Marlen: Book 1

Chapter 76

When the man called Italy went back to his Venice pensione for dinner, the girl who sat behind the desk called out to him. His brother had telephoned. Would he call back as soon as possible? The young man said thank you, yes. Could he use the phone in the padrone's office? --- it would save him going out. She opened the office for him and he dialed the number he knew by heart. The contact was on schedule; he hoped the message would confirm his plan. The door was closed, but he was certain the girl would try to listen. The Venetians were as curious as their colonies of cats. After five rings the number was answered. For her benefit he wasted a full minute asking about his parents and nonexistent nieces and nephews, and then he opened the real conversation.

"Venice is a miracle," he said. "I've never had such a good holiday."

The voice on the line responded. "They're going to the Cipriani for lunch tomorrow. Proceed as arranged. If there are difficulties have you an alternative?"

"Yes," he answered. "I've already provided for that. But I think the original route will be the best one. Kiss the family for me." He rang off. He said to the girl outside, "I've left a hundred lire for the call."

She looked up at him with an expectant smile. "Everything well at home?"

He nodded. "I should have sent a postcard --- my mother worries."

"All mothers worry," she said.

He ran up the short flight of stairs to his room. They had a contact in the Gritti Hotel. It was wonderful how well informed they were. Little links in an enveloping chain, and all along the line the connections were broken so that the links couldn't lead to other links. Who was working for them in the Gritti? A waiter, a chambermaid, one of the switchboard operators... someone with sharp ears and a telephone number to ring with information. A tiny link in the human chain.

The target was lunching at the famous Island Hotel the next day. The motor launch left the Gritti just before noon; he had already timed it, followed it in a hired motorboat. Everything was planned on his part. But if anything went wrong, then he would use the alternative plan and attack in the hotel itself. There would be innocent casualties --- his shoulders lifted unconsciously as he dismissed the qualm. Individual lives were not important compared to the objective. He didn't rely on reaching his haven in the Street of the Assassins. Nothing mattered but the target and the plan. He pulled the suitcase out from under the bed. The handle unscrewed and the small metal cylinder, insulated in rubber against metal detection at the airport, fitted into his hand. It looked like a short cigar tube. He checked it, replaced it, and went down to the crowded room where the guests ate their dinner in the evenings. He paid his bill, had a glass of wine with the padrone and his wife, and said how sorry he was to be going the next morning. His next stop was the ancient city of Padua, where he wanted to study the cathedral. Such a pity that so much industry was creeping around the coastline. The padrone agreed, but then shrugged. Without industry there was no work; Venice in the winter was cold and dead, shrouded like a widow in her gray sea mists. They talked well, the man called Italy admitted, with an ear for a poetic phrase. They'd be talking about something else this time tomorrow. He nodded, agreeing with the old man's nonsense. Industry for the benefit of the few at the expense of the many. Pollution for profit, exploitation for the sake of those already bloated with money, like gas-filled corpses.

They said goodbye to him and sent a present of a bottle of wine to his table. They liked him; he despised them for it. If they remembered him at all, it would be as one of themselves. He drank the wine and called them names under his breath. He went early to bed and slept very well. When the morning came he was fresh, and only the slightest flickering of a nerve near his left eye betrayed his excitement.

The temperature had risen unexpectedly; the sun blazed off the canal as he walked to the Rialto Bridge and the stage where he had found his hired motorboat. Business was brisk already; he pushed and shoved his way to the front and hailed one of the two empty boats remaining.

"Go to the Gritti Palace," he said. he stripped off his jacket; the heat was lapping over them. "Slowly," he said. "Just idle along, I don't want to miss anything. Then pull up by the Gritti; I want to sketch the façade."

"Can't do that," the boatman said. "There's no mooring place on the other side and you can't tie up there; it's a concession and I don't have it." He said something in dialect that sounded, and was, a very vulgar curse.

"Never mind," Italy said. He had known about the mooring and the concession. "Just go there and take your time." He checked his watch and reckoned they would reach the hotel just as the Cipriani boat pulled out. He sat crouched forward slightly as they made a leisurely way up the Grand Canal.

The boatman pointed out a few landmarks and then gave up when he saw that his passenger wasn't listening. He wasn't taking much interest in the palazzi on either side of them either; his jacket had fallen off the seat and was lying in a patch of water at the bottom of the boat. He must remember to mop it up when this sullen craphead got out. He could get his feet wet, so far as he cared.

The Cipriani boat was just ahead of them. He could see the target very clearly, wearing white, sitting forward by the bow.

"Why don't you have the concession?" He asked the question suddenly.

The driver turned to look at him. "Because I can't pay for it," he said. "In Italy, you want something, you have to grease the other man's hand. You're an Italian, you ought to know that."

"I think the practice stinks," the young man said. "Get up close, give the rich bastards a few waves."

"I'll lose my license," the Venetian said.

"No wonder they get away with it," Italy sounded contemptuous. "You looked as if you had balls. But still..."

It was a challenge no Italian could ignore. The accelerator drowned out the richness of the language, remarkable for its scope and imagery. The little boat cut close to the cruiser. He slipped the cylinder out of his pocket, leaned slightly over the side, and trailed his hand in the water. It was a technique he had practiced over and over again in simulated conditions. When to activate the magnetic device. The wash from the little vaporetto gently rocked the bigger boat. As they sped past, he pressed the tiny homing button and released the cylinder. The waves carried it backward and the metal hull of the cruiser drew it inexorably through the water. He had seen the hurried screening of his target by the security men pretending to be passengers, when his little craft came close. Much good that human shield would do him now.

The Venetian said sullenly, "Where do you want to go?" No balls, eh? He'd charge the pig double for that remark.

"Get a move on," the man said abruptly, looking back over his shoulder. "Go to the Lido." He hoped they would get clear, but he had taken no chance of the mine going astray. He had released it within the distance of maximum accuracy.

What was the saying --- the only reliable assassins are Bulgarians, because they blow themselves up as well? He checked his watch; they had gathered speed very quickly, partly because the boatman was hoping it would upset his passenger. The little vaporetto was skimming out toward the lagoon. Italy felt a surge of panic in those last few seconds when he turned again to stare after the cruiser. Thirty seconds was the timing after the mine attached itself. He had turned around when the explosion boomed out, shaking the air and convulsing the water. A pall of black smoke rose into the air, shot through with piercing tongues of orange flame.

"My God," the Venetian swung the wheel and cut the engine; the little boat curved into a semicircle and then lost speed. "My God, what was that?"

"I don't know," his passenger said. "It sounded as if something blew up."

"We should go back," the driver said. "If it was a boat."

"What can we do? I want to go to the Lido."

"Then swim!" The boatman's temper blazed. He wasn't going to drive off and leave the accident. Seamen didn't desert one another. Also he was curious.

He didn't get time to start the engine. The passenger killed him with a blow that broke his neck as if he had been a dangling rabbit.

The body slumped and he climbed over, pushing it aside, shoving it down and out of sight. He had exceeded his instructions. But never mind. There had been too much incident to let the man live. He would remember cutting in on the other boat, remember the jibe that had made him break the law of the canals. It was better to kill him. Sirens were wailing close astern. There were boats converging on what lay behind him; nobody even glanced at the little taxi boat as it began its journey through the waterway. He saw a beach near the Lido; it was stony and uninviting. Nobody swam or sunbathed there when the gleaming sands of the huge public beach beckoned only a few hundred yards further on. He cut the engine and took his time. He tied the dead man down with his own anchor; he found a box with a few tools, and kneeling on the floor, he smashed a hole through the deck below the waterline. The sea gushed in. He switched on the engine and wedged the dead man against the wheel, her bows pointing out to sea. She began to move forward as he dived over the side. He idled in the water, watching her make way, listing as the hull filled up. She'd be well out from the shore by the time she sank. There were no other craft in sight. Luck was on his side. La Bella Fortuna. He turned and swam toward the empty beach. When he reached it, the boat had vanished. He stripped and lay in the sun while his clothes dried. A shirt, trousers, canvas shoes. The jacket was ruined. He bundled it over his arm when he set off. He caught a water-bus back in the late afternoon. Everyone hurried to see the signs of the disaster that had happened on the Grand Canal. Bits of blackened debris still floated, and the smoke and fumes hadn't cleared. Someone, God knows who, had dropped a wreath of red and white flowers onto the water, where Henry Franklin, United States secretary of defense, had been blown to pieces just before one o'clock that day.

Tim Johnson tried not to look pleased. Ever since the news first came in on the telex, the adrenaline had been pumping through his body. He had been kept out of the most recent affair while John Bannon and Tyreen Mackenzie went after Max Tann, and he was itching for a little action for himself.

Then Mackenzie's telex had followed within an hour. She wasn't officially involved, but she had just happened to be in Venice at the time, staying in the very hotel Franklin's party had booked.

Johnson was to fly to Venice immediately; C, through his chief of staff, had already contacted the Agenzia di Sicurezza and asked for full cooperation with their British colleagues. An explosives expert would follow Johnson as quickly as possible.

"I think Mackenzie's pushing this too far," Bill Tanner, C's Chief of Staff, grumbled. "The Agenzia people are notoriously touchy about outsiders. It took everything we had just to get them to let us go after Max Tann."

"They're notoriously inefficient too," Johnson retorted. He detested the Old Boys Network attitude. From what he'd seen, Tyreen Mackenzie didn't care whose toes she stepped on and he admired her for it. "I think it's a good idea."

