As they reached the pounding surf, Jeb scanned the horizon, making sure there weren’t any boats in view. After the demolition job the bulldozers had done, there weren’t any nearby places where someone could hide and aim a shotgun microphone at them. All the same, Jeb had to be cautious.

“It started with a guy named Potter,” Malone said.

“Yeah, I know about him.”

Malone turned to him in surprise.

“And I also know about Bellasar,” Jeb said. “The reason I wanted to come down to the water is, your house is probably bugged, but this surf is loud enough, it’s all anybody will hear if a mike is trained on us from a distance.”

“My house is bugged?” Malone looked as if Jeb spoke gibberish. “Why would -”

“Bellasar’s thorough. He would have checked you out before Potter approached you. And he would have kept the surveillance in place to monitor your reaction to what he’s done to you.”

“How do you -” Malone’s features hardened. “So. You didn’t just happen to show up for a vacation.”

“That’s right.”

“Then maybe you should tell me a couple of things, old buddy. Like, for starters, what in Christ are you really doing here?”

“I switched jobs since I saw you last.”

Malone stared and waited.

“I’m not in corporate security anymore. I work for a different kind of company.”

The word had implications. “Surely you’re not talking about -”

“The Agency.” Jeb held his breath, waiting for a reaction. This was the moment he’d been dreading. After his years in the military, Malone’s aversion to authority was such that if he thought he was being manipulated, friendship wouldn’t matter – he’d force Jeb to leave.

“Oh, that’s just swell,” Malone said. “Great. Fucking fabulous.”

“Now before you get yourself worked up, let me explain. How much do you know about Bellasar?”

Malone’s mouth twisted. “He’s a bully with too much money.”

“And do you know how he got that money?”

“Oil. Shipping. Widgets. What difference does it make?”

“Black-market weapons.”

Malone’s gaze intensified, his blue eyes becoming like lasers.

“Bellasar’s one of the three biggest arms dealers in the world,” Jeb said. “Name any civil war going on right now – they’re using Bellasar’s weapons to destroy each other. But he’s not just satisfied to wait for an opportunity to knock. If a country’s on the brink, he likes to send agitators in to bomb buildings, assassinate politicians, pin the blame on rival factions, and make the civil war happen. Thanks to him, Iraq got the technology to build a nuclear reactor capable of manufacturing weapons-grade plutonium. Ditto Pakistan and India. Ditto North Korea. He sold sarin nerve gas to that cult in Japan that let it loose in the subways as a dress rehearsal for taking out Tokyo. He’s rumored to be peddling nuclear weapons he got his hands on when the Soviet Union collapsed. He’s my personal candidate for world’s scariest guy, and if you think you can just fly to New York and ‘settle a score’ with him, as you put it, you’re going to find out what a hornet feels like when it gets splattered on the windshield of a car going a hundred miles an hour.”

Malone’s voice sounded like two pieces of flint being scraped together. “I guess you don’t know me as well as I thought.”

Jeb frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever known me to back off?”

“Never,” Jeb said.

“It isn’t going to happen this time, either. I don’t care how powerful Bellasar is. He isn’t going to get away with what he’s done to me. I had a good life here. It took a lot of effort to build it. And now the son of a bitch is destroying it, no matter what it costs him, just because he can’t stand anybody to say no. Well, he’s going to find out what no sounds like in thunder.”

“Hey, I’m not saying don’t get even. I’m on your side. Make him pay. What I am saying is, be smart about how you do it. Stick it to him where it really hurts.”

“And where would that be?”

“Accept the commission he offered you.”

The surf pounded. Nonetheless, a silence seemed to gather around them.

“Accept the…” Malone gestured as if the idea was outrageous.

“The Agency’s been wanting to get close to Bellasar for a long time,” Jeb said. “If we can find out what his plans are, we might be able to stop them. There’s no telling how many lives we could save. But Bellasar comes from a family of experts in survival. His father was an arms merchant. So was his grandfather and his great-grandfather, all the way back to the Napoleonic Wars. It’s not just his family’s business. It’s in his genes. He’s got an incredible sixth sense about avoiding traps and sniffing out surveillance. Every time we’ve tried to get somebody near him, we’ve failed. But now he’s handing us a chance.”

“This is a joke, right? You can’t seriously be suggesting that I cooperate with him.”

“With us.”

“And if Bellasar still has people watching me, he now knows someone from the CIA is trying to recruit me.”

“An old friend who showed up unexpectedly for a week of diving and windsurfing. As far as anybody can tell, I’m still in corporate security. When Bellasar checks me out, he won’t find any tie between me and the Agency. This conversation hasn’t tainted you.”

“I’m an artist, not a spy.”

“The thing is, I was hoping you’re still a soldier,” Jeb said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“You were too good at being a soldier ever to stop.”

“But I did stop, remember?” Malone stepped closer. “You should have been able to predict I wouldn’t ever let anybody tell me what to do again.”

The surf seemed to pound louder. Spray drifted over them as they stared at each other.

“Do you want me to leave?” Jeb massaged the bullet scar on his thigh.

“What?”

“Are we still friends, or should I find a place in town to spend the night?”

“What are you talking about? Of course we’re still friends.”

“Then hear me out.”

Malone raised his hands in exasperation.

“Please.” Jeb put a wealth of meaning into the word. “There’s something I have to show you.”

As the rented Ford jounced along a potholed road that led past vine-covered mahogany trees, Jeb checked his rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. He took his right hand from the steering wheel and gestured toward his suitcase on the backseat. “Look in the side flap.”

Despite his annoyance, Malone pivoted in the passenger seat and leaned back to unzip the flap. But what he found puzzled him. “The only thing in here is a magazine. Glamour? What does a fashion magazine have to do with anything?”

“Check the date.”

“Six years ago?”

“Now take a good look at the woman on the cover.”

More puzzled, Malone studied her. She was dressed in a black evening gown, only the top of which was visible. Its tastefully revealing bustline was highlighted by a perfect string of pearls, matching earrings, and an intriguing black hat with a wide, slightly drooping brim that reminded Malone of the sophisticated look costume designers had given movie actresses in the fifties.

“I didn’t know women wore hats anymore,” Malone said.

“It was a retro issue. Keep looking at her.”

The woman on the cover was a fiery brunette. She had a strong, well-toned presence that suggested she’d been swimming or jogging before she got dressed and made up. Even though she had been photographed only from the waist up, Malone had the feeling that she was tall and that her figure, when seen from feet to head, would be athletic and alluring.

He was reminded of Sophia Loren, and not just because she, too, was a voluptuous brunette with full lips and arousingly dusky eyes, but also because their skin color was the same, a smoldering earth color to which Malone had always been attracted. It made him suspect that the woman had something else in common with Sophia Loren – both were Italian.