(6) Music for the Hard of Hearing

Sanguineus did not park his rental Volvo at the Hotel Wien on Fleischmarkt road, where he had a room, but turned abruptly into the parking lot of the quaint old building across from it, the French-style Hotel Antoinette.

Upon entering the foyer, the concierge, a Madame Belli, appeared in the doorway of her office waving a slim package and smiling toothily at him. "Monsieur Napoleon?"

"Oui?"

"Un paquet pour nous."

He took the package and said, "Merci, mere," whereupon she laughed, lightly spanking his arm.

"So drole, vous Anglais!"

"Always," he quipped, smiling at her, and went upstairs to his room, to the room let to a Monsieur Hilary Napoleon. Here he opened the brown paper package with its London postmark.

It was a literary magazine, 'The Voyeur.' The fiction story by Reginald Beckwith would have instructions for receiving his September salary. Probably the receipt of an insurance claim for the loss of a valuable item by a certain pawnbroker in New York, a claim from a fictitious insurance company for a lost item that never existed.

He tossed the magazine on the bed and opened his suitcase on the table beside the window. He lifted up the false bottom and took out a stripped down, modified British L-115A3 sniper rifle.

It was missing the bipod and cheek piece. The folding wooden stock had been replaced by an adjustable aluminum rod, and the barrel shortened, so that half its length was that of the suppressor.

He locked in a 5-shot clip, turned off the ceiling light, and, aiming at the window of his room across the street in the Hotel Wien, focused the ×25 scope on the brick sill, ninety-three feet distant.

Satisfied, he set the rifle on the armchair by the table and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was 9:36 of a Friday night. He assumed he had a long wait.

Sanguineus took a shower, dressed all in black, poured himself a cup of coffee, and got comfortably situated in the chair where he could watch the window of room 203 of the Hotel Wien.

He set a pair of headphones on the table.

That morning he had replaced the gold macrame curtain in 203 with a thin gauze variety that would seem sufficient for privacy from within the lighted room, but from without, through a sniper scope, would show enough details of any figures for a clean shot. The window pane was double-glazed insulated glass, toughened, but would not be much of an obstacle for the .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge with its 1400 foot range. Before he left, he taped four one-inch-square Johnson microphones in the four compass points of the room.

The traffic on Freischmarkt was steady. With the window open the vehicular noise was reassuring. If he was destined to take a shot, the rifle's suppressed sound and flash would not likely draw anyone's attention, not if the pedestrians across the street remained as scarce as at present.

Two hours passed.

At 11:51 the sound of a radio playing polka music grew progressively louder as someone came up the stairs and into the hall.

Sanguineus turned slightly in his chair, his feet up on the chair seat opposite, and lighting his tenth Sultan, gazed at the door, a grey rectangle in the dark room. Some drunken old bastard, probably, he thought, and turned back to the window.

The music faded as the radio, with its Polish DJ gushing over an etude by Chopin, was carried down the hall.

Across the street, the gauze-draped window on the second floor lit up.

Sanguineus put on the headphones, picked up the rifle, and positioned himself so that 203 was a bleached-out view of a wardrobe closet, a bureau, a large painting in a shiny laminated frame, and the bathroom door, half open.

A male figure crossed the window.

There was a moment of static in the headphones. Then a woman's voice with a familiar hybrid accent, Scottish with a trace of Southern US, said nervously:

"Ricklen Cruor? Ricklen... Can you hear me?"

A pause. Then: "Don't shoot him."

Sanguineus said, "That goddamn radio. You picked up my frequency. Who is he?"

"I don't know. I walked right by him today, in the Aufgarten Park, but there was no hint of recognition. I don't think he knows who I am. But he was keeping an eye on you and that young man you were with."

"Why are you here?"

There was no answer. The static increased. He said, "Come to my room."

A bullet grazed his shoulder, smashing a drawer of the bureau behind him.

He tipped the chair over and crawled away from the window. A second shot hit the mirror above the bureau. It split into a web of cracks.

He aimed his rifle at the door. It opened silently, swiftly, and a broad silhouette outlined by the hall lighting extended a gloved hand and fired six silent rounds in a low sweep. A leg of the overturned chair snapped, hanging by a splinter.

Sanguineus aimed from his lap and squeezed the trigger. A muffled thwop! The silhouette was flung back into the hall, collapsing on the carpet.

Sanguineus stood up in the corner, waiting, listening.

A glance out the window showed a dark 203. He thought he heard a vehicle pull out from the Hotel Wien's parking area, but he couldn't be sure. The driver, he thought, could be anyone.

Sanguineus set down the rifle. He drew his Glock automatic from under his black corduroy jacket and walked sideways along the wall, ducking out the door into the hall where the body lay bleeding profusely. It was that of a hefty middle-aged man. Dead.

He closed the door and considered a moment. There was nothing in the room or in the hall that could identify him. His fingerprints and DNA were not on record anywhere, thanks to the 'black hats' at Red Rum.

He left everything the way it was, and, keeping his hand on the gun in his jacket pocket, went out into the night.

Sanguineus walked among the sparse pedestrian traffic a block to the Judengasse, turned left, walked another block along the line of parked cars to the Lichtensteg, turned left and crossed the street to the Hotel Topazz.

To the sleepy clerk at the registration counter, he said in faulty German, "Mein Gepack wurde am Airpirt verlegt," meaning that his luggage had been misrouted at the airport. It would hopefully be sent here to the hotel tomorrow: "Morgen hier geschickt."

The clerk yawned, nodding. He handed Sanguineus a pen and tapped a blank registration card on the counter. "Unterzeichten Sie hier, please."

Sanguineus signed it 'Reginald Beckwith' and presented his international driver's license under that name.

(5) Music for the Hard of Hearing

Monica lifted her glass, her elbows on the table. Her expression was one of amusement, Sanguineus noted, but it was a thin veneer.

"So, what's the job?" she asked. She watched him over the rim of her glass. "All I was told was that you requested my assistance, in Vienna. I know a guy who owns a beer house here, so I used that as an excuse for taking some time off from my work in Boston. Webber Brothers Investigations. They're with ICS. But I guess you know all that, if you're so knowledgeable of my culinary tastes."

"Who's your boyfriend?"

"Ex boyfriend. An Austrian Jew. Smart guy. He knew me when I was in Hollywood. I'm through with him. He won't be a nuisance, I guarantee you. Now, what am I good for?"

Sanguineus was rolling a smoke. Without looking up he said: "It's a revenge job. A tricky one. The mastermind behind the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center. The Pentagon side of it is neither here nor there, so far as the client is concerned. His wife jumped to her death from the first tower to go down. She was torn in two by an architectural protrudence, let us say. The client wants the mastermind to die a similar death. Your job is to lure him to the Millennial Tower. That's where I intend to fulfill the contract. I have three engineers working on the paraphernalia."

"Paraphernalia?"

Sanguineus licked the paper. "It has to be a controlled descent. A circular saw will be waiting for him at the bottom. He'll descend at a rapid speed, to help avoid detection, then slow down as he nears the saw."

"Ooh! And how much is this costing the client?"

Sanguineus lit the cig and said, "Five hundred mil."

"Holy shit. And we're getting--?"

"That depends."

"What do you mean, 'depends'? How much will I be paid if I lure the fucker to the tower? And just hold on a minute. Was this a terrorist attack or a government conspiracy?"

Sanguineus looked surprised by the question. He sipped his vodka tonic, took a drag on his smoke, and replied in an academic manner. "It was a private sector job, a type known as 'Octopussy.' The intelligence agencies and the FBI had some pre-knowledge of it, but it appears that no one in the Bush Administration was aware of it. Octopussy involves elements of organized crime, corporate funding, and the military, specifically black ops in the CIA 'Ghost' apparatus. It has tentacles everywhere, which is why the more ethical intelligence operatives are afraid to blow the whistle on it. It's one of those Jeckyl and Hyde developments that pop up in the world of high finance when something radical needs to be done to solve a dire problem."

"And what was so dire?"

"A state of diminishing returns."

"Oh that's a dire thing, alright."

"It is if you're a big wig in the military industrial complex, which happens to be the lifeblood of economic security. Look, Monica, we don't live in a fairy tale written by the Dalai Lama. This is civilization, not the Garden of Eden. History is a series of biographies of psychopaths. Without them, we'd love each other to death. Which is worse? A long life and a yawn, or a short life and a merry?"

"I'll be merrier if you'll tell me what my fee is going to be," said Monica, her tone serious and not without a small streak of anxiety running through it. "A five hundred million dollar contract is hard to believe. The client must be a billionaire."

"Yes, and that's all you're going to know about him."

"Roll me one if those," she said. "And while I'm eating these chipotles, tell me what you know about ME."

Sanguineus took out his Gambler tobacco pouch and Zig-Zag papers. "Your sugardaddy is the mastermind, Phillipe Sorgensen," he said, casually glancing at her reaction. She did not mean for it to be noticeable. "Your mother is a secretary at Magna's New York offices, in the payroll department. It was through your mother that Sorgensen met you, at an office Halloween party, when you were in high school. Later he arranged to have you accepted into the Actor's Workshop. We don't know exactly what your involvement was concerning the thermite explosives placed in the basements of the Twin Towers, but Guido Geitz was convinced that you were one of several decoys used to distract security agents when the explosives were being smuggled into the buildings. I would have interviewed Guido myself had you not bashed his head in."

Monica was staring at him as she licked her fingers, a cold emotionless stare that rendered her face particularly lovely in the glow of sunset and the limpid breeze that shifted her hair over one cheek, in separate strands, like living tendrils.

Sanguineus gave her the handrolled cigarette, and, when she put it loosely between her pouting lips, set fire to it.

"So, what's the fee?" she asked through puffs of smoke. "Or do I have to inquire into it fifty more times?"

"Let me explain it this way," Sanguineus began. "Sorgensen has no intention of giving you access to the trust fund. He would have you killed first. After all, he can buy any woman he wants for a lot less than three million dollars. And you don't want too much money for your part in the hit. In our line of work, the higher the pay-out, the less value the life of the payee. I'll get sixty-five grand, and you... you'll get thirty-five grand. All our outstanding debts and mortgages will be paid. That's a bonus everyone in the organization will receive."

