(3) Crucia

"Pruning time for the upper terraces," said Rolgo. "The buds are breaking out and the spurs need trimming."

He handed the binoculars to Sanguineus. "I became quite familiar with the vineyard when I first met Grigoris Markos, nine years ago," he went on pleasantly, "when Ambrosia inherited the property. The grape quality has steadily improved. She sells to the top wine makers in France and California. In particular a fine cabernet sauvignon is the result."

"I don't see the horse." Sanguineus lowered the binoculars and stood leaning negligently against an acacia tree, staring at the vista of a many-tiered hill with its rows of knotted grapevines and the blue sweep of the gulf to the north.

From his position the red tiles of the villa's roof were just visible, a quarter mile away. "A goat is not the sort of animal one would want roaming a vineyard," he remarked.

Rolgo shrugged. "The devil knows what would happen to their relationship if..." He gave Sanguineus a perceptive look. "Do you think Ambrosia suspects him of knowing more about this than she would like?"

"I haven't met her yet. I've just read the profile reports, and it's best that I not meet with the client. You say he confided in her, and in no one else, regarding the contract put out on the killer. He wanted her to know that he seeks justice. I'm surprised that Claus gave the okay for that."

"Grigoris wanting justice would not be a problem for Ambrosia if it remained just a sentiment," mused Rolgo. "But... That reminds me..."

They turned back toward the pickup parked below at the foot of the rise and began their descent through the breezy shade of the woods.

"Grigoris tells me that Ambrosia fired the foreman's assistant," Rolgo continued. "Not from a lack of knowledge about grapes, but from a lack of knowledge about sex. The boy was our informant, but Ambrosia doesn't seem to have uncovered that bit of skullduggery. We paid the foreman a pretty penny to recommend the boy to Ambrosia. The foreman will keep his mouth tight shut about it. "

The road that Sanguineus gazed down on, as they came out from the copse of trees, was a dirt track leading in S-bends along the seaward side of the villa property. How innocent the pickup seemed parked at the side of the road like a grazing animal. "Was the 'assistant' much help to us?" he asked.

"Oh a little. He reported seeing Ambrosia with Christofer Agape, one of the crime lords associated with the killing of Pella Markos. He wasn't in the vehicle when Ambrosia shot Pella, but he was her lover at the time. And we think he was directly involved in the kidnapping of Pella's former law student, Berenice Chora."

"What about this Pegasus angle?" Sanguineus paused with his hand on the driver's side door of the Chevy Silverado. "My gut tells me that I'm going to need this horse. Either that, or Ambrosia Kastri chokes to death on a grape."

Rolgo opened the passenger side door but did not get in. He was looking back at the summit of the vineyard. "The informant learned virtually nothing about the Pegasus side of Ambrosia. But Grigoris mentioned the rather bizarre name, 'Crucia.' This, and the other thing of interest, is a young girl who is the daughter of Berenice Chora, the missing defense attorney."

He looked at Sanguineus, smiling wonderingly. "The girl lives at a neighboring vineyard, a small parcel, not very productive. God knows how her step-father makes a go of it. This girl has been seen with Ambrosia in the evenings on several occasions, according to our erstwhile informant. And Grigoris, or, I should say, Tragos, says that the girl-- can't remember her first name-- speaks of Crucia riding the horse."

"A flying horse."

"Yes, a flying horse," said a weary Rolgo. "And what the little girl means by that, Tragos doesn't know. You see, I remembered to call him Tragos. But that's only part of it. Crucia kills people by nailing them to flying crosses, which become part of the fence of Pegasus' corral. How's that for a euphemistic code?"

"Tricky, but not as tricky as discovering why Ambrosia killed Pella Markos. What was her motive?"

"Does it matter? Could be any number of personal reasons. And since the ICS investigator could not determine a motive, it MUST have been a strictly personal one."

Sanguineus sighed, opening the truck door. "Fred, knowing Ambrosia's motive could make it easier to kill her in a way that is understandable and ultimately acceptable to the police. Let's give this assignment a week."

Rolgo raised a brow. "So you can figure out her motive? Well, there are no time constraints. We have your horticulturist credentials ready for inspection, and Universal Wineries is now in business, so to speak. And while we're on the subject of difficulties... At some point Tragos will learn that the person on whom he has put a contract is someone who is nearest and dearest to his heart. You may want to inform him of that before you fulfill the contract."

"Claus says that 'the Goat' doesn't want to know," Sanguineus said, "which could mean that Tragos already knows but wants to remain in a state of denial."

"Then why doesn't he cancel the contract? He has already paid for the ICS investigation. Red Rum would refund his money minus our expenses. But no, he intends to go through with it."

Sanguineus nodded, getting in behind the wheel and resting a finger on the ignition key. "What have we learned about this horse?" he asked.

Rolgo got in and left the door open while its window was going down. "It's an off-white color. Stallion. Arabian breed. A blue-ribbon jumper at horse shows. Word is, it will soon be put out to stud." He pulled the door shut. "As for victims nailed to flying crosses, there have been the usual number of missing persons, of all ages and both genders. Some have the whiff of foul play. But nothing to link them to the horse named Pegasus, nor to Ambrosia Kastri."

"Where do we have lunch?"

"There's a McDonald's in Corinth."

"I'll drop you off," Sanguineus said, and backed out from under the acacia trees.

The silver horse loped across the broad level field, snorting and shaking its mane, a horse 15 hands high. It galloped down to the strand of the beach, raced across the limpid surf, splashes of bright prisms framing its jaunt.

"Ela! Ela!" called Ambrosia, fifty yards away, on a dune that was crowned with ice plant. "Ela! Myga!"

"He favors his left front leg in a way that I do not like," said the horse trainer, Titus, a gaunt middle aged man dressed in traditional Greek garb who stood a little behind the short shapely woman in riding boots, snug jeans and khaki blouse.

She glanced back at him sternly, then laughed. "It is nothing. Were it bad, it would have been worse by now."

She turned back to the stallion. "Ela! Myga! Come to me, Pegasus. Fly!"

The horse charged toward her, forelegs pounding the sand, eyes blazing. It came up onto the dune and leaped up, up, higher, higher, over Ambrosia's head and down upon the leeward side of the dune, sliding on its haunches to the edge of the field, to the fringe of reeds and grasses.

"Impressive," said the tall stranger in a black corduroy suit, no tie, his Greek fisherman's cap shading his eyes.

Ambrosia stared at him a long moment. Then she said in a preemptive tone to Titus, "A prospective customer. Take Pegasus and brush him down."

She met the stranger halfway between the field's end and the foot of the dune. She took off her sunglasses.

"Would you be Mr Cruor of Universal Wineries?"

"Yes, if you're Ambrosia Kastri."

"I have never complained about it. Did the foreman tell you where to find me?"

"He said you exercise your horse after lunch," Sanguineus replied. "He invited me to wait in the library, but I was curious to see a horse named Pegasus."

He took in her modest height, her voluptuousness, the carefree way she had tied back her hair, her fresh face with its natural beauty. She was looking at him with the same intensity of appraisal. He had no doubts that she would approve of him at least as much as he approved of her.

"I was unaware of Universal Wineries until I received an email three days ago from your home office," she said. "So, the company you represent owns the majority of stock in several winery conglomerates?"

"Yes, and the Millennials in America are taking over the top spot in wine consumption, a demographic that prefers imports."

"You're here to observe our pruning methods, and to evaluate our grapes? And this concerns a possible contract?"

Sanguineus smiled grimly. Her use of the word 'contract' brought him a momentary sense of foreboding. A woman and her intuitions. He had learned not to underestimate the combination.

"Our Napa Valley wineries have suffered inconveniences from the prolonged drought in California," he said. "We are looking at importing grapes from the Aegean area. Your vineyard tops our list of prospective suppliers."

Ambrosia turned her face to the 'sea,' as she always thought of it, and considered the man's proposal. Now, more than when she first read the email from Universal Wineries, she felt how providential it all was. This gentleman here, with eyes full of mystery and danger... This man, she sensed, could bring it about. Not like Cristofer, who, despite his underworld status, had continually failed her; failed to understand her greatest need; hers, and Fabienne's. No, this man here had an instinctive understanding of even those things that he had yet to experience. And judging by his eyes, there was very little in the world that he had not already experienced, many times over.

"I should like to discuss it over dinner," she said, turning to him. "Excuse my heavy Greek accent. I shall try to soften it."

"It is charming," Sanguineus said. "And I appreciate your offer of dinner. It will be Greek, I hope?"

Ambrosia smiled, her lips parting in the hint of a soundless laugh.

"Yes, it will be Greek," she said.

(2) Crucia

Fabienne lifted her head above the twisted knots of vines, the moon in her eyes.

In the night the grey horse looked as silvery as the moon, and to peer into the little girl's eyes now, with the horse trotting along the wagon tracks toward the villa, would be to see the horse in the moon, and the moon in the dancing mane of the horse.

Fabienne ran between the rows of grape vines, their serrated spade leaves whispering as she passed them. She wanted to see the horse leap the stone fence.

