The screams lasted for a long time.

The deHavilland Twin Otter DHC-6 circled the small, kidney-shaped island as the pilot sought clearance from the ground. Reefs of dark rock could be seen just below the surface of the gulf’s sparkling blue water, where they served to protect the tiny bay from intruders, all but guaranteeing the island’s privacy.

Most of the key was brown and desolate, but The Agency’s retreat was marked by an oasis of green, made possible by a state-of-the-art desalinization plant. Aristotle Thorakis, like all the members of The Agency’s board, had been a guest on previous occasions. Back during happier times, before he’d been forced to borrow money from the Puissance Treize.

Now, rather than enjoy the comforts to which he otherwise would have been entitled, the shipping magnate was a hostage to his own fear. A terrible gut-wrenching worry that seeped into his mind during the day, haunted his dreams at night, and had grown steadily worse with the passage of time. The Agency knew it had been betrayed and was determined to identify the person or persons who were responsible.

Hence the surprise summons to Black Coral Key.

Thorakis could have refused, of course, but to do so would have been to focus more attention on himself rather than reduce it, and potentially hasten exposure. Not to mention the fact that Pierre Douay had insisted that he attend, so that he could find out what The Agency was up to. It was a truly hellish cycle from which there could be no escape until he found the means to repay the Puissance Treize, they destroyed The Agency, or he was assassinated.

Which, all things considered, he richly deserved.

Such were the businessman’s morbid thoughts as the twin-engine plane banked, began a steep descent, and came in for a picture-perfect landing on the key’s pristine bay. There was a gentle thump as the aircraft put down, followed by a loud roar, as the pilot put both props into the reverse—or “beta”—position in order to slow the seaplane down.

No sooner had the deHavilland touched the surface than a sleek launch was dispatched to meet it. The boat’s bow split the gulf water into two creamy waves and the inboard engine rumbled gently as the coxswain cut power and allowed the classic Chris-Craft to coast up to the plane. Cheerful greetings were exchanged between the copilot and the boat’s neatly attired crew as the businessman’s TUMI suitcase was transferred to the launch.

Then it was time for the shipping magnate to step across the narrow strip of water that separated the plane from the boat. Something he did without assistance, thanks to all the years he had spent on and near the water.

Once seated in the Chris-Craft, with the wind whipping through his hair, Thorakis was able to enjoy a brief interlude of worry-free pleasure as the boat cut across the bay and pulled up alongside a floating dock. A smartly uniformed member of the retreat’s staff was there to welcome him with a casual salute and an ice-cold glass of lemonade.

Three minutes later he was in an electric golf cart, with his bag in the back, being driven up a path paved with crushed seashells toward the ultramodern house above. The twenty-six-room mansion had been built for a Hollywood film actress and her husband before they were killed in a strange car crash. That was when The Agency had acquired the place for a bargain-basement price. Five-million had gone into improvements, many of which were invisible to all but the most discerning eye. They had to do with the murder-for-hire organization’s need for privacy, real-time global communications, and-if absolutely necessary-self-defense. Which was why the Hollywood House, as the staff commonly referred to it, was ringed with carefully concealed surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missile launchers.

More staff hustled out to greet Thorakis, including the lovely but somewhat enigmatic Diana, who was dressed in a crisp white halter top and sarong-style skirt. Her well-toned midriff was bare, as were her shapely legs and pedicured feet. It was an elegant yet slightly provocative look, which very few women could pull off.

“Aristotle!” the controller said warmly, as she came over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “It’s so good to see you. The rest of the board is already here, and we were just about to have some drinks. Will you join us?”

Search as he might Thorakis couldn’t detect any signs of distrust in the way Diana greeted him, the look in her eyes, or the positioning of her body. That was a relief and the shipping magnate forced a smile.

“Of course!” Thorakis said, as he offered his arm. “Especially if I will be free to feast my eyes upon you!”

Diana smiled as she took his arm.

“No wonder you have so many women. You’re not only handsome, but charming, as well.”

The truth was that there were only two women in the shipping magnate’s life. His wife, who was currently at home in Athens, and an Ethiopian mistress, who lived in Portugal. But the businessman always enjoyed compliments, especially from beautiful women, and took pleasure in being the one who got to escort Diana into the well-appointed boardroom.

A huge chunk of black coral sat next to the entry, where it was supported by a pedestal made of turned granadilla wood. Beyond that a bar stood to the right, the table occupied the center of the room, and a huge picture window filled the wall opposite the door. It was perfectly positioned to frame the well-watered green lawn, the picturesque bay, and the surf beyond.

There were all the usual greetings, as the twosome was absorbed by the gathering of international movers and shakers, all of whom knew each other well. Most of the conversation was centered on money, but other topics were under discussion as well, including the results of a hard-fought cricket match between India and South Africa.

The group included Mr. Nu, who was there to represent management; Aheem Shbot, the onetime Iraqi minister who was sitting on more than $25 million stolen during the early days of the war; José Sosa, a Venezuelan oil minister whose enemies had a marked tendency to die in car accidents; Frank Tang, a senior member of a successful Chinese tong; Lalu Khan, who was known as “The King of Whores” in his native India; Dr. Natalia Luka, who ran a profitable business peddling Russian nuclear technology to third-world countries; Hans Beck, a German industrialist with lofty political ambitions; Mary Minnarr, a South African whose fortune had been made selling blood diamonds; Mustapha Nour, an Egyptian arms merchant with valuable contacts inside the Tamil Tigres, the PKK, and other terrorist organizations; and Goto Osami, a member of the Japanese yakuza.

Thorakis watched their eyes, as the various board members turned to greet him, but found no signs of suspicion. So the gut-wrenching fear the shipping magnate had experienced on the plane had begun to abate by the time he and his peers took their respective places around the long, glass-topped table. Mr. Nu sat at the west end, with his back to the window, five members on his right, five on his left, and an empty chair opposite him. That was the seat traditionally reserved for the mysterious Chairman, whose identity was unknown, but was very much in attendance via a one-way video hookup.

It was he who called the meeting to order.

“Thank you for coming,” the deep melodious voice said. There were speakers in the ceiling, walls, and floor, so the words seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

“I know how busy you all are,” the voice continued smoothly. “And because of that, I was hesitant to add another meeting to your already demanding schedules. However, I’m sorry to announce that the efforts to identify the traitor within our organization have been unsuccessful thus far. All of our lower-ranking administrative personnel and field agents were rescreened,” the Chairman added soberly. “And, while three individuals appear to have been engaged in various types of theft, the effort to find the leak has been fruitless, evidence of which can be seen on the screen.”