George Camron removed his gray, pinstriped Armani suit, carefully folded the pants at the creases, and placed it on a wooden hanger. He had been forced to burn another Armani two weeks ago, and that upset him very much. Such a waste. He would have to be more careful with his wardrobe. Blood-stained silk suits raised overhead and increased expenses.

George, a very large man, enjoyed the finer things in life. He wore only custom-made suits. He stayed in only the most luxurious hotels.

He frequented only the finest gourmet restaurants. His slicked-back hair was styled (not cut, styled) by the world's most expensive hair designers (not beauticians, designers). He enjoyed manicures and pedicures.

He walked over to the hotel phone, picked up the receiver, and pressed seven.

"Room service," a voice said.

"Is there something we can get you, Mr. Thompson?"

The Ritz always referred to its guests by their names when they called.

The personal touch of a very fine hotel. George liked it. Thompson was, of course, his current alias.

"Caviar, please.

Iranian, not Russian."

"Yes, Mr. Thompson."

"And a bottle of Bollinger. 1979. Very cold."

"Yes, Mr. Thompson."

George hung up the phone and relaxed on the king-sized bed.

He was a long way from his humble beginnings in Wyoming, a long way from his military days in Vietnam, a long way from Thailand, the country he now called home. A wide variety of elegant hotel rooms was George's home now. The Somerset Maugham suite at the Oriental in Bangkok. The harbor penthouse at the Peninsula in Hong Kong. The corner suite at the Crillon in Paris. The presidential suite at the Hassler in Rome.

George checked his watch, turned on the television with the remote control, and switched to Channel 2. In a few minutes Newsflash, with Donald Parker and Sara Lowell, would be on.

George wanted to watch that show very much.