She crossed the wagon tracks and stopped a few moments to catch her breath. She rested bent over, her hands on her knees.

Crucia had promised her: "Your asthma will be healed at the full moon."

Five days. Just five more days.

And what Crucia promised always came true. The horse was proof of that.

Fabienne walked as fast as she could and not lose her breath. Her head was back, her shoulders squared, breathing rhythmically.

"Be strong. Let no one say that you can not do what the other children do."

The old man, his white beard in his fist, had told her that, after the school day was over and the teacher was walking across the parking lot smiling at them, her eyeglasses in her hand, a fragile hand, not like the strong fist that held the beard. The Goat.

That's how Fabienne thought of the old robed hermit. The Goat. And when she did think of him, she thought also of the horse.

Of Pegasus.

Of the horse that leaped up full-winged over the fence, its tail waving at the girl who stood under an olive tree, watching.

In a coffee shop in Greenwich Village Sanguineus set his Nordic smartphone on the small round table where he sat, in the burgeoning morning light that shone from between gingham curtains.

He tapped the g+ icon.

Aside from the fact that it was Monday, when the hand of fate is apt to get restless, he had an intuitive feeling that an assignment was coming.

It had been nearly five months since that convoluted affair in Vienna. There had been some few investigations after his return to New York City, inconsequential leads in cases that did not involve him beyond the routine procedures of checking rumors and analyzing alibis. Well, there had been that week of surveillance: the digital filming of a monsignor whom the archbishop, secretly a Freemason, suspected of Illuminati activity, and who would later be fingered for a hit. Very dull work for Sanguineus, but it brought a welcome addition to his dwindling bank balance.

He was thinking of stepping outside with his cup for a smoke when a notification came.

'Sally Anne Bern shared a post +Ricklen Cruor.'

Sanguineus sat back, his pulse rate rising, and read the post.

'In this first installment of Modern Interpretations of Greek Mythology, we consider the winged horse Pegasus, offspring of Poseidon, and civic symbol of the city of Corinth.'

Sanguineus smiled. He would be going to Greece.

He had stopped over in Athens several years ago on his way to Istanbul. He had seen very little of the birthplace of democracy, just evening traffic to and from his cheap hotel room where crickets came out of the woodwork the moment the sun went down. And, briefly, Corinth: vineyards and an oil refinery, vivacious girls with black hair and blue eyes, narrow shop lanes, the inevitable gypsies in their motorized caravans. And now, an addition: someone who had made an enemy.

The post provided nothing specific about the assignment, other than its locale, departure date, the contact person on arrival, and the flight number out of La Guardia. The initial carrier was always Small World Airlines.

Sanguineus noted a numerology result in the post. It was a reference to Greek names and their astrological import. This gave him the flight number. The five digits after the mention of the god Chronos ("Time") was the date he was to leave, 3-17-13, which in the context of the post was academic mumbo jumbo about the Delphi Oracle. Then there was his contact's identity. This was indicated by the first letter in the last person named: in this instance 'Rhea,' a goddess. The 'R' most certainly meant Rolgo.

A teen waitress, Mamie, came by with a tray of Danish. "How's the sales campaign going, Rick?"

"Leaving for Greece tomorrow," Sanguineus said. "There's a nudist colony on the island of Lesbos. I'll send you a pic."

Mamie looked surprised. It was a habit of hers. "What sort of tools would THEY need?"

"Probably not drills," he replied.

A young woman about Mamie's height, 5 foot 2, but voluptuous, and of a beauty peculiar to the eastern Mediterranean, opened the gauzy white curtains of a bedroom window in her villa overlooking the Gulf of Corinth.

"You're a damn lousy lover," she said, swinging open the double-leaved panes framed in acacia wood.

She tilted back her head and breathed deeply of the inshore breeze. Her white tee-shirt ruffled upon her otherwise naked body. Her long lustrous black hair with its auburn highlights was scintillating in the ray of sun.

The young man in bed sat up, his weight on his elbows. His puerile face with its peachfuzzy chin looked distressed, as if something more than a reprimand was to be found in the woman's remark.

"What--?"

"Just get out," she said.

"Ambrosia--"

"Don't say my name, not ever again." She turned, the windblown curtains like broad downy wings behind her.

Her expression was so benign, he thought. Why such cruel words? But he knew better than to argue with her.

She snatched up a red-and-white striped flannel bathrobe from a Roman couch beside her, saying, "Now, get out," and putting it on as she walked from the room as though no one else was there.

Ambrosia went barefoot down a semi circular staircase. She crossed tessellated tiles of a pastel sand color to the wrought-iron grille of the back door.

This opened onto a wide portico of similar tiles, with slender Doric columns along the seaward side.

It was midmorning. A sharp blue sky beamed upon the bluer expanse of the Corinthian gulf. But the old man in the white suit and coral necklace in place of a tie, who eyed Ambrosia's approach while leaning back against a column, did not beam upon her, nor even nod his white-hatted head.

Ambrosia always liked how his long white beard flagged in the breeze.

"Grigoris... Pardon, I mean Tragos...on time as usual," she said, and, frowning, shook her head, as though his punctuality was disgraceful.

"My dear child, late as usual," he responded, completing her joke by acting as though he regarded her tardiness as a virtue.

Smiling now, he met her in the middle of the portico. They hugged affectionately.

"I have decided that I don't want to know," Tragos said. He held her shoulders at arms length, searching her passive face. Her smile was gone but the light was still there.

"You've paid all that money and you don't even want to know the name of the person who killed Pella?" she inquired without the least trace of emotion, beyond that of curiosity.

Tragos tilted his head sideways, an apologetic gesture. "You remember the young professor from America who was visiting us at the time Pella was struck down?" he asked, "Professor Rolgo? Older and I dare say wiser now. Or, at any rate, having more diverse friendships. The private investigator who discovered the identity of the killer is a close acquaintance of Fredrico's. The good professor knows who the gunman is, and that is sufficient unto my satisfaction."

"Knows, but can not prove," said Ambrosia with a half smile, "not in court."

"No, not in court. But the evidence is worthy enough. The shooter targeted Pella deliberately. But," Tragos added, releasing her and wagging a finger, "what makes this so convincing to me is the motive." He put his hands in his coat pockets and looked down at his brogues. "Pella had encouraged a former law student of hers to defend a known gangster." He looked up at Ambrosia, who gazed intently back at him. "You remember that stout frizzy brunette with the mole on her cheek? Pella thought it would be a good experience for her former student to defend a client of such a low reputation, a client charged with first degree murder. When the prosecution won the case, the defense attorney vanished without a trace. You remember? Two weeks later Pella was openly murdered."

"And you don't want to know who murdered her!"

"Because I don't want to be able to put a face and a name to the person who an assassin, a vigilante, is going to kill. All I want to know is that Pella has got her justice."

Ambrosia crossed her arms, sighed, and turned to stare out at the volcanic rocks squatting on the sand and the waves that were hardly larger than ripples running up to them in seeming adoration.

"Not to change the subject," she said, "but the foreman's assistant has been fired." She smiled at Tragos. "I told him to get out. I don't need his silly boyish flirtations. He doesn't care about the quality of the grapes, but only the quality of the girls who tend the vineyard."

"Like your father, he finds vineyards to be a romantic place."

"Oh you and your philosophical way of looking at everything. I am a practical woman. How long will you be staying with us?"

"Til the day after tomorrow," Tragos said, his left hand gripping his beard.

"Now I know that something is bothering you," Ambrosia said, bumping him gently with a shoulder. "You're holding your beard. You only do that when something disturbing is on your mind."

"Oh you and your philosophical observations," Tragos remarked. He let go of his beard, swinging his arms as a penance. "There is this girl at St Nicholas Elementary School, named Fabienne Chora. I had a nice long conversation with her yesterday. Her teacher was one of the post-grad students who would visit my hermitage on Patmos. You remember Marianne? She has been asking me to give a talk in her classroom about the spiritual life, so finally..."

He looked out at the beach, as if what Ambrosia gazed at was something unusual or momentous. She was, in fact, watching him from the corners of her large exquisite eyes.

"So, what about this little girl?" she asked with that emotionless curiosity.

Tragos tilted his head. "She has an imaginary friend, a goddess named Crucia. Apparently she chose the name for her Olympian dea herself. I find it strange that she would choose a name that means 'torture.' And the stories she tells!"

Ambrosia stepped down to the grass and dug at the sandy soil with her toes.

(1) Crucia

"I went deer hunting yesterday," said Hermann 'Bear' Claus, "and brought with me a biologist friend, Rufus Jay Wingate, an Englishman. Dapper fellow. I took aim at a deer with magnificent antlers. Then Rufus said, 'Don't shoot! It's a doe!' As it turns out, he was right. It is rare indeed, but some female deer grow antlers. Would you agree that this is analogous to feminism?"

Fredrico Rolgo turned from the window, having watched a pair of Palominos romp across the meadow of the Wyoming ranch that Claus called home during the hunting season. He took off his hornrim glasses and wiped the lenses with his tie.

"You are referring to Ambrosia Kastri," he said, smiling his agreement. "Beauty without balls does not necessarily mean a lack of horns. If you send Sanguineus after her, let's not include a biologist."