"And the rest of it?"

"Bribe money. Are you ready to order?"

"You haven't asked me if I'm going to betray Phillipe."

Monica sat back, confident that she had given him a fine riposte. He seemed pleased with her tightly held, stolid demeanor.

"You will betray him," he said with equal confidence, "or you'll be dealing with more than one assassin on your tail. But your act of betrayal will be when I say it's to be, and not before. And by the way, I heard from Rolgo a short time ago that the ICS snitch who quite likely leaked this contract to a CIA informant is a man named Harrison Welles. His son, Lance, was a Red Rum courier who was killed by a bomb intended for our Director. Mr Welles has betrayed his CIA connections for the same reason you will betray Sorgensen. He knows that if he doesn't cooperate with Red Rum, his days will be cut short, in a hurry."

Monica blew a thoughtful plume of smoke. "Sounds like we have tentacles just as long and deadly as Octopussy. Yes, I'm ready to order. And... speaking of sea food... the scalloped shrimp and rice here is excellent."

Sanguineus saw in her eyes a similarity to the ice in his glass. He liked what he saw. There were no regrets, no smoldering coals that might flare up into remorse. He said, "And afterwards?"

"Well, afterwards you'll want to rush off to your hotel and get ready to meet Dolina Galsworthy."

She paused for effect, her Bloody Mary poised at her left shoulder, the cigarette an inch from her carefully crafted smile. "Dolina thinks I'll stay loyal to Phillipe. She was told that by her superior. The 'Octopussy' believes that my bird in the hand is worth more to me than any amount in the bush. They expect me to foil the contract Red Rum has put on Phillipe's head, and to help them kill Bear Claus. See, I know a few things myself. I can play dumb with the best of them. So let me ask you again, do you think I'll betray my eighty-two-year-old wealthy lover?"

Sanguineus caught the eye of the waiter, who came over to their table obsequiously.

"The scalloped shrimp and rice, for the lady and I," Sanguineus said to him, "with a caesar salad, the soup d'jour, your finest white wine, and another round of drinks."

"Very good. That was a Bloody Mary and a vodka tonic on the rocks?"

"Yes."

A ship's horn sounded from under a bridge. The quack of mallards peddling alongside the hull of the Fluss Sprite, the cooing of a green winged teal as it passed overhead, the clink of glasses and gay voices from the nearby tables, reminded Sanguineus that the world was not all dark deadly tentacles, but a world balanced between serenity and the serendipity of the sinister.

He sat relaxed in his chair watching the movement of Monica's hair. The canopy lights lent a placidity to her eyes that was like unexpected starlight after a storm.

"Do you know Dolina's intentions regarding me?" he asked, and immediately regretted the question. What little beauty he had just recognized was now a faded print on the wall of his consciousness.

"No but I can guess," Monica said. She was turning her pack of Turkish Hills around on the table, gazing at the kitchen door. "She's not an enforcer. I think she might offer you something that is designed to be hard to resist. But really..." Monica looked at him with a false tenderness; it could hardly have been genuine, he thought. "But she might offer to help you kill Phillipe. She didn't say anything remotely like that to me, after I told her what happened to Guido. But--" Her eyes widened. "Oh. Wait. You didn't learn about Guido from HER, did you?"

The kitchen door opened.

"No," Sanguineus said.

(4) Music for the Hard of Hearing

That morning Sanguineus walked along a pathway in Vienna's Aufgarten Park.

With him was a young man wearing thick spectacles and having prominent teeth, who was so thin that his knee-length alpaca sweater seemed to be worn by a walking clothes hanger.

The pathway was bordered on both sides by lime trees and maples. It was a Friday, and though the park was a quiet and sympathetic place for a private talk, it was showing signs of the approaching weekend. School children's voices were in the air, mixing with those of birds and the shrill whistles of the sports instructors. That particular timbre that speaks of an anticipation of freedom, and the joy of lethargy, was making itself felt.

"There's no indication that Sorgensen is aware of the contract on him," said the young man, Murray, "but he is convinced that ICS has been investigating him. Someone in that organization tipped off his personal accountant, a guy named Dimitri Archimedes."

"Anyone who has had dealings with the CIA's black operations will know about the vigilante network," Sanguineus said. "The question is, was the attempt on the life of Bear Claus a reaction to the investigation?"

"We don't know who ordered it. We think it was someone in the employ of Sorgensen, someone this Dimitri guy knows. But it could be the CIA. Do you think so?"

Sanguineus considered.

A spray of pale brown leaves whisked across the path in a soft clatter that frightened a squirrel.

"There have been many smoking gun accusations aimed at the government," he remarked. "They all slide right off it. One more accusation isn't going to make any difference. I don't think the Firm is behind the hit attempt on Claus, and neither does he. But Sorgensen is a potential patsy, and the Firm can distance themselves from him if necessary. So it makes sense to see him as the source of the attempt."

Murray swung his hands inside his sweater pockets, his strides springy, his geeky youthfulness apparent in every aspect of his appearance. Sanguineus did not like having to converse with him, not in public places, but the young man was Red Rum's only analyst in Austria and the Balkans.

"How did your acoustical engineer ruse go at the concert hall?" Murray asked as they walked along through the stripes of tree shadows.

"It got me a free pass for the concert tomorrow night, and the authorization to test the sound quality from anyplace in the venue, including backstage. But I'll have my eye on the maestro. I need to wire his tux for audio. It's likely that he'll have a chat with Dimitri after the concert. And I'll want to hear that."

Sanguineus stopped. He stood staring at a vendors area near an athletic field. It was the rich smell of roasting peanuts that had first caught his attention. Then a casual glance at the portable nut stand arrested his movement.

A youngish blond woman was buying what looked like roasted chestnuts scooped up from a bin and poured into a bright red and white paper sack.

Money changed hands and the blonde turned with the bulging sack now in her denim shopping bag. She was pretty and her golden hair gleamed silkily in the light breeze.

She did not look directly at Sanguineus, but he sensed that she had seen him; or, what was more likely, had followed him. She was strolling in apparent lightheartedness toward the Film Archive building.

"Do you know her?" wondered Murray, standing beside him.

"If that's Dolina Galsworthy, then either the CIA has got wind of me, or Dolina has gone rogue."

"Dolina? Galsworthy? A field agent?"

"She knows Bear Claus's assistant secretary, Gina. Well, of course," Sanguineus muttered, "if she's here on official business then she must've learned of my involvement from Gina." He saw his reflection in Murray's glasses. "Gina is a paid CIA informant. Claus knows this. He uses her to send mixed signals and false info to the spy boys if they get too nosey about us."

Murray nodded while thinking it over. "Then which is it? Is she here to fuck us up, or is she here to assist you in some way? Is she a double, on the CIA payroll, but actually a rogue doing what will benefit her own personal agenda?"

Sanguineus smiled at him. "You're quick, but don't get ahead of yourself," he said. "It must be that Dolina's section chief sent her to spy on me, and possibly set me up for a fall. If she were here to assist or warn me, then Gina would know that, and I would've been briefed on it by Claus. No, she's here on the Firm's dime. She might throw me a bone, like she did in Switzerland a little while back, but I think she's primarily the face of the opposition."

"Maybe the Firm wants Sorgensen dead. You know, to seal his mouth. It could be that, just that. As likely as the other."

Sanguineus turned and watched Dolina, or who he supposed was Dolina, crossing the athletic field.

"I might find out late tonight," he thought aloud. "She'll know where I'm staying."

The 'Fluss Sprite' was a permanently docked cruise boat, 185 feet long, with a beam of 32 feet. It was also an exclusive hotel. The forward deck was a restaurant. In inclement weather, and in winter, the diners ate in the enclosed dining room in the aft section.

But this was early fall and the evenings were just short of balmy. One had a choice: an interior ambience, or out on deck with its lighted awning and a view of the city.

Monica Paladin went out from her cabin and along the starboard promenade to the outdoor dining area. The diners were few, though there were no vacancies among the seventeen cabins. She sat at a reserved table. It was exactly five o'clock.

Monica wore a red flannel pullover with a scoop collar, Bermuda shorts of a brown and dark green plaid design, and calfskin boots that laced nearly to her knees. Her jet black pageboy sent a few random strands of itself waving across her line of vision. Aside from a touch of lip gloss and bold eyeliner, she wore no makeup.

"I think that must be him," she said into her cell phone. "Tall and dark. Not at all bad-looking. No, I haven't seen any pictures, are you crazy? We don't advertise ourselves in this line of work, you know. Talk to you later."

Monica put the phone away in its belt holster. She busied herself taking out a Turkish Hill and lighting it. A waiter crept over like a weasel and raised his brows. "A Bloody Mary. Double. And for God's sake don't be all night about it. My guest will be wanting a stiff one. Send someone out right away to take his order."

She shooed the waiter away and tilted back her head to blow a stormy cloud of smoke across the deck.

Sanguineus was dressed with a formal casualness: a dark sport coat, a pinstriped grey shirt, no tie, black jeans and dark brown leather shoes. On his head was a black Brixton Wesley fedora. When he saw Monica he touched the brim of the hat and gave her a rather enigmatic smile.

He came up to her table as though he was not quite satisfied with the setting. She noticed his quick appraisal of the other diners, and, when the weasel-like waiter came stealthily over with her drink, watched with approval as Sanguineus said to him, "Vodka tonic on the rocks," and sat down without paying him any further attention.

"You knew what I looked like?" she asked with an open mouth smile.

Sanguineus looked her straight in the eyes for a moment. Then he said, "I was told you were a beautiful brunette. I was sure I wouldn't need any additional description. And by the way, I saw 'Below Zero' on its premiere weekend. I enjoyed it. I remember thinking that you might make a good prospect."

"Did you? Well how nice of you to say so. I haven't seen a damn thing with you in it." She raised her glass. "Here's to the world at large. The only real movie set."

"You might wait until my drink comes," Sanguineus said.

"Oh what a faux pas!" She laughed, looking over his shoulder. "Here comes your drink now. I'll have you know that I put the fear of God into the waiters."

Sanguineus said to the oily man, "Hold off on the menus, and bring us some jalapeño peppers, breaded and deep fried."

The waiter looked doubtful for just a second, then: "An excellent request," and hurried off.

