“And the weak perish,” he said to the setting sun as it colored the water and the Italian coast a noble burgundy. The weak always did die. It was the natural order.

If Creel has his way the big boys would be back in control. Mutually assured destruction, or MAD, was a term from the cold war and the subject of much fear, all of it misplaced. MAD was actually the greatest stabilizing force in history, though so many people, ignorant of how the world really functioned, would be appalled by such a statement. MAD provided certainty, predictability, and perhaps annihilation of certain elements of humanity for the greater good.

He walked to the upper deck railing and looked down at his sleeping wife. She was an idiot, like most people. They were blind to everything but themselves. No vision. Simple, weak, lazy. He gazed once more at the photo of Shaw. He didn’t look simple, weak, or lazy. Because he wasn’t.

It would be a pity to have to kill him. Yet Creel would, if necessary.

He lifted the ship’s phone. The Shiloh’s captain, a man with thirty years’ experience on the open seas serving a variety of rich masters, answered in a brisk positive tone.

Creel said, “Arrange to bring all the children out tomorrow. Take in the sixty-footer to get them. And bring the mother superior. I want to give her a check.”

“Very good, Mr. Creel. Will you want to launch the submarine again? The kiddies certainly enjoyed it last time.”

“Good idea. Have it ready. And have the chopper prepped to take Mrs. Creel to the small jet. She’ll be going to the South of France in the morning. And have her maid lay out some suitable clothing. The more the better.”

“Right you are, sir.”

Creel hung up. The good captain might not have been so pleasant had he known what Creel had done. The captain was British, London born and raised.

But the children would come tomorrow. Creel’s life had become a series of balances. One bad deed weighed against one good one. Yes, he very much looked forward to the children coming tomorrow.

And to building them a brand spanking new place to be orphans in.

THE STEEL BED ROLLED OUT with a clanking sound that Shaw felt down to his toes. The place smelled of chemicals and urine and other things he didn’t want to think about.

Frank stood next to him.

“Look, Shaw, you don’t have to do this. In fact I’m thinking you shouldn’t be doing this. Why remember her like this? In this place?” He waved his hand around the antiseptic space.

“You’re right,” Shaw said. “But I still have to do it.”

Frank sighed and nodded at the attendant.

For an instant, as the man’s fingers clutched the sheet, Shaw wanted to run, run to daylight before it was too late. Instead, he simply stood there as the sheet was lifted up and Shaw stared down at Anna. Or what was left of her.

He tried to avoid staring at the wound in the middle of her forehead, or the V-shaped suture tracks where the medical examiner had cut her open looking for helpful clues as to what had killed her, or at the twin bullet holes that had erupted through her chest. Yet he found that was all he could look at, the absolute destruction of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He didn’t even have the gentle embrace of her green eyes, since they were closed forever.

He nodded at the attendant again and turned away. The bed rolled back and the door clanged shut and with Frank’s help Shaw left the death room on shaky legs.

“Let’s go get drunk,” Frank said.

Shaw shook his head. “I have to go to Anna’s apartment.”

“What, are you some sort of masochist? First you see her on the slab and now you want to go rip your heart out some more. What’s the point, Shaw? She’s not coming back.”

“I’m not asking you to go. But I have to.”

Frank hailed a cab. “Right, but I’m still going.”

They climbed in the taxi and Shaw gave the driver the address. Then he hung his head out the window trying to fight the waves of nausea that were pounding him.

He shouldn’t have gone to the morgue. Not to see her like that. Not Anna.

Shouldn’t have, but had to.

He opened the door to her apartment a few minutes later, entered, and sat down on the floor while Frank stood nearby, his gaze on him. As Shaw looked around at the familiar sights, he slowly calmed. This was the living, breathing Anna here, not the butchered object he’d just left lying on unforgiving stainless steel. Here, Anna was not dead, not murdered.

He rose, lifted a photo off the mantel; it was of him and Anna in Switzerland last year. She was a fine skier, he was less than that. But the fun they’d had. Another photo of them in Australia. A third shot of them atop an elephant she’d nicknamed Balzac for its love of coffee that it would slurp right from the cup with its trunk.

Everywhere were her belongings, her loves, her passions.

Her.

He sat down again. In a few seconds he endured a million obvious thoughts that run through a bereaved person’s mind at a time like this. The bite of Adolph’s saw blade didn’t even come close to the pain he was feeling now. One bloody wound versus your entire mind, body, and soul being slowly crushed. They had no painkillers that could fight that.

Frank must’ve noticed the change in his expression. “Come on, Shaw, let’s go get that drink now.”

Shaw finally realized he couldn’t stay here either. In some ways the living Anna was more catastrophic to him than the dead one on the metal slab. It brought back so clearly what he’d lost, what they’d both lost together.

He struggled to his feet, but before Frank could reach it the knob turned and the door opened.

The next moment Shaw and Frank were standing eye to eye with Anna’s parents.

Wolfgang’s face flushed. He reached out to grab Shaw, but Shaw stepped back, out of the man’s range.

“No, Wolfgang, no!” screamed his wife.

“This monster, this monster.” Wolfgang was so incensed he was sputtering, choking on the few words, his eyes all the time shooting dangerous volleys at Shaw, who hung back, unsure of what to do.

“Now just hold on,” Frank said. “He’s hurting too.”

“What are you doing here?” demanded Natascha, clutching at her husband’s arm, trying to hold him back.

“Do not talk to him, to that filth,” yelled Wolfgang. “He killed our daughter. He killed Anna.”

Now Shaw took a step forward, his eyes flashing like blue acid. “What the hell are you talking about? I had nothing to do with Anna’s death.”

“Shaw, let me handle this,” Frank said.

Wolfgang pointed a fat finger directly in Shaw’s face. “Anna would not be dead but for you. You killed her.”

Frank yelled, “Wait a minute. That’s bullshit!”

Shaw started to move past him, but Wolfgang suddenly charged forward, grabbed him around the throat, and his heavy bulk caused both men to fall back hard against the wall. Natascha screamed and tried to pull her husband off. “No! No! Wolfgang. No!”

Frank tried to tug Wolfgang off Shaw but the man was too heavy.

Wolfgang’s thick shoulder collided with Shaw’s wounded arm and he grunted in pain. He managed to lever the big German away from him by pushing a knee against his gut. When Wolfgang charged him again, Shaw sidestepped the far slower man, who was breathing so hard and whose face was so red, Shaw thought he might be having a heart attack. Wolfgang struck the wall. Before he could turn around again and attack, Shaw used his hand to pinch a nerve right next to the man’s thick neck. Wolfgang slumped to the floor crying out in pain.

The next instant Natascha’s heavy purse struck Shaw in the face, cutting his cheek. He felt the blood ooze down. Frank ripped the purse from the woman’s hand and threw it across the room. Natascha knelt next to her husband, her arms protectively around him.