Rolgo put on his glasses and reached for his Intel file folder on the walnut table of the study, the table with the ceramic statuette of a rearing grizzly.

"Her father was a Spaniard who married a Greek girl," he continued, as Claus settled into a bearskin armchair near the fireplace. "He had bought a vineyard near Corinth. The girl worked in the office. He got her pregnant. Hoping for a son, he married her and got a daughter for his trouble. Then he was bitten by a flea and died two days later from bubonic plague. The girl raised her daughter, Ambrosia, like a tomboy, in memory of her late husband's desire for a son. But she met a Greek mobster named Kastri, married him, and promptly forgot about Ambrosia. The little girl was subsequently raised by her mother's step-sister, Pella, who taught law at a college in Athens. Pella's husband (they were separated) held the Chair of Philosophy in the university across town. Professor Grigoris Markos. When Ambrosia Kastri grew up into a beautiful and unpredictable free spirit, and Pella was killed in a drive-by gangland shooting, Grigoris took a sabbatical leave and set up a hermitage on Patmos, a Greek island in the Aegean Sea. He changed his name to Tragos. It means 'goat.' Not sure why he chose that monicker. Symbolic of some aspect of his nature, I suppose."

"A Faun, or satyr, maybe," suggested Claus. "Leaving his wife, or she leaving him, makes me think of infidelity."

"Anyway, he grew a long white beard and dressed himself in robe and sandals. He found that he enjoyed the life of a hermit philosopher. Students from the university would visit him. In fact, they got credits for doing so. Tragos arranged for their transportation, on tramp freighters, no less. Quite an excursion for the kids. Adventurous, romantic. Ambrosia visited him regularly during her college days. She was, and still is, very close to him. He is still Tragos the Hermit on Patmos, and she runs a vineyard near Corinth, which she inherited by court order when her mother and step-dad committed suicide together."

"A tidy end to a relationship," quipped Claus. "And she is single?" he inquired, waving his beer bottle.

"As all truly free spirits are."

Bear Claus smiled grimly. "But not all free spirits are bad to the bone."

Sunlight off the Corinthian Gulf shone brightly on the windows of the elementary schoolroom. It gave a rather appropriate halo to the balding head of the old robed hermit who sat on a stool in front of a semi circle of children in their blue and white uniforms.

Idly fingering his straggly white beard, Tragos asked in his clear deep voice, "Who can tell me the name of the mythological creature who symbolizes our fair city of Corinth?"

A nine year old girl in the back stood up. She had black hair cut square at her shoulders, and blue Mediterranean eyes "with fish in them" thought Tragos, who smiled at her encouragingly.

"Pegasus the winged horse," she said with a kind of belligerent confidence. Her expression was somber and serious.

"And your name is--?"

"Fabienne," she said. "Fabienne Chora."

Tragos beamed. "Indeed? Chora is the name of the principal town on Patmos, where I live. Coincidence is the favorite song of the goddess Echo. Actually, I just made that up. But don't you think it is likely to be true?" he asked the children.

They agreed. He laughed indulgently. But seeing that Fabienne was still standing and looking at him in such an impatient way, he said to her: "And what can you tell us about Pegasus?"

Fabienne seemed both relieved and excited. "Pegasus has never been tamed," she said, as though making an announcement.

Tragos nodded musingly, his white brows raised in skepticism. "But wasn't he ridden by Bellerophon in battles against the Amazons, and against the monster Chimera?"

"No! Only Crucia can ride him!"

The children, surprised by the fervency of Fabienne's statement, and even more surprised by her sharp 'No,' turned on their cushions to gape at her.

Tragos, sensing a temper tantrum coming, nodded as if he had just been correctly informed. But the name 'Crucia' sparked his curiosity.

"I have never heard this name before," he said to her, "though I don't doubt you're right. Can you tell me who Crucia is?"

"The goddess of fruit "

"Ah. But isn't that Pomona? Perhaps Crucia is Pomona's sister?"

"No! They were enemies. Crucia killed Pomona and nailed her to a cross that flew up into the sky. The corral where Pegasus grazes was made by flying crosses."

Tragos was dumbfounded for a moment. He hardly knew what to think about this headstrong little girl with the strange ideas. But his smile did not falter. "You mean, flying crosses with people on them?"

"Dead people," said Fabienne.

Tragos nodded again. "And where did you hear these stories about Pegasus and... his rider?"

The girl considered, and while she considered her face softened and the shadow of a pleasant thought touched her lips.

"From Crucia," she said, and sat down.

In the New York City offices of Universal Tools, an Admin secretary set aside her knitting and pulled five sheets of paper from the printer on her desk and stapled them.

The papers were titled, 'Modern Interpretations of Greek Mythology.'

She brushed her dishevelled grey hair from her eyes and put the papers in a manila envelope.

"Sally," she said to the prospect sitting on a short sofa by a window across from her, "post this on Google Plus, would you, dear, and tag Ricklen Cruor."

The girl, a tall and lithe strawberry blonde, came over eagerly and took the envelope. "God how I wish I'd get tagged," she said wistfully.

"Keep on maxing your tests and it won't be long before you'll get an assistant operative position."

"Not if I don't do better on my Response Times, my God, sometimes I think I can't make up my mind about anything!"

The secretary leaned back in her swivel chair, taking up her knitting. "Remember, a bad decision is better than no decision at all. They can teach you to make the right decision, but they can't teach you to think fast. Never mind the quality of your decisions when they're testing you, just make one and make it fast."

The prospect chewed on a strand of hair. "But... suppose I say something really stupid?"

The knitting needles went to work with alacrity. The ball of yarn jerked and wobbled on the secretary's woolen lap.

"The only stupid thing," she said, "is to say nothing."

(12) Music for the Hard of Hearing [Conclusion]

The last delivery truck pulled out from the underground loading dock at 11pm. Sanguineus waited for its red lights to vanish around the maple trees at a corner of the south side parking lot.

He tossed away his half-smoked Sultan, unzipped his shortwaisted black leather jacket to expose his grey dress shirt and brown tie, and went into the lobby of the Millennium Tower.

He negotiated his way through the Saturday night crowd of shoppers to the information counter. Smiling wearily at the receptionist, he took out his billfold and showed her the Universal Works ID card, saying in English, "Good evening. I'm here for the final inspection of the backup system for the elevator fire-guard. I didn't want to hold up any deliveries. It's the freight elevator I'm here to check. Will you be so kind as to inform your boss?"

"Yes, I will be very happy to do that," the peach-cheeked young woman said in stilted English. She spoke rapid German to her desk phone receiver, winking at Sanguineus. He waited in feigned fatigue, giving the impression of a long day's work. She said to him, "You may go on in to the loading area. Through the green door, there, and straight down the path."

"The path?"

She blushed. "I am forgive. I mean to say... What you call the long walk place inside a building?"

"Corridor."

The receptionist wrinkled her brow.

"Or hallway," Sanguineus said.

"Hall Way, ja! Yes. You go straight down the Hall Way."

"Danke," he said, "you are very kind."

He crossed the green tiled floor to the green door and walked down the long green corridor. His heart was beating fast for one reason in particular. When he reached the loading area, a large storage room, he saw no one. His heart pounded. This was the moment of truth. If what needed to be outside on the truck dock was not there, the mission was all but ruined.

The standard steel door next to the corrugated steel roll-up door could be opened from inside only. He pushed on its bar latch and opened it.

It was all right. What needed to be there was waiting for him.

Dolina Galsworthy wore blue workman's overalls. Her blond hair was swept up under a crew cap. She blew smoke through a smile.

"The decoy has been set up," she said in her Scottish accent with just a hint of a Southern drawl, crushing her cigarette under a boot. "The police will be getting the call an hour after the movie ends." She went up to him and lifted her face for a kiss.

"Excellent, but you haven't earned a kiss just yet," Sanguineus said, a caressing hand on the small of her back. "Take the freight lift to the attic and get the access door to the roof open. Here--" He gave her a key. "I want the pulley mechanism set to go. I'll be up with the Subject within thirty minutes after the police call. What's your feeling about the CIA agents?"

"I have them thinking you're taking the Subject to the Fluss Sprite to kill him there, you and Monica Paladin. The police will bust the agents at their ambush location, parked behind the dumpster corral. The police have been led to believe that the agents are rival assassins. Now, isn't that worth a kiss? I had to be pretty convincing when I reported to the field agent team that you had changed the hit site, thinking it might have been compromised after the attempt on your life at the Hotel Antoinette."

"Yes, and whose idea was that?"

"I'll grant you some credit," she conceded, going up on tiptoe, "but until then, you didn't know what I was up to, did you?" She gave him a quick kiss. "Orel Knoughtly couldn't have been happier when his wife fell to her death, not after her affair with the Irish finance minister. She was just a trophy wife anyway. Plenty of those types around."

"And now O'Malley has you to cuddle him, or maybe he just wants you to go rogue enough to see that Knoughtly gets salted along with Sorgensen."