Monica stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray. She looked out at the placid Danube, her hair pushed gently past her ears in the sharp aromatic breeze.

"How did you..." she began, and watched him from the corners of her eyes. "...know that I like chipotles?"

He did not smile or look surprised.

"Do you?" he said.

(3) Music for the Hard of Hearing

"Have you made up your mind about him?" the rather average type man asked pleasantly, without the slightest show of jealousy.

Monica Paladin took off her black suede gloves and dropped them on the table of a corner booth in the lagerhaus.

She eyed the man thoughtfully with just the hint of a smile as she seated herself on the chintz upholstered benchseat and took a pack of Turkish Hills from her breast pocket. It was a private lounge and smoking was permitted, if not encouraged.

The man held out his lighter and ignited it deftly. He breathed the smoke she blew at his fashionably whiskered face. "Well?" he said, squeezing her shoulder affectionately.

"I like him," she said. "Now bring me a drink before I have a fit. It was a six hour flight in coach. A can of Coke and a bag of peanuts has never really been my style. Make it a Bloody Mary. And some deep-fried chipotles."

"What do you say?"

"Please, asshole."

"That's better. I will make a lady of you yet, Monica."

The man, whose name was Guido, was a 42-year-old waiter and co-owner of the establishment. It was situated on the historic Paracelsugasse, said to be one of the places Beethoven resided when in Vienna. It was a long soccer kick from the Danube and had a brisk tourist trade.

The tavern interior was dark varnished wood and brass, with crystal teardrop lighting fixtures above the double row of booths; the long mirror behind the bar etched with 18th century worthies, and, in the crook made by a staircase and a counterful of plaster busts, a player-piano that softly tapped out 'Moonlight Sonata.'

A discreet door next to the busts led to the private lounge. At this time of day, an hour before the martini lunch crowd, there was just Guido and Monica.

He set the drink and platter of hot crisp chipotles on the table and sat across from her. "I'll take one," he said, flicking a finger at her Turkish Hills.

She pushed the pack to him and gingerly picked up one of the fried peppers.

"He's rich," she remarked, "not that it matters. And after his concert performance Saturday night he'll be famous."

"What, he plays an instrument?"

"He's a conductor, Guido. He's to conduct the philharmonic. I hear he plays a dozen different instruments but not at concert level. It's his maestro skills that are said to be exceptional. That and his business acumen."

"And you met him where?"

Monica took a long lingering sip of her Bloody Mary, her black forest eyes boring into the candid orbs of her ex-lover.

She ran a tongue over her upper lip and said, "Five months ago in Tel Aviv. He's CEO of Magna. They make munitions for all sorts of guns and artillery of French make. He was there to work out a contract with the Israelis. Very lucrative. He played the piano for Netanyahu, the prime minister, and hit the wrong note twice, he told me. A 'fault,' it's called. But he doesn't think the prime minister was aware of it."

"Ah. And what were you doing in Tel Aviv?"

"Sightseeing."

"Like hell you were."

"Don't be difficult. You want me to be a lady, don't you?"

"At certain times and places, yes," said Guido. A wistful look passed over his angular face, and leaning back he drummed his fingers on a napkin. "I think you're some kind of spy," he mused, "a corporate spy, I'm betting. You were in Tel Aviv to learn about the contract, or something like that."

Monica considered smiling in response, but chose not to. She ate a chipotle in silence, staring at the ceiling. Guido got up and went to the refrigerated shelves for a bottle of Heineken.

"When we were together--" he began.

"We were never together."

"You know what I mean. You were trying to get a third movie role. Your second film, your last one, where you played a business executive who plots the murder of her competitor, well..." He uncapped the beer bottle. "Well, I think you went into the corporate world when you found out that the Hollywood studios had blackballed you. 'Below Zero,' your last film, you got a lot of stunt training, for the scenes where your character burglarizes the homes of rich businessmen."

Monica lit another cigarette and observed him through the smoke. "Are you getting around to something?" she asked with a tentative pleasantness.

"Magna doesn't make just cartridges and artillery shells," Guido said, leaning against the bartender's counter, "they also make explosives for demolition companies and the like. Weren't you with an actor's workshop in New York on 9-11?"

Monica stood, put on her gloves, and with a soundless laugh she went over to Guido and flicked ashes on his hand that held the bottle.

Through a painful smile he said, "Goddamn you."

"You invited me here for lunch, and for an investment opportunity in a home brewery scheme with a big beer maker. Alright. I'm here. And then you make this outrageous insinuation."

"It pays to check out prospective investors, Monica. You've known Phillipe Sorgensen for at least fifteen years. Since your senior year in high school. He was the chief financial officer for Magna back then, and in 2002 he became their CEO. He got controlling interest in an upstart movie studio and renamed it Magnitude Films. In 2008 you landed your first movie role. Bit parts for a couple years, then your big break. 'Into the Storm,' three Oscars and suddenly you're on the A list. Then 'Below Zero.' Magnitude had a star in their pocket. But then a muckraking journalist got HIS big break, and blew your cover. Miss Paladin, the satanist who donated money to the Bloodsport cult in Brazil. So much for your acting career."

"Fuck that, it's old news. What are you trying to say about 9-11?"

Guido opened his mouth to answer her, but the iciness of her eyes had him closing his mouth and weighing the bottle. She took it from him and poured its contents on the floor.

"How much have you drank this morning, Guido?"

He seemed relieved, contrite, forgiving. "The usual amount," he said and leaned over to kiss her, but she took a step back.

There was nothing he could do to save himself. His feet were kicked out from under him, pressure on the back of his neck, his forehead slammed against the brass foot rail.

He lay on his face, unconscious.

Monica went to the lounge door and bolted it. When she returned to the prone body of Guido she felt and found a pulse. She frowned. She picked up the beer bottle, smashed it on the brass rail, and with its sharp jagged edge she cut a deep gash across the swelling bruise on the forehead. For good measure she lifted the head with her gloved hands and, all her strength marshalled, she slammed it against the hardwood floor.

The back exit door was for emergencies only. An alarm would sound if opened. Monica pondered that for a moment, then went down a short narrow corridor to a breaker box on the wall. She shone her cell phone light on the switches.

The one marked 'Sicherheitsalarm' brought a smile to her full lips.

She tripped it to the off position.

Phillipe Sorgensen tapped the golf ball with his rolled umbrella and watched it travel smoothly across the carpet to the overturned wine glass. It missed by an inch.

Dimitri picked it up and rolled it around in his fingers, contemplatively. "Unfortunately I was right about that."

"About what?" asked the elderly Phillipe, leaning on the serpent handgrip of his umbrella, his right hand removing the king-size Havana cigar from his crooked smile.

"About whom," said Dimitri. It was his fiftieth birthday and he was thirty pounds heavier than on his forty-ninth. He unbuttoned his ill-fitting blue serge coat and set the golf ball on his desk. "The masseuse, who bungled her attempt to liquidate Hermann Claus and got herself liquidated instead. Or that's what we must presume. No word from her the past two days, and our contact in the ICS says that Claus is still experiencing that thing we call life."

"I do recall you expressing doubts about the methodology. You know, in my excitement over the conductorship I forgot to tell you that Monica called me today."

Phillipe was walking slowly over to the desk, where the afternoon light from the office window cast a faint shadow of the Millennium Tower over the chair and blotter. "She told me that 'G force' was no longer a factor. You were right about that, too, Dimitri."

"Guido Geitz? What? Dead?"

"In your own words, that's what we must presume," said Phillipe, amused at the look of astonishment on his adviser's bloated face. "Monica Paladin has the soul of a viper," he added, holding up his umbrella cane and admiring its serpentine handgrip.

Outwardly Dimitri composed himself, but his loins and bowels were stirring a mixed cauldron of emotions.

He put a hand on the sleeve of Phillipe's expensive coat and said with grave urgency, "I know you're fond of her, and I can understand that, but, my friend, she is a malignant narcissist. She would not have passed the rigid tests that Claus's organization gives their prospects if she was anything like an empath. She has served you well in the past, not least of all in New York when... still in her teens... and she's so much more capable now, to be sure, but... loyal? Honorable? Phillipe, you musn't think she's capable of the finer sentiments! She feels none of that!"

The elderly man grinned in a deliberately ludicrous manner. "You were not the one in bed with her last night, Dimitri. Oh..." He shook his head in self-deprecation. "Yes, you're right. Since we are in the presumptive mood, I must consider that she might be here in Vienna to kill me. But I am eighty-two years old. Death at the hands of a beautiful woman is more appealing to me than a heart attack. No, hear me out! I have taken precautions. And the first of them was to put three million dollars in a trust fund that will be accessible to Monica in a year's time, provided I am alive and of sound mind. She knows this. So, you see, there is an incentive for her to thwart any attempt on my life. Your Tokyo Rose failed, but my Black Dahlia will not."

(2) Music for the Hard of Hearing

Three men sat at a corner table in a private dining room at the Plainsmen Restaurant in Laramie, Wyoming.

They did not appear to go together, as each had a look distinct from the others. Claus affected the look of a rugged outdoorsman, in khakis and military field jacket.

Seated to his left was a college professor who moonlighted as a Red Rum recruiter and sometime negotiator, Fredrico Rolgo, dressed in tweeds, who had horn rim glasses and the features of a bald vulture.

Across from Claus was the master assassin, Sanguineus, who on this occasion wore, with his dark sportscoat and grey dress shirt and tie, a pair of faded blue jeans and brown leather hiking boots.

Curiously, he was the oldest man at the table by a good ten years, yet both the Prime Director and the professor looked older than he. No doubt this was due to genetics, for Sanguineus was not one to bother with diet and exercise regimens. He ate and drank in moderation, and was fit from the physical demands of his profession, but took no other pains to keep in good shape. He was considered handsome by the women who he permitted to enter his life, and who he encouraged, in various subtle ways, to depart soon after, physically but not emotionally gratified by their encounter with him.

His cover was that of a sales rep for a front called Universal Tools, and in some cases a union organizer for the Cement Mixers Guild, another of the organization's fronts. Nowhere was Red Rum to be found except in the minds of its members and its clients.

The three were having an early dinner.

