The boats were nearing the shore. Beyond a trio of early windsurfers, light flashed suddenly as the sun reflected off some polished surface.

Scotto picked up a glass of orange juice.

Splinters of crystal erupted from his fingers and fountained across the white clothed table. The girl started to her feet as the juice soaked the front of her green kimono. “You clumsy ape!” she yelled, pulling at the damp material.

Scotto was staring at the blood leaking from a hole in the palm of his hand.

The second slug took away the top of his head and catapulted him against the French windows leading to the room. The girl opened her mouth to scream.

The third bullet smashed through her front teeth and punched a fist-sized exit in the back of her skull. She fell forward across the table, her gory hair drenched in lukewarm coffee.

Three hours later, on a long stretch of railway track in the center of France, a high-speed train was hitting something over 170 mph when three men stopped at the door of Compartment 9.

The tallest of the trio tapped on the maplewood panel. A voice from inside said something indistinguishable.

“Tickets, please,” the tall guy called.

The door opened a crack. The three men shouldered it wide and crowded into the compartment. The bed was made up, the blinds pulled down. The occupant of the sleeper was a spare, gray-haired man of about sixty.

“What the hell?.. Smiler! Wh-what do you guys want with me?” he blustered.

“I think you know, Frankie,” Smiler said. “The capo don’t go too strong on guys who welsh on a deal.”

One of the men was carrying a briefcase. He opened it and took out a length of solid steel about eighteen inches long.