C, apparently fully recovered from his illness, didn't look up from his desk as he answered. "When you've worked with the Italians as long as I have," he said, "you'll find they're as good in their way as anybody." He fixed his gaze on Johnson. "What time's your flight?"

"Six-thirty," Tim Johnson said, looking at the ticket Miss Pennington had just handed him. Patronizing old prune, he thought, looking at the balding top of his head. Never looks you in the eye when he's giving out. Apparently, he was fully recovered from his recent illness.

C's head came up and stared at him as if he'd spoken out loud. "Then why don't you catch it?"

Johnson didn't slam the door. He didn't care about C. The Old Man had nowhere to go but the green fields of retirement.

His wife was waiting at Heathrow with a small bag; they'd been married for five years and had twin boys. Johnson loved his family; his wife was very understanding about his job. They kissed and he said, "Darling, I don't know when I'll be back. I'll bring the boys something."

Four hours later he was met by a senior officer of the Italian antiterrorist squad and driven by private launch to the Gritti Palace hotel.

"I'm sorry about this," Tyreen Mackenzie said. "I'm afraid our little holiday's gone up in smoke." As if to emphasize her words, she lit a cigarette, drew the smoke into her lungs, and exhaled toward the ceiling.

Daniel Mackenzie reached out and took his sister's hand. "Of course it has." He looked shaken, sallow under his tan. "I can't stop thinking about it. We could have been on that launch."

"Not a chance," she answered quickly. "Everyone on board was part of Franklin's security guard. Nobody else ever got a place on any boat when he was in it. They saw to that."

He looked up at her suddenly. "You knew he was staying here?"

"Yes, I knew. I recognized him when he walked into the restaurant the first night. He had his daughter with him. The wife died last year."

"Why didn't you say anything?" He sounded subdued.

Tyreen was surprised at how much the tragedy had shaken her brother. She said, very gently, "Dan-Dan, I didn't say anything because I couldn't. What was the point? Franklin was traveling incognito, showing the poor girl around Europe. The whole thing was being kept as quiet as possible to give them a chance to enjoy themselves. He's not a well-known face; he never went on the telly like a lot of them. They were very tightly screened, and it might well have worked."

"But it didn't," Daniel countered. "Somebody knew who he was all right and the so-called bloody screen didn't stop them being blown up in broad daylight on the Grand Canal! Why can't you go home and let this Johnson chap take over out here. What good can you do?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I was on the scene and Johnson wasn't. You're not worrying about me, are you? For God's sake, Dan-Dan, don't be silly. I can take care of myself."

"If they knew about Franklin, what's to stop them having a go at you?" he asked angrily.

"Nothing," she admitted. "But if they wanted a go at me, they could do it in London just as easily as here."

"You think it was the KGB?" He turned away from her, looking out the window. It was dark, but spotlights of the river police were playing over the water outside. The area where the boat had blown up was roped off up to a hundred yards on either side. Water traffic passing by was limited to three knots. No flights had been allowed out of Marco Polo Airport; the railway link with the mainland was closed. "The radio said it was a terrorist organization."

"That's a pretty good description of the KGB," Tyreen answered. She came up to him. "Daniel, you mustn't let this get on top of you. You've always known what I did. You know as well as I do that there are risks involved. But that's my job. Now, please, come on." She stubbed out the cigarette and took his arm. "Let's go down and have a drink and wait for Johnson."

"It'll be crawling with police," Daniel muttered as she steered him toward the door. "The place is full of them. I'd like to move."

"All right, we will, as soon as I've seen Johnson."

The bar was full; the trade in drinks had been brisk ever since the police said the hotel could function normally. Statements had been taken from the guests and staff. The Mackenzies were excused after she identified herself. They would confer with the head of Sicurezza. He had set up his headquarters in the Agenzia Polizie in the Via Leonardo Da Vinci.

There was only one topic of conversation among the American, British, and German tourists; the Italians kept themselves in a group, embarrassed and shamed by what had happened. Tyreen and Daniel were drawn in despite their efforts to tuck themselves into a corner.

"How dreadful," a pretty young English girl kept saying, "How ghastly..."

"It's the Red Brigade," her husband insisted. "Just like the way they killed that poor devil --- the politician --- what's his name?"

"Aldo Moro," Tyreen suggested, retrieving a cigarette from her case.

"That's right --- bloody savages, that's what those people are. The Germans had the right idea... They knew how to deal with Baader, whatever it was, Group."

"Baader-Meinhof," Tyreen spoke again after taking the first puff, relieved that what had happened in Naples hadn't made a big splash in the news.

"That's right," he repeated. "They hanged themselves in prison, or so the Germans said."

"We were out when it happened," the girl was saying to Daniel, leaning close toward him as if they were all conspirators. "I don't think I want to stay here now. I keep thinking about it --- did you see all those awful bits floating around on the canal..."

"There's Johnson," Tyreen interrupted. She smiled briefly at the couple and extinguished her cigarette. "Excuse us. Good night."

It surprised her how well her brother and Tim Johnson got on. They talked about the flight, Johnson made a joke at the expense of the local carabinieri, which made Daniel laugh, and after that he seemed to relax. They went upstairs to the suite, where Johnson opened the window and leaned out. The light were playing over the black water; a gondola with a load of tourists came close enough for the serenade "O Sole Mio" to float like a lament over the hum of passing launches.

"I don't know what they expect to find by now," Johnson remarked. "I gather there wasn't much left to bury. Analysis would tell us what sort of explosive they used."

"Does it matter?" Daniel queried.

"It could be a pointer," Johnson explained. "The more sophisticated the device, the easier to eliminate groups that couldn't get hold of it."

"But it has to be the Russians," Daniel said.

Johnson glanced at Tyreen. She answered the question he hadn't asked. "You can talk in front of Daniel. This is only routine stuff. Later, we'll have to go into a huddle. When our Italian friend arrives."

The house on the Street of the Assassins had a small television set. The man whose name was Italy ate his meal of spaghetti alle vongole sitting in front of it. He listened to the commentators, saw TV replays of the scene on the Grand Canal, watched the night cameras relaying the continued activity in the area. There was a young woman in the house; she had opened the door, and given him a kiss as soon as he was inside.

"Congratulations," was all she said. It was a small, very dark house, low-ceilinged and with narrow windows; it belonged to an antique dealer, who relished the historical significance of his address, and enjoyed himself filling the sinister little building with early furniture and some rare Renaissance bronzes whose owners didn't know what they were selling. His shop was closed for renovations; part of the lower floor showed subsidence due to the waters of the canal. He had moved his stock upstairs, called in the builders, and gone off on a buying expedition with his wife to Rome. His daughter had stayed behind.

The girl came and stood behind his chair, watching the screen in silence. Messages of outrage were coming in from world leaders. The Pope's image appeared, and the girl laughed. "You've made quite a stir."

The man looked over his shoulder at her. "Shut up," he said. The report returned to the Grand Canal; there was nothing new to tell the audience. The taxi boat had not been found. He leaned forward and switched the TV off. He felt the girl's excitement coming at him like electric waves. Some of the women were like that. Death turned them on. As soon as someone was killed they wanted to fuck. He didn't feel like it. "I'm going to bed," he said. "And not with you. So cool off."

She shrugged. She was very slim, very dark-eyed, with the olive skin of the true Venetian. Somewhere, centuries back, there had been a Moor in the bed of a Valdorini. "Suit yourself," she said. A pity. She liked men with his coloring. But he might feel different tomorrow. Then so might she. She took the tray away and washed the dishes by hand. She had been brought up to be economical. They didn't use the machine unless it was full. By eleven-thirty the lights were out and the house was a blind face in the crumbling wall of ancient houses. The water ran close to the edge of the narrow street outside, and a sinister humped bridge, too narrow to cross except in single file, spanned the sluggish flow. And in that flow, carried by the unseen tides that crept in from the sea, floated the remains of the boat, and of the people who had died that afternoon.

Alfredo Modena was in his sixties. He was a quiet, rather dour man who could have been an academic. He spoke excellent English, also German and French. He joined Tyreen Mackenzie and Tim Johnson just before midnight. Daniel Mackenzie had excused himself after dinner.

"I'm sorry to be late," Modena said. "My headquarters is like a madhouse. There are times when I'd like to shoot every media man on sight!"

"I don't envy you," Tyreen said. "The last thing you need in a situation like this is outsiders getting in the way." Be tactful, Bill Tanner had advised on the telephone. You have a unique opportunity to get in on the investigation, but remember how touchy the Italians are. She decided to be tactful, as Tanner'd said, while wishing John Bannon was here to rein her in. "Signor Modena, I hope you don't put me in that category. As I happened to be practically on the spot and staying in the same hotel, I felt you'd understand my request for information." He wasn't going to respond. She saw the resentment in his eyes as he looked at her.

"The United States is principally involved," he said. "I am expecting a planeload of their people. I have to give them priority, as far as any information is concerned. All I can make available to you, Signorina Mackenzie, are the preliminary reports." He handed a thin file to Tyreen. "There's nothing much there. We're waiting for the forensic reports and laboratory tests. Then we'll have a clearer picture of what happened. But it's definitely murder. The gas tank exploded, but only after a primary explosion of great force set it off."

"That would be pretty obvious to anyone who saw the boat go up," Tyreen said. "Nobody suggested it was an accident at our end."