"The difficulty," Rolgo was saying, choosing his words carefully, "is that my negotiations with the Firm's section chief puts us in a delicate position regarding the Knoughtly contract. The mastermind worked directly under the black ops supervisor, and this is known by the section chief. If we go through with the hit, it may jeopardize our chances of getting the Firm's contract for the torture deaths of Almalayikat Sirriat Mmin Alssama members, 'Secret Angels of Heaven,' or ASMA, if you prefer."

"Much prefer," said Claus, looking across at Sanguineus. "A budding terrorist group organizing in Austria, of all places."

Sanguineus smiled. "They think they're under the radar of the Firm?"

"Yes, and they certainly were, until the Mossad sniffed them out. They dropped it in the Firm's lap, and they in turn are waving it under our noses. What's odd is that the mastermind will be in Vienna next week for a concert. In fact, he'll be conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. He's an amatuer maestro."

"And superb," said Rolgo. "He was invited to conduct an evening's performance after he made a generous donation to a music school patronized by the Chancellor. Anyway, doing away with the 'maestro' could end any hope of our getting the ASMA contract."

Claus waved his fork. "Orel Knoughtly is paying us ten times more than what the CIA has offered. If the hit disqualifies us, we'll survive."

Rolgo shrugged, patting the armrests of his chair. He winked at Sanguineus and said, "We have an operative in Austria who had a short Hollywood career. Made two movies before she was blackballed for her political views. A beauty. Very fit. Excellent target shooter with the bow and firearms. She has aspirations of being a cat burgler. A jewel thief. Rates very high on Stealth and Entry. Monica Paladin. I think you'll like her."

Sanguineus made no comment on that. He began to roll a smoke. "I need confirmation of how exactly Knoughtly wants the mastermind killed," he said to Claus. "This person is to die in a way similar to the deaths in the Twin Towers, is that true?"

Claus nodded. "The deaths were from jumping. There were no planes crashing into the towers, just demolition explosives and thermite bombs. Knoughtly wants the mastermind to fall from a great height and to be sliced in two by an object near the ground, which is how Knoughtly's wife died on 9-11. According to Bingham's report of his negotiations with Knoughtly, he wants the mastermind to suffer agonies of fear and stress before the fall, what we suppose Mrs Knoughtly suffered before she jumped off the eighty-fifth floor. There's a video clip of her death, by the way. I'll have it sent to you."

Sanguineus flicked a lighter and blew smoke through his nostrils.

"The mastermind's fall will have to be a controlled descent," he mused, "if he is to make contact with a cutting device. Am I correct in assuming that this CEO's high rise office building will not be suitable for the hit?"

"The mastermind will have to be lured someplace that fits your criteria," Claus said. "Possibly a building in Vienna. A high rise hotel, should that happen to be where he stays during his Austrian holiday. Miss Paladin might come in handy in luring him to such a place, if necessary."

Claus took an envelope from his jacket and tossed it down on the table by Sanguineus' ashtray. "The particulars," he said, "which only you, the assassin, are to know. Share them with Monica Paladin at your discretion. And one more thing," he added, pushing back his chair and getting up with the relief of a man who needs to stretch his joints. "It might be that the mastermind is aware of the contract on him. If so, then someone at ICS, with whom Knoughtly consulted, has leaked the proposal."

Rolgo and Sanguineus exchanged glances. 

"Leaked to whom?" asked Rolgo.

Claus walked over to the window and parted the gingham curtains.

The setting sun was harsh, recriminatory, on his thoughtful expression. "To someone whose identity, and affiliations, remain unknown at the present time. But we do know that whosoever he is, he recruited my masseuse. Their emails that we intercepted were heavily, but not hopelessly, encrypted. We got enough info out of their correspondence to determine that the woman had received half her promised fee for killing me."

He turned his back to the window, his squarish face set like that of a bulldog's. "I do like to think she bought herself a new pair of shoes and some earrings before I put a slug between her eyes."

(1) Music for the Hard of Hearing

"Five hundred million dollars is a lot of money," said Bingham, the negotiator.

The tour boat to Alcatraz Island was rocking gently at the dock, Bingham noticed, very gently rocking, considering the roughness of the swells on this blustery afternoon in early September.

Bingham was the sort of man who saw the trees but not the forest. He had a thing for details. The smaller the minutiae the better he liked it, for in his view it was the smallest things that held the most significance.

And so he analyzed the height and speed of the waves, the intensity of the spray off the stones of the dock, the jerky wing-movements of the gulls trying to land on the island in the brunt of the wind, their eyes round and hard like corn kernels, their feet pedalling the air. He concluded, with confidence, that the tour boat had considerable ballast in order to remain so calm in the rough water.

Bingham's contact, Franks, who, like himself, wore a grey trenchcoat that was practically a uniform in San Francisco, was a man who looked at the big picture, seeing not the individual trees but the blended greens and browns of the whole. If there were some reds or yellows in the green forest he would invariably ignore them. They were anomalies and need not be considered significant.

The two men did not like each other.

The level area outside the prison walls, an institution that was now a monument to the perversity of man, gave Bingham and Franks a clear view of the city while blowing their speech away on the wind.

They were soon to reboard the boat, joining the tourists who were straggling out from the main gate, their phones and cameras in hand and their faces saying plainly how much a shame it was that prisoners had it so easy these days.

"Mr Knoughtly was kidnapped from his vacation house," said Bingham, in the manner of one who clinches an argument, "and given a third-degree interrogation using all the most advanced neurological analysis devices. I'm sure I don't know what they're called, but they've never been found wanting. Mr Knoughtly is truthful and there is no evidence that he is a CIA or FBI stooge hired to penetrate our...walls," he said and pondered the thick edifice that was Alcatraz, a structure that had been easy to get into, but almost impossible to get out of.

Franks nodded, but then he was always and everywhere nodding. One could not know what his position was until he spoke. "We are expected to believe that Mr Knoughtly, a billionaire real estate tycoon with degrees in engineering and physics, has discovered, through the ICS, the identity of the person who masterminded the 9-11 attacks. That much is believable," he said, nodding, "though in my opinion this 'International Counterintelligence Service' is too loosely run, mainly by people who don't know what the fuck they're doing, and those who do know what they're doing are riddled with corruption."

Bingham started to walk down the slope to the dock, then hunched his shoulders and turned to Franks with a sneer disguised as a smile. "You find it hard to believe that a man like Knoughtly would risk losing everything for the satisfaction of seeing the 9-11 mastermind get what the person deserves: death by the same means with which this clever maniac brought death to hundreds of innocent people, including, I remind you, Mr Knoughtly's wife."

"Agreed. I do find it hard to believe."

"You've never lost a wife."

"I understand that part of it, but for Christ's sake, Tim, the mastermind is currently the CEO of the largest munitions manufacturer in the world. If it were to get out that Mr Knoughtly had hired an assassin...well, I needn't finish my train of thought."

"But that's our selling point, Manny," said Timothy Bingham, "it's not going to get out. And even if it did, the associates of the mastermind would know, or quickly come to know, that Mr Knoughtly will be avenged, to the utmost, if anyone were to return the favor."

Manfred Franks rolled his eyes upward, which meant that his contributions on the subject were complete. It was his job to play the devil's advocate on large contracts, to recommend that such high-risk handshakes be rejected.

Five hundred million dollars was as large a contract as anyone in the business of killing people had dared to imagine. It would cover all the debts of everyone involved in the organization: the intel staff, the assignment coordinators, the security experts, the operatives (assassins and vigilantes), with their support personnel, and the Prime Director and his private staff. In all, over twelve hundred people, each getting his or her bonus in the form of insurance policy refunds or similar schemes.

The pay method was not unlike their wages and contingency fees, which were "payment for services rendered" from various fronts, such as art galleries and consulting firms that went in and out of business so ingeniously that the IRS was not the least suspicious of these enterprises, even at those rare times when they were aware of them.

And Franks, yes, he would get a bonus too. Likely 0.0015%, which, he calculated, would come to 75,000 dollars. But the amount was too large to parcel out all at once. The 500 million was to be funneled through a half-dozen foundations and sponged into Latin American banks, where a 15% quarterly fee was paid, and where it was understood, of course, that one did not cheat the organization that was whispered to be called "Red Rum."

The courier had a key to the private cottage behind the Wyoming ranch house where the Prime Director, Hermann 'Bear' Claus, spent parts of the different hunting seasons.

The courier was at that age, around 35, when idealism fades into a blissful fatalism. But he was not so old that changes in social mores, which was a common subject in the training halls, were not welcome.

He believed in the basic tenet of the organization that even the prettiest rose bushes ("etiam rosa pulcherrima frutices") need pruning ("opus ligones"). The Latin phrase was often the first coherent thought in his head when he woke in the morning.

Lance Welles, the courier, parked his scooter in the gravel drive and unlocked the door to the two-bedroom cottage.

For the tiniest fraction of a second he realized that he, or perhaps the Director, had made a terrible mistake. But even as this embryonic thought fired its first neuron, he was torn in two by the force of the blast that came from the entryway just beyond the door.

An hour later a stout man with a grey crewcut and a toothbrush mustache of a rusty brown, dressed in a checkered flannel shirt and khaki pants, sat at his desk in the ranch house talking on a landline phone that he himself had set up between his property and that of an associate in Laramie, 21 miles to the southeast.

"I want undocumented Mexicans who can't speak or read a word of English," he was saying, "and who are scared shitless of deportation. I want a dozen of them here ASAP. It's a clean-up job. They'll each be paid one hundred dollars cash, for two hours work."

Bear Claus listened to the man on the other end of the line for a few minutes, during which time he lit a cigar and poured a cup of French roast coffee.

"It was just bad luck for the courier," Claus said. "I'll explain when we meet tomorrow. Yes, I'm signing off on the Knoughtly contract. I want Sanguineus for the job. Authorize anyone he chooses for his support team."

A middle-aged Asian woman came up behind him and began massaging his shoulders. "A lot of tension there," she whispered in his ear, kneading the left shoulder muscle with her thumb.

Claus was listening, but not to the masseuse. "Orel Knoughtly will be there for lunch," he said in answer to a question. He hung up the receiver.

"THAT," said the woman, "is a major mess outside on the cottage porch."