"It's more complicated than that," Dolina said, stepping back from him. "When large sums of money are involved, it always is. No one's cut is big enough, and too many knives are reaching for the pie. But look, this horribly drab outfit of mine is turning you off totally. You go fetch your Subject and his hit-girl, the movie is nearing the closing credits and I have a date with the roof."

"His hit-girl was nearly assassinated tonight, by Welles. And Welles nearly plugged me last night. When I add this up, it doesn't come to two, but to one. And which one is that?"

Dolina stared at him for an unfazed moment. "It's the nature of your profession to be suspicious of everyone," she remarked, "especially of those closest to you. We can protect ourselves from our enemies, but only God can protect us from our friends. We might as well get on with the plan. Suspicions will have to take care of themselves."

Sanguineus made no comment. He went down the steps to the access road. He heard the door click shut behind him.

His heart was still racing. On the walk around to the mall entrance he considered every suspicion he had of Monica. Her "confession" was reasonable. She had been intrigued by Knoughtly's offer, his powerful connections to intelligence agencies and the financial elite, plus he was old and she had a special fondness for elderly men. It had been sensible enough for her to switch "loyalties" from the doomed Sorgensen to the power broker Knoughtly. But she was well versed about Octopussy. Like every country on earth, she did only what was to her own best interests. And what was that? Her finances, of course. She would gravitate to what she considered the most powerful player. And that was the question he had to answer. In her eyes, was Red Rum to her best interests, or was it Knoughtly and his CIA cronies who could do for her what Red Rum could not? Would the plan he had detailed to her, and the safety piece he had given her, turn her dark heart a little closer to him?

Would she choose the octopus, or the shark?

Sanguineus stood by the modern sculpture near the entrance and gazed up at the mezzanine. He would be calling Monica soon, concerning which elevator she and Sorgensen would be standing in front of, on some pretext or other, on their way to the Klockenspiel lagerhaus for drinks and a discussion of the movie; of her feigned hope of getting back into the acting business.

As he walked on through the entrance he wondered why Welles had disguised himself as a woman. Why hadn't he just shot Monica in the back of the head with a silenced bullet? Why the masquerade? Was there more to his relationship with Cornwallis than just smuggling contraband? Was Welles the 'new normal'?

But more to the point, what had been his relationship, if any, with the CIA?

"Just a minute, Phil," Monica said. "Got a call from my sister-in-law, the oaf. She can be such a pain." She put her phone to her ear as Sorgensen leaned on his umbrella cane. He watched the sauntering crowd making its way up the passage from the cinema, his expression pensive. That big to-do at the Musikverein, he was thinking. What had that been about? Luckily it had not interfered with the performance. And THAT had gone quite well. There had been no faults, and the chorale had gone smoothly enough. He could hardly wait to read the reviews in the morning papers.

"I told you, Dorothy, it's October FOURTH. I'm on a date. Gimme a break. Bye."

In the 51st floor hall Sanguineus punched the down button of the fourth elevator. In the right-hand pocket of his leather jacket his fingers gripped the handle of a gas-operated ballistic syringe, 12.7 mm, with a collared needle to ensure complete injection of the paralyzing agent. The velocity valve was set at medium.

The grille opened promptly. He stepped inside and depressed the button to the 1st floor.

"Wait, Phil, I don't know if I want to have a drink here or at the boat. What do you think?"

"Here, my sweet," he said in a rather urgent voice that had Monica wondering.

"Why? Is Dmitri here?" she asked. She saw the floor indicator lights descending rapidly above the elevator door. Already it was at 24... 23... 22...

"He is boorish, I completely understand," said Phillipe, turning, Monica putting a restraining hand on his arm. "But I have a job for him and it is best that I explain it to him in person. Surely you can appreciate that."

"But must you explain tonight?" Floor 16... 15...

"Absolutely. The sooner I explain it, the sooner I get rid of him. Now, shall we be going? We have only an hour before the bar closes. I will make it up to you, I promise. Your favorite position. Number eight, isn't it?"

"Silly. It's sixty-nine." Floor 7... 6....

"Oh, so it's a shower together you want first, is it?"

"You know I do," said Monica, and the smile she gave him intrigued him greatly. Behind him the elevator grille rumbled open.

She heard nothing beyond the soft rattle of the grill folding in its wall slots, the noises of the crowd passing to and fro. But the pinched face of Phillipe Sorgensen told her that the needle had stuck firmly in the nape of his neck, its drug carried by throbbing veins up into his brain.

Sanguineus was there to embrace him with a semblance of a welcoming hug. Monica helped to carry the old man into the elevator car, grabbing his umbrella cane before his numb fingers could let it fall. His shoes slid over the steel threshold. Sanguineus tapped the button to the 51st floor, and the grille returned to its closed position.

"Will he wake up?" asked Monica. "He weighs a ton for such an old fart!"

"He's fully awake, just partially paralyzed. We won't have to gag him, and he won't be fighting the harness. I had a look, and the two engineers are uniformed and in place on the mezzanine. They're putting up the caution tape. Our only worry is that security might get wind of it and put up a shittin fuss."

"The paralysis won't wear off too soon? And you haven't told me the escape plan yet, bastard."

"It might. And you'll learn the escape plan when you've sliced and diced your sugardaddy."

"Ha. What a fucking mess this is going to make! So, he can hear us? Sorry, Phil, but business before pleasure."

In the slack, frozen face the bloodshot teary eyes moved with an effort to focus on the smiling Monica.

The elevator slowed and stopped with a slight sensation of faintness. The grill opened.

"The door to office fifty-one E is unlocked," Sanguineus said. "The saw case is just inside the door. Grab it and get down to the mezzanine. Don't turn the damn thing on until you've got it positioned."

"Yes, master."

Headphones on, Fredrico Rolgo adjusted his desk lamp to shine away from the police scanner and more fully on his open laptop. Its screen showed a hooded black-winged angel with sword. His mind half on the police communications, he typed the following:

'The Celtic chieftain roared with satisfaction at the report of his spies. The Roman legion that was camped behind the mounds of garbage, near the moored boat, had been surrounded and had surrendered without a fight. The Roman general was being interrogated. But the advisor to the chief was puzzled. He knew about the killing of the masked and bewigged saboteur, and how the warrior woman defeated him in mortal combat, but the presence of the legion, and its intentions, was all new to him. However, he was thankful that the tall wooden tower of the Celts, site of the sacrifice to the god of revenge, was not threatened by any aggressor. As for the mysterious blond goddess who seemed all too human, her whereabouts and personal ambitions were still beyond the ken of the advisor.'

Rolgo clicked 'send.'

Five minutes later Sanguineus was carrying over his shoulder the paralyzed Sorgensen. He went up the stairwell at the end of the hall, up its two short flights to the attic door. As expected, it was locked. That was a good sign. He propped the limp billionaire in a sitting position against the green wall. From his back jeans pocket he took a cylindrical detonator device with a thin hollow stem filled with a thermite solution. This he inserted in the steel door's keyhole. Turning the wing screw in three revolutions, he flattened himself against the wall, his face pressed to the shoulder furthest from the door. Not caring what injury Sorgensen might suffer, he closed his eyes.

Moments later the cylindrical cover of the detonator was blown off and hit the far wall. Bits of hot metal sprinkled down to the floor as smoke drifted up to the ceiling from the blackened keyhole.

Sanguineus opened the door, his Glock at the ready.

Across the cluttered room the freight elevator stood open. At the top of the shiny aluminum steps to his right the roof access door was ajar. Putting his gun in his jacket pocket he went back to the stairwell landing and dragged Phillipe Sorgensen to the foot of the steps.

Glock out, he scaled the steps.

The door opened into a weather booth from which he could see the pulley and cable contraption bolted to the roof, a yard from the low squat balustrade of the roof's edge. The harness, lying beside a coil of wire, to which it was attached, was designed to keep the body in a horizontal plane as it was lowered down by the released cable, which was set to unwind at twenty feet per second until the last fifty feet of the distance was reached. It would then slow to ten feet per second. Monica would have just five seconds to place the saw directly beneath the midsection of the descending body.

Sanguineus did not see any indication of Dolina's presence. That she was not where the agreed upon plan placed her was not for Sanguineus a surprise or a too-great difficulty. But it did not yet solve the mystery of her or of Monica. And to that extent his heart and mind remained on high alert.

He returned to the attic for the onerous feat of carrying the Subject up the steps and through the narrow booth onto the roof. Phillipe Sorgensen was no longer a human being, no longer a possible adversary. He was now merely the Subject. Sanguineus had no intention of saying anything to him. Now it was just a job to be done.

He did not look at the face of the old man as he situated the torso and hips in the double-saddled harness of black vinyl. He hooked the two-pronged wire to the harness ringbolts and checked its connection to the quarter-inch cable. Then it was the simple matter of lifting the body out upon the balustrade ledge.

He looked down at the mezzanine 550 feet below, the distance of one and a half football fields. From his height the area marked off by the yellow tape seemed the size of a postage stamp. The two engineers had lined up things perfectly. He could not see them, nor see Monica, but only the sleek building's golden lights shining on the arabesque tiles of the mezzanine; that, and a scattering of indistinct shadows.