"But accidents occur." Modena's tone was sharp. "And not only in Italy."

"What most concerns us, Signor Modena, is whether this is an Italian organization or an international one. What is your view?"

"Until I have studied all the reports and collated all my facts, Signorina, I don't have a view." He detested abrasive, abrupt women who squared up to men as equals. But then he was old-fashioned. The British had made a woman head of their government. It wouldn't happen in Italy.

"But you must have a private opinion," Johnson decided to take it up. "Is it the Red Brigade?"

Modena shrugged. "It could be. It could be the Dutch Red Hand, or what's left of the Baader-Meinhofs coming back into the picture. Or the PLO. After all, Franklin was a Jew."

"But not a Zionist," Tyreen said. She glanced quickly at Johnson. We're wasting our time, the signal said. Let's cut it short. She stood up. "Thank you for coming to see us. Mr. Johnson will be here for the next few days and anxious to consult with you. I'll be on my way to London tomorrow. As I said, I don't envy you. Especially when the CIA arrive in force."

There was anger in Modena's voice. "They are already blaming us for lack of protection. I believe my government will point out that you can't protect someone unless you know they're in your country. I can't think how our American colleagues could have taken such a risk with a public figure."

"Perhaps they thought it was less of a risk than letting other people know," Tyreen answered. "We mustn't keep you; good night, Signor Modena. I hope you catch whoever did it."

He shook her hand without enthusiasm. "I shall do my best. Good night."

When Modena had gone, Johnson said, "That was below the belt, wasn't it, Ms. Mackenzie? He didn't like that last crack at all."

"It happens to be true," she said. "The country's so bloody riddled with Mafia and corruption of every kind that nobody would trust them with anything. That's why John and I..." Her words trailed off as she thought about Bannon in his hospital bed.

"Ms. Mackenzie? Mac?"

She blinked back tears and returned to the moment. "There wasn't any reason why Franklin couldn't take a private holiday with his daughter, using another name. Whoever got him has contacts at the highest level. Which rather answers my question, don't you think?"

"The KGB," Johnson nodded. "If they had a go at the Pope through a Bulgarian terrorist outlet, why not this? Why not?"

"They're very good at getting people killed," Tyreen said quietly.

"I don't think we'll get much help from their lab people," Johnson said after a pause. "Or the autopsy. I don't think Sicurezza's going to share anything with anyone."

"They aren't." Tyreen lit a cigarette. "And if they don't like us asking questions, I with the buggers joy when the CIA get here." They already had people in Naples, with Lester Ferris, but this was bringing them out in force.

Johnson paused by the door. "Are you going back tomorrow."

"I'm leaving here," she said. "It's supposed to be a holiday. I'll have to see."

He went down the corridor, humming the gondoliers' sugary serenade. O Sole Mio. Oh, my soul. "A holiday." She didn't miss a trick and she didn't give a damn what people thought. He admired her for it but he didn't find it attractive.

Daniel was sitting up reading when his sister came in. "How did it go?"

There was no resentment for being left out, thank God. No macho nonsense. He understood her job and its demands upon her. She came and kissed him on the cheek. "Sorry I was so long. I needn't have bothered, actually."

"Why not?" He put his book aside. He knew that stubborn look and the set of her chin.

"The Italians aren't going to give us anything," she said flatly. "I can see why, of course, but it doesn't make it any easier in a case like this. They're acutely embarrassed and on the defensive. They'll protect their own reputation even if it means letting the killers off the hook. I could have hit that bastard tonight. All he was thinking of was his own side!"

"Wouldn't that be true if it had happened in Britain?" he asked her.

Tyreen looked quickly at her brother. "You have a talent for saying the bloodiest things, don't you? Yes, of course it would, but not if I could help it. If this is what I think it is, there's no room for national pride or inter-Service rivalries. We're just cutting our own throats in the West if we don't work together."

"What do you think it is, or can't you tell me?"

"I think we're at the start of a chain of assassinations," she said after a moment. "I don't know why I think so, but I do. I think it's the KGB behind it, but it'll be impossible to prove."

"But what's their motive?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she admitted. "And I won't know until a pattern starts emerging. And that means another murder."

Italy had done well. It was interesting to consider, in the words of the Christian Bible, how many were called to do his kind of work, but how few chosen. A very special talent was needed to kill in this way. Take away the profit motive --- there was no shortage of mercenaries --- substitute an ideal with which the killer could make his impulses respectable and there was a deadly weapon in the right hands.

There was a spectacular view from his window; he never tired of looking out over the changing skies, the variety of sunsets. And he liked the tranquility of being alone and able to think. The vagaries of human nature concerned him more and more; he had long ago learned to despise it and to capitalize upon its weaknesses.

Whoever had said that Man was made in God's image had a poor opinion of God. But God was a myth, one among many that mankind needed to combat the fear of death and nothingness. In the East they had made a virtue of Nothingness; pretending that the darkness and the worms were the ultimate form of human achievement. He had made a study of comparative religions; it amused him to test them intellectually. And from that study and the need to utilize human psychology, he had evolved the organization that he called the Company of Saints. It amused him to equate his band of death-dealing disciples with the great host of Christian souls grouped around the throne of God in Majesty. There was a magnificent canvas depicting the Last Judgement with all the scope and imagery of the Italian Renaissance. The blessed chanted praises around the dispenser of final justice, while the wicked were sucked into a fiery hell. He had reversed the rôles. Italy had done well, he said again. It was a perfect operation, meticulously planned and executed with maximum impact. One less enemy and all the repercussions from his death would benefit them. He turned away from his contemplation by the window.

It was time he took up the other burdens of his public life.

"I've got to go back."

"Naples?"

"London. Maybe even Washington; I'm sure this isn't an isolated assassination. We've got to get together with Langley and try to work out who could be next and why."

Daniel Mackenzie had insisted that they leave Venice. He looked as strained and preoccupied as his sister did. He'd tried to convince Tyreen to return to Naples and her injured lover. She was just as adamant about returning to work. One look into her eyes and he'd known there was no point in further argument; there was nothing she could do for John Bannon while the doctors had him, and the best way to keep her out of a hospital bed herself was for her to be doing something. He'd seen that look in her eyes before, when her husband had been killed on their wedding day.

Tim Johnson took a launch out to Marco Polo Airport. The explosives expert wasn't staying at the Gritti; Johnson booked in with him at a more modest hotel and they went over the routine report Alfredo Modena had given Tyreen.

"We're seeing Mac after lunch," Johnson remarked. "See if you can dream up a theory or two by then. Our gallant Italian allies are going to tell us fuck-all. So I picked up these odds and ends for you." He put a plastic bag on the table.

The expert, a genial man inappropriately named Moody, opened it, sniffed at what was inside, and then probed gently. "Wood, metal, and... er, something else. I know what it feels like... where the hell did you get this?"

"Out of the canal; near enough to where it happened. About a hundred yards away from the actual explosion. I just fished up what I could in the dark. Felt a bit messy. It may be just ordinary garbage and flotsam."

Moody put his nose to the bag again. "I don't think so," he said. "I think you've got something for the lab and the forensic boys as well."

"Good," Johnson said briskly. "We'll go and see Mac at three. She's flying back today. She can take it with her."

The man called Italy stayed on in Venice until the end of the week. He became very bored, watching television and reading the art books and magazines. The girl hadn't given up trying, even on the last night she approached him. She wanted to sleep with what he'd done, not with him. He told her so. She slammed her door and he left the house early next morning without seeing her again. There were checks at the airport. He bought a train ticket to Pisa and the carabinieri passed him through the barrier. From Pisa he boarded a train to Innsbruck. It was a very long and tiring journey, but the train was full of people like himself, sleeping all night in the uncomfortable second-class carriages, some dozing on their luggage in the corridors. Nobody noticed him. From Innsbruck he took the bus to his village at the foot of the mountains. He ate a meal with his parents and gave them the souvenirs he had brought back from his holiday. Then he went to bed and slept through till the next day. He would never see or hear from his comrades again. That was the rule, and it guaranteed their safety. He was back at work in his father's chemist shop. He had made his contribution.

The device used, the forensic lab reported, must have been some kind of mine, either laid in the path of the cruiser, or attached in some way. Considering the vigilance of Franklin's bodyguards, it was difficult to see how it had been done.

The house in the Rue Constantine had been recently redecorated. The minister was famous for her taste and elegance; being a distinguished lawyer and a feminist, Isabelle Duvalier had earned her place in the new government, which declared itself committed to women's rights. The fact that the minister for the Interior was married to a rich man twenty years her senior and bought her clothes from St. Laurent didn't detract from her brilliance and her flair for publicity. Her enemies nicknamed her Evita; passionate concern for the underprivileged and jewels by Boucheron. It was a jibe that bounced off the lady like a toy arrow. She was impervious to her critics; her style carried her above the jealous sniping of the press. She gave lavish parties but worked a twelve-hour day. And she was a conscientious, enlightened mother of two teenage daughters. They attended the lycée, and the elder at eighteen was having an affair with a student from the Sorbonne. Being progressive parents, they approved after the daughter assured them she was on the Pill. The girls had their own quarters on the top floor of the house; there they played records, cooked themselves the junk food that was in fashion, and entertained their friends without interference from their famous mother.

That evening found the family together; the minister was at home, free of social commitments. Her daughters and their friends joined her for dinner. Her husband was in London; in spite of his age he led a very active business life. The murder of the American statesman had been their major topic during dinner.