"You should not look under tarps," said Claus, gripping the chair's armrests in preparation for standing. "Especially when it should be you who is under it."

The masseuse stepped quickly back as the stout man stood and turned to face her. She forced herself not to look at the snub-nosed revolver in his hand.

She was considering which of two stories she should tell him, feverishly weighing one against the other, as to which sounded the most plausible in this particular circumstance.

She need not have bothered. He had the look of a man who has made up his mind to the satisfaction of his conscience; one that requires no proof of moral legitimacy, but of the most practical action.

"I'll need a couple more Mexicans," he said, and pulled the trigger.

Five thousand miles away, in central Europe, a young and very attractive brunette disembarked from a private jet in Wien-Flaughafen, Austria, and entered the arrival lounge carrying a small handbag.

An elderly man leaning on a rolled umbrella waved to her. Seeing him, she smiled but did not go up to him.

He admired her sleek black pageboy hairstyle and the fashionably modest businesswoman's suit of beige with a black felt collar and cuffs. She was tall and svelte. He watched her cross the corridor to a gift shop. Then he looked at his watch, sighed, and put a cell phone to his ear.

"Miss Paladin has arrived," he said.

A pause. He grimaced.

"No, no, I received a bill of good health from my physician," he said testily. "I know what Miss Paladin likes, and I intend to deliver. I shall see you in the morning, Dimitri. But not too early."

(13) Hell Hath A Sister [Conclusion]

Vicente Napolitano scowled. All pretense of friendliness vanished. His right hand shifted in the trench coat pocket.

Tertia thought she would not cease staring at Drake until he shot her, but the cold charisma of Napolitano turned her eyes to him. The molten hate she felt for her brother was replaced by a curious feeling that she was closer in spirit to this man than she was to her biological sibling. Her heart calmed. Her pain was momentarily forgotten.

"I have no particular desire to antagonize Red Rum by severely interfering with one of its operatives," said Napolitano. "Francois Benz is a case in point, eh? But the CIA is perhaps a little more formidable than Red Rum, and certainly as ruthless. Well, Beata Madre, that is how the game is played. They want you removed from the picture, you see, and though I would let you go in exchange for the signorina, they will not be as merciful. But a chance I give you, as one man to another. Say, you remain behind, to fend as best you may, while I transport Miss Fontenay to... her fate." He managed a stiff smile. "Take it, il mio buon amico, or take the consequences."

Sanguineus spoke to Tertia without taking his eyes off Napolitano. "Sugar Bitch, take your best shot."

Her rightside jacket pocket was a gaping hole. Sickened, she said, "I lost it. It fell out."

She stood up, her body now wracked with pain. Her gaze returned to her brother as a means of taking her mind off everything that had gone wrong. He too could not stop looking at one whose life was slated for termination. The difference was that in his eyes there was no pain, nor hate, but the pleasantness that comes with success.

Drake shouted to her, "There always has to be a loser!"

Napolitano glanced back at him, frowned, and said to Sanguineus, "Pity me, that I have been burdened with a fool. But... business is business. The customer makes the rules. Have you reconsidered? The signorina has no shot to take, neither her best nor her worst. It is just you and I, compadre. Give me your answer."

"He has," said Tertia. Out of the depths of her anguish she laughed.

Napolitano turned half toward her with an ugly grin.

Suddenly his head jerked back, his face contorted. A patch of blood appeared on the snow behind him, from the direction of the shot.

As the mobster's knees give way, Sanguineus moved his gunhand a fraction to the left and fired at the same moment that Drake set off a burst of clamoring flame at the top of the ice-crusted cliff.

Drake dropped the rifle, a hand pressed to his groin, a gargled scream reaching out to Tertia like an admonitory Hermes.

Freed from her prison of fear, wild with fury, she pulled out her skinning knife, and, undaunted by the aches radiating throughout her body and the uncertainty of the situation, she ran to the open bay of the chopper and slashed at the head and neck of Drake as though she were slapping a delinquent child.

Sanguineus was right behind her, his Glock aimed at the pilot's helmet.

The rotary blades roared and began to turn.

Sanguineus fired. The tough glossy material of the helmet shattered.

He fired again, his last shot. The head slumped forward, the helmet, with its radio nomenclature, slipping down over the bearded face.

Meanwhile Tertia was making something unhuman of Drake's chest, throat, and face, like a maddened beast clawing its prey. It was not a pretty sight, not at all what she had intended a month ago, nor what Sanguineus had ever expected. He seized her arm and pulled her away from the weeping, choking Drake.

The young man doubled over, held by the safety belt, hanging down like a gutted porpoise.

"Ricky--! Ha--!"

Isabel was waving at them from the cliff, a Colt M4 carbine slung on one shoulder. "There's no fucking way I'm skiing off this fucker!"

"I thought you were Fred!" shouted Sanguineus.

"Rolgo? He's coming now, down the trail like a crippled old woman!"

Tertia looked up at the cliff, at the site of her ignominious fall, and saw Isabel turn and vanish. "Did you know she was involved? I thought Rolgo said she wanted me dead!"

"She's a double," Sanguineus explained. "She must be. She plays along with the CIA, and I have to believe that she funnels back information to our Director."

"She never said anything like that to me, and I've known her for months! There, that's the truth. Happy now? Well I sure am! Die you fucking bastard!" This, to the limp, quivering body of Drake LeCourt. 

Then to Sanguineus as he went over to the Corsican corpse, grabbing the ankles: "Did she shoot the sniper?"

He dragged the body to the helicopter, leaving a thin red streak in the snow.

"She picked off the thugs at the clump of trees," he said, "and dusted one of the three bastards who came skiing after us. I got the other two." He manhandled the body into the bay. "Now she'll have to cover herself so her section chief doesn't get wise to her. She's a gutsy bitch."

.

Wiping his gloves on his pants, he smiled grimly at Tertia and said, "Napolitano was suspicious of her. He fingered her for a hit. I suppose Wong told her that I killed the asshole who was contracted to snuff her. That apparently swung her pretty firmly over to our side. I owe her. Damn if I don't. And I know what she'll want."

Rolgo appeared over a low rise of grey powder. The sky above the mountain peaks burned a bright red. It tinctured his gangly figure as he came gasping and panting down the slope to the level area, his skis ludicrously wide apart.

"Unstrap your brother," said Sanguineus to Tertia. "He bled out. Get his carcass to the back of the bay."

"Then what? Well THEN what? Are we to ski all the way to Gipfelhaus? And don't you understand that I've been beaten half to death by that fucking trail and your Big Drop?"

Sanguineus ignored her complaints. "Rolgo was a helicopter flight instructor in the Marine Corps," he said. "And that has me wondering..."

He stood back and ran his eyes over the Swiss flag painted on the tail of the craft. "Someone called off the ski patrol. This pilot was not from the Search and Rescue teams."

As Rolgo came trudging wearily up to them, Sanguineus asked him, "Who owns Sonnenhut?"

Rolgo paused to catch his breath. "The Napolitano syndicate," he said, his face covered in fog. "Don't look at me like that, it was only after a conference call with Dolina Galsworthy, Gina, and Isabel, that I learned of it. Officially it's the Associazione europea produttori di sport."

"And when was this call arranged?"

"Just prior to calling the medivac," smiled Rolgo. "I knew what to expect, and we planned accordingly. Now. Shall we get the hell out of here?"

Three hours later Madelaine Woolf pulled her Mercedes onto the wide shoulder of A40, outside Saint- Gervais-les-Bains.

The moon was balanced on the summit of Mount Blanc. It was too much. She took out her phone and got a picture before opening the boot of the car. 

She heard the sounds of footsteps on snow and the crack of twigs.

"I've fresh hot coffee in a gallon urn, and biscuits with honey," she said as three figures came out from the trees. "How was the landing? You're all in one piece?"

Tertia stood leaning against the post of a kilometer marker. She watched Sanguineus pour steaming coffee into cups and hand them to Rolgo. 

Madelaine took one and gave it to Tertia.

"A nice long rest at a villa in the south of France will do wonders," said Madelaine. "A safe house. You'll love it. There's a fantastic restaurant just up the road from it, a Ferris wheel in back!"

Tertia smiled despite herself. "Imagine that," she said.

Rolgo climbed in the front passenger seat, Madelaine in the driver's, switching the lights to low beam.

"I don't feel anything," Tertia said as Sanguineus came over with a box of honied biscuits. "No emotion. It's like I'm dead inside."

"The aftershock," he said. "You'll get over it. It was a hairy landing."

"It's not just that. It's everything. I'm wrung out. There's nothing left."

Sanguineus put an arm around her waist, drawing her up against him. "No, you'll get over it," he promised, looking into her misty, vulnerable eyes.

"I always do," he said.

(12) Hell Hath A Sister

Below the yellow pennant, on a post at the far end of the ridge, was a white placard with double black diamonds. It was the international sign for an extreme trail.

There were no ski tracks on the slope, its snow the lumpy kernel texture for the most part, and only partly covered by the light powder favored by skiers.

The snowcat machines had not smoothed out the mounds and moguls in the snow made by yesterday's reckless freestyle showoffs. This would make a fall-line route difficult to maintain; a straight descent in the tuck position that under optimum conditions can exceed 60 miles an hour. The slope had rocky outcrops and occasional lone pines, rather like the hazards on a golf course, except that these could be deadly.

Sanguineus and Tertia were alone at the top of the trail. As they clipped on their extra rigid, broad skis, he said to her, "That tall rise about three hundred meters down is where we'll stage the accident. When we descend on the farther side I want you to carve right, slow, and fall in whatever looks like a good depth of powder. I'll get behind you when we reach the rise, so I can see where you choose your spill. The medivac helicopter should be along in a few minutes. Let's take it fairly slow going down. But if there's any sound of gunfire once we go over the rise, we'll do the cross-trail maneuver like we discussed earlier. If that's the case, tuck it and follow my lead. "

Tertia straightened, gripping her poles. "How much farther down from the rise is that big drop you were talking about?" she asked.

"Roughly five hundred meters, about a hundred short of the copse of fir trees. If the gunmen, or sniper, are in the trees, we'll be out of range where we stage the accident. But one or more thugs might be closer up, perhaps behind a boulder. If the chopper comes in sight we'll take our chances at the rise. But if not, we'll cut right for the big drop. That will put us on the adjacent trail."

