to make three times what I paid you for this assignment?”

“I’m a very busy man,” Arkadin said, revealing nothing.

Pyotr inclined his head deferentially. “I have no doubt.”

“I only take assignments that interest me.”

“Would Semion Icoupov interest you?”

Arkadin stood very still. Two sports cars passed, heading up the road as if it were Le

Mans. In the echo of their throaty exhausts, Arkadin said, “How convenient that we

happen to be in the tiny principality where Semion Icoupov lives.”

“You see?” Pyotr grinned. “I know precisely how busy you are.”

“Two hundred thousand,” Arkadin said. “The usual terms.”

Pyotr, who had anticipated Arkadin’s fee, nodded his agreement. “Conditional on

immediate delivery.”

“Agreed.”

Pyotr popped the trunk of the BMW. Inside were two more cases. From one, he

transferred a hundred thousand in diamonds to the case on the Mercedes’s hood. From

the other, he handed Arkadin a packet of documents, including a satellite map, indicating

the precise location of Icoupov’s villa, a list of his bodyguards, and a set of architectural blueprints of the villa, including the electrical circuits, the separate power supply, and

details of the security devices in place.

“Icoupov is in residence now,” Pyotr said. “How you make your way inside is up to

you.”

“I’ll be in touch.” After paging through the documents, asking a question here and

there, Arkadin placed them in the case on top of the diamonds, snapped the lid shut, slung

the case into the passenger’s seat of the Mercedes as easily as if it were filled with

balloons.

“Tomorrow, same time, right here,” Pyotr said as Arkadin slid behind the wheel.

The Mercedes started up, its engine purring. Then Arkadin put it in gear. As he slid out

onto the road, Pyotr turned to walk to the front of the BMW. He heard the squeal of

brakes, the slewing of a car, and turned to see the Mercedes heading directly toward him.

He was paralyzed for a moment. What the hell is he doing? he asked himself. Belatedly,

he began to run. But the Mercedes was already on top of him, its front grille slammed

into him, pinned him to the side of the BMW.

Through a haze of agony he saw Arkadin get out of his car, walk toward him. Then

something gave out inside him and he passed into oblivion.

He regained consciousness in a paneled study, gleaming with polished brass fixtures,

lush with jewel-toned Isfahan carpets. A walnut desk and chair were within his field of

vision, as was an enormous window that looked out on the sparkling water of Lake

Lugano and the veiled mountains behind it. The sun was low in the west, sending long

shadows the color of a fresh bruise over the water, up the whitewashed walls of

Campione d’Italia.

He was bound to a plain wooden chair that seemed to be as out of place in the

surroundings of wealth and power as he was. He tried to take a deep breath, winced with

shocking pain. Looking down, he saw bandages wrapped tightly around his chest,

realized that he must have at least one cracked rib.

“At last you have returned from the land of the dead. For a while there you had me

worried.”

It was painful for Pyotr to turn his head. Every muscle in his body felt as if it were on

fire. But his curiosity would not be denied, so he bit his lip, kept turning his head until a man came into view. He was rather small, stoop-shouldered. Glasses with round lenses

were fitted over large, watery eyes. His bronzed scalp, lined and furrowed as pastureland,

was without a single hair, but as if to make up for his bald pate his eyebrows were

astonishingly thick, arching up over the skin above his eye sockets. He looked like one of

those wily Turkish traders from the Levant.

“Semion Icoupov,” Pyotr said. He coughed. His mouth felt stiff, as if it were stuffed

with cotton. He could taste the salt-copper of his own blood, and swallowed heavily.

Icoupov could have moved so that Pyotr didn’t have to twist his neck so far in order to

keep him in view, but he didn’t. Instead he dropped his gaze to the sheet of heavy paper

he’d unrolled. “You know, these architectural plans of my villa are so complete I’m

learning things about the building I never knew before. For instance, there is a sub-

basement below the cellar.” He ran his stubby forefinger along the surface of the plan. “I

suppose it would take some doing to break into it now, but who knows, it might prove

worthwhile.”

His head snapped up and he fixed Pyotr with his gaze. “For instance, it would make a

perfect place for your incarceration. I’d be assured that not even my closest neighbor

would hear you scream.” He smiled, a cue for a terrible focusing of his energies. “And

you will scream, Pyotr, this I promise you.” His head swiveled, the beacons of his eyes

searching out someone else. “Won’t he, Leonid?”

Now Arkadin came into Pyotr’s field of view. At once he grabbed Pyotr’s head with

one hand, dug into the hinge of his jaw with the other. Pyotr had no choice but to open

his mouth. Arkadin checked his teeth one by one. Pyotr knew that he was looking for a

false tooth filled with liquid cyanide. A death pill.

“All his,” Arkadin said as he let go of Pyotr.

“I’m curious,” Icoupov said. “How in the world did you procure these plans, Pyotr?”

Pyotr, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, said nothing. But all at once he began to

shiver so violently his teeth chattered.

Icoupov signaled to Arkadin, who swaddled Pyotr’s upper body in a thick blanket.

Icoupov brought a carved cherry chair to a position facing Pyotr, sat down on it.

He continued just as if he hadn’t expected an answer. “I must admit that shows a fair

amount of initiative on your part. So the clever boy has grown into a clever young man.”

Icoupov shrugged. “I’m hardly surprised. But listen to me now, I know who you really

are-did you think you could fool me by continually changing your name? The truth of the

matter is you’ve prodded open a wasp’s nest, so you shouldn’t be surprised to get stung.

And stung and stung and stung.”

He inclined his upper body toward Pyotr. “However much your father and I despise

each other, we grew up together; once we were as close as brothers. So. Out of respect for

him, I won’t lie to you, Pyotr. This bold foray of yours won’t end well. In fact, it was

doomed from the start. And d’you want to know why? You needn’t answer; of course

you do. Your earthly needs betrayed you, Pyotr. That delicious girl you’ve been bedding

for the past six months belongs to me. I know you’re thinking that’s not possible. I know

you vetted her thoroughly; that’s your MO. I anticipated all your inquiries; I made certain you received the answers you needed to hear.”

Pyotr, staring into Icoupov’s face, found his teeth chattering again, no matter how

tightly he clamped his jaw.

“Tea, please, Philippe,” Icoupov said to an unseen person. Moments later, a slender

young man set an English silver tea service onto a low table at Icoupov’s right hand. Like

a favorite uncle, Icoupov went about pouring and sugaring the tea. He put the porcelain

cup to Pyotr’s bluish lips, said, “Please drink, Pyotr. It’s for your own good.”

Pyotr stared implacably at him until Icoupov said, “Ah, yes, I see.” He sipped the tea

from the cup himself to assure Pyotr it was only tea, then offered it again. The rim

chattered against Pyotr’s teeth, but eventually Pyotr drank, slowly at first, then more

avidly. When the tea was drained, Icoupov set the cup back on its matching saucer. By