And Egon, under the influence of drugs, had promised Rifat two hundred.

He'd sent two of his attorneys to repudiate his indiscretion the following afternoon. Rifat sat straight-backed behind an enormous desk topped with a single slab of exquisite malachite. He was late middle-aged, lean, with dark skin that proclaimed his origins. His body was still hard. At first impression he looked like a businessman; at second impression a soldier; at third impression an officer.

The attorneys tactfully explained that Mr. von Mansfeld had gone beyond his authority. They made all the usual excuses for Egon. And they returned the cash down payment in a Hermиs satchel.

Shakin Rifat had listened. He understood. He knew what Egon was-a weak, spoiled wastrel. But he also knew that Egon von Mansfeld on his name alone could deliver the small number of experimental weapons if he wished. Anger flared in Rifat's dark eyes-a cold, dispassionate hatred-and in that moment, alarmed at such chill malevolence, the two von Mansfeld attorneys earned their generous retainers for the month. His face set, the fury concealed, Rifat dismissed the high-priced messengers and turned to some papers on his desk.

But Egon remained as a possible future source, filed away against some eventuality when all portions of the equation balanced: drugs-fear-threats-need. The car bombing had served a dual purpose. It was a warning for silence, but it was also a reminder that Shakin Rifat was angry, and their business was unfinished.

When the screaming stopped…

When the carabinieri and the ambulances had come and gone…

And the morticians…

Trembling and white, Egon skirted the blood on the floor, stepped over a child's blood-soaked teddy bear, and shakily walked outside.