Fred was far beyond drunk. A car appeared from nowhere and slowed by the sidewalk. A back door swung open, and Greenlaw shoveled a half-dead Critz into the rear seat. The first stop was a warehouse eight blocks away. There Critz, thoroughly unconscious now, was transferred to a small unmarked panel truck with a double rear door. While Critz lay on the floor of the van, an agent used a hypodermic needle and injected him with a massive dose of very pure heroin. The presence of heroin always squelched the autopsy results, at the family's insistence of course.

With Critz barely breathing, the van left the warehouse and drove to Whitcomb Street, not far from his apartment. The killing required three vehicles-the van, followed by a large and heavy Mercedes, and a trail car driven by a real Brit who would hang around and chat with the police. The trail car's primary purpose was to keep the traffic as far behind the Mercedes as possible.

On the third pass, with all three drivers talking to each other, and with two agents, including the fine-looking lady, hiding on the sidewalk and also listening, the rear doors of the van were shoved open, Critz fell onto the street, the Mercedes aimed for his head and got it with a sickening thump, then everyone disappeared but the Brit in the trail car. He slammed on his brakes, jumped out and ran to the poor drunk who'd just stumbled into the street and been run over, and looked around quickly for other witnesses.

. There were none, but a taxi was approaching in the other lane. He flagged it down, and soon other traffic stopped. Before long, a crowd was gathering and the police arrived. The Brit in the trail car may have been the first on the scene, but he saw very little. He saw the man stumble between those two parked cars over there, into the street, and get hit by a large black car. Or maybe it was dark green. Not sure of the make or model. Never thought about looking at the license plates. No clue as to the description of the hit-and-run driver. He was too shocked by the sight of the drunk suddenly appearing at the edge of the street.

By the time the body of Bob Critz was loaded into an ambulance for the trip to the morgue, Greenlaw, the fine-looking lady, and two other members of the team were on a train leaving London and headed for Paris. They would scatter for a few weeks, then return to England, their home base.

Marco wanted breakfast primarily because he could smell it— ham and sausages on the grill somewhere deep in the main house— but Luigi was anxious to move on. "There are other guests and everyone eats at the same table," he explained as they hurriedly threw their bags in his car. "Remember, you're leaving a trail, and the signora forgets nothing."

They sped down the country lane in search of wider roads.

"'Where are we going?" Marco asked.

"We'll see."

"Stop playing games with me!" he growled and Luigi actually flinched. "I'm a perfectly free man who could get out of this car anytime I want!" 'Yes, but-"

"Stop threatening me! Ever}' time I ask a question you give me these vague threats about how I won't last twenty-four hours on my own. I want to know what's going on. Where are we headed? How long will we be there? How long will you be around? Give me some answers, Luigi, or I'll disappear."

Luigi turned onto a four-lane and a sign said that Bologna was thirty kilometers ahead. He waited for the tension to ease a bit, then said, "We're going to Bologna for a few days. Ermanno will meet us there. You will continue your lessons. You'll be placed in a safe house for several months. Then I'll disappear and you'll be on your own."

"Thank you. Why was that so difficult?"

"The plan changes."

"I knew Ermanno wasn't a student."

"He is a student. He's also part of the plan."

"Do you realize how ridiculous the plan is? Think about it, Luigi. Someone is spending all this time and money trying to teach me an other language and another culture. Why not just put me back on the cargo plane and stash me in some place like New Zealand?"

"That's a great idea, Marco, but I'm not making those decisions."

"Marco my ass. Every time I look in the mirror and say Marco I want to laugh."

"This is not funny. Do you know Robert Critz?"

Marco paused for a moment. "I met him a few times over the years. Never had much use for him. Just another political hack, like me, I guess."

"Close friend of President Morgan, chief of staff, campaign director."

"So?"

"He was killed last night in London. That makes five people who've died because of you-Jacy Hubbard, the three Pakistanis, now Critz. The killing hasn't stopped, Marco, nor will it. Please be patient with me. I'm only trying to protect you."

Marco slammed his head into the headrest and closed his eyes. He could not begin to put the pieces together.

They made a quick exit and stopped for gas. Luigi returned to the car with two small cups of strong coffee. "Coffee to go," Marco said pleasantly. "I figured such evils would be banned in Italy."

"Fast food is creeping in. It's very sad."

"Just blame the Americans. Everybody else does."

Before long they were inching through the rush hour traffic on the outskirts of Bologna. Luigi was saying, "Our best cars are made around here, you know. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis, all the great sports cars."

"Can I have one?"

"It's not in the budget, sorry.'

"What, exactly, is in the budget?"

"A very quiet, simple life."

"That his what I thought."

"Much better than your last one."

Marco sipped his coffee and watched the traffic. "Didn't you study here?"

"Yes. The university is a thousand years old. One of the finest in the world. I'll show it to you later."

They exited the main thoroughfare and wound through a gritty suburb. The streets became shorter and narrower and Luigi seemed to know the place well. They followed the signs pointing them toward the center of the city, and the university. Luigi suddenly swerved, jumped a curb, and wedged the Fiat into a slot barely wide enough for a motorcycle. "Lets eat something," he said, and, once they managed to squeeze themselves out of the car, they were on the sidewalk, walking quickly through the cool air.

Marco's next hiding place was a dingy hotel a few blocks from the outer edge of the old city. "Budget cuts already," he mumbled as he followed Luigi through the cramped lobby to the stairs.

"It's just for a few days," Luigi said.

"Then what?" Marco was struggling with his bags up the narrow stairway. Luigi was carrying nothing. Thankfully the room was on the second floor, a rather small space with a tiny bed and curtains that hadn't been opened in days.

"I like Treviso better," Marco said, staring at the walls.

Luigi yanked open the curtains. The sunlight helped only slightly. "Not bad," he said, without conviction.

"My prison cell was nicer."

"You complain a lot."

"With good reason."

"Unpack. I'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes. Ermanno is waiting."

Ermanno appeared as rattled as Marco by the sudden change in location. He was harried and unsettled, as if he'd chased them all night from Treviso. They walked with him a few blocks to a run-down apartment building. No elevators were evident, so they climbed four flights of stairs and entered a tiny, two-room flat that had even less furniture than the apartment in Treviso. Ermanno had obviously packed in a hurry and unpacked even faster.

"Your dump's worse than mine," Marco said, taking it in.

Spread on a narrow table and waiting for action were the study materials they'd used the day before.

"I'll be back for lunch," Luigi said, and quickly disappeared.

"Andiamo a studiare," Ermanno announced. Let's study.

"I've already forgotten everything."