"I met him when he came to Paris two years ago," Isabelle Duvalier remembered. "He was most amusing. His wife was a chic Californian, you know the type, darlings, Nancy Reagan, but not so pretty. I couldn't believe she died just a year later."

"It was so terrible to kill his daughter," the elder daughter, Louise, remarked. "Don't you think so, Helene?"

There were eight of them around the table; cigarette smoke hung in a cloud above the lights. The talk was quick and uninhibited. The minister loved the conversation of the young. She waited for Helene's answer. Helene Blondin was Louise's closest friend, and, in Isabelle's eyes, almost an adopted daughter.

"Such bad luck she was with him," Helene agreed. "But they'll never catch the people who did it."

"What do they hope to gain? That's what seems so crazy about the whole thing." The young student who was Louise Duvalier's lover was a committed pacifist. A nice boy, the minister felt, sure to come to his senses when he grew up a little.

"Violence achieves nothing but violence," he went on, aware of his lover's admiring looks. "Whoever these terrorists are, they've activated a new chain of violence against themselves. They've killed innocent people along with Franklin, his daughter, the bodyguards, the boatman... for what?"

"If we knew the motive," his hostess said, "we might have some idea who they are."

"They're the same lot under some other name," Helene volunteered. "I agree with you, Raoul, violence doesn't help. But wasn't Franklin violent too, in his way. Didn't he support nuclear arms?"

"There's no comparison," Diane, the younger daughter entered the argument. Like her mother she was articulate and competitive. "The Americans want nuclear weapons as a deterrent. Having them stops wars..."

There was a general outcry of disagreement. Helene didn't join in, she was a little out of her depth when the talk became too involved with politics and dialectics. She regarded her own views as clear-cut, even basic.

She didn't want her clever friends to see her limitations, so she knew when to drop out of a debate, like now. She watched the adroit way in which Isabelle Duvalier steered them from one point to the next by asking pointed questions. She noticed the genuine interest and enjoyment she displayed in the company of the group of students. And she had always been especially kind to Helene.

Helene had come to Paris to get away from home. And at the lycée she had met Isabelle Duvalier's daughter and become friends. That friendship soon extended to the whole family. Helene spent every summer holiday with them in Normandy. There were definite advantages to being a politician with a rich husband. The delightful château built on a lake was one of them. Helene had liked going there. She heard her name and started; her thoughts had drifted far away.

"Let's go into the salon," the minister suggested. "Come along, Helene, let's lead the way before they all start coming to blows. Tell me, how is your aunt?"

Helene's aunt was the widow of a doctor; she lived in modest style on the Left Bank, and disapproved of all the things most dear to Isabelle Duvalier. She was a devout Catholic and a fierce admirer of ex-President Giscard d'Estaing, and she loathed the feminist movement. However, she had been invited to tea with the minister and been charmed by her.

"She's very well," Helene answered. "A bit cross with me at the moment."

"Oh? Has she any reason?" Isabelle Duvalier slipped her hand through the crook of the girl's arm.

"She says I spend too much time fooling about," Helene admitted, "and not enough time working."

"Which is true, isn't it?" There was no reproach, only a smile.

Helene nodded. "Oui, Madame. Quite true."

"Then don't stay upstairs too late tonight," the minister advised. "Otherwise your aunt won't like you coming here so often. Go home and do some work. And ask if she can spare you for the weekend after next. We're going down to Blois to stay with my sister-in-law. Louise is in love and is sulking, as you can imagine --- I dare not bring Raoul, they don't sympathize with peace and ecology, I'm afraid. Diane is staying in Paris and Louise will be bored to death unless you keep her company. Would that suit you?"

"Oh, Madame, I'd love it. How kind of you to think of me."

"I'm very fond of you," the older woman said. "I'd like you to come for me, too. So don't be late tonight."

"No," Helene promised. "I certainly won't." She kept her word. A weekend at the home of Albert Ferdinand Duvalier. Old and rich and hated by so many people. She didn't mind making an excuse and leaving the records and the marijuana on the upper floor. She took the metro to the Station Malakoff and went into the public telephone. She dialed a number and tapped her foot impatiently. When it answered she said quickly, "This is 'France.' I've got important news."

He had a dacha outside Moscow, nestled in the pine forests above the Moskva River. It was a luxurious house, secluded from the other dachas that gave the members of the Politburo their retreat from the city. It was smaller than the magnificent residence of the president himself. But not much smaller. The shadows moving discreetly around the grounds belonged to the KGB militia; they guarded Igor Borisov, director of State Security, head of the largest intelligence network in the world, with a quarter of a million men under arms at his command. The second-most-powerful man in Russia. Some said the first, because the president was old and ailing, kept alive by the doctors at the Ushenkaya Clinic.

Borisov had sent his wife on a Crimean cruise. She didn't want to go. There had been the usual scene when he suggested it. In the end he had simply told her she was going. He needed the dacha to himself and she couldn't stay in Moscow.

He retreated from his office in Dzerjinsky Square to the peace of the woods and the empty house. He had wanted to get a divorce for a long time. It wasn't easy, because the president was a family man, married to the same woman for forty years. He wouldn't want his protégé to cast his wife off, like an old shoe that pinched. But how she pinched, Borisov complained, how she bored him and nagged him and froze him into impotence whenever they shared a bed. But he would have to wait. It couldn't be too long. The old man's heart was laboring, the slightest chill turned to a lung infection. And while he walked along the riverbank, or sat in the sunshine on his porch, Borisov made plans. They occupied his mind from the time the snows of winter melted, when the life of his friend and mentor, President Keremov, entered its final term. The old man knew that he wouldn't see another winter, but he had faced the future with typical stony courage and set himself the task of finding someone suitable to care for Russia. He had the mentality of a czar and the jealousy of a hereditary ruler for his heirs. No old men, he declared to his wife while she sat by his bedside. No bald heads living in the past. Russia needed a man of vision, a man who was young enough to lead her into the next century. Igor Borisov was his choice. That choice could be his guarantee of supreme power or cause his humiliation and ultimate downfall. He had more enemies than friends. And he would need friends. Friends inside the all-powerful Politburo and the support of the army. The army and the KGB were natural enemies. No former director of State Security had been liked by the generals. The troops with the red shield badge had provided the firing squads too often for the regular armed services to trust them. Borisov was determined to change that attitude. He agreed with Keremov; Russia needed a diplomat to guide her into the future, not a hard-liner living on the dicta of the past. Borisov had disposed of the worst specimen not long ago. A very convenient stroke had carried him away, with the assistance of a certain drug.

The prize was enormous. The power staggered the imagination. He had no precedent behind him to give encouragement. No holder of his unpopular office had ever stepped up to the throne. But there was a first time for all things. Sooner or later change overtook the most entrenched institutions. Even in Russia. Borisov ran his own personal empire of repression and subversion with his habitual skill and dedication, but the grander scheme preoccupied him more and more.

He hadn't really concentrated on the situation outside Russia until after the assassination of Henry Franklin in Venice. And it was high time that he did.

Venice had soon returned to normal. The tourists flocked like the famous pigeons, the shops selling leather and cheap jewelry did a handsome trade, the hotels were full, and the summer season looked like booming. The antique trade was better than the previous year, but the recession still hit the market hard. Work on the lower floor of the shop in the Piazza San Raphael had been completed. The owner installed the two Renaissance pieces he had bought in Rome and hung a little primitive gem of the Crucifixion in his house in the Street of the Assassins. He had come home to find his daughter in a foul mood. She was surly enough anyway. Her mother tried to make excuses, but Valdorini had begun to dread his daughter's presence in the home. She was spoiled, he insisted, spoiled and typical of her generation, which had no respect and no aim in life. Her studies were a joke; her exam results were consistently poor, and it seemed to him that she was merely wasting time and money staying on at the university.

The perpetual student was becoming an Italian phenomenon. There were graybeards of thirty, still lounging around on government grants and their families' allowances, achieving nothing. And of course her aggressive left-wing politics drove him mad. According to his daughter, everything was wrong, he declared one evening when they had friends to dinner and the girl was out. The world was being destroyed by industry, which was turning the earth into an ecological desert, the Third World starved while the affluent threw food into their dustbins and the threat of nuclear war hung over humanity, denying the children the right to grow up. She had an answer for everything, Valdorini complained, but it was always the same answer. Everybody else was wrong and only she and her friends were responsible and caring.

His child had become a hostile stranger. He had drunk a lot of wine and he became maudlin, blinking back tears. No son, only this angry girl who looked at her parents as if she hated them, and while they were away in Rome she'd had someone staying in the house and never said a word.

Among the friends around the table was a member of the quinta, the city's governing body. He was a Venetian whose ancestors had elected the doge in centuries past. He loved his great city and took his responsibilities very seriously. He had been summoned to a meeting with Signor Alfredo Modena, the head of Security; the meeting was composed of members of the city's public bodies, and its most influential citizens. The problems arising from the assassination of the American politician and his daughter had been put to them and their help was solicited. The killer must be found. If the Red Brigade was mounting a new terrorist offensive, no one in public life would be safe. If, as Modena confided, they faced a new menace, then the prospects were even more horrifying. He wasn't asking anyone to inform, or to do anything that placed themselves at risk. But just to listen and use their judgment. Venice had harbored the assassin. Somewhere, he or she had left a trace behind. And that meeting took place before the body of the dead man was washed up on the public beach at Lido. The fish had eaten through the anchor rope, releasing the bloated corpse. But the remains of that rope were still knotted around his waist and the postmortem showed that he had died from a broken neck and not from drowning. Identification had done the rest. Modena had a related clue that tied in with the other crime. The boatman had disappeared on the same day, He was last seen at the public mooring by the Rialto Bridge. But nobody remembered who had hired him.

