Villaume and his people were not usually hired to kill someone. More often his work involved simple intelligence gathering: rifling through an office in the middle of the night, copying a computer hard drive, tapping phones, and planting bugs. Attorneys and businessmen were his two biggest clients. He knew who they were, but very few of them knew who he was. The rules were simple. Villaume had a network of overseas accounts that he used to collect fees. He would receive a name and summary of the information desired. Villaume would then quote a price to the client. If the client agreed, he or she would transfer half of the fee into one of the accounts. When Villaume handed over the desired information, they would wire the other half. It was usually very simple.

That was, until Peter Cameron had shown up. The mad been insistent on meeting face-to-face. To help assuage Villaume's fears, Cameron offered to double his fees. At the relatively young age of fifty-two, Villaume was looking to retire. There was, however, a catch. He wanted to make he was absolutely set – no financial worries. The lifestyle had in mind required at least two million dollars. When Cameron waved the prospect of double fees in his face, the temptation was too much to resist.

Now he wondered if it might not be a good idea to take what he had and disappear, at least for a while. He would have to alert the others. Tell them to cool it for a while and lie low. Maybe take a long trip. He'd already warned Lukas and Juarez to be careful. With Cameron associating with W the likes of Duser, things could get ugly.

The thirty minutes was up. Villaume stopped pedaling and closed his magazine. He had made up his mind. Lukas and Juarez needed a vacation. There were two others on the team. but, fortunately for them, Cameron didn't even know., they existed. As Villaume stepped from the bike, he looked up at the array of televisions above the running track. The local news was starting. It appeared all three stations were leading with the same story. Villaume froze upon seeing the words «College Park» flash across the screen directly in front of him. The volume was off, but subtitles were running across the bottom of the picture. A reporter was standing in front of a yellow maze of crime scene tape. She pointed over her shoulder at two parked cars. Villaume scrambled to read the white-on-black words as they were typed in from left to right. There was something about one hundred shots being fired… one dead for sure, maybe two. The police were looking for a silver SUV: A Maryland driver's license appeared on the screen. The station reported that the victim's name was Todd Sherman. Gus Villaume knew better. He turned and started walking for the exit. The face on the driver's license belonged to Mario Lukas.

Villaume forced a smile and said good night to the attendant behind the front desk. Inside he was burning up. Mario Lukas had been his friend for a long time. He had taken care of Mario, and Mario had taken care of him. Mario was the muscle, and Gus was the brains. Alone they were adequate, together they were the best. Villaume thought of running. They had made arrangements years ago that if one of them died, the other would get all the money. With Mario's passing, Villaume's retirement account had just effectively passed the two-million mark. He could disappear and never look back. But that meant allowing that smug prick Cameron off the hook. Villaume crossed the parking lot to his car. At the very least, he had to alert Juarez. After that, he could decide what to do with Cameron. As Villaume opened his car door, he was overcome with grief for the loss of his friend and hatred for a man he barely knew.

In any other city, in any other walk of life, Donatella Rahn would have been seen for exactly what she was – a ravishing beauty – but in Milan, Italy, she was over the hill. At thirty-eight, the former model was washed up. Donatella was two inches short of six feet, and with a good diet, a daily walking regimen, and the help of a skilled plastic surgeon, she had maintained her gorgeous body. It was amazing enough that in her late thirties she looked as good as, or better than, she had when she was prancing across the runways of Milan, Paris, and New York, but it was even more amazing considering what she had been through. Donatella Rahn was a unique and complicated person.

It was a nice fall morning in Milan as Donatella walked to work. Every spring the people of Milan eagerly awaited summer. It meant trips to some of the world's most beautiful lakes. But by the time August rolled around, they were once again ready for fall. The warm, humid air of summer brought smog and choking pollution to the city. The crisp cool air of autumn helped clean things up.

Donatella took her time walking this morning, which probably had something to do with the boots she was wearing. They had a four-inch heel on them, and as was the case with most of the fashion she helped sell, they were not very practical. She passed the House of Gucci on Via Monte Napoleone and resisted the urge to spit on the display window. She took a right onto Via Sant' Andrea and crossed the street. Up ahead was the House of Armani, her home for almost fifteen years. Donatella was fiercely loyal. It was, in fact, probably the only thing she had inherited from her mother other than her looks. She was the byproduct of an Austrian father and an Italian mother. Her mother was a Jew from Torino, Italy, and her father was a Lutheran from Dornbirn, Austria; it was no surprise that their marriage had failed.

Italy was, after all, the Vatican 's backyard. The country had a not so illustrious record of crushing religious dissent. The marriage lasted three short years, and then she and her mother returned to Torino, where they lived with Donatella's Orthodox Jewish grandparents. At sixteen she ran away to Milan. She wanted to model, and she didn't want any more religion. She got her way on both counts, and it was the start of a very bumpy road.

Now, all of these years later, Donatella Rahn entered the House of Armani knowing that her colleagues hadn't the slightest idea of her full range of talents. She eschewed the elevator, as always, and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. As usual, she was one of the first to arrive. She entered her sanctum and closed the door for privacy. Her office was modem industrial, a miniaturized version of an airplane hangar. Sketches of clothes cluttered every available inch of the two couches and four chairs. Her coworkers liked to complain that there was nowhere to sit in her office. Donatella wondered if they would ever take the hint that she wanted it that way.

The only thing in the office that wasn't covered with sketches was a large glass desk. Donatella sat down behind it and turned on her computer. Her sleek flat Viewsonic screen came to life a moment later. She checked her work e-mail and then her personal e-mail. After wading through seventeen messages, she checked a third on-line mailbox. This mailbox, she had been assured, could not be traced back to her. There were only three people in the world who knew about it. One in Tel Aviv, one in Paris, and one in Washington. Almost all of the messages came from the person in Tel Aviv.

This morning was no different. Donatella clicked on the message, and the decryption software on her computer went to work. When it was done, she began to read. She was being offered a job in Washington. It was rated at a quarter of a mil- lion dollars, which meant the individual was not high profile. If he were, the rate would be a half million or more. On this she had to trust her handler. He had only screwed up once. It had almost cost her her life, but in his defense, it had been an honest mistake. She read a brief profile of the target and then checked her electronic organizer. There was a show in New York this coming weekend. It wasn't a big one, but then again, part of her job was to find undiscovered talent.