"Will you tell me why?" said Kurtz. He'd been fiddling with the handcuffs, but they were expensive and well made and very tight.

"Why what, old sport?"

"Why everything? Why save the Dodger from the asylum and sic him on the Gonzagas and Farinos so many years later? Why use me as an instrument to kill your friends the Major and Colonel Trinh? Why everything?"

Kennedy shook his head. "I'm afraid we don't have time. We have a busy day ahead of us. I have to visit your secretary at her sister-in-law's, and say hello to the girl—Aysha—as well. Edward and Theodore have to stop by the hospital to say hello to Detective King. Busy, busy, busy."

"At least tell me about Yasein Goba before you go," said Kurtz.

Kennedy shrugged. "What's to tell? He was very cooperative, but—as it turned out—a lousy shot. I had to finish the work there in the parking garage. I hated that wig I wore—I never looked good in long hair."

"The police records show you in the air in your private jet at the time O'Toole and I were shot," said Kurtz. "O'Toole's e-mail records show you responding to her e-mail just forty-five minutes before…" He stopped.

Kennedy smiled. "It's a poor corporation that doesn't own or lease more than one executive jet these days."

"You flew in on a second one, earlier," said Kurtz. "You even received and answered O'Toole's e-mail from the other Lear."

"Gulfstream V, actually," said Brian Kennedy. "But, yes. It's amazing how few formalities one has to go through at the private executive terminal out at Buffalo International."

"You shot us and drove out there to sign in as if you'd just arrived. Where did your real jet—Gulfstream—land?"

Kennedy shook his head. "Can it possibly matter now, Mr. Kurtz? You're simply stalling for time."

Kurtz shrugged. "Sure. Just one last question then."

"We searched you for a wire when you were unconscious, Mr. Kurtz. We know you're not broadcasting or recording. You're simply wasting your time and ours right now."

"The stud farm," said Kurtz. "Is that yours?"

"Bequeathed from my father," Brian Kennedy said softly. Rats scurried just around the bend in the tunnel. "In Virginia, actually."

"Poor Yasein Goba thought he was in the hands of Homeland Security and then the CIA, but it was just your Empire State Security and Executive Protection building in downtown Buffalo and then the farm, wasn't it?"

Kennedy said nothing. He was obviously tired of the conversation.

"You never worked for the CIA," said Kurtz. "But your old man did, didn't he? He was the third part of the triad back in Vietnam—with the Major and Trinh. They kept the drugs moving after the war ended."

"Of course," said Kennedy. "Are you just now figuring these things out, Mr. Kurtz? I must say, you're a very poor detective. But you're wrong—I did work for the CIA. For just under a year. It was incredibly boring, so I took my inheritance and started the security agency. Much more interesting. And lucrative."

"And you continued to shake down the Major and SEATCO after your old man died," said Kurtz. "Did they think you were still CIA? Still providing protection the way your daddy had in the seventies and eighties? And now you want it all? Is that it?"

"I'm afraid you've committed the cardinal sin, Mr. Kurtz. You've bored me." Kennedy took three steps back to the edge of the circle of light. "Edward. Theodore."

The two bodyguards made sure their field of fire was safe and raised their pistols, aiming at Kurtz's chest and head, bracing their weapons with born hands as if they could miss from eight feet away.

"You look like James Bond," Kurtz said to Kennedy, feeling his heart pounding wildly. "But you're making Dr. No's mistake."

Kennedy was no longer listening. "Time to feed the rats, old sport."

The tunnel echoed to the blast of six loud shots.

Both flashlights dropped and rolled in the shallow water, both ended up with their beams shining opposite directions. The dank air smelled of cordite. Two of the bodies lay still, polished shoes pointing upward. The third body did not move but a strange, terrible whistling came from it.

Kurtz did not move.

The man came silently out of the darkness. He was a tall man, very thin, dressed in a wool suit and a tan raincoat that looked too short and slightly dated. He wore a small Bavarian-style hat with a small red feather in its band. The man had a narrow, strangely kind-looking face, framed by thick, black-rimmed glasses, and had a thin ginger mustache and a slightly prominent lower lip. His eyes looked sad but very alert. He was carrying an unsilenced Llama semiautomatic pistol.

He walked to the first bodyguard, Theodore, stared down at him a few seconds, and then checked the second one, Edward. Both were dead. The man picked up one of the flashlights.

"Three," Kurtz said shakily, mostly to see if he could still speak. "I'll be paying this off in installments for twenty years."

"Not three," said the Dane, turning the flashlight and pistol in Kurtz's direction. "Four."

Kurtz's head jerked up. He braced his feet. "All right," he said. "Four."

The Dane shook his head. "Oh, no, my no. I don't mean you, Mr. Kurtz. I'm speaking of the man Kennedy left at the first door."

Kurtz felt a sensation that would be hard to describe to someone who hadn't experienced it. Mostly it had to do with the bowels.

The Dane knelt by the first bodyguard, retrieved a small key from the man's coat pocket, and unlocked Kurtz's handcuffs. Kurtz let them drop in the water.

"I didn't hear anything behind us," said Kurtz, rubbing his wrists. "I was beginning to worry a little."

"It is best not to be heard," the Dane said in his very slight Northern European accent. He took some keys from Brian Kennedy's trouser pocket. The fallen man stirred very slightly.

Kurtz went to one knee next to Kennedy. The man's carefully blow-dried hair was tousled and soaked. His eyes were open and his mouth was moving. It was the two bullet wounds in his chest that were causing the whistling noise. The two bodyguards had been shot in the heart, but the Dane had placed one bullet in each of Kennedy's lungs.

"That's called a sucking chest wound," Kurtz said softly. "Old sport."

Kurtz pulled the glowing Palm device from Kennedy's pocket and held it up. "Do we need this to find our way back?" he asked the Dane.

The man in the short raincoat shook his head.

Kurtz set the PDA on Kennedy's bloody chest. No air seemed to be coming from the handsome man's straining mouth, just from the two ragged holes in his chest. "Here you go," said Kurtz. "In case you're considering crawling, use this as your guide on the way back. But try to crawl fast—rats, don't you know."

Kurtz grabbed the second flashlight and he and the Dane began walking back through the catacombs.

"I didn't know if you'd get my message," said Kurtz when they'd taken the first turn and left the bodies behind.

The Dane made a motion with his shoulders. He'd tucked the pistol away under his raincoat. "My other work was done. I had the day off."

"Will I hear about your… other work?"

"Quite possibly," said the Dane. "At any rate, today's work will cost you and Countess Ferrara nothing. It is… what is the legal phrase… pro bono."

"Countess Ferrara?" said Kurtz. They moved into the taller tunnel with the Dane a step ahead.

"You didn't know that the lovely, former Angelina Farino is married to one of the most famous thieves in Europe and a member of royalty?" said the Dane. "I accepted her request in order to honor the Count. He is not a man one wishes to insult."

"I thought the old Count was dead," said Kurtz.

The Dane smiled his wry smile. "Many people have thought that over the decades. I always work on the premise that it is safer to assume otherwise."