He turned to the cable motor. He pushed back the guard bar and flipped the orange switch.

Nothing.

He glanced around and saw that the motor was not plugged in to the 2-foot-high stack of batteries ten feet to one side of it. He remedied the problem and again flipped the switch. As the motor purred like a lion Sanguineus leaned over the balustrade and with only apparent gentleness pushed the Subject off the ledge.

For a few seconds he watched it fall. He did not compare this to the jumps from the Twin Towers, nor did the 9-11 atrocity even enter his consciousness. His overriding thought was to get down to the mezzanine as quickly as possible.

He was halfway to the access door when a flash of light the circumference of a baseball appeared in the booth. A powerful impact hit him square in the chest and threw him onto his back.

Monica knelt beside the opened case. She slid back the safety shield of the jagged saw blade and pushed the case inch by inch closer to the glossy blue wall.

Just moments before, she had been fretting that someone might spot her, though there were no windows within a hundred feet of where the body was to come down, and, behind her, the broad stretch of mezzanine ended at a line of potted hedges. She was as secluded as any marooned sailor, unless someone got past the caution tape that the two Russian émigrées guarded with their hands on concealed firearms. They were both around the curving corners to her left and right. She felt quite alone.

But when she saw the body's shadow slashing across the one-way mirrored windows as it swooped downward (she could not see the body itself) her sole concern was to place the saw blade appropriate to a clean severance.

Now she could see the body of the Subject coming smoothly down about 200 feet above her. She laid on her back for a couple seconds to confirm the right placing of the saw, then turned on her side, wriggled backwards, and pulled the case to the spot in question. She hit the on-switch and was up the next moment, just as a brief series of pops flew across the starry sky, pops that vanished in the grinding squeal of the saw blade.

She glanced all around. No one in sight. Her heart leaped with excitement.

As the body came steadily down she feared suddenly that the blade would ravage the harness rather than the Subject. And she was right. The body jerked and swung madly as bits of vinyl were sprayed over the tiles. Monica cursed, stamping a foot. Then she yelped as blood splattered on her face and blouse. The body was ripped into gorey shreds before the spine was severed.

At sight of that she would have clapped, but a force struck her between the shoulder blades. It flung her forward onto her face, where she lay, twitching for a moment, and then... Stillness.

Dolina Galsworthy came out from behind the hedges and walked across the blood-and-vinyl flecked mezzanine. She put her Remington back in its hip holster and smoothed her blue woolen sweater down over her hips.

It was her last act.

Her blond head, now more red than blond, hit the tiles. She lay as if for a quick nap, but there would be no awakening.

"Tell me you love me," said Monica in a feeble voice.

Sanguineus looked down at her and said, "Shut the hell up and get off your ass. It's time for us to head for the river."

Monica took his proffered hand and was yanked up onto her feet. "It hurt like a sonofabitch!" she complained, following him at a trot.

"The vests are not meant to give you pleasure, but to keep you alive when you should be dead," he answered. He led her down the lawn toward the trees that stood on the farther side of Treppelweg road.

(11) Music for the Hard of Hearing

A Rolls Royce Silver Ghost purred luxuriously up to the valet parking area of the Crown Hotel and slowed sedately to a stop.

The chauffeur in red and white livery stepped out and opened the back seat passenger door. A short man with a massive build, dressed in an ill-fitting grey herringbone suit and a black bowler hat, wrestled himself out of the car and looked at the soaring sleekness of the Millennium Tower. It made him think of a futuristic rocket on a launch pad in the late night darkness, for he was a fan of science fiction whose architectural projects celebrated fantastic possibilities.

His expression was a mix of curiosity and a fierce determination.

"Mr Knoughtly," said a very thin masculine-looking woman. "I am Ms Olsen, your hostess for the evening."  She made an impatient gesture at the young pimply valet, who immediately hurried up to the chauffeur.

Ms Olsen smiled in a cool professional manner at the billionaire. Half turning to the back entrance, she said to him in a flat tone, "All has been readied to your specifications. If you have no objections, you may follow me, please."

Orel Knoughtly walked up to her with a face congested into a furious knot of pulsing veins and shiny red skin. "Let this be understood. I follow no one. Whoever briefed you about me shall be getting a round of discipline. Go about your other duties. If I require your questionable services I shall send someone to fetch you."

Ms Olsen arched a brow. "Understood, Mr Knoughtly."

A nervous Eurasian gentleman stopped his pacing in the Executive Suite and faced the door to the sitting room, with its white furniture and white carpet contradicting the figure of Knoughtly that stormed in with the words, "You have failed me TWICE, and that is once too often, Yatshing." He flung the door shut.

"Let me just explain that our main objective has been reached," said Yatshing, his hands together at his chin, as if in prayer.

Knoughtly went straight to the drink cabinet. His anger had settled into a mirthless sarcasm. "A great achievement, to have flushed out the master assassin, as if he would have preferred something less interesting, less profitable. But his death can wait until Sorgensen bites it. And that's another thing, this CIA twat who you assured me was James Bond's big sister."

Knoughtly turned with a tinkling drink in his hand, a cynical smile on his slab-of-beef face. "Well, she did manage to foil the hit on what's-his-name, this hotshot."

"Sanguineus."

"What a name. Right up there with Hiawatha. But don't get smug with me about Annie Oakley. She fucked up her chance to rid decent society of that double agent, and what the bitch is up to now, the devil knows."

Yatshing parted his hands in an apologetic gesture. "We suspect she is hiding in a safe house here in Vienna," he said in his soft voice. "We only know that her director is the assistant to the Irish finance minister. Her reports to him have not yielded any information that could help us in this case. We suspect also that she assumes we are intercepting her messages, and, as a consequence, she has been putting misleading analyses in her reports, to confuse us."

"Just kill the bitch, then!"

"It must look accidental, and that requires... providential circumstances."

"It requires imagination and courage, dunce! If I'm to take control of Magna for the benefit of your spy masters, I need them to live up to their popular image and DO WHAT NEEDS DOING! Here we are counting on a private sector gunslinger to liquidate Sorgensen and on 'providential circumstances' to shake and bake his tootsie. That's not good enough, Yatshing. I've got five hundred million wooden dentures riding on this Octopussy scheme and by God I want some productive action!"

Sanguineus lowered his night binoculars. He walked back through the trees that bordered that stretch of the east bank of the Danube, to the Volvo where Rolgo stood looking in at Monica. She was smoking in the back seat.

"That was him alright," Sanguineus said.

Rolgo nodded pensively. He opened the back door of the car and said to Monica, "Ricklen wants a word."

"I know what he wants," she said, making an aggravated face. "I don't trust him. I'm staying right where I am."

"You don't have the option," said Rolgo. "We haven't time to argue. Step out."

"Fine." She got out and stood holding her cigarette by her right cheek, her right elbow on her crossed left wrist. "I've really nothing more to confess, except that I prefer sex in the morning rather than at night."

"Where's Dolina?" asked Sanguineus. He spoke calmly but the timbre of his voice was a dangerous one.

"I don't know anybody named Dolina, and if that was my name I wouldn't tell a fucking priest, let alone the general public."

Sanguineus said: "You've been phoning and texting someone who you believe has tried to kill you. How is it that you have this person's number? In some way you're affiliated with her."

Monica flicked ash angrily. "That's bullshit."

Rolgo looked at Sanguineus and smiled. "So, the old trick still works."

"Fuck that," said Monica with a harsh laugh, "I didn't mean..."

"Give me a name," Sanguineus said, "and it better be convincing. That won't be easy coming from a pathological liar."

"You mean actress, don't you? That's all we do, say a bunch of made-up shit. Look, I told you that I was recruited by Knoughtly, through some oriental person calling himself Chang, or Wang, or something. Well, surprised? I'm in tight with Phillipe, for the money and perks, of course, and Knoughtly knew I'd... I made my big confession to you tonight, and all you had to---" She laughed, the cig between her lips. "And all you had to do was grab my phone and read all the shit on it. I could have denied your interpretation of it and you know what? I have a perfectly good explanation for it but I just thought, fuck it. I'm sick and tired of trying to guess who's going to try killing me next, this Fu Manchu cocksucker, or you."

"You mean 'Chang'?" asked Rolgo.

Monica sighed, dropping her cig stub and watching it glow redly in the dark grass. "He's the one I've been in touch with," she said to the grass. "They want Phillipe killed but they haven't told me why. Just that Orel Knoughtly figures to gain by it, and whoever else is involved."

Rolgo turned to Sanguineus, a dawning look on his face. "The person with ICS who supposedly investigated the 9-11 attack for our client, Knoughtly, and who we believe leaked the contract information to the CIA... This Chang Wang person? It shouldn't be difficult finding out his identity through our moles in ICS. They should know any Asians listed with them."

"True," said Sanguineus. "The joker in the pack is Welles, and his gun buddy, Cornwallis. If it was Dolina last night who warned me about the sniper... I'm a goddamn fool."