"Yeah, if we don't break our necks."

Sanguineus pushed off the steep lip of the ridge. "I trust you've made hair raising jumps at Sugarbush," he said.

"After checking them out first!" said Tertia, following alongside him, their speed accelerating over the moguls that had their skis chattering the first fifty yards where the snow was mostly crud.

They were soon swerving back and forth down a smooth stretch of powder. Tertia did sharp carving moves that threw up waves of white crystals. Sanguineus kept a little ahead and to the left a tad, frequently glancing back at her.

For the first couple of minutes she felt relaxed and was focused on technique: her knees slightly bent, her upper body leaning well forward, her swaying arms stabbing the lush white surface with the poles in gloved fists, to keep her poise and balance. She would have liked to go faster, but the powder was often fading out into crunchy slush, and here and there a large rock glinted in the late sun, some of which she skimmed over with a clacking noise and a jarring of the ankles.

Tertia saw the rise of gleaming whiteness drawing nearer in a hurry. She swerved around a pine, ducking to avoid low branches, leaping a shallow gulley, following Sanguineus in a broad swath around a ten-foot-high boulder glistening in frost, her first jolt of fear going down her spine as she wondered if there might be a gunman waiting to pop them as they swished past through a carpet of powder.

There was only the slicing rush of their descent.

Tertia relaxed again.

Everything seemed to her so serene, so fresh and lovely, in the golden red sunlight. The rise loomed just ahead, a good thirty feet high and a hundred yards wide, fully in the sun, an obstacle as unavoidable as it was beautiful.

Sanguineus made sharp carving twists, his ski edges biting deep in the wet crust, to slow himself.

Tertia squatted in a low semi tuck, driving forward with hard digs of her poles. In the next moment she was swooshing up the face of the rise, Sanguineus just to her left.

The icy breeze struck her as she floated over the summit of the rise in that moment of seeming weightlessness. Six hundred yards away the clump of firs were many-armed white stick figures in a panorama of light and shadow.

Tertia thought she saw a flash of yellow at the edge of a jagged outcrop one hundred yards distant. At nearly the same instant her left ski jerked to the right, its rounded tip splintering, a slap of air hitting her right cheek.

Numb with shock she landed awkwardly on the downward side of the rise, her goggles spattered with bits of white crust as Sanguineus flew ahead of her.

He alighted in a tight tuck, carving out sprays of powder in his hard swerve to the right. Tertia held her breath. They were being fired on.

She lunged after him, carving deep, sending up a curtain of snow to her left, in the direction of the sniper. The rifle stuttered a burst of hot hail. A whistling noise over Tertia's head as she crouched down: her bent arms pressed to her sides, angling up alongside Sanguineus.

They plunged down into a snow-padded gorge at terrific speed. They were practically in free fall.

A sharp curve ahead, a wall of ice and rock rushing up to them. Gasping, Tertia dug the leftside edge of her skis into the deep powder, leaning far to her left, her poles angled above her head as her right side scraped along the granite wall for ten yards of ripping nylon and plumes of feathers. On her right side her jacket and trouser leg were in shreds, the chill wind of her downward rush through the gorge like needles fired into her torn thermal underclothes.

Just ahead Sanguineus was a symmetrical snowman, dodging fluidly the big rocks rising up from the snow like squads of gnomes. Tertia mimicked his every move, her skis chattering madly as the gorge steepened and the powder became crud and slush.

She heard a bang! No silencer.

The Glock roared twice more.

A falling body in white ski clothes hit the ice inches from Tertia's flight.

She glimpsed Sanguineus angling sharply right. She attempted to follow, but her skis slid out from under her.

She was tumbling wildly head over heels, feeling the lung-busting impact but, in her state of shock, no pain.

Then she was spinning along a level patch of slush, a frozen hell of motion and fear. The 'big drop' was all she could think of.

A shout ahead of her. Gunfire.

She hit something hard and glanced off what she recognized as her bodyguard's boot. Then... falling... falling... the rush of wind so strong it might have arrested her fall, or so it seemed. A blow against her left hip that felt as though her body had exploded. Somersaults over mounds of snow whose crust of ice crystals shattered throughout the line of her cartwheels.

Then at last a cessation of movement. It was so profound a change that she felt herself to be awakening from a bad dream.

The thumping whirl of a helicopter.

She raised her bruised and scratched face to the sunset sky.

Sanguineus stood beside her aching body. He was watching the blue and white aircraft swaying lower and lower. His face was grim, angry, frustrated. She turned her gaze to the broad expanse of snowy field toward which the helicopter aimed to set down on its extra wide struts.

The side door of the chopper's cargo bay was open. A young man with a fur cap over longish blond hair, a not unhandsome man with a dimple in his chin, was strapped to a seat, his back to the cockpit, the AK-47 assault rifle in his lap pointing at Sanguineus.

Drake LeCourt was grinning, first at the bodyguard, then with prolonged satisfaction at Tertia.

The blast of snowy wind from the aircraft's blades stung like birdshot. Tertia buried her face in her crossed arms. Sanguineus turned away, his gun still in his gloved right hand.

The helicopter landed gently.

Its motor went into neutral with a screeching sigh that quickly became a low hum. Gradually the double blades grew distinct, lethargic, indifferent.

A heavy-set man of late middle age, wearing an insulated brown trench coat over warm casual clothes of a dark color, stepped carefully down from the bay and brushed back his thick curly grey hair.

Stooping over slightly, he crunched his way over the snow with his bright little brown eyes steadfast on Sanguineus. He glanced once at Tertia, thereafter ignoring her.

Now beyond the reach of the slowly turning blades, the stout man straightened. He chuckled in the Corsican manner, his hands in his trench coat pockets.

"You, sir," he said in a thick accent, "are the assassin and vigilante called 'Sanguineus.' No?"

Sanguineus said nothing. He aimed his Glock at the considerable stomach of the Corsican.

"My offer," the man continued without any show of concern, "is to fly you and the signorina to the pastures at Gipfelhaus. You will be free to go your way, and the signorina will accompany me to... another place. You have the word of Vicente Napolitano," he added in a very solemn voice, his expression aristocratic.

Sanguineus said nothing.

Tertia slowly sat up on her knees, her heart in her throat. She was staring at the young man in the helicopter.

Napolitano smiled his usual poisonous smile. "A dear friend of mind was fond of saying, 'No ass is more valuable than one's own.' If you shoot me, LeCourt will riddle you with bullets. Is that the way it is said in Americano? 'Riddle with bullets'?"

"The most valuable ass," said Sanguineus, "is the one that is paying me. Tell the kid to throw his rifle to his sister, and to come and stand beside you. Your pilot will fly her and I to a place of my choosing."

Napolitano sighed. He squared his shoulders. "I can never remember the word for 'No' in English," he remarked. "How do I say 'No' in English. Eh?"

"With your dying breath," said Sanguineus.

[Next: the conclusion.]

(11) Hell Hath A Sister

"Dolina, ihr Vater ist auf der ophone," said the bar maid.

'Dad.' Dolina knew what that meant. She rinsed the two glasses in the clear water sink and set them on the draining board. "You'll cover for me? He's a wee bit of a talker."

"Ja," the girl said eagerly, removing her Heidi apron.

Dolina went into the back office.

Thankfully the manager was in a meeting and the room was vacant. On the desk in front of the dome window the telephone's line 2 was lit with a red light.

Dolina picked up the receiver and depressed the lit button. Her heart was racing. For the section chief to call her could only mean something urgent, an action she would be asked to take that was outside her normal duties.

"Hello?"

"Are you alone?"

That raspy voice. It was 'Dad,' alright, the newly appointed chief of Section E-3. "Yes," she said, "and the door is closed."

"There is a subject of prejudice who we believe is either going to leave the resort by personal vehicle or by skiing the slopes to the Gipfelstrasse. Now, pay close attention. His name is Ricklen Cruor. He is known among his colleagues and clients as Sanguineus. You have not been briefed about him, but you've seen him in the bar, according to D'Arc and Edmund. Tall, dark haired, dark blue eyes, handsome devil."

"Yes, I've seen him. With a pretty short-haired woman, young, slim. I don't know her name. And he is acquainted with Isabel Montoya."

"The woman you described is Tertia Fontenay. Now, this is important. This man Sanguineus is going to sneak away with Fontenay. One of our men who was to compromise Sanguineus, and bring Fontenay to a safe room, has not reported to D'Arc. The two subjects of prejudice are on the loose. We have men going down the slopes in case the subjects take that route. But here's what I need you to do. The subjects may commandeer a vehicle. Fontenay's car is missing. Sanguineus came to the resort with her, so if they eschew the slopes they'll have to grab a vehicle. Or take the shuttle, which isn't likely. We need a description of the vehicle, and the license plate number if you can get it. Go out to the parking area. Immediately. There are security cameras there but the video is shitty quality and we've got to be sure about the make and model. Use your cell phone to pass on the information to D'Arc. You have his number?"

"Yes."

"Go!"

Dolina put back the receiver.

She stared out the window at the late afternoon vista of light snowfall and powdered trees. When she made up her mind her heart rate returned to normal and she smiled a stubborn smile. In her head there was an appealing echo: "If you would be so kind.. "

Dolina went to the employee break room and put on her jacket, sockcap, and gloves. She went purposefully out to the front veranda and down the steps to the walkway leading to the VIP parking lot. But her thoughts were on the ski rental shop.

She could see the shop entrance ahead and to the right, the path that curved around to the gondolas. It was nearing the dinner hour and only a few guests were trudging up the path; most were coming back down with their skis on their shoulders, red-cheeked and breathing out clouds of steam, talking and laughing. Amidst the group going up the path were Sanguineus and the slender woman, Fontenay. So, her intuition was not mistaken!

Dolina hurried up the steps toward the ski shop and over to the path.

"Mr Cruor!" she called out.

Sanguineus turned, a hand on Tertia's jacket sleeve, and wondered at the anxious look of Dolina. He sensed strongly that she wanted to help him. It was there in her eyes and in the firm set of her mouth. It was the expression of one who intends to rectify a wrong.

