“Then, after a journalist named Harry Meyers wrote a story about the way your tankers dump toxic materials into the Atlantic Ocean, he inexplicably committed suicide. Just two days prior to his wedding!

“Oh, and let’s not forget Countess Maria Sarkov, who had the terrible misfortune to be hit by a truck as she crossed 42nd Street one week after referring to your wife as ‘an ugly pig’ in a New York society column. No, my friend, you not only work for The Agency,” Douay added grimly, “but they pay you in blood.

“Yet even The Agency can’t do anything about the fact that you and your company have been turned away by bankers in Zurich, London, and New York. Your stock is down thirty percent, the litigation from the oil spill will drag on for ten years, and your cruise ships are sailing half-full. Still, you know best, so we’ll speak of more enjoyable things…

“How are your children? Well, I hope.”

Thorakis felt a rising sense of despair, and desperately tried to keep it from showing. The thing he feared most was that he would be the one to lose the Thorakis family fortune, and not only bring shame onto himself, but rob his children of their birthright.

Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, the Greek looked up from his plate.

“Perhaps I was too hasty in my response,” he said hesitantly. “What sort of information would you be seeking? Who knows…there may be some way for me to accommodate you.”

“There, you see,” Douay replied genially. “I knew we could do business! In answer to your question I want to know everything you know. Especially whatever you can tell me about the man called Agent 47.”