He went up to Monica. She was leaning a hip against the left back fender, arms crossed, staring back at him. He said to himself, 'She doesn't know about the escape route.' To her he said: "Either you or Dolina have me in the crosshairs. Either you or Dolina will try to save Sorgensen from his just desserts, by snuffing me. I have to trust you, and you have to trust me. It wasn't Knoughtly or Wang Chang who made love to you this morning. I, or one of those two bastards, will want you dead, whatever the outcome tonight. Your best bet is to put your trust in me."

Monica considered.

"No one gets out of this life alive," she said. She stood away from the car, her eyes bright with excitement. "Okay then. You pretend to trust me, and I'll pretend to trust you. And we'll see whose trust was justified."

"Well," said Rolgo, taking out his car keys, "that was diplomatic enough. Let's get Monica back to the Fluss Sprite. You," he said to her, "will contact Sorgensen and tell him whatever will get him to see that movie with you. What is it, Blue is the Prettiest Color?"

Monica smirked. "The warmest color," she said.

(10) Music for the Hard of Hearing

Sanguineus went to the far right aisle, his phone to his ear, and as he walked toward the lobby he said, just above the beginning of the symphony's second movement, "I'm sending Miss Paladin to your office. She will explain an unexpected twist in our sales strategy. Don't be too trusting of her. She might be leaning in favor of our competition."

Rolgo replied after a moment's pause, "Has the meeting been disrupted in any way?"

"No, the principles are unaware of the problem, or so I suppose."

"Do you require assistance?"

"Not at present."

Monica stood by the foot of the staircase. Sanguineus noted the taut lines of her expression as he came up to her.

She did not look at him, but was roving her eyes over the splendid Baroque architecture of the lobby, its rich cavernous dimensions and the impeccably dressed patrons within it, the pristine brilliance, the shy echoes, the articulate comments in softly brash German, the faint waves of music mixing with the tap of heels.

"There were no witnesses," she said abruptly. "Not much blood. A little. No one in the corridor."

Sanguineus turned sideways to her and said: "If you're hiding something from us it's just a matter of time before we find out about it, and you know the punishment."

"What the fuck, I was attacked and I defended myself. I have no idea who the bastard was."

"Who sent him?"

"How the hell do I know who sent him? I sent him to hell, that's all I know."

"Rolgo's at the Hofbrau, just down the street. In the Blue Room. He's expecting you."

"Fine."

Sanguineus went up the carpeted staircase to the burgundy red corridor.

Miniature chandeliers lighted his way to the first door on his right. He opened the door and looked in. The body lay spread-eagled on its back. A slim opal knife-handle protruded from the center of the chest, partly hidden by the stuffed bosom. He saw no blood pool.

He looked across at the opposite boxes. The arrangement of the box angles was fortuitous, as it was not very likely that anyone would be inclined to lean over the box rail and crane their necks to look back at the isolated box where Sanguineus stood; where Monica had cut short a man's life and deservedly so.

Who had reserved this secluded box for her? Had it been Sorgensen? Was it selected because he knew she would rather be further, than closer, to the orchestra? Or had he a darker motive?

"Sir, kann ich ihnen helfen?"

It was a security man in a plain unobtrusive suit of blue with gold epaulets, a thin man with a twisted Daliesque mustache and a hooked nose. He came walking slowly down the corridor with a smile, with eyes of a clear grey that measured Sanguineus warily.

"Ja," Sanguineus said. He took out a billfold and held it open so the man could see a card that had no particular meaning beyond its rather sinister, intimidating logo: a hooded black-winged angel holding a sword.

The security man stood in his tracks, staring at the card, then at the tall figure who put the billfold back into an inside coat pocket.

Sanguineus said, "Tu was ich sage oder ich werde you toten," which means, 'Do as I say or I will kill you.'

He drew his Glock from under his coat and motioned with it at the open doorway. In German he said to the stunned man, "Pick up that body, or drag it, to the elevator. Jetzt goddammit!"

One glance into Sanguineus' eyes and the man did as he was directed. He had difficulty picking the body up and twice lost his hold on it, squeamish about the knife handle touching him.

A sharp kick in his shin by Sanguineus empowered him. Slinging the body upon a shoulder, bent forward and grunting, he followed Sanguineus the few feet down the corridor to the gilded iron grille of the lift. It opened at the press of a lighted button in the stainless steel panel.

"Drop in den korper," Sanguineus demanded.

Without hesitation the security man tipped the body off his shoulder. He meant to do it tenderly, but ended up dropping the corpse on its head.

"Gott vergib," he groaned.

Sanguineus closed the lift doors, and, taking the man by the arm, he led him back into the balcony box.

A thought occurred to him. "Sprechen sie Englisch?" he asked the man.

"Yes, sir."

"Fuck. You are not to tell a soul where the body was found. We have ears everywhere. If the police learn of this, you will be killed. Do you understand me?"

"Ja!" said the security man fervently.

"There is a bit of blood on the carpet. Clean it off as best you can. Your life depends on it."

Sanguineus went back down to the lobby. Going outside he walked across to the lawns where he sat on a bench and lit a Sultan.

The evening traffic was pleasant. It was like the hum of ninth-month bees. The prostitutes walked in pairs, their bare legs shining, their pimp strolling along behind them, his phone out and his head turning in every direction. Sanguineus sat there smoking. He took in the sights like a tonic. He breathed deeply for a minute. Then after a last inhale, and watching the smoke flee like the spirit of misfortune, he called Rolgo.

"The competition will be aware of the problem before the meeting concludes," he said. "I have to cancel my talk with the Principal. The commotion will be too... distracting. We will just have to rely on Monica, on her sales pitch to him. Oh, and tell her that the man in drag who fell into a dreamless sleep was Harrison Welles."

(9) Music for the Hard of Hearing

Rolgo parked his vintage Volkswagen Golf in a reserved stall at the Musikverein. It was 5:45 pm.

"Any questions?" he asked Sanguineus. "It's unfortunate that we haven't been able to trace Dolina. You are quite sure it was her speaking to you through the headphones?"

Sanguineus rolled down the passenger side window. "Of course, I can't be certain," he said, lighting a Sultan, "but if it wasn't her it was someone parroting her distinctive accent, someone who knew that Dolina had been in Aufgarten Park, and had seen me. But why an impersonation, unless Dolina was taken out of the way, her stand-in attempting to get me off my guard for Cornwallis? She almost succeeded. Came damn close. I'm inclined to think it was Dolina."

Rolgo patted the steering wheel. "How is your arm?" he inquired.

"It didn't adversely effect my 'little talk' with Monica. It's just a graze. So, Murray found out that the police received an anonymous tip about Roger Cornwallis. I'll say one thing for Murray, he's a good snoop."

"And you know what it means if Cornwallis was gunning for you," Rolgo remarked. "It means that the sniper in the Hotel Wien was probably Harrison Welles."

Sanguineus flicked ash out the window. He saw that the orchestra members were arriving at the staff entrance, and that there were some young children with them.

"Welles blaming us for his son's death is not very sensible," he said, taking note of a lovely violinist who was ruffling the bangs of a pigtailed girl, sedate joy on their faces, cheeks burnished by the wind. "He should know that it was either Sorgensen's crowd, or the Firm, that hired the masseuse. And she was snuffed by Bear Claus."

He frowned at his colleague. "I can't figure this. It must be that Harrison is deep into a quirk that we don't know about. And what was the motive behind that anonymous tip? Who's helping who?"

He let smoke out of his nostrils and watched the last of the string section enter through the backstage door. "There's going to be some interference at the hit site tonight," he continued, "either on the roof, or the mezzanine, or both. And by God I'll shoot first and ask questions later."

"Well, on the positive side," Rolgo said in a lowered voice, leaning toward him, "our contact at the marine storage facility is confident that he can have the 6-man submersible at the river bank, off Treppelweg, when required. Some trees there for cover, a cement boat ramp. There's a big bonus for him if he makes it there on time, and another bonus when he surfaces at Muckendorf. That's expected to be about an hour's voyage, depending on the river traffic. The Donau Hotel has a room waiting for a Mr and Mrs Steenbarten. Your papers are in order?"

"They will be. The two engineers are not coming on the sub?"

"They've chosen not to," said Rolgo. "Worked out their own escape route. Intel okay'd it. But if things get too hot and they change their mind, there's room enough for them on the submersible."

"Or they can swim."

"Remember, Ricklen... I'm sure you will, but... if the engineers are wounded and can not flee the hit site..." Rolgo shrugged. "We can't risk them getting apprehended. We can't risk them talking. But with luck things will go as planned and the interference will be some wandering tourist, and not the chief of security sticking his nose into things."

"Fred, relax. I'll take care of it."

Rolgo gave a dry laugh. "Opening night jitters," he said. "Do you know, we're spending eight and a half million dollars on the escape, can you believe it? All the palms we had to grease, the purchase of the sub for about two hours of operation..." Rolgo, bemused, shook his head. "We'll never have funds like this again, not ever."

He stiffened. "There's Sorgensen, with, I think, the chorale master."

The man in the long-tailed tux, top hat, and umbrella cane, walked arm-in-arm with a plump middle-aged woman carrying a dressing bag. They went past the doorman, who stood tapping a foot while the brass section filed in after them.

