"By and by I became a driver, and then I had my own trucks and I made a little money. And I saved. But still I could not find what I wanted. It is not much, you would think, for a man to want. I did not desire riches. All I wanted was a cottage from which I could regard the sea, a place to retire.

"But the sea has become a preserve for the rich. Every inch of coast is parceled out, each stone has its price—and the price is too high for people such as us. But I determined, nevertheless, that I too would have my rich man's morsel. I swore that I would get my cottage on a cliff."

Bartoluzzi stopped talking and stared unseeingly into the tenor of the dark truck. He drained the enamel mug beside him and poured more wine.

"Three years ago," he went on slowly, "I found the piece of land I wanted. It was secluded, it was covered in olive trees, it looked out to sea. It was on the Corniche d'Or. There was already a cabanon there where I could live—but I could also build more if I wished. It was of course very expensive––unbelievably expensive. I put down every penny I had saved, and that only bought me an option.

"And then I realized that however hard I saved, however hard I worked, I would never be able to raise enough to complete the purchase. Or if I could persuade them to wait, I would be too old to enjoy the place by the time I could take possession of it. And so I decided—quite suddenly—to find other means. If a man's work was not enough to gain him the small thing he wanted out of life, then life must be maneuvered and manipulated in such a way that the thing could be done."

"What made you decide to do... this?" Kuryakin asked in a curiously gentle tone.

The determined jaw swung around toward him like the prow of a ship. "It seemed right that I should help others, the less fortunate ones, such as I had been," Bartoluzzi said simply. "It was right that my own salvation should be through the salvation of others. Also, through my experience in transport, I already had the knowledge and the means to carry it out."

"You were not worried about the law?"

"The law?" The nut-faced little man spat scorn. "The law is an abstraction! Which side of the law you are on is a matter of chance. If you are on the right side, you cheat and lie and steal and they call you a smart businessman. If you do the same things and you are on the wrong side, they call you an embezzler and they put you in prison. If you are on the right side and you kill, they give you medals; if, like yourself, you are on the wrong—then again they execute you or they shut you up forever. Don't speak to me of the law…"

"Yes, a curse on it. Let a man take what be needs—and the devil take those who would thwart him!" Illya growled, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be a bank robber and a killer. He changed the subject. "And have succeeded this way in... raising... the necessary capital?" he asked.

"Not yet," Bartoluzzi replied. "Two years have passed since I made my decision; fifteen months since I did the first job—for I had to spend a great deal of time planning and making contacts. But if I kept up a flow of operations like yours, my friend"—he glanced at the briefcase lying by Illya's feet—"I could probably make it in another three or four years."

"So long? At the prices you charge? It must be expensive land indeed!"

"It is. And do not forget, a fortune has to be dispensed to those helping me. They may not comprehend exactly what they are doing, but they know well enough that it is against the law. And silence comes expensive!"

"True. It is a long time, even so."

"It would have been twenty years, had I not started in this business. But do not worry on my account. If things go well in certain directions I shall in fact not even have to wait the three or four years."

"But you said…"

"I said it would take three or four years with cases like yours. In the case of people paying more, much more, evidently it would take less."

"Impossible! Nobody would pay more than I have! No one!"

"No one, perhaps," Bartoluzzi agreed craftily. "But an organization might—an organization that was all-powerful."

"An... organization?" Kuryakin repeated, trying to mask his interest.

"Certainly. An organization with an interest in helping such unfortunates avoid the spitefulness and malice of the fellowmen. An organization that might have an interest in contacting certain clients and making use of their talents, furthering their careers instead of just removing them from danger temporarily. Such people would pay more."

"And such an organization has already contacted you? On those lines?"

"Ach... it is better not to speak of these things," Bartoluzzi said, becoming suddenly evasive. "Come—it is time we were on our way..."

Kuryakin tried once more to draw the little man out on the subject of whoever was trying to buy into his organization. "One would be interested to hear more of such a group," he said, "if it existed; particularly if it was, as you said, all-powerful

"You don't want to bother yourself about that, friend," Bartoluzzi said. "A man like you. What need does a strong man have for others?"

"True," the Russian said hoarsely. "I manage my own affairs at that. And I'd like to see the organization that can stop me!" He climbed back into the van and pulled the doors shut. Bartoluzzi returned to the drivers' cab—and a moment later they were winding up the hill past the Gasthof toward the main road leading to Munich and the west.

Three hours later, the Corsican pulled up in a deserted parking area not far from Wangen. There were several rolls of carpet and linoleum in the van, and they had decided that Illya was to travel through the tunnel incarcerated in one of these. According to a spurious bill of lading, they were consigned to a decorator in Zurich. This last stop before the frontier was to enable him to get properly lost inside one of the rolls!

As soon as the engine cut out, he was aware that the weather had changed for the worse. There was a regular pattering on the top and sides of the vehicle, and every now and then it lurched in a gust of wind. When Bartoluzzi came around to open the doors, the Russian saw that the night was full of driving sleet.

Turning up his collar, he helped the Corsican manhandle the heavy rolls into a suitable position in the back of the van. It didn't take them long, but by the time they had finished, Illya was drenched from head to foot. Grasping his jacket by the lapels, he shook the material violently in an attempt to get rid of some of the moisture. At the same time he tossed his head to clear his face of the streams of water running down from his hair.

A heavy truck rumbled past, the beams of its headlamp, brightly illuminating the driving sleet, the parked van, and the two men standing by the open doors. In the vivid light Bartoluzzi's face, with its staring eyes and jutting chin, was abruptly changed into a mask of murderous hate!

Before he realized what was happening, Kuryakin found himself hurled backward into the body of the van as the Corsican shoulder charged him with brutal force. The doors of the vehicle slammed, and a bar dropped into place. A moment later, they roared out onto the main road.

Astonished, the Russian drew the transceiver from his pocket and tried to call up Solo. But either his teammate was otherwise occupied, or he was calling a little too early. There was no answer to his signal.

Not long afterward, the van shuddered to a halt. He could hear running footsteps, voices shouting commands.