Does terror kill my sex drive, or is it that that area of my brain is completely filled with lewd images of Patricia Wilson?

The American got in the backseat-and it was a little crowded; he could feel Inge's hip against his-and the door was closed.

"Inge works in our Prague office," the American said. "Among other things, she brought the cars from Prague for us to use."

What the hell is he doing? Telling me that Inge is available? Or even, presuming I'm a good boy, that Inge is the prize?

Or just making polite conversation?

"Do you know Prague, Herr Gossinger?" Inge asked as the car started to move.

"Yes, I do," Castillo said, politely.

[SEVEN]

The other car was another black Mercedes, another new one, but the big one, like Otto Gorner's, the 600 with the V-12 engine. Its windows were similarly deeply tinted, and it, too, carried a Prague license tag.

It was parked sideway, across three pull-in spaces, at the observation point on the Cobenzl, which was nothing more than a flat area paved with gravel, and with a steel, waist-high fence to keep people from falling down the hill. There were no other cars, although there was space for seven or eight.

A tall man, dark-haired, well-dressed, was leaning on the metal guardrail puffing on a long light brown cigar. Another hefty East European type was resting his rear end on the front left fender of the Mercedes.

There was a small folding table beside him, something like a card table but smaller. On it was a bottle of cognac, two snifters, and a small wooden box.

The tall man, who appeared to be in his late thirties, turned and looked at the smaller Mercedes.

The American got out of the 220 and Castillo followed his lead. The American got back in the car.

"Herr Gossinger?" the tall man asked in German.

Castillo walked toward him and put out his hand.

"I'm Gossinger," he said. "And you're Herr Pevsner?"

"Why not? What's a name, after all?" Pevsner said with a warm smile. Pevsner's German was fluent and he sounded like a Berliner.

The next thing that Castillo noticed was Pevsner's eyes. They were large and blue and extraordinarily bright.

I wonder if he's on something?

Pevsner's grip was firm without being aggressive. Castillo noticed that his teeth were not only healthy looking but clean. That was not always the case with Russians.

Well, I guess if you've made multiple fortunes in the arms business you can afford a good dentist.

"Tell me, Herr Gossinger," Pevsner asked, "are you by chance a cigar smoker?"

Yes, I am.

Pevsner picked up the wooden box, a small cigar humidor, and extended it to Castillo.

"Try one of these. These are the good Upmanns," he said.

"Excuse me?" Castillo asked as he took one.

"From the Canary Islands factory," Pevsner said. "I don't think there's any question that they're much better than the ones Castro is making in Cuba, in the plant he took away from the Upmann people in the name of the people."

"I've heard that," Castillo said. "Thank you."

And an arms merchant can afford really good cigars. And big black Mercedeses.

Pevsner handed him a silver guillotine and Castillo trimmed the cigar.

"I've always wondered if those things were patterned after the head chopper or the other way around," Pevsner said.

"I think the: big one is named after a French doctor named Guillotin, without the e," Castillo said.

"Well, I'm glad to know that," Pevsner said. "And not surprised that you knew. I suppose journalists have to have brains stuffed with odd facts, don't they?"

"I've heard that, too," Castillo said.

Pevsner handed him a gold Dunhill butane lighter and Castillo carefully lit the cigar, took a couple of good puffs, then said, "Very nice indeed. Thank you, Herr Pevsner."

And gold Dunhill butane lighters.

"My pleasure, Herr Gossinger," Pevsner said. "Now, another question. Do you like French cognac?"

"Yes, I do."

Pevsner picked up the bottle and poured three-quarters of an inch into one of the snifters, and then added more to his glass.

That's a big snifter; there's a lot of booze in that glass.

Castillo picked up the snifter and began to warm the bowl in his palm.

"We are now equipped to watch darkness fall over Vienna," Pevsner said. "But, as aviators know, darkness doesn't fall, it rises. Isn't that so?"

"That's what I'm told," Castillo said.

"Tell me what you think of the cognac," Pevsner said.

Castillo held up a finger, indicating he wanted a moment, and then swirled the cognac around in the snifter for another twenty seconds. Then he took a sip.

"Very good," he pronounced.

And very good cognac. Who said crime doesn't pay?

"I'm pleased," Pevsner said and smiled at him. "You seem like such a nice fellow," Pevsner went on. "I am really pleased that it was not necessary to give you an Indian beauty mark."

"Excuse me?"

With a sudden movement-so quick Castillo didn't have time to jerk his head out of the way-Pevsner touched Castillo in the center of his forehead with his index finger.

What the hell is that all about?

Indian beauty mark?

Jesus Christ! He's talking about a bullet hole in the center of my forehead!

Pevsner picked up his cognac snifter and carried it to the guard fence. He very carefully balanced the glass on the top railing of the fence, relit his Upmann with the Dunhill, and then leaned on the fence with his hands supporting him.

After a moment, Pevsner looked over his shoulder, then waved with his left hand for Castillo to join him.

Castillo walked to the fence.

Pevsner gestured at Vienna.

"There it is," he said, "laid out before us. As it was for Emperor Franz Josef, and, before him, Napoleon. And you're right on time. We will shortly begin to see darkness-as you well know- rise and gradually mask Vienna."

"I suppose we will," Charley said.

"So here we are. We are drinking rather decent cognac and smoking what I think are really good cigars, and when darkness has finished rising from the ground, and all we will be able to see is a sea of lights under us, I hope you will be my guest at dinner."

"That's very kind of you," Castillo said.

Two inane responses in a row. Attaboy, Charley! Dazzle this guy with your quick mind and verbal agility.

"Under those circumstances, wouldn't it be nice if we could be honest with one another? As we begin what could be-and, I hope, will be-a long and mutually profitable association?"

What's he going to do? Offer to put me on his payroll not to mention his name in print?

"That would be very nice, Herr Pevsner," Castillo said.

That's three in a row, Charley.

"I really hope you mean that, Major Castillo," Pevsner said, in English.

Jesus H. Fucking Christ!

"Please don't act as if you have no idea what I mean," Pevsner said.

"How the hell did you find out?" Castillo asked after a long moment.

"It doesn't really matter, does it? But I understand your curiosity." Pevsner inclined his head toward the smaller Mercedes. "Before he became associated with me, Howard spent twenty years with the FBI."

"Is that his first name or his last?"

"Howard Kennedy," Pevsner said. "Over the years, our relationship has changed from employer-employee to being friends. I call him by his Christian name."

It took a surprisingly short time for darkness to rise, until all that could be seen of Vienna was a sea of lights.

Pevsner had said nothing more. He had sipped his cognac and puffed on his cigar. It went out once and he relit it with the gold Dunhill and then politely offered the lighter to Castillo.

"Mine's still going, thank you," Castillo had said.