After a short time, confident that he knew the layout by heart, he followed the dimly lit back stairs all the way up to the unfinished attic, where-according to Maria-the senior housekeeper had occasional trysts with the shipping magnate’s chef, who was something of a ladies’ man.

Having attained his goal, Agent 47 shrugged his way out of the day pack, reloaded the air pistol, and zipped the weapon away. Maybe, if he had gauged the dosage correctly, he would be able to escape without having to sedate the dog again. Especially if the guards took the animal to a vet and left it there overnight. In the meantime there was plenty of food and water in the pack along with an MP3 player to see him through the boring hours ahead.

Moving with extreme caution, he made his way over to a jumble of boxes, and crawled behind several of them. The floor was hard, but he was used to that, and found a spot that was both comfortable and defensible.

Meanwhile, one floor below, the man Agent 47 was planning to kill was wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

Even though things were going well for him, and he had every reason to be happy, it felt as if ice-cold fingers were clutching his intestines.

Why?

There was no way to know—and the hours seemed to crawl by.

Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the bay, and a powerful speedboat carved a long white line through the blue water as it towed a bikini-clad teenager past the Jean Danjou’s lofty stern. The young woman waved, and although Mr. Nu waved back, Diana didn’t.

Which wasn’t too surprising, given the controller’s official status as a prisoner, and the chrome bracelet that encircled one of her shapely ankles. The leg iron was connected to a stanchion by a six-foot length of stainless steel chain intended to keep the woman from diving off the ship and swimming ashore. A long pull, but a feat that Diana thought she was probably capable of.

However, the bracelet and chain were really a kindness, a way to let Diana up on the deck, rather than keep her confined in the brig below. More than that, a sign that Mr. Nu was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, even if many of The Agency’s board members were already convinced of her guilt and eager to see her punished.

But Diana found it difficult to sit at the linen-covered table and soak up the Mediterranean sun knowing that the last days of her life might be ticking away. Even though Agent 47 claimed to have knowledge of who the real turncoat was, the assassin was in Sintra, Portugal, and hadn’t been heard from since his meeting with Nu.

Was that because he had followed the wrong lead?

Because he was dead?

There was no way to know. So as Diana surveyed the harbor and took a sip of chilled wine, death was very much on her mind. The controller wanted to live, but knew that she, like every other member of the human race, was one day going to die.

The only question was: When?

A uniformed crew member approached the table. He was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, matching shorts, and deck shoes. As with all of the other crew members he was careful to ignore the ankle bracelet and chain.

“There’s a phone call for you, sir,” the crew member said respectfully. “Should we put it through?”

Everyone was aware that Nu coveted the hour between five and six. It was when he liked to sit on the stern and enjoy an uninterrupted cocktail. So, given the fact that the people in the control room had seen fit to send a messenger, the call was probably important. Mr. Nu sighed. “Who is it?”

“Agent 47, sir,” the crewman answered.

Diana felt her heart leap, and saw her companion’s eyebrows rise.

“Patch him through,” Nu instructed. “I’ll take the call.”

“They already have,” the messenger said expressionlessly. “He’s on line two.”

The phone was already on the table. All the executive had to do was to push the appropriate button. Diana was grateful he put the call on speaker.

“Agent 47?” Nu inquired. “I must say, it’s about time.”

The assassin kept his voice low, which led Diana to believe that he was in a position that could be compromised.

“Sorry, sir, but I’ve been busy.”

Nu glanced at Diana.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, 47. What, if anything, have you been able to learn?”

“I still believe Thorakis is the man that we’re looking for…but I haven’t been able to find proof. That’s where you come in.”

Nu frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Here’s what I want you to do,” 47 explained. “Tell all of the board members-including Thorakis-that I know who the traitor is, and that I’m on my way to kill that individual. But don’t identify anyone by name. And find an opportunity to let the name ‘Hotel Central’ slip out. It’s an establishment that Thorakis is bound to recognize.

“If our man is innocent, he won’t do anything at all. But I’m betting that he’ll phone his contact within the Puissance Treize and beg for help. When that help comes, I’ll be waiting. And that will constitute the proof we need.”

“And then?” Mr. Nu wanted to know.

“And then Mr. Thorakis is going to have an accident,” the assassin responded flatly.

The sun was on the edge of the horizon by then, and Diana felt a sudden chill. She lacked a sweater, so she wrapped her arms around her torso instead.

“I like it,” the executive replied coldly. “I like it very much. But be careful. Assuming things go the way you expect them to, the people the Puissance Treize send will be very, very good. Do you need help?”

“Thanks,” 47 replied. “But no thanks.”

“All right then,” Nu said. “Keep me informed.”

“I will,” the assassin assured him. “And I have a message for Diana…”

The executive looked from the phone to the controller and back again.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Tell her she owes me.”

Diana was about to reply when she heard a click, followed by a dial tone.

She deserved to die for some of things she had done. By most people’s standards anyway. But maybe, just maybe, a guardian angel was about to save her.

If so, he would be a dark angel, sent from a place other than heaven.

A large banner had been strung between two of the weather-beaten columns that were evenly spaced along the front of the sun-splashed terrace. It read HAPPY BIRTHDAY NICOLE, in big blue letters. Colorful groupings of balloons bobbed here and there, a long narrow table occupied the center of the space, where dirty plates and the half-eaten remains of a very expensive birthday cake could still be seen.

Children squealed with excitement as they chased each other back and forth, completely unaware of the dark deeds that had been carried out within the castle during the last five hundred years, or the blood money required to purchase and maintain the fortress now. And even though some of the adults who were seated around well-set tables knew about such things, they too were lost in the moment.

Pierre Douay’s daughter, Nicole, had just turned seven, the children were enjoying themselves, and it was a lovely day.

Such was the scene when the phone in Douay’s pocket began to vibrate. The Frenchman didn’t want to answer it, but that particular number was known to less than thirty people, every one of whom was extremely important in one way or another. So Douay swore silently, went inside in order to get away from the noise, and eyed the incoming number.

The call was from Aristotle Thorakis, a man the executive had come to detest, but was still in a position to provide the Puissance Treize with valuable information. Which was the only reason Douay thumbed the device on.