"It's time I claimed my seat," Sanguineus said. "The transmission should be coming over the hertz ghetto band by nine-thirty, if I can sneak the tooth on Sorgensen's tux. But it might be closer to ten."

"I'll be back here by eight-forty-five," said Rolgo. "Break a leg."

Monica Paladin chose a seat in the second of two rows in the balcony box, the one furthest back from the stage, on the left-hand side.

There were eight seats, seven of them empty. Monica noticed that the other boxes were fully occupied. She supposed that the philanthropist would have an entourage with him that would take up the remaining seats in her box. What a pain! She was not inclined to pretend an interest in symphonies, or in anything that did not involve sex and risk.

God this is going to be a dreadful bore, she thought, activating her smartphone. She signed in to the texting app 'GetFu*ked,' under her username Winsome.

A string quartet was playing a Hayden number as the hall continued to fill. Between texts Monica would rise from her plush seat just a little and glance around at the audience below, looking for Sanguineus. When he came down the central isle in his Brooks Brothers suit of dark grey she smiled at the sight of women turning their heads to watch him pass. He sat in the third row from the front, on the right-hand side, the programme held neglectfully in his lap.

Monica thought he was as bored with this classical stuff as she, unaware that he was an aficionado of certain styles of classical music, particularly piano concertos.

Fifteen minutes later, while the MC was introducing the orchestra and guest maestro, the philanthropist entered the box.

It was a woman with a beehive grey hairdo and a black pantsuit with a red neckscarf tied in a bow. She was tall, about five-nine, broad shouldered and hefty. Her makeup was somewhat caked and her lipstick a gaudy crimson. The long fake eyelashes added to the slightly bizarre effect.

She was unaccompanied. With a polite nod to Monica and a gravelly "Guten abend," she sat two seats over on Monica's left. The stiff leather purse was placed on the fat knees and the gloved hands folded on top of it.

Monica thought, Oh God, and paid the woman no further attention.

Phillipe Sorgensen gave a brief speech. He spoke of the rich history of the Vienna Philharmonic, of Austria's reputation as a patron of the musical arts, and of Beethoven's contributions to it. Then without further ado the orchestra tuned itself to the plinking of Middle A, the maestro smoothing out his score book on the podium, his back to the quietly whispering audience.

Monica sighed. The texting app traffic was only slightly more appealing than the Ninth Symphony. She considered going out for a smoke. The minutes dragged on as waves of sound assaulted her.

For awhile she amused herself watching the fidgeting of the chorus, the expressions on the singers' faces so similar to those of people being tortured that she fell into a reverie filled with screams and the splattering of blood. But the memories didn't hold out much relief from her boredom.

Exaggerating her nicotine fit, Monica put her phone in her chic belt pouch and stood up, turning toward the door.

She had her hand on the polished brass knob when a knee struck the small of her back and iron fingers clasped her neck.

The door was framed by red and gold velvet curtains. Monica, momentarily shocked and breathless, was thrown down behind the curtain at the right of the door, a heavy weight coming upon her awkward position: on her side with one leg bent under her.

She struck the woman in the throat with an elbow, managing to turn over on her back. She intended to pull the woman off her by yanking fiercely on the beehive hairdo. Instead the wig came off and the hideous face became that of a man in drag.

No wonder the 'woman' had such unexpected strength. Monica instinctively switched to vulnerable parts of the human body for her defense, and just in time to distract the man from following through with his knife attack.

She gouged out his left eye, butting his nose with her forehead, and pulling sideways on his right ear she bumped upward with her left hip, rolling him off her, then driving her righthand's middle knuckles into his throat.

He was gasping and kicking, his demonstrations of fear and agony drowned out by the soaring sopranos of the chorus. Monica applied a steady pressure on the carotid artery, her other hand clamped over the man's mouth and broken nose. In less than a minute he was unconscious. Ten seconds later his switchblade was embedded in his heart.

Monica rose to her knees, fumbled out her phone, and tapped a contact icon. She was breathing heavy and felt dizzy. But the music was her ally now, wrapping her in a cocoon of positive vibrations, brushing away the ghost of a nightmare and replacing it with the heroism of D minor's surge into D major.

"Goddamn you don't tell me you weren't trying to salt my ass, fucker! I'm coming after you just as soon as I finish up here and I won't be coming at you alone either, shithead! I'm throwing Red Rum down your throat, bitch!"

Monica, swearing under her breath, tapped another contact icon, waited anxiously, and said, "A man dressed like an old woman is now taking a nap on the floor of my box and I think he won't wake up no matter how loud the orchestra plays."

The voice of Sanguineus said, "Meet me in the lobby."

(8) Music for the Hard of Hearing

Fredrico Rolgo looked up at the 51-storey Millennium Tower, at the antennae just visible from his position in the grassy inner courtyard of the complex.

Counting the antennae, the building's height was over 600 feet, about half the height of the World Trade Center towers. But high enough, he thought.

He glanced at his watch. Eleven in the morning. He pictured Sanguineus and Monica in his room at the Harry's Home Hotel, behind him. Their "little talk" should be concluding by now. They would be joining him for lunch in the Tower's restaurant area, in its shopping mall, the ideal place to hold a very confidential meeting, amid the chatter and bustle of shoppers and diners where they would be adding nothing more to the cluster of humanity than three animated ornaments.

Rolgo went into the ultra modern entryway of the tower and at once became just another figure in a sea of figures. He headed leisurely to the Schnitzelhaus restaurant.

Monica Paladin held Sanguineus' face between her hands, his naked body heavy upon hers, as the last shiver of her orgasm went to that corner of her mind where faceless lovers lingered like a collection of empty perfume bottles.

"For a minute there I thought you were going to kill me," she said, and gave him a last hard kiss on the mouth that had made its acquaintance with every erogenous part of her body. This gave his mouth a sensual flavor. But when she laid her head back on the damp pillow she saw in his eyes a curious faraway gleam. To whom had he made love in his imagination? Who was the woman that she had unconsciously impersonated? She knew nothing of his personal life.

A little angry, she pushed sideways against his shoulder. He rolled over obligingly, bringing her on top of him where she lay as though on a tigerskin rug in front of a fire. She crossed her arms on his hairy chest.

"You've got questions," she said, shifting her loins on his still hard manhood. "You think Phillipe suspects me. You think he's behind the attempt on Bear Claus' life. You think I might not be able to lure Phillipe to the Tower, don't you? Well, I've an idea about that. He's a movie buff. There's a cinema in the Tower, a multiplex. I'll ask him to see a flic with me tonight, after his conducting. I do believe he'll be up for a little romance after the excitement of the concert."

Sanguineus sat up, his arms around her hips, and said, "Fred has an idea about that also. Something he's done before. He's adept at arranging 'safe rooms' in public buildings to facilitate hits. He wants to rent a conference room on the top floor of the tower. An office room, actually, that hasn't been leased. Being a university lecturer gives him a certain standing among rental managers. Anyway, once we have Sorgensen in the Tower we'll be taking him up to the top floor safe room. The engineers have completed the preparations. I need to familiarize myself with the apparatus. It's on the roof, disguised as a back-up generator for the fire protection system in the elevators. A switch will allow us to hold the freight elevator at the maintenance level, basically the attic. To swing this, our client forked out a hefty bribe to the chief inspector of public works, a ruse about using the installation of the generator for advertising purposes. 'Universal Works.' We've gotten a lot of mileage out of the word Universal."

Monica said, "Mmm, that feels good. Keep rubbing my back."

"I wasn't aware of doing it. I was thinking of what I need you for, after I've got Sorgensen in the harness."

"You're brutal. Rub the back of my neck. You bit it, you know. The least you can do is rub the soreness out of it. Do you mean I have to do more than just lure Phillipe to his doom?"

"If you want your full amount of the fee, yes," Sanguineus said. "The circular saw. It's in a carrying case, like a sewing machine case. The two engineers in security uniform will put up caution tape at both ends of the mezzanine, above the second floor, to keep people a good distance away from the drama. When you see Sorgensen coming down on the wire, open the case, position it directly beneath him, and fire up the saw. The cord is plugged into a battery that's in the bottom of the case, reinforced to support the weight of the saw. It will make a godawful noise, but that will drown out any screams from your sugardaddy."

Monica bit him lightly on the bottom lip. "Aren't you going to gag him?"

"Yes, but gags have been known to fail."

"Let's take a shower together. Unless you want to do it again..."

"Fred's expecting us for lunch at the Schnitzelhaus."

"Let him wait."

Sanguineus slapped her butt. "Start the water running."

At a rather too-small table in the middle of the crowded dining area, Rolgo was holding forth on his scheme. It was a part of the assignment that did not particularly concern Sanguineus, except that he was curious to see how Monica reacted to it.

She was perfectly okay with it.

Himself, he was more interested in his Polish sausage, chopped and deep fried in a coating of flour, egg, and seasoned breadcrumbs, and a salad with German dressing and sliced red onions, washed down with a mug of Stiegl, a beer with a slight sourness which he preferred when including apple strudel in the meal, as was the case that day.