Sanguineus was intrigued. He recalled what Rolgo remarked, about not knowing who it was that the CIA had placed at the resort. The gunmen were French and Corsican thugs. But the CIA operative would be someone quite different, someone whose appearance was so expected, so conventional for his or her position, that no suspicions would be roused. He smiled.

"What is this about?" said Tertia. "What the fuck is SHE doing here?"

Dolina came up to them. She gave Tertia an appraising glance, then started to speak to Sanguineus. But he interrupted her.

"You're with the CIA," he said, not caring who might overhear as the small crowd straggled past.

Dolina was momentarily nonplussed. Then she breathed a steamy laugh and said, "Well that simplifies things! They're after you. I'm sure you know who I mean, even though I don't!"

Sanguineus took a step closer. "Hired killers from the Napolitano syndicate," he said. "Your boss has some kind of financial caper going with the French underworld, involving some Russian and Syrian connections. They want this young woman here dead, and me along with her. That's the long and short of it."

Tertia glared at Dolina. "I've got a gun in my pocket aimed at your belly button, and if I'm going down, I'm taking you with me!"

Sanguineus squeezed her arm. "Cool it. She's a friend."

"There are some men," Dolina said in as calm a voice as she could manage, "I don't know how many, on the slopes. I was told to get a description of the car you hijacked, if that was your plan. But I see it's not! Those men will be waiting for you if you try to ski down to the highway. Take a car! I'll give a false description. Trust me!"

Sanguineus looked up at the gondola boarding platform, thirty yards away. The sun was about two hours from going down behind the mountain peaks to the west.

In ten minutes Rolgo would be making the emergency medivac call. It was a difficult but not overly long ski to the copse of firs midway down the extreme trail. There would be at least three thugs somewhere in that area. Did one have a modified speargun, or was this to be an open murder without any attempt to make it look like a ski accident? A sniper rifle? It would be a chancy shot at targets moving erratically.

Sanguineus pictured in his mind the adjacent slopes that he had memorized; the cross-trail skiing that he had explained to Tertia and Rolgo, an evasive maneuver that would take him and the girl over a dangerous snow dune to the expert trail. Risky, but they couldn't very well ski right up to the copse where the thugs had almost certainly stationed themselves.

To hijack a vehicle would require hot wiring, a technique with which Sanguineus was sufficiently skilled, but which the opposition would be expecting. More than likely there was a thug lurking near the lots, ready to pick them off.

No, Sanguineus had settled on the ski run, basing his hope on the thugs being surprised by the evasive maneuver. It was essential that the helicopter arrive before the thugs could react to the evasion and come after them. There would be few if any skiers on the expert trail that late in the day. The thugs, if given the opportunity, would not hesitate to go on the chase and fire at him and Tertia as soon as they were in range.

Sanguineus said to Dolina, "Tell your contact that we've stolen a car, or truck. Pick one out and give him the description. Hopefully the thugs on the slope will be called off. Later you can suggest that we apparently changed our mind and went the ski route instead. Will you be so kind--?"

Dolina felt her heart swell with a mysterious affection. "Yes!" she said emphatically. "Good luck!"

As it happened, Sanguineus and Tertia were the only passengers in the gondola.

The little glass-walled compartment swayed gently on its descent toward the lifts and the yellow flags atop the plexiglass poles that marked the start of the advanced, expert, and extreme trails.

They counted six skiers preparing to make runs. A group of twenty or so were waiting for the gondola.

"Remember," Sanguineus said, "crouch and swerve as crazily as you can and still follow me closely. Spray the snow as high and thick as possible when swerving away from the direction of the trees, to make any sniper shots more difficult. I'll try to keep myself between you and the tree line, but I don't expect that to be the case very often. When you see me do a ninety to the right, follow suit. And watch for the snow dune. It's going to be a long drop down."

Tertia was leaning back with her elbows on the railing. Her pose was one of nonchalance, but the sheen of her amber eyes gave her away.

"What if I get hit?"

Sanguineus shouldered his skis. "I won't leave you there," he said as the gondola swayed to a halt. "I'm your bodyguard."

(10) Hell Hath A Sister

"She's coming up now," said Sanguineus, gazing through his binoculars.

He was referring to the expert trail's ski lift on which Tertia was sitting with her skis off, a small thermos bottle in hand. The wind was stirring the fringe of her jacket's hood as she looked around at the pylons, at the far-spaced fir trees that marked the border of the trail, and, more intently, at the boarding platform above, crowded with skiers; the lodge beyond looking like a besieged Norwegian castle.

"You called her about coming up for brunch?" asked Rolgo, turning from the balcony railing and brushing his gloved hands on his parka to remove the crystalized snow. "I've a lot to explain before she gets here."

"She'll stop at her room first, to change. Let's go inside."

It was a small conference room on the first floor, a lonely distance down from the restaurant. There had been no vacancies. Fredrico Rolgo would be spending the night in Glen Wong's room, courtesy of the master key that Dolina provided.

He went straight to the refreshment cart for a hot fresh cup of coffee. "You?" he asked.

"Thanks, but no."

"How can you drink that mulled wine? It's like..." Rolgo walked across to the central table and sat in one of the swivel chairs, setting down his cup and patting the armrests.

"I had a late breakfast with Gina, the assistant to the Director's secretary," he said. "You know her?"

"Not well," Sanguineus said. He did not sit down, but stood holding his insulated cup and eyeing Rolgo with genial suspicion. "Something is not right about this job. Let's hear it."

Rolgo, smiling wryly, took a deep breath and began.

"Gina is undercover for the CIA. She reports directly to the section chief for central Europe. She confided in me when this assignment came in three weeks ago. I checked her out with 'Mr Garcia' on a secure land line. This morning she explained that her section boss is involved in a black op with the French secret service, specifically the department dealing with electronic warfare and internal communications security. It concerns Russian and Syrian contacts in the Napolitano syndicate. Gina knows just enough to recognize when any assignment of ours will have an effect on this black operation. The short and sweet of it is this: they don't want Drake LeCourt killed. He's a somewhat unwitting player in a banking scheme and it's important that he stay alive. He left Switzerland yesterday evening when he found out about Iceman putting on that beautiful rictus grin. He decided the risks weren't worth it. He's afraid of you."

"Hm," said Sanguineus. "Even with Ford Edmund, the mobster courier, to cover his back?"

"Edmund is here to see that Isabel plays her cards right with Tertia. A little reverse psychology in hopes that Tertia won't lose her nerve. Isabel replied to a text of mine an hour ago. Her reply to my question about her sales activity was 'Ask Gina.' It was a terribly unprofessional exchange between Gina and I, but there wasn't time to get clever with it."

"So then, Isabel has been contracted by Gina's section chief. Probably not for the first time."

"The first time was after she met Tertia at Sugarbush last year," said Rolgo, drumming the armrests. Then as immobile as a statue he said: "The third man with the single occupancy isn't Drake. He registered under that name, but his real identity is known by the field agent that the section chief put here last week. I haven't been able to determine who that might be. But I do know that the Drake impersonator is a French American from New Orleans, name of Anthony d'Arc, with a bloodline that ties him in with Vicente Napolitano."

Sanguineus set his cup down on the cart and stood beside a corner of the table nearest Rolgo. His slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. "And he's here to kill Tertia?" he inquired. "Or me? Or the both of us?" His voice matched the grimness of his eyes. "I'll be goddamn if I'll let that happen, whoever the target is."

"Remember George Armstrong Custer," said Rolgo, sipping his coffee, his gaze locked on the master assassin. "D'Arc is not the only gunman here. There are at least four day-visitors who came up here from Eisenstadt. They've been bunking in one of the guest cottages in Gipfelhaus. They discovered Iceman's body. They were not to get involved unless Iceman was compromised. So... I don't see how we can salvage this mess, Ricklen. If Custer had been given accurate information, he would have called off the expedition or sent for reinforcements. Here you're on your own. You against five gunmen out to kill Tertia Fontenay so as to protect their stooge, or fall guy, Drake LeCourt. Call it off, Ricklen. We can try to hustle Tertia out of here if you're so minded, but don't go up against Vicente Napolitano's gun thugs. It isn't worth it. That's my advice. I hope you take it."

A knock on the door.

Rolgo stood up, his vulturish face lined with anxiety.

Sanguineus staid him with a gesture. He went quickly to the hinge side of the door, his back to the wall, his suppressor-equipped Glock in hand, and nodded at Rolgo.

"Yes, come in," Rolgo said.

He strolled over to the double doors and pulled back the deadbolt. Then he stepped back and said again, "Come in."

The righthand door opened.

Rolgo immediately threw himself to his right. A phut! sound that was simultaneous with a sharp thock! in the far wall above the refreshment cart.

Sanguineus seized Tertia's gun-hand at the wrist, pulling her toward him and twisting her forearm as she stumbled past him, dropping the Walther and falling on her hands and knees.

The Glock coughed a white flame. The man who took the bullet grunted, staggered back, stepping on Rolgo's ankle, raising his Luger in a swift motion that became a wave goodbye as his face imploded.

Smoke whiffed away from the Glock. Sanguineus, kicking the Walther under the table, stepped over to the felled body of the man and aimed for the heart. It wasn't necessary. The face was pulp.

"Who in hell is this?" said Rolgo. He stood gingerly, favoring his bruised ankle and straightening his parka. "You erased his face, old boy. What, did you have a premonition?"

"Just being cautious."

Sanguineus yanked Tertia to her feet and pushed her into a swivel chair where the momentum swung her in a tight, rocking circle. When she came back around to face a scowling Sanguineus she was pale and red-eyed.

"Who was he?" he demanded.

"Drake, isn't it? You killed him!"

Sanguineus looked at Rolgo, who was going through the dead man's pockets after bolting the door shut.

"Here's a passport," Rolgo said excitedly. "And damn if it isn't Ford Edmund. Do you suppose Isabel--?"

Tertia caught her breath. She slowly swiveled around to face the balcony.

"If she was involved, it would just be her following orders," Sanguineus remarked, his brows knit. "But this Edmund bastard wouldn't be wise to her affiliations. What reason would Isabel have for exposing her cover? And why would the section chief want her to? What would be gained? Her body is all she needs to get what she wants from a man of Edmund's type."