There it rested, until the evening when Valdorini had too much wine and started talking about his daughter.

The call from France was reported to him direct. He listened, nodded, smiled, and said, "Good. Better than we hoped. Make certain France is psychologically ready and that all the details have been finalized. This is one of our most important targets; impress that on her."

The assurances came through. He remembered the file on the girl Helene Blondin. Repressed, feeling of profound inferiority and aggression, brutally ill-treated as a child; a personality geared toward megalomania. She had been found like a jewel among the dross that came to them. And like a jewel she would soon shine among the Company of Saints. He put the telephone down. If anything went wrong, there was a failsafe. The Nothingness that all were sworn to embrace rather than betray their organization.

Those who killed had to be prepared to kill themselves. It was a logical conclusion to the disturbances they all had in common. A hatred of life and themselves transposed into a hatred for others. Death was a solution to all problems. They were taught to accept that, even to enjoy the acceptance. He felt refreshed and optimistic. His plans were going well, and in spite of other setbacks, other anxieties, his Saints were giving praise.

"You can stuff yourself!"

Alfredo Modena wasn't troubled by insults. The prisoner could spit at him as she'd done at his colleagues, and unlike the less experienced, he wouldn't have hit her. She had a cut and swollen lip. "You're being very stupid, Elsa," he said calmly. We know you threw that bomb. You were seen. We've got witnesses."

"You're lying!" the girl shouted. She wasn't frightened; she was defiant and sustained by anger. He knew the type; he also knew how hard they were to break. And the women were often tougher than the men. "You haven't got a witness. I was nowhere near the canal that day!"

Modena didn't look at her; his office was air-conditioned, but he'd taken off his coat and loosened his tie, making himself comfortable. He had iced water on his desk and a supply of cigarettes. He didn't offer anything to Elsa Valdorini. She was standing, because after she spat at the first interrogator, they'd removed the chair. She stood with legs apart, arms akimbo, glaring at him. She had been in detention for forty-eight hours, without food or sleep, and with only a few sips of water.

Very tough, Modena decided. But I have all the time in the world and she knows it. She would be more than capable of killing. "You took a boat," he said, "you hired one of the little taxi boats, and as you passed the launch Franklin was traveling in, you threw the bomb. Did you see his daughter? She was only nineteen. Didn't you mind killing her?"

"I didn't kill her," she sneered back at him. "But it wouldn't bother me if I had!"

"Any more than murdering the boatman afterward?" The flush of surprise was his first breakthrough. She hadn't known about that. Which he had gambled on. He leaned a little toward her. "You broke his neck, the poor bastard," he said slowly. "Just a poor working man, hiring his boat out on the canal, and you murdered him. What kind of socialist revolutionary are you?"

She had recovered her nerve, and managed a chilling smile on her swollen mouth. "Too bad about him," she said. "I'm going to piss on your floor."

Modena pressed a buzzer on his desk. The door opened immediately. "Take Valdorini to the lavatory," he said. The man caught her arm and dragged her out. Modena poured himself some water. She hadn't killed the boatman. The blow needed a man's strength. She hadn't thrown the bomb, either, but she had sheltered the man who did. And that was the pearl he intended to pry out of this particular oyster. Even if he had to crack the shell to pieces. He was smoking when she came back. "Feeling better?"

"Fuck off," came the reply. He thought of her parents, respectable Venetian traders, the mother weeping, the father's stricken face when his daughter was arrested. How do we breed them, these children of violence? he wondered. How can a pretty girl like this become a merciless little savage? He put the question aside. "After you murdered the boatman, you sank his boat and swam ashore."

She glared at him in triumph. "I can't swim," she said. "You'll have to think of another lie."

"I can think of any lie I like," he remarked. "I say you took the vaporetto, threw the bomb, killed the boatman, and swam ashore. I can prove it."

"Then go ahead," she snarled at him. "Charge me; just let me get to court and I'll prove every word you say is a lie! I've got witnesses who'll swear I never left the house that morning!"

"They won't be believed," Modena answered. "But my witnesses will swear to anything I tell them." He took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. She stared at him. "You look surprised, Elsa. Did you think you and your friends had the monopoly on violence? I won't do violence to you, and I'll reprimand the officer who hit you. But I'll kill the truth as surely as those unfortunates in the launch were killed. There are many kinds of violence, not just physical. I'll charge you with the crime, and I'll see that you're convicted. Although I know for certain that you didn't do it."

She hissed a long Venetian obscenity at him. And for the first time he sensed that she was afraid. "I know you're not guilty, and you know that when you go to the Isola Santa Magdalena, it will be for the rest of your life, for something you didn't do. I think it'll send you mad, Elsa, after a few years."

"You," she said, "I can't think of a word for you..."

"Pig? Swine? Policeman? I'm indifferent to insults. Haven't you realized that? Jews are insulted from the time they're born. I don't care what you call me. I'm only concerned with one thing. Who stayed at your house after the assassination?"

"Nobody," she shouted back. "Nobody."

That was her first mistake, he thought, and decided to goad her with it. "There were traces of a man," he reminded her. "He used a disposable razor --- you forgot about that. Your mother found it; you changed the bedsheets and forgot to empty the wastebasket in the bathroom. Very careless of you. Why didn't you just say it was a lover? Why did you lie and pretend nobody was in the house?"

"All right then," she jeered back at him, "it was a boyfriend."

"Then all you have to do is tell me his name," Modena suggested gently.

The Duvaliers traveled down to Blois in two cars. The minister used her official car and her husband went with her. She had work to do during the drive. Louise took her friend in her own little car. She talked all the way but Helene wasn't listening to a word.

Helene had packed her only long skirt and a change of frilly blouses. Albert Duvalier and his wife expected their guests to change for dinner. It was a bore, the minister said, but they were old and very set in their ways. Anything pretty would do. She knew that Helene had a limited allowance and wouldn't have spent it on formal dresses. She was so tactful, so thoughtful of her young friend's feelings.

Helene had told her aunt where she was going. Her aunt was impressed; Helene had expected she would be. She fussed and fretted over her niece's clothes, suggested she have her hair cut; she hoped that perhaps there might be some eligible young men invited. Helene knew what she was thinking, she understood the mentality that saw nothing degrading in women selling themselves to men and calling it marriage. She let her aunt chatter on, no sign of her searing contempt was evident. Helene was such a pleasant girl, her aunt would say. A little reserved, but genuinely sweet-natured.

Helene kissed her goodbye; she enjoyed making a fool of the old woman, showing her affection and respect. Taking her in with every word and action. If she had only known --- shock horror, Helene laughed to herself. It was the "in" slogan among her friends the Duvaliers and Louise's boyfriend, that simpering idiot Raoul. Peace and love and vegetarianism. He sickened her. She hated him more than she did Louise, who was chattering away like a silly monkey all the way to Blois.

How long had she worn that sickly smile? For two years, nearly three? But not for much longer. Sweet little Helene, such a nice girl. Oh, it was going to be shock horror for real this time. She was shivering with excitement when they reached the château. Huge, gray stone walls, the classic French fortified house of the fourteenth century, with its protective moat surrounding it. A pair of milk-white swans floated disdainfully past. They sickened her too. Money and enormous wealth, a wall of privilege as thick and impregnable as the house they lived in --- financed out of legalized slaughter. Albert Duvalier manufactured arms. Nothing could touch him, or punish him. He could topple the government of France if he chose. Helene had heard that said and she believed it. And his brilliant liberal-minded sister-in-law was a part of that government.

Helene didn't meet him until she came down with Louise to dinner. She didn't know a lot about art; she didn't have to, because the pictures on the walls were the originals of postcards people bought as souvenirs.

Renoir, Manet, Ganguin --- the great impressionists bloomed on green silk walls in the salon, and a tall old man with a face like an Apostle came forward and kissed her hand. The minister was beside him, smiling, looking elegant in one of her viciously expensive dresses. And then there was Albert Duvalier's third wife. She was a retired film actress who had been more than just a sex symbol. She was famous for her intelligence, the fading beauty was preserved by plastic surgery, but the acute brain was what had captured France's richest man. He had formed a partnership as much as a marriage. She had a cold, dry hand like a snake's skin, too thin for the massive sapphire ring; Helene was repulsed by the touch of her when they shook hands. Like a beautiful mummy, with huge black eyes that went through her and beyond. Nobody of importance, just a friend of that tiresome girl, Louise. All she had was youth, and to Irena Duvalier, that wasn't a recommendation.

Helene felt herself turn red, and looked quickly away. They'd think she was shy. They wouldn't know that hate and fury were making her choke. But they'd know later. They'd look at her and stare and see her for the first time. She said very little during dinner. She was the poor little bourgeoisie, befriended by the rich important Duvaliers. Brought along like a Spanish dwarf to amuse the Infanta Louise.

