Three fifty-four. A carabiniere walked directly toward the gunman stationed near the phone boxes. The man with the cigarette signaled briefly with a half-lifted hand, palm down. Do nothing. The policeman walked to within a foot of the phones, reached out and picked up the receiver, resting it on one shoulder while he slipped in a coin and began dialing. All four men began breathing again.

Three fifty-five. The youngest, his moustache only a fuzzy suggestion, nervously checked the zipper on his nylon bag, then glanced at the clock. Time was running out.

But at 3:56 and ten seconds, Jacobsen swung through the glass doors and strode toward them, looking fit, sporting a new tan. And also sporting a beautiful traveling companion. She was young, dazzling, long-legged in a mini-skirted pink sundress, looking thoroughly western from the top of her raggedy cut golden hair to the tips of her painted toes. The planners had been wrong on two counts: He was late and was not traveling alone, although Jacobsen's reputed libido no doubt accounted for the adjusted priorities. It was common knowledge the man favored a libertine's lifestyle although his excesses didn't evidence themselves in his healthy physique. But perhaps the edge was off. One could but hope.

In the next two seconds zippers on nylon bags were ripped open. Safeties flipped off a second later, and, with the precision of practice, four Uzis opened up with a barrage of deadly fire. Three machine guns simultaneously swept over Jacobsen, the woman, and the crush of people around him; the fourth detoured briefly to swing toward the carabiniere on the phone. One side of the policeman's head disappeared. The gunmen made a last pass of the area of tile floor where Jacobsen lay in a tumble of bodies, a tidy, methodical act to see that no one moved. Professional thoroughness. Then, satisfied he was dead, they sprinted for the glass doors.