"By what?"

The assistant shrugged. Misha shook his head. "We've been searching for

Joseph everywhere, and all of a sudden he shows up in a coffee shop in

Washington."

"At least we know he's still alive."

"For that I'm grateful, believe me. But what's he been doing all this time? Why was he in Washington?" He tapped on the document. "How did he get this information?"

"You always said he was one of the best. I emphasize he told our man in

Washington it was solid information." Misha reread the message. "A cargo ship, the Medusa, will rendezvous tomorrow night with a Libyan freighter for the transfer of munitions intended for terrorist attacks against Israel." The message provided the scheduled time of delivery, the coordinates for the rendezvous in the Mediterranean Sea, and the codes each ship would use to identify itself to the other. "How did he get this information?" Misha asked again.

"The more important question is, what do you intend to do about it?"

Misha felt paralyzed. Despite Joseph's assurances about the validity of