for certain." He put a gentle hand on her arm as a tear trickled down her cheek. He'd not known a woman to sustain so much pain in her life and keep going. Even Katya's armor had to wear thin at some point. Edwin reminded himself of the pledge he had made to her dying husband.

"Think about the past week. Frank killed two men who should have been on our side. Serge and Farouk are deservedly dead, but what of their masters? Their machine is intact and growing more powerful. Are things fully out of our control?"

"Times have changed and so have the tools. Men haven't. They are better informed and better equipped and there are those who will use that to their advantage. But, it's no different now than it was when stone axes were invented, iron was first wrought; steel forged, or the atom split. The first to use them got the lion's share. So it is in the new dimension of an electronic world."

"But it's as though we're advancing at a rate so rapid that man is no longer able to keep up." Katya looked at her empty martini glass and wondered if she wanted another.

"Man will always find a way. You just have to have faith and, by the way, you are talking as though you were as old as I am."

"Edwin, no one is as old as you are."

They laughed aloud and she poured each of them another drink.

"Cheers, my dear friend."

"Cheers."

In Palo Alto, Bart Zeigler was enjoying the best week of his life and it got more interesting when he awoke to find an envelope next to his pillow and the smell of Amaretto infused French toast coming from the kitchen.

He padded down the hall and found Sally hard at work at her prized Vulcan stove. She wore dangerous cutoff jeans, a tee shirt and her "intellectual" glasses. Bart's heart sped up just looking at her.

"Morning, Einstein."

"Good morning, Bartholomew." It was a compromise. If she was Einstein then he was Bartholomew.

Bart sat at the counter and opened another of Sally's big crème colored envelopes. He extracted a folded sheet of matching paper with some other sheets inside.

"What's the occasion?"

"Read it, Bart." The dominatrix ordered.

He unfolded the paper and found a note in Sally's impeccable script:

I've always believed in the impossible and now I have him.

I love you,

Sally

PS: Enjoy!

He unfolded the other sheets and discovered a certificate of title and registration to the Ferrari California. Both were in his name. He stared at Sally, now standing next to him, in utter bewilderment.

"What?"

"Ivan gave me a deal I couldn't refuse."

"Ivan is dead."

"Details." She stuffed a piece of French toast and a couple of her fingers into his mouth.

"I can't believe you would do this," he mumbled licking the sweet syrup from her fingertips.

"I told you, I got a deal I couldn't refuse. Admit it, Bartholomew, you love that car."

"I do." "But I can afford my own, now", he almost said.

"Then no more argument, OK?" She took her glasses off and let her hair loose.

"OK." Bart swept her up in his arms and kissed her in a way he'd not done before. "Einstein, I love you." He'd felt it but held off saying the words. Now they were as natural as the morning he spontaneously kissed her neck and the night they spent wrapped in one another's arms.

"I know you do. It's time to go to work." Happy in a new and wonderful way Sally purred and for a long while.

An hour and a fast ride in Bart's Ferrari later, they arrived at the office to be summoned to a meeting in the board room. Anne Fitch held forth at great length on her theory about the involvement of a third person in the Rusikov programs. Bart listened intently and Gabe seemed to buy the concept. Sally spent most of the meeting tapping relentlessly on her smart phone. None of the other three noticed as she read a message that seemed to upset her.

She remained in a trance as Gabe announced that he authorized Anne to utilize whatever resources she needed to further her study. That included Bart and Sally. Bart remained indifferent, but Sally did not. Preoccupied, she departed the office at noon leaving a note on Bart's desk:

Bart, I'm going to LA. Just got a phone call. My Dad needs me. Sorry for the short notice. I'll miss you and I'll be in touch soon.

I adore you! PS: Clean linens are in the dryer.

By the following morning Bart had not heard from Sally and raced to Los Angeles where he managed to locate Ambassador Ramsay at his Santa Monica condo. Despite his uncertain health, the Ambassador convinced him he had not seen Sally in nearly a month. He gave Bart the name of his yacht, Suspicion, and its slip number at Marina Del Rey. Bart found the boat slip empty. The harbormaster told him Sally left on the sloop early that morning saying she was going to Hawaii. "Don't worry," he said, "she's made the crossing solo several times." They tried without success to raise Suspicion by radio and satellite phone and, on the third day, a passing ship found the sleek vessel adrift. Driving the Ferrari back to Palo Alto did nothing to improve Bart's mood. He kept turning the word "suspicion" over in his mind.

Olivia Walker and Senator Harry Brooke were having breakfast together in what had become her small McLean law office. Take-outs from Panera Bread Company.

Harry put a copy of LaStrada down and looked across the wide desk.

"The most recent article says, "Italian Police have failed to determine how many people perished in an explosion at the villa of financier Serge Malroff. The explosion, linked to a gas leak, is known to have claimed the lives of Mr. Malroff and his employee, Duccio Diluvia. At least one other body has been discovered, as have the personal effects of an American, Mr. Frank Beretta, of Palm Beach, Florida. Though his remains have not been positively identified, Malroff's chef, Mary Murdoch, stated that a man matching Beretta's description entered the villa in the moments before the explosion. An investigation into the catastrophe is on-going."

"Indeed." Kick nibbled on her warm muffin and continued to scan the Washington Post.

"Well, Counselor, what is your opinion?"

"The "investigation is 'on-going'. Until it's complete I have no reason to comment."

"Fair enough." He smiled, "and what about this?" He handed her a printout of a piece from the LA Times.

"Early yesterday a sailing yacht, "Suspicion", was found adrift six hundred miles south southwest of Los Angeles. There was no one aboard and a search has been initiated for a possible survivor. J. Clinch Ramsay, the owner of the seventy- foot yacht, is a former ambassador and philanthropist. It is believed that his 26 year old daughter, Sarah, was making a solo crossing from Marina del Ray to Hawaii. An accomplished sailor and Stanford PhD, Ms. Ramsay left LA three days ago with a stated destination of Lahaina, Maui. Ambassador Ramsay was unavailable for comment."

"What about it?" Kick took a sip of black tea as she looked over her reading glasses.

"We both know that she's on the run. What do you plan to do about your niece?"

"The Office of the Legacy Counsel has no current interest in her. What do you intend to do about your granddaughter?"

"Wait and observe." He smiled knowing he'd chosen his successor wisely.

#####

About the Author

Roddy Wix is a self described raconteur and pathological story teller. A former investment banker, pilot, polo player, and escapee from an Ivy League education he divides his time between the mind numbing serenity of the Mid West and the mind expanding verve of San Francisco.

Suspicion

Look for Roddy Wix's next novel, Suspicion, in the FALL of 2011

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