Rolgo was preoccupied. He stood, took off his horn rim glasses, and scratched his nose. "Luckily I have this room reserved for the entire day. I asked not to be disturbed. We can leave the corpse here and have some hope of it not being tripped over before we're long gone."

"Gone?" said Tertia, standing and knudging the chair away from her. "You mean after I've killed Drake."

Sanguineus said to her: "Where were you accosted by this heap of shit, and what did he say about it?"

"Outside my room, as I was unlocking the door," she replied defensively. "It wasn't my idea to jump in here and start shooting!"

"That's the Walther I gave you, bitch."

"I had it in my jacket when I went skiing, just in case! Well, the fucker frisked me." She made a sour face, glancing at the two attentive men. "He found it and I think that's what gave him the idea about using me to shoot you." She jabbed her forefinger at Sanguineus. "He made me tell him where you were. He would've popped me if I hadn't told him. His gun was in my back when I opened the door here. Well goddamn it I'm no fucking Galahad!"

"Where's Isabel now, I wonder?" said Rolgo. He put the passport in a back pocket of his trousers. "Who else does she know here? Miss Fontenay, your friend Isabel wants you dead. So do some French Italian gangsters, the French securite, and the CIA. Your only hope is to fully cooperate with us. We can arrange to smuggle you out of Switzerland and give you a new identity."

A stunned Tertia stared at Sanguineus. She began trembling uncontrollably. "He's lying, isn't he?" she whispered hoarsely. "I might as well shoot myself. You can't save me from those people. The CIA after me, to kill me? There's no hope at all."

Sanguineus pulled her up to him, an arm around her waist. "LeCourt fled," he told her. "There's no reason for us to stick around. Rolgo," he said, smiling at a sudden thought. "The Swiss rescue service. They have helicopters. If you feel safe here, if the gunmen don't know who you are, give Tertia and I fifteen minutes to get down the slopes, then make an emergency call. A broken leg. The ski patrol will come for us, but they're volunteers, not medical specialists. I'll have them believing that Tertia broke some bones. The helicopter will take us to a hospital and we'll figure it out from there."

Rolgo considered. "I don't think I'm known by anyone here, except Isabel. But she doesn't know I've come up. She thinks I'm in Zurich." He ran a hand over his damp thinning hair. "Okay then. Fifteen minutes. You have your ski rentals handy?"

"In the locker room," Sanguineus said, and looking coldly into Tertia's bloodshot eyes, he added: "I have to trust you now, like it or not. You'll have the Walther. And you'll do exactly as I tell you, or I'll shoot you myself."

(9) Hell Hath A Sister.

Tertia did not see Sanguineus in the restaurant.

She phoned him. A recording of his voice: "I'm in a sales meeting. Please leave a message and I will respond as soon as I am able."

She covered her anxiety with a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage.

At 8:30am she went to the ski shop's locker room for her ski equipment. The best antidote for her anxiety was to ski, and the moderate slope was her choice.

At that same time an Asian fellow with grey in his pointy sideburns was riding a snow mobile along the crest that led to the private cabins on Brutten Ridge. It offered him a fine view of Sonnenhut's zigzagging trails.

He noticed ski tracks along the tree line and thought, "Cross-country skier," with some envy. A knee injury prevented him from engaging in that desired but, for him, impractical activity. Still he was enjoying his ride on the Polaris 800 Assault deep snow sled, a cloud of frost blowing out behind him.

It was with a feeling of regret that he reached the first and most secluded of the cabins. He had reserved it for three days and two nights at the reasonable price of four thousand Swiss francs.

He was thinking of bypassing the cabin for a longer run along the ridge, when the sight of an Arctic Cat snow mobile, parked near the shed that housed the generators, changed his mind.

Could it be--?

He parked next to the Arctic Cat. He dismounted and removed his helmet and goggles for a clearer look at the machine. There was nothing to indicate who the rider was, but in his own mind there was just one possible prospect. He felt a rather tense elation. He had not expected her to be here, but it would not be out of character for her to surprise him.

He went up onto the wooden porch brushing snow off his sleeves and shoulders. Knocking on the door, his key in a gloved hand, he called out, "Izzy?"

There was no reply. He knocked and called again, in a louder voice. Still there was only the distant screeing of a hawk, circling above the woods and clearings on the rise beyond the line of nine cabins. He tried the latch.

It was not locked. Warily he opened the door a few inches and peered in.

A stone fireplace in the far flagstoned wall, burgundy leather upholstered furniture, a thick shag carpet of cream white, and a varnished redwood table with a rack of wine bottles and a complimentary box of Swiss cheeses, met his probing gaze. He neither saw nor heard anyone.

It then occurred to him that Izzy might have gone skiing along the gentle slope below the cabin, a length of trail that followed a creek. It would be a fairly easy climb back if she did not go too far. She was the athletic type. It would appeal to her.

He went around to the side of the cabin that faced the slope and the downward rushing creek. He saw a pair of skis and two ski poles propped against the cabin's outer stucco wall. So, he thought, she's inside. Why hadn't she answered him? Was she napping? Had she gone skiing earlier, exhausting herself on a long climb back to the cabin?

He felt uneasy. He walked slowly back around to the door, pushed it open, hesitated, and went in, saying, "Hello... Izzy... are you here?"

He turned toward the wall to his left, to the bedroom door, and his heart stopped for a dreadful moment before it started pounding in a fright that was suffocating.

A man in insulated white overalls hung from a crossbeam of the ceiling. The noose had chaffed his neck. His arms were at his sides, the wrists not tied, the fingernails sprouting rope fiber. His features had the cast of an East European, badly bruised. He was quite dead, but had not been dead for very long. A terrible stench came from the seat of the quilted trousers.

The Asian panicked, backing up until his buttocks collided with the table. A wine bottle was jarred loose from the rack, rolled across the table and fell to the rug.

He became aware of someone standing beside him, a man outlined by the sunglow of the open door. A hard blunt object was pressed into his ribcage. His panic became shock. He stared at the tall man who for a long minute said nothing.

"Tell me your name," Sanguineus said at last. He kept the Glock's suppressor in the shorter man's side. "Lie to me and I will kill you."

"Glen Wong. My name is Glen Wong."

"Do you know an Estelle Woodward?"

"No. I've never heard the name."

"Do you know an Isabel Montoya?"

Wong grimaced. He took a deep breath. "Please, she is a friend, but does not work for me. Please, she works for Tertia Fontenay. I came to see her when I found out that she was with Tertia, but I have no part in this."

"On your registration you put down your business title as 'acting chairman' for LeCourt and Bistro. You are a colleague of Maurice LeCourt."

"Yes? But... "

"Drake LeCourt is a junior executive working under you."

"Yes? But..."

"Don't lie to me," Sanguineus advised, cocking the gun's hammer. "Tell me what you know of Tertia Fontenay's intentions."

Wong swallowed painfully. Sweat beaded his forehead. "You're her bodyguard? Yes... She intends to stop Drake LeCourt from trying to... stop her. She met Izzy... beg pardon, met Isabel at Sugarbush. The ski resort in Vermont. Last winter. Isabel fell in love with her, and told her about... about her line of work, and... and how she killed a horse trainer who had kidnapped a little girl who... I don't remember the details."

"When did you first meet Tertia?"

"Years ago," Wong said. "I don't know, maybe ten-twelve years ago." He made an ineffectual gesture with the hand furthest from his interrogator. "When she came to believe that Drake had killed their mother and two sisters, she... she introduced me to Isabel. Look, I am in as much danger as Tertia! Drake will kill me too! If he isn't stopped, Tertia will die and I will be the next victim! He hates me! He is racist!"

Sanguineus stepped back and lowered his Glock. He considered a moment, then uncocked the gun.

"You were one of three men who registered for single occupancy at the Sonnenhut Inn," he said musingly. "The second of the three is hanging from the ceiling. He came here on a snow mobile. I followed covertly on skis. He came here for a reason. He said it was to read you the riot act, to get you to call Isabel on her cell and invite her up here for lunch. He had supposed that was your plan but he wanted to be sure about it. He didn't want to admit it, but he intended to kill her, and of course he would have killed you for the deuce of it. He was a Napolitano thug. That doesn't mean anything to you unless Montoya has shot her mouth off on things she should keep to herself." He saw in Wong's guilty eyes that he was aware of French underground politics.

Sanguineus smiled grimly and continued, "Well, now that it's out: Vicente Napolitano has done business with Maurice LeCourt through Jacqueline Faber, a contributing editor on L'Figaro. She writes under a man's name and the Napolitano boys thinks she's a monsieur. No matter. They support Drake LeCourt's ambitions. Here's my offer. I let you go, and you go straight to the Inn, to your vehicle, and you get your ass out of here. Don't go to your room, don't check out. Just fuck everything and go. I'll protect Izzy."

Tertia finished buckling her ski boots.

She stood up from the bench and reached into the locker for her Black Diamond ski poles.

"It feels like holy hell," she remarked, going through the motions of poling on a slope. "It pinches under the arms."

"It was the best I could do at such short notice, Sugar Bitch."

Tertia grunted a laugh. "It was your idea to come up here, Izzy. I told you I couldn't afford an assistant for San, and why take a risk for nothing?"

Isabel put a hand on her hip. "For nothing?" She mouthed a soundless laugh. "Sanguineus promised me fifteen thousand out of his contract, just to put together that titty armor. I knew he'd have something for me to do for him if I showed up."

"By coincidence," Tertia said urgently. "He doesn't know about us. You go on up to the cabin and play with Glen."

"Don't be an idiot! I should go out and salt Drake, and Glen can play with himself."

"No! Drake's mine! It wasn't your sisters he murdered! I couldn't care less if he killed my slut mother! But no one's going to deprive me of--"

"Hush it!" Isabel put a firm caressing hand on Tertia's neck. "Goddamn, Tersh, you want the whole fucking resort to hear this? Go ahead and have your little revenge party, but it's not going to be what you imagine, I guarantee you that, Sugar Bitch!"

Tertia stroked the wrist and pulled the hand away from her neck. "My my, look who's yelling now, the cool professional."

She handed Isabel the ski poles, and, bumping the locker door wide open with a padded elbow, took out her Panatti skis.