The fading sun had the look of blood, too, crimson and intense. Squinting against its apocalyptic glare, he searched for a taxi in the disordered clutter of police vehicles still crowded around the airport entrance. Noting a yellow car halfway down the drive, its driver surreptitiously motioning and mouthing “Tassi,” Egon made his way slowly through the tangle of cars and vans to the cab. A sudden dizziness assailed him, and when he came within three feet of the Fiat 750, he plunged through the open back door and collapsed on the seat. He had to get out of town, far away, he thought, shivering in the warm air. His eyes followed the short, bulky driver as he slammed the door shut, walked around the back of the cab, and slid into the driver's seat. “I want to go to Nice,” Egon blurted. Sylvie was there. She'd take care of him. She'd see that Carey came.

“You crazy?” the driver asked brusquely, jerking his head around to look at the slender blond man, white as his linen shirt.

“Not yet,” Egon said, his voice strangely raspy, as if there wasn't enough air in his lungs to force out the words.

“You know how far that is?” the cabbie asked, stretching his hirsute arm along the back of the seat and looking Egon over with critical appraisal. The tobacco-colored suit was expensive, as were the shoes, the two rings, the Bulgari watch. Maybe he did know how far it was.

Egon nodded wearily. He'd recognized the Neapolitan accent, confirmed with a brief glance-no meter-that he was in an illegal cab. A Neapolitan's disregard for the system was as natural as their ingrained privateering mentality. Egon relaxed fractionally. For money, this man would do anything. Sliding further into the corner of the seat, he stretched his legs out and said, “Seven-hundred kilometers, at least.”

“You got money?” It was more a statement now than a question.

Egon nodded again. The rough, low-class dialect brought back long-forgotten memories. Raising his heavy-lidded eyes, he replied quietly, “Enough.”