She went upstairs after dinner and listened to the sounds of the household going to bed. The footsteps of the servants; the yapping of Madame Duvalier's little terrier, its topknot crowned by a silk bow. The creak and murmur of an ancient house settling for the night. Helene was sleeping in a room next to Louise's. She had been tactful but firm about not letting her in for a gossip when they came upstairs.

She didn't expect to sleep. The program for Saturday was as rigid as a military exercise. Breakfast downstairs. Tennis before lunch. After lunch, which was at two precisely, they would go and see the royal château at Blois.

Tea was at five, and dinner at eight-fifteen. The Duvaliers would play bridge, and the young guests could amuse themselves. That was perfect. She could imagine it in her mind. The tables set out, the cards, the scores, the paraphernalia she had seen in the minister's Paris drawing room. A ritual as meaningless as everything else that generation did, except grow rich at the expense of life itself. She wasn't nervous. Just excited, as if she had gone back to being a child and it was the night before a special treat.

"Where did Isabelle find that girl?" Irena Duvalier asked her husband. They were dressing before dinner the next night. Both had excused themselves from the trip to the château; they rested for an hour and a half every afternoon, and spent an hour before tea discussing the day's newspapers.

Irena loved jewels, and her husband had amassed a rare collection of historic pieces. She chose an antique necklace of turquoises and diamonds, part of the French crown jewels.

Albert Duvalier shook his head. "I don't know. She's Louise's best friend, that's what I was told. Rather dull and middle and class. Why?"

"Because there's something funny about her," his wife answered, examining herself from different angles in the mirror. "If she's Louise's best friend, I wonder why she looks at her as if she hates her? I shall have a word with Isabelle about that girl. I don't think she should be encouraged. Should I wear the earrings."

He considered for a moment. "No, just the necklace. The dress is exactly the right color. Why do you say that girl hates Louise?" He frowned, feeling suddenly uneasy. His wife had an instinct for people that was never deceived.

"Because I've been watching her," Irena said. "And I've seen something in her eyes that I don't like. She must never come here again."

They went down to dinner, and afterward drank coffee in the small salon where the bridge table had been set out. A red velvet cloth, fringed with gold; two unopened packs of cards, cigarettes in a Fabergé silver-gilt box, score cards set into velvet pads with the initial D embroidered on them.

Helene refused coffee. She gave an anxious glance toward Isabelle Duvalier, who leaned over to her and said, "Helene?"

Helene blushed. "Madame, I've got an awful headache. Do you think I could go upstairs and go to bed?"

"Of course," the minister smiled sympathetically. She turned to their hostess. "Irena, Helene's not feeling very well. You'll excuse her if she goes straight to bed?"

Irena's black eyes were cold as pit water. They examined Helene for a moment, and froze the apologetic simper off her face. "If you're not well do you want a doctor?" Her tone implied that it would be a great nuisance if she did.

"Oh, no, thank you. It's just a migraine. I get them sometimes."

"Really? You shouldn't at your age. Perhaps you eat too many sweet things. Louise, can you amuse yourself while we play?"

"Oh, yes, I'll watch. I've always wanted to learn, but Mother says she hasn't the patience to teach me."

"That's because you have no card sense, my darling," her father teased.

They laughed, the little family group of five, and Louise said, "Poor Helene --- have you got aspirins? Shall I come up with you?"

"No, no --- it's just a headache. Madame Duvalier is right --- I had too much chocolate cake at tea. I'll be fine in the morning. Good night, everyone."

"Good night," they said in chorus, ad forgot about her.

Helene went back into the dining room. Two maids were preparing the table for breakfast. "I left my purse in here," she said. "Have you found it?"

"No, Mademoiselle." They swept under the table; there was no purse.

"I must have left it in the salon, then," Helene said. "I'm not feeling very well, don't lay any breakfast for me. I'm going up to bed."

"I'm sorry," the senior parlor maid said. "Would you like me to bring your purse upstairs?"

"Would you? They're playing bridge and I won't want to go back and disturb them... thanks so much." She did look sickly, the women thought, with a patch of bright red on each cheek and the rest of her face a pasty white.

Fifteen minutes later the younger maid knocked on Helene's bedroom door. There was a mumble and she went inside. The room was in darkness, and a voice from the bed said thickly, "What is it?"

"I've brought up your purse, Mademoiselle."

"My what? I've taken a sleeping pill. Oh, yes, thank you..." the words trailed off.

The maid put the little purse on the dressing table and went out.

Albert Duvalier, with Isabelle as partner, won the first rubber. Louise was talking to her aunt, who was dummy for that hand. They didn't hear the door open, and it was the minister herself who looked up from her cards and saw Helene.

"Helene? What are you..."

The first bullet hit her square in the chest. The second and third killed her husband and Albert Duvalier instantly, bursting their skulls like eggshells. Louise didn't manage a scream before she was cut down, and Irena's strangled cry was choked off by a bullet in the throat. Helene stood very still. There hadn't been a sound in the room except for the pop-pop of the silenced gun. She stepped forward to the table and shot Isabelle through the forehead. There was no need to worry about the two Duvalier men. Louise, eyes open, was twitching slightly. Helene made sure of her. She paused for a moment by Irena and emptied the gun into her body, although she could tell she was dead.

Then she threw the gun on the floor. Blood was dripping everywhere, forming pools on the polished wood, soaking into the magnificent rugs. She stepped carefully back to the door and opened it. She could see into the hall and to the stairs. There was nobody about. She didn't worry about touching anything. She was wearing a pair of Louise's gloves. When the household went to bed, an elaborate security system was switched on. She had been warned not to come out of her room and wander about during the night because the alarms were set until morning. The time was just after ten o'clock. The butler locked up and set the outside system at ten-thirty. Routine was inviolate in that house. The internal system closing off every room was operated by him as soon as the Duvaliers and their guests had gone to their rooms for the night. She had twenty minutes in hand, unless someone came through the hall. She turned and ran up the stairs. She put the gloves back in Louise's drawer in her room. She was already undressed. She hung her dressing gown over a chair, put her slippers neatly by the bed. She didn't switch on any lights; the light from the corridor was enough and her door was ajar to let it in. She had prepared everything in advance. There was a carafe of water beside her bed. Two sleeping pills were by the glass. A bottle of tablets for the treatment of migraines was also in place; one dose was missing. Helene swallowed the sleeping pills, shut her door, and got into bed.

When the butler began his routine of locking up and setting the first stage of the alarm system, he knocked and went into the salon. By midnight the news of the Duvalier family was on the TV and radio stations. The French nation woke up to read the appalling story of mass murder, and the incredible escape of the young student who had been found deep in a drugged sleep in her room upstairs.

They took the staff and Blondin Helene up to Paris. She was bewildered, still dopy after the heavy drugs. The escorting police felt sorry for her. One of them kept saying how lucky she was. On the journey she said she felt sick, and they took her into a country lane where she retched and retched by the side of the car. Shock, they agreed. Delayed shock. Lucky girl though. The salon on the ground floor of the Duvalier's château smelled like an abattoir. Helene made her statement to the chief of the Sûreté, and had to be taken out in the middle because she felt sick again. He sent her home to her aunt; she was already a public heroine. The modest little apartment was under siege with reporters and TV crews when she arrived, white as a winding sheet and shaking all over. Her aunt's doctor hurried over, prescribed tranquilizers and complete rest. She got into bed and lay under the covers, sallow and shivering while her aunt fussed over her, and she promised to take the tranquilizers. Just let her be alone for a little. Please?

When her aunt went away Helene waited for a while and then slipped out of bed. She went to the dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. Her friends had known what they were doing. Pills to make her sick, to turn her into a pasty wreck. She smiled at herself in the mirror. She knew the police believed her. The two maids would corroborate everything, even to finding her half-asleep in bed. She had to keep calm, play the part of Helene Blondin, the simple student and friend of the family who had so nearly shared their fate. Even that stupid doctor who'd just gone away would confirm that she suffered from migraine. She'd complained of it as soon as the plan was worked out.

She wasn't Helene Blondin. She was "France." Her part was over. All she had to do was prove their faith in her. Prove that her nerve was as iron-hard as her heart. She smiled at herself once, slowly, and then got back into bed. She slept peacefully, tired out.

Her aunt came into the room and cried over her as she slept.

She would like to have discussed the matter with John Bannon. Since that was impossible, Tyreen Mackenzie instead went for a walk at lunchtime. Isabelle Duvalier, shot dead, with every member of her family. But why had the killer chosen to go into the house to murder her? Why not attack in the street, during her public appearances? She was always lecturing, performing official functions. The woman was exposed to the assassin's bullet or the bomb a dozen times a month. Yet the venue picked was particularly horrible, involving the murder of her husband and young daughter, and her brother-in-law Albert Duvalier, the arms magnate, and his wife.

She stopped and sat down on a seat by the edge of the lake. A young man was reading a paperback on the next bench; he glanced up and gave her an appraising look as she sat down. He lost interest when she retrieved a cigarette from her case and stuck it between her lips; he resumed reading without saying a word. Children were feeding the greedy ducks that swam in flotillas around the water's edge.

Duvalier was a hate figure for a variety of people. People he had ruined in his quest for monopoly inside France, the pacifist and anti-nuclear organizations reviled him as a merchant of death. Had he been the target?

Pinching out her cigarette and disposing of it, she got up, and began to walk rapidly back along the path leading out to Birdcage Walk. A platoon of guardsmen drilled in the square of the barracks as she walked past. The drill sergeant's voice barked out staccato commands.

