"I did the right thing?"

"You did well, Antonio." Morgan took his hand.

"No, it was Tony, Carl, not me. What am I going to do with him? Harvard Medical School, the Mayo Clinic, a brilliant student, yet he works with the nuns at Our Lady of Mercy for peanuts."

"You leave him," Morgan said. "He'll find his way. I went to Vietnam, Antonio. No one can take that away from me. You can't argue with it, the rich boy going into hell when he didn't need to. It says something. He won't be there forever, but the fact that he was will make people see him as someone to look up to for the rest of his life. He's a fine boy." He put a hand on Mori's shoulder. "Heh, I hope I don't sound too calculating."

"No," Mori protested. "Not at all. He's someone to be proud of. Thank you, Carl, thank you. I'll leave you now. Asta." He nodded to her and walked away.

"That was nice," Asta told Morgan. "What you said about Tony."

"It's true. He's brilliant, that boy. He'll end up in Park Avenue, only unlike the other brilliant doctors there he'll always be the one who worked downtown for the nuns of Our Lady of Mercy, and that you can't pay for."

"You're such a cynic," she said.

"No, sweetheart, a realist. Now let's get going. I'm famished. I'll take you out to dinner."

They had finished their meal at The Four Seasons, were at the coffee stage when one of the waiters brought a phone over. "An overseas call for you, sir. Sicily. The gentleman said it was urgent."

The voice over the phone was harsh and unmistakable. "Carl. This is Giovanni."

Morgan straightened in his seat. "Uncle?" He dropped into Italian. "What a marvelous surprise. How's business?"

"Everything looks good, particularly after reading your fax."

"I was right to let you know about this business then?"

"So right that I want you out of there on the next plane. This is serious business, Carl, very serious."

"Fine, Uncle. I'll be there tomorrow. Asta's with me. Do you want to say hello?"

"I'd rather look at her, so you'd better bring her with you. I look forward to it, Carl."

The phone clicked off, the waiter came forward and took it from him. "What was all that about?" Asta said.

"Business. Apparently Giovanni takes this Chungking Covenant thing very seriously indeed. He wants me in Palermo tomorrow. You too, my love. It's time you visited Sicily," and he waved for the head waiter.

They took a direct flight to Rome the following morning where Morgan had a Citation private jet standing by for the flight to Punta Raisi Airport twenty miles outside Palermo. There was a Mercedes limousine waiting with a chauffeur and a hard-looking individual in a blue nylon raincoat with heavy cheekbones and the flattened nose of the prize fighter. There was a feeling of real power there, although he looked more Slav than Italian.

"My uncle's top enforcer," Morgan whispered to Asta, "Marco Russo." He smiled and held out his hand. "Marco, it's been a long time. My daughter, Asta."

Marco managed a fractional smile. "A pleasure. Welcome to Sicily, Signorina, and nice to see you again, Signore. The Don isn't at the town house, he's at the Villa."

"Good, let's get moving then."

Luca's villa was outside a village at the foot of Monte Pellegrino, which towers into the sky three miles north of Palermo.

"During the Punic Wars the Carthaginians held out against the Romans on that mountain for three years," Morgan told Asta.

"It looks a fascinating place," she said.

"Soaked in blood for generations." He held up the local paper, which Marco had given him. "Three soldiers blown up by a car bomb last night, a priest shot in the back of the neck this morning because he was suspected of being an informer."

"At least you're on the right side."

He took her hand. "Everything I do is strictly legitimate, Asta, that's the whole point. My business interests and those of my associates are pure as driven snow."

"I know, darling," she said. "You must be the greatest front man ever. Granddad Morgan a General, you a war hero, billionaire, philanthropist, and one of the best polo players in the world. Why, last time we were in London, Prince Charles asked you to play for him."

"He wants me next month." She laughed and he added, "But never forget one thing, Asta. The true power doesn't come from New York. It lies in the hands of the old man we're going to see now."

At that moment they turned in through electronic gates set in ancient, fifteen-foot walls and drove through a semitropical garden toward the great Moorish villa.

The main reception room was enormous, black-and-white-tiled floor scattered with rugs, seventeenth-century furniture from Italy in dark oak, a log fire blazing in the open hearth, and French windows open to the garden. Luca sat in a high-backed sofa, a cigar in his mouth, hands clasped over the silver handle of a walking stick. He was large, at least sixteen stone, his gray beard trimmed, the air of a Roman Emperor about him.

"Come here, child," he said to Asta and when she went to him, kissed her on both cheeks. "You're more beautiful than ever. Eighteen months since I saw you in New York. I was desolated by your mother's unfortunate death last year."

"These things happen," she said.

"I know. Jack Kennedy once said, anyone who believes there is fairness in this life is seriously misinformed. Here, sit beside me." She did as she was told and he looked up at Morgan. "You seem well, Carlo." He'd always insisted on calling him that.

"And you, Uncle, look wonderful."

Luca held out his hand and Morgan kissed it. "I like it when your Sicilian half floats to the surface. You were wise to contact me on this Chungking business and Mori showed good judgment in speaking to you."

"We owe it to his grandson," Morgan said.

"Yes, of course. Young Tony is a good boy, an idealist, and that's good. We need our saints, Carlo, they make us rather more acceptable to the rest of the world." He snapped a finger and a white-coated houseboy came forward.

"Zibibbo, Alfredo."

"At once, Don Giovanni."

"You will like this, Asta. A wine from the island Pantelleria, flavored with anise." He turned to Morgan. "Marco took me for a run into the country the other day, to that farmhouse of yours at Valdini."

"How was it?"

"The caretaker and his wife seemed to be behaving themselves. Very peaceful. You should do something with it."

"Grandfather was born there, Uncle, it's a piece of the real Sicily. How could I change that?"

"You're a good boy, Carlo, you may be half American, but you have a Sicilian heart."

As Alfredo opened the bottle, Morgan said, "So, to the Chungking Covenant. What do you think?"

"We have billions invested in Hong Kong in hotels and casinos and our holdings will be severely damaged when the Communists take over in ninety-seven. Anything that could delay that would be marvelous."

"But would the production of such a document really have an effect?" Asta asked.

He accepted one of the glasses of Zibibbo from Alfredo. "The Chinese have taken great care to handle the proposed changes in the status of Hong Kong through the United Nations. These days they want everything from international respectability to the Olympic Games. If the document surfaced with the holy name of Mao Tse-tung attached to it, who knows what the outcome would be."

"That's true," Morgan agreed. "All right, they'd scream forgery."

"Yes," Asta put in, "but there is one important point. It isn't a forgery, it's the real thing, we know that and any experts brought in will have to agree."

"She's smart, this girl." Luca patted her knee. "We've nothing to lose, Carlo. With that document on show we can at least hold the whole proceedings up if nothing else. Even if we still lose millions, I'd like to mess it up for the Chinese and particularly for the Brits. It's their fault they didn't sort the whole mess out years ago."