He did not know whether to be reassured or apprehensive, because either his father had thought of every contingency or, more ominously, he was expecting his son's journey to be both arduous and perilous.

Lost in thought, he put the items away and turned to the Michelin green guide to Venice he had bought at the airport bookstore. He'd been to Venice twice before, once with college friends and once during his tenure at Lusignan et Cie. As he read, he memorized pages here and there, refamiliarizing himself with the city whose history and heritage belonged as much to the East as to the West.

Beside him, Jenny feigned sleep. Paolo Zorzi, her mentor, had taught her from her very first day under his tutelage to look at the big picture. "There is a tendency, especially in high-tension situations, to narrow your focus," Zorzi said. "Of course, naturally enough, you're trying to find the smallest detail out of place. But you must never lose your sense of the big picture, because that is where your sense of right or wrong will come to the fore. If the big picture feels wrong, then you may be certain you'll find a detail out of place."

All her senses were on high alert. There was something about the big picture that felt wrong. The trouble was, she had no idea what it might be. Too, the entire operation had been designed by Dexter Shaw, and when it came to Dex she knew that she couldn't fully trust her sense of right and wrong. He'd had that effect on her-he'd always had.

Really, she was such an idiot. When he'd come to her to assign her to Bravo, she'd made not one sound of protest. What in the world had she been thinking? Working with Bravo, becoming emotionally involved, was turning out to be the most difficult assignment she'd ever been given. Certainly, it was the thorniest, filled as it was with lies, deceit and dangerous pitfalls that were sure to crop up during virtually every conversation that involved Dex. Had he known this would happen? She couldn't get that deeply disturbing thought out of her mind, because Dex had a curious talent for anticipating the future. She'd seen compelling evidence of it more than once, but when she'd asked him about it, he'd merely shrugged his shoulders. One thing father and son had in common: they held secrets.

Silently, she cursed Dex for getting her into this, then, filled with remorse, was immediately ashamed of herself. Settling deeper into the seat, she tried to will herself to sleep. Her body ached in every place it could ache and in several more she'd never even considered. Her head throbbed in sympathy, and she rubbed her temples before she realized that she was supposed to be asleep.

Beside her, she could hear small sounds, and she wondered what Bravo was doing. He was an enigma, impossible to read. Every time she thought she had a grip on who he was, something cropped up to prove her wrong. Take that photo of himself as a child, for instance. You'd think he would have been happy to know that his father carried it with him wherever he went. Instead, she had sensed his instant withdrawal. But in truth, she knew he wasn't the only one to blame. Her own secrets loomed large, feeling like a chasm she was less and less able to cross to get to him.

With an effort, she turned her mind away from Bravo, and once again took that mental step backward, struggling to gain perspective on the big picture. Yes, it was true, she didn't like that big picture, but for the life of her she did not know why.

"I'm having second thoughts about whom I assigned to the Venice task," Jordan said to his mother.

They were gliding through the glittering Parisian night in one of Lusignan et Cie's fleet of limousines. In the low light, sitting side by side, they could be mistaken for brother and sister.

"Perhaps I should use Brunner instead," Jordan continued.

"From Lucerne?" Camille said, her voice unnaturally sharp. "I'm sure that was Spagna's idea. As I've said before, darling, this man has altogether too much influence over your decisions. Besides, Cornadoro is already en route to Venice to be their protector."

Outside, the Seine glimmered beneath the cool blueish light of a half-moon, glimpsed between the sentinel rows of horse chestnuts beneath whose leafy arms Bravo and Dexter Shaw had walked and spoken in secret for almost the last time.

"I can always recall him."

"The decision has already been made."

"You're not angry, are you, Mother?"

"Certainly not."

Camille took a moment to stare out the window at the lovers strolling the cobbled banks and the ornate bridges of the river. Oh, to be young and innocent and in love, she thought. Then, as quickly as she had conjured it up, she banished the thought from her mind, and she was in full control again. Those days were long gone, part of another life, when she had been a different person. Or had she ever been different? Lately, she found it difficult to know. She did not even know whether she would want that life back again because, in the end, it had been nothing more than a cruel mirage, slipping like sand through her fingers.

"I am surprised, however," she went on. "You know Cornadoro's reputation as well as I do. He's the best we have. The very best."

"As Spagna pointed out, he has an exceptionally strong personality and can be headstrong as well as willful."

"He's also extremely clever, utterly ruthless and absolutely loyal." Camille leaned forward, murmured a location to the driver, who immediately turned away from the Seine, heading into the Left Bank's upscale seventh arrondisement. "Now that Ivo and Donatella are gone, it seems to me that he's the perfect choice."

"He's not subtle enough to be able to lure the Guardian away."

"Sometimes women don't respond to subtlety. Surely you know his reputation with women," Camille said. "It's my considered opinion that in this area Jenny Logan is terribly vulnerable. St. Malo gave me the measure of the Guardian. Has Spagna even met her?"

"You have a point."

"This is anything but an ordinary operation, my love. A mistake now could prove irreparable." She looked out as they turned into rue de la Comete, searching for the shop lights.

"Bien. Cornadoro it is," Jordan nodded. "On one condition."

The limo had stopped in front of a shop whose hand-painted sign said Thoumieux Couteaux. They got out, Camille leading the way into the shop. It was small and cramped inside. The walls were covered with photos of knives, the small glass case at the rear displayed three neat tiers of elegant knives, all handmade.

"Bon soir, Madame Muhlmann." The small man bustled out from behind the display case. He had a bald head and the long fingers, elegant as his knives, of a surgeon.

"Is it ready?" Camille asked.

"Bien sur, madame." He smiled shyly. "Precisely to madame's specifications." He held a small knife in his open palm.

Camille took it. It was a small stainless-steel folder with pearl scales. She touched the hidden mechanism and the blade popped open. He slid across the counter copies of the two photos she had taken and sent to him via her cell phone. Consulting them, she satisfied herself that he had made an exact replica the knife she had found hidden away in Jenny's compact.

She thanked the knife-maker as she paid him. Outside the shop, she turned to Jordan. "What is your condition for using Damon Cornadoro?"

"I've told him to use the name Michael Berio. Jenny Logan will recognize his real name, I'm quite certain." Jordan smiled the secret smile he reserved only for her. It was an expression of intimacy, and of complicity. "You're right: we've waited patiently, planned for too long-at this stage we cannot afford any mistakes. You'll monitor him in the field, keep him on a tight leash. Just be careful."

"You know I will," Camille said, entering the limo with him.