"The idea is to make it look, after the fact, like an elaborate suicide," Rolgo was saying. "We have been discreetly passing on rumors about Sorgensen's troubled conscious, and if we can forge some entries in his business journal, with confessions of that sort, the authorities may very likely go with it. Easier than trying to pin a murder on somebody. Magna is not going to make a fuss about it. Bury it and move on with life. And the CIA shouldn't be too devastated. One less mouth to zip. Claus had it right. Sorgensen is expendable. I think we'll get the ASMA contract, regardless."

Monica laughed with her hand over her mouth. "Forge entries in his diary! Are you serious?"

"With hundreds of millions of dollars to burn, Miss Paladin, we could move mountains. We already have Sorgensen's, butler, barber, and chauffeur in our pockets. Getting to his private books won't be terribly difficult, not with inside help and the talent at our disposal. Why, you're an expert in Stealth and Entry yourself. Care to take on the job after this little caper is over? I'm sure I can arrange it."

"Hell yes I'll do it! It will be just like 'Below Zero,' ha!"

In the conductor's study at the Musikverein, Phillipe Sorgensen stood at the practice podium, baton in hand, going over the movement tempos of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, the sheet music open in front of him.

He had some concern over the choral section, as he had little experience in conducting vocals. He would have to trust in the expertise of the singers.

After an hour he sat in a plush recliner by the shelves of music scores and closed his eyes, his right hand caressing the serpent handle of his rolled umbrella.

It happened that his mind drifted back a decade earlier, to that day in his Magna office when Dimitri came in with the welcome news that both towers were on fire.

Phillipe had immediately gone to the picture window to observe the columns of sooty black smoke rising over the city skyline. He remarked anxiously on the hoped-for collapse of the buildings. Dimitri reassured him that the thermite explosives would generate sufficient heat to melt the central steel framework.

And no sooner was he reassured than the first tower went down with textbook precision. He brought his hands together in satisfaction. "Worth more as a heap of rubble than it ever was while standing," he had quipped.

Now the silence of the study was disturbed by the ringtone of his custom-designed cell phone.

It was Monica.

"Let's go to a movie after the concert, shall we? 'Blue Is the Warmest Color' is playing at the multiplex in the Millennium. It won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, and Lea Seydoux is in it, my favorite actress! Do say we'll go?"

Phillipe chuckled. "Of course, my sweet. But I first have to get away from a pesky journalist. I'm afraid I won't be free til well after eleven. Is there a midnight showing?"

"Sure, or I wouldn't have bothered asking. A journalist?"

"Some writer from a travel magazine. I'll see that it doesnt take long. By the way, you'll have to share your balcony box with a philanthropist from... I forgot where, someplace in the States. See you backstage, my sweet."

(7) Music for the Hard of Hearing

The Polizeidirektor of the municipal division of the Bundespolizei came into the special waiting room outside his office.

He smiled at the attractive blonde seated by one of the three windows that overlooked the gardens.

"Guten morgen," he said in a mischievous tone.

"Good morning," said Dolina Galsworthy. There was a touch of anxiety in her manner.

She leaned forward and held out a red folder. The Director took it, opened it, and scanned her CIA card affixed to three stapled pages, one of which concerned NATO, and the bold-print headings identifying the categories of information in English and German.

The Director looked like a 1930's film star, meticulous in his official suit and personal grooming. His smile warmed a few more degrees as he said to her, "This will take a few minutes. Will you be comfortable here?"

"Yes, danke."

"Sehr gut. I will have my secretary bring in some refreshments. Excuse me, please."

Ninety minutes later the Director returned.

"Your bonafides check out," he said agreeably. "Will you join me?" He waved a hand at his open office door.

Dolina expected an austere office, and she was not surprised. The sparse furniture was functional but nothing else recommended it.

She sat across from the Director. He had avoided his desk as though he suspected a booby trap, and chose a spartan armchair in front of drab grey filing cabinets.

"I understand that this is steng geheim," meaning top secret. "Pardon my manners. You may smoke if you like," he said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket.

"Danke, but I quit some time ago."

The Director tried not to look too crestfallen as he drew his hand back to his lap. "Gut, gut," he said.

"But you may smoke, it doesn't bother me. Please do."

"Ah. Danke. Ja, sehr schlecht habit of mine." He took out the pack and lit a short thick filterless cigarette in one smooth motion.

"Explain, if you would, the activities of your engagement," he said pleasantly.

"I don't know any way to say this except bluntly."

"Gut, gut."

"Tonight the philharmonic will be conducted by a guest maestro, Herr Phillipe Sorgensen. I'm sure you've heard. He is to be arrested by American agents at some point after the performance and flown back to the United States on a charter plane. But the difficult issue concerns his mistress, who is a serious security risk. My orders are that she is to be dealt with 'in extremis,' or as you would say, extreme Vorurteile."

The Director smoked reflectively for a moment. "I see."

"Her body is to be transported to Ramstein Air Force base in Germany. Your Ministry confirmed this?"

"I was told to acquiesce," he replied shortly.

He stood and put his cigarette in the brass ashtray on his desk. Linking his hands behind his back, he turned to Dolina and asked in a flat tone, "Is there anything else to discuss?"

"Yes, some details," she said, nodding, "and a request for assistance from your department."

The Director smiled. "Ah, I did think that there would be something like that."

"Gut," said Dolina. But she was not relieved. Not yet. She shifted in her chair in such a way that the Director took it as a cue and sat down again.

"Ja? Is more?"

"A man was found shot to death in the Hotel Antoinette," Dolina said. "Has he been identified?"

"Not yet. Obviously a person of interest to you. Are you free to discuss this event?"

"Yes, if I knew anything but I don't, except that he attempted to kill a French American named Hilary Napoleon."

"Do you know why?"

The Director lit another cigarette and rubbed his chin, squinting his eyes in the smoke. "We know there was a Mr Napoleon registered there and that he abandoned his room and his effects, including a sniper rifle of British make. Can you speak of this?"

Dolina reached out a hand. "May I smoke your cigarette?"

He handed it to her, pleased, and lit another for himself. "It is so much complicated, this world we live in. Is this Hilary Napoleon an agent of your government?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, he is. He is certain to be out of Austria by now. I don't know who he was targeting. My superior hasn't seen fit to explain... Well..."

Dolina sighed a lungful of smoke and shook her head. "When can you expect to learn the identity of the dead man?"

"Perhaps now, this minute." The Director lifted the receiver of his desk phone, pushed a button, waited a few seconds, and said briskly, "Die mordkommission an der Antoinette. Die identitat des verstorbenen?... Ja... "

He looked at Dolina, his greying brows arched. Then, staring intently at the phone, he said with enthusiasm, "Gut, gut... Ja..." He hung up.

"An anonymous tip came in this morning, over a public telephone," the Director announced with a vein of skepticism. "A man. He said to check with Interpol's data base, a Roger Cornwallis, British citizen with a record of arms smuggling. Always works in partnership with an American named..."

He paused, searching his memory. "Last name Welles. Ah! Harrison Welles. This had our investigative team reconsider the crime scene. The bullet holes in the room, in a chest of drawers and its mirror. They may have been from gunfire across the street, from the Hotel Wien. Mr Napoleon was fortunate to get away. There were blood drops on the hallway carpet different from the blood of the deceased. This Hilary Napoleon was wounded. But no one of his description has been admitted into a hospital or clinic in Wien. Or I should say, Vienna."

He leaned back, then abruptly stood and put his cigarette in the ashtray, to join the other. He linked his hands behind his back, smiling thoughtfully at the introspective blonde.

"Do these names mean anything to you?" he asked.

Dolina flicked ash in the ashtray and said to the curlicues of smoke: "Nein."

Herbert von Herbock, conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic, laughed at the remark by 'Reginald Beckwith' that the Great Hall was like a very ornate shoebox.

"Indeed, yes, as were all the concert halls built in the late nineteenth century," said von Herbock as he escorted the tall gentlemen down the center aisle of the empty venue; empty except for themselves and the custodians busy cleaning the gilt and crystal.

"As you know, such a shape, and the design of the balcony boxes, make for excellent acoustics. You say you would like to see the backstage rooms?"

"To add color to the piece I am writing for Travel Log magazine," said Sanguineus. "Acoustics is a passion of mine. I have spent large sums on my home audio system, but not as much as I would have, had I not studied acoustical engineering."

"A worthy subject indeed," said the conductor.

He ran his fingers through his unruly white mane, limping slightly as his shorter legs strove to keep a pace ahead of this impressive fellow who had managed to turn the head of the Musikverein's assistant coordinator, Olivia.

"Herr Sorgensen was just here an hour ago," von Herbock continued, "and he pronounced himself more than satisfied. You say you have a pass to see him after the performance?"

"Yes, a press pass, and also a scheduled interview with him immediately after the symphony."

"Then you will want the use of a dressing room, for the sake of convenience. We have three available, if I'm not mistaken."

Sanguineus looked up at the podium on stage and at the tiers of orchestra seats.

"That would be very kind," he said.