Was Duvalier the real objective and the others a bonus? Killed because they were there and had to be silenced. Or was the minister for Justice the prime target, as at first supposed...

Inside her office she spoke on the phone to an army colonel in SEDECE, the French equivalent of her own service. He was a dour, monosyllabic man, who didn't like women. It was rumored that he had lost his testicles in a shooting during the Algerian war, but nobody knew. He was no friend of hers, but he set his prejudice aside when she mentioned John Bannon.

France was in an uproar over the killings. The press and media were stirring things up as usual, the wildest accusations and rumors were flying around. He answered her queries truthfully and briefly. The gun was a Walther XP45, fitted with a small silencer of the latest design, giving maximum accuracy and negligible noise. The gun bore no serial number, it had been acid-burned off, and there were no fingerprints. There were no fingerprints anywhere in the château that didn't match the family, their servants, and their guests. The shooting had been done by a trained marksman. It was accurate and, except for the multiple bullets in Irena Duvalier's body, economical. All the bullets came from the same gun. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a car being used, or of footprints on the lawns. The killer had kept to the gravel paths and simply walked into the house, performed his ghastly task, and left. Interrogation of the indoor staff and the three gardeners and the chauffeur had not produced anything. All were being closely vetted now.

"Tell me," Tyreen cut in, "looking at the murders as an operation, properly planned and carried out, do you see any signatures?"

"I know what you're suggesting," the colonel's nasal voice was sour. "The answer's no. It isn't the far leftists or the right-wing Fascists. And it doesn't fit in with Moscow's methods. They don't go in for public mayhem."

"Venice?" she cut in again.

"We don't see a connection," was the curt reply.

"Well, I do," she answered. "And maybe you should look very closely into this Helene Blondin."

"We have." She could almost see his sneer over the phone. He was not going to be told what to do, certainly not by a woman. "Her story checks out. She is not a suspect."

"If there are any developments," she said, "will you keep us posted?"

"Of course," he answered. "I see no reason to expect a third assassination."

"I believe there will be," she said. "And it could be we're next on the list."

"And you think there is a list?"

"I'm certain of it."

"I don't agree."

"You don't have to," Tyreen retorted. "You've had your turn." She rang off and lit up.

The president hadn't attended the weekly Politburo meetings for over two months. His colleagues were surprised to see the papers and the carafe of vodka in place at the head of the table. Igor Borisov knew he was coming down from his apartment on the top floor of the Kremlin. He knew because he had already been up to see him, long before the others were setting out in the motorcade that swept through the traffic in the center lane of Moscow's highways. Keremov looked better than usual; his face had a healthy pink tinge and his hooded eyes were bright under their heavy lids. Borisov knew that the color was skillfully applied, and the brightness was due to eye drops. The doctors had spent the early morning upstairs, checking and giving a last-minute injection to stimulate the faltering heart.

They stood up to welcome him, the eleven most powerful men in the vast Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Men responsible for every facet of life within the borders of an empire that stretched from the Caspian to the North Atlantic, and from Europe to the mountains of Afghanistan. Education, Communications, Internal Affairs, the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, Agriculture, always a festering sore in the economy, Foreign Affairs, particularly important in the nuclear age, and --- the most vital of all, the director of State Security, Igor Borisov.

It amused Keremov to look around at his colleagues and make them uneasy. Which ones were plotting to take power as soon as he was dead? He knew their names. Which were the hard-liners who had kept very quiet since the death of their spokesman, Rudzenko, the year before? A stroke, the official story called it. Keremov knew better. His protégé Igor Borisov had a versatile medical team who worked for the KGB. They could simulate anything with drugs these days. The disciples of neo-Stalinism had said very little since Rudzenko died. What a magnificent funeral he had been given. The obedient crowds had lined the streets to honor what Pravda called a champion of Soviet communism. A narrow fanatic, bigoted and lusting for conflict. Borisov had killed him because whatever happened, Keremov wasn't going to let Russia fall into the hands of men like him again.

There were three men in particular who worried Keremov. His old friend and colleague Nikolaev, Soviet foreign minister, a bulwark of the Russian Establishment, a survivor who had trimmed to the winds of Stalin and Khrushchev, But in his heart he flew the colors of repression and eventual nuclear war at the masthead. A powerful, clever, very experienced politician who had a hunger for power. He had been a Rudzenko man. And then there was Marshal Alexander Yemetovsky, who controlled the army. Tall, imposing, and built like a tank. He had risen through the Great Patriotic War performing acts of great daring behind the German lines, graduating to commands and then to the General Staff. A brilliant young man; almost too brilliant, because Stalin's paranoia had singled him out as a potential rival. Once the war was won, the marshals and generals were pushed out of the limelight. There was no room for more than one Hero in Soviet Russia. Luckily for Yemetovsky, Stalin had died before he had ordered his removal. Like all soldiers, Yemetovsky was not a man who saw peace as a solution. The massive arms build-up that was draining the Soviet economy was his guarantee of safety from attack. Yemetovsky and Nikolaev. And Mishkogan, a cunning Armenian, greedy for power, a merciless persecutor of dissidents and Jews. These three could strike at Borisov, together or singly, and win the power struggle.

Listening to the ministers' reports, item after item on the agenda, Keremov's thoughts drifted away from them. He had lived long, fought hard for his power, and served his country well. He didn't mind dying. His body was tired, and the cold he had caught at Ruzdenko's funeral in Red Square had made a home in his lungs. There would be another, more magnificent procession through the Moscow streets before the summer ended. Borisov would stand among the mourners around the coffin. Keremov knew that dead men took their influence to the grave with them. Borisov would have to fight the final battle for himself.

The Soviet foreign minister was going to visit the president of East Germany. From there he would make a trip to Poland. Keremov listened to the discussion about how hard the Polish military government should be pressured.

Keremov interrupted, and immediately the rest were silent. "We are waging a propaganda war against the defense systems of the NATO alliance and the Western world," he said. "And for the moment we're winning that war. The controversy over nuclear deterrents has pushed the Polish question off the center stage. We don't want to bring it back."

"The West has accepted the situation there," Foreign Minister Nikolaev pointed out. "They made a lot of noise, as they did when we took action against Afghanistan. They were never going to help Poland."

"Afghanistan is different," Keremov grunted impatiently. "Nobody cares what happens to a pack of brigands. But the Poles are a very sensitive issue. Not least because of the Pope." There was a murmur around the table. Some glanced furtively at Borisov. Had he instigated that attempt? Was it a KGB failure? Nobody had ever put the question. Only Keremov knew if the rumors were true, and he had imposed a silence on the subject.

"I shall impress the general with our views," the foreign minister said, "but the visit can be cut short, if necessary. That will minimize its importance. I need only spend a day and a night in Warsaw after I leave East Berlin."

Keremov smiled slowly. "Just long enough to threaten a little," he said, and they all laughed. "He's a good man; he's got the situation well under control. You'd know best about that, Comrade Borisov?"

"The activists are still in custody," Borisov said. "And the sting has been taken out of Walesa. He knows if he steps over the line, he will be removed from public activity again. I think we can feel confident about Poland now. On our advice they made no martyrs, and a revolt can't sustain itself without them."

Keremov turned to the foreign minister. "You leave on the twenty-first --- that coincides with the visit of President Hauser to London. Comrade Mailsky..."

The man in charge of Internal and External Information said, "Yes, Comrade?"

Deferential, but not genuine, the old man knew. Too soft, rather than too hard. That would be equally dangerous for the future. "I think we should make a gesture that would embarrass Bonn," Keremov suggested. "A speech in Berlin --- a call for reduction in American arms in Europe, specifically the cruise missile deployment in West Germany. We can imply that our S-20s will be reduced."

There was a mutter of agreement. Marshal Yemetovsky said, watching his civilian colleagues, "But without making any commitment."

"You don't have to worry, my friend," Keremov said. "We want them to disarm. We aren't going to make that mistake ourselves. You'll have your missiles." He reached out and poured the vodka. Just a little, not enough to make him sleepy. He sipped it slowly. Another half an hour; he didn't want to cut the meeting short. He saw Borisov watching him. He trusted the man; in his way he loved him. He was no fanatic, no Savonarola preaching the purity of ideas and baptizing in blood. He was a realist, a pragmatist, a man in touch with the modern world. He had learned English and he spoke very good French and German. He was young and strong. He could rule Russia for twenty years or more, and bring her safely through the coming power struggle with the rest of the world. The massive machinery of Soviet government would function by itself for quite a time. Nothing could be changed quickly, but changes must come.

The half-hour was up. He signaled to Borisov, who stood up, and within a few minutes the meeting ended. Keremov walked to the door, and managed not to stumble until it was closed behind him. The nurse waiting outside took his arm, and the stalwart young soldier who shadowed him everywhere supported him. They had a collapsible wheelchair waiting, and he was lowered gently into it and taken upstairs in the elevator.

After the meeting Borisov returned to his own office in the Lubyianka building on Dzerjinsky Square. He didn't try to concentrate on work immediately. He called for a glass of tea. Keremov was facing death like a lion. His only concern was for his country. He would weep for Keremov, who'd been more of a father than his natural one. And like his father, he had willed him his vast inheritance. But Borisov would need time to scatter his rivals, and to gather allies before the vital election took place in the Kremlin. The leader was always elected. But the days when the votes came out of a gun barrel were gone. Now it was the man who could muster support with promises of power-sharing who won. Borisov would have to deal in ministries and promotions, before he could defeat his opponents. Russia was civilized now, as Keremov remarked; nobody was shot for disagreeing. We have become bureaucrats, he told Borisov. Men in serge suits, with ties and pocket handkerchiefs. Nobody wears the Stalin tunic any more. But there are those who'd like to, and he told him again who he thought these men were.

And then the doctors came in with their injections and the nurse began reapplying the false tinge of health to his sallow skin.

Borisov pressed his buzzer. He had a male secretary now. Once there had been a girl. A girl with gold hair and a skin that was smooth as silk. For a long time after her death he imagined that he saw her shadow pass along the corridor or even heard the quick tapping of her heels outside his door. He had loved her, and she had betrayed him. The man who now answered his call had held her down while another poured vodka and barbiturates down her throat.

"Alexei," Borisov said, "I want to talk with you. Sit down."

Alexei did as he was told. Sometimes, in spite of his loyalty and his efficiency, Borisov disliked him for behaving like a robot. The girl had smelled of apple blossom, a scent he gave her when they became lovers. He put her out of his mind.

"Comrade Nikolaev is going to East Berlin on the twenty-first. I want you to make arrangements for his safety. He is also paying a visit to Poland, just for a day and a night." Borisov reached out for a cigarette; the lighter was in Alexei's hand a second later. "I want a special detachment to look after him," he went on. "Maximum coverage wherever he goes."

"What about his regular protection, Comrade?"

Alexei's eyes never quite held the gaze of his superior. But he was a faultless killing machine as well as a most efficient secretary, trained in all the skills. I wish I could like him, Borisov thought suddenly. I can trust him as I can't trust any other person, but I'm uncomfortable having him near me for long. "You have my authority to replace them," was the answer he gave. The bodyguards for all the members of the Politburo were provided by the KGB. Only the president had his personal squad, the Preobrazhensky Guard, as Borisov privately called them, remembering the guardian of the czars. "No criticism is intended, make that clear to Colonel Varvov. But after what happened in France, we can't take any risks." He drew hard on his cigarette.

"They haven't caught anyone, then?"

"No," Borisov said quietly. "And I don't think they will. Make the arrangements, Alexei. Pick your men."

He sent for his protégé, the young doctor. A brilliant psychiatrist with an extraordinary understanding of the human mind. He was a strange-looking creature, almost feminine, with tiny bones and a pale, translucent skin. It was hard to imagine him eating, sleeping, defecating, like other men. But he had taught his protector how to enlarge his special talent... the use and pursuit of power. The doctor had explained the technique as psychological sculpture. From the common clay of humanity, it was possible to form a man or woman into a willing instrument, capable of doing anything on orders. It was a topic that moved the young man to faint excitement; he loved the exercise of his power, and he regarded the human element with as little compunction as a cage of rats in his laboratory.

Watching him come into the room, his protector reflected that there were people who kept tarantulas as pets. It amused him to mock the Christian myth by calling the pitiless fellow St. Peter, the first of the Apostles, Keeper of the Kingdom's Keys. He called him St. Peter and laughed out loud. The doctor managed a polite giggle.

"Now, I have a problem for you. A real problem this time, not a simple matter like the others. We have a new target. A very important target."

The doctor said, "If you will tell me the name and the circumstances, I will do my best." He listened, his head tilted to one side. After a time, he said, "I understand. How long can you give me to find the solution to this problem?"

He liked subjecting the doctor to stress, just to see if anything could open the slightest chink. So far, he hadn't succeeded. Perhaps that was the fascination, he thought. He challenges me by always being right. "I can't give you any time," he answered.

The doctor said simply, "Then I will start immediately, I don't think it will be too difficult; I shall look up the relevant records."

"Good. Will you ever disappoint me, do you think?"

"I don't believe I ever will."

He smiled and wagged his head. "But one day, perhaps..." The smile disappeared. "This time it is vital that you succeed. Don't underestimate the challenge."

"I work best of all when the situation is impossible."

Suddenly he was irritated by the pallid face and the inhuman confidence. Something will have to be done about you, he thought. When I don't need you any more. If you were as clever as you think you are, you'd know one crucial thing about human nature. It finds perfection impossible to forgive. He turned away and the doctor was dismissed.

The man from special Branch was a small wiry Scotsman in his fifties named MacNeil. He had two hates in life, and he confided his feelings about them loudly and clearly that evening. "Bloody foreign VIPs and that bloody woman from MI6! As if I didn't know Hauser was going to be a top security risk after what happened in Italy and France! What does she think I am? A bloody bobby just off the beat? Jesus Christ, I don't know why they ever gave women the bloody vote. She hammered on at me about a network of terrorists starting out on a campaign of political murder, lecturing me like a bloody schoolboy!"

His assistant and closest colleague was a taciturn man, an Englishman with the reputation for saying as little as possible. He didn't swear either. At first his superior's constant use of the word "bloody" irritated him. By this time, after six years, he didn't notice it. There was no better man at the job than Jim MacNeil.

"She's paranoid," he said when he'd calmed down. "Like all bloody women; they get a bit of muscle and they start imagining things... Persecution mania, and now she'll be stirring up Downing Street about it. That's all we need!"

"You don't think she's right, then?" the assistant said feebly.

MacNeil had been walking around his office; he was a pacer, unable to think on his arse, as he liked to say. He stopped, and perched on the edge of his desk. "About the conspiracy? Looks like it to me. The Eyeties have shoved it under the rug --- locked up some bloody kid and put the lid on it. The bloody French won't give anything away. She says we'll have it here next, and she could be right. And I've got three bloody VIPs to worry about in the next six months. Hauser, the queen of Sweden, with a state visit for Christ's sake, and the Americans are fixing up to send their president over in the autumn."

"And of course," his assistant remarked, "that's apart from the royals." His pipe had gone out.

"Just don't start on that one," MacNeil got up and started walking around again. "There's no way we can protect them. Hauser's arriving at Heathrow; there'll be a bloody guard of honor. The PM's going to meet him, then there's the drive to London and lunch at Downing Street. All closed cars, motorcade escort, and that's not so bad. But a gala performance at the opera. That's going to be a bugger. And that bloody woman thinks it might be Moscow behind it."

"She would," was the reply. "Paranoia, sir, like you said."

"Reds under the bloody beds again," MacNeil muttered. "We've got enough of them here already. I told her I thought that was a bit farfetched. She didn't like that. She's not used to being contradicted."

"What's your theory, sir?"

MacNeil shrugged. "Franklin was a hard-liner on the right of Reagan. Duvalier was a liberal leftist." He got up and started walking around again. "I never believed that business about the brother-in-law being the target. Nobody kills bloody arms dealers. They're too busy buying from them. The political motive doesn't add up."

"The next one might give us a clue," the assistant said.

MacNeil came to a halt. "As long as it isn't on our patch," he said. "I'm going to look over the arrangements tomorrow morning and we'll call a conference for ten o'clock. Maybe we can get them to cancel the bloody opera."

"The Foreign Office?" his assistant queried, heavily sarcastic.

"If they say no," MacNeil stated, "I know just the person to go to. There's no love lost there. Come on, time we shut up shop."

Tyreen Mackenzie was in the bath when the telephone rang. She had spent a long tiring day, going from Scotland Yard to the Foreign Office and back to Regent's Park. Conferences with C and his Chief of Staff were followed by further meetings with MacNeil and his Special Branch experts; the atmosphere was overtly hostile. She didn't mind the initial bristling of the male; but MacNeil infuriated her. The issues were so serious there was no time for male chauvinism. The afternoon at the Foreign Office had been politer but nonetheless adamant. It was impossible to cancel the gala evening at the opera without alerting the West German president to the threat of assassination. And there was no valid ground for that assumption but one terrorist attack in Italy and a multiple murder in France, which had no proven political connection. The Special Branch could take the necessary precautions and of course if Ms. Mackenzie's theory could be substantiated by hard facts, then the matter would be reviewed. It was a typical stonewall response, clothed in maddening courtesy.

Tyreen left Whitehall, and after an hour (and at least half a dozen cigarettes) in her office going through the latest reports, she packed up for the night and went home. Some friends had asked her to dinner and the cinema. But she felt too tired and strung up to enjoy anybody's company. She ran her bath and slipped into it. She tried to empty her mind of the day's anxieties. Perhaps she should look for a cottage outside London, somewhere with a garden where she could relax on weekends. When the telephone rang she answered it wrapped in a towel, leaving wet marks on the carpet.

It was a voice she hadn't heard for quite a while. "Tyreen? How are you?"

She stammered when she answered. "I'm fine," she said. "Fine. How are you, Mama?"

"Well, mixed, not too good I'm afraid. That's why I'm ringing you, Tyreen. Your stepfather's had a stroke. I thought you'd better be told right away."

"Mama --- he... he's not dying..." She felt her throat tighten, making the words difficult to say.

"I rather think so," Chirren Mackenzie said quietly. "Come home, will you?"

"Oh, my God... of course I'll come. I'll be there as soon as I can!"

She dressed, threw a few things into a bag, and then rang the Duty Officer to say where she could be found if she was needed. She drove out of London, her foot flattened on the accelerator. She blinked the tears back. Her lover was in an Italian hospital and now this. He was dying; her stepfather --- the only father she'd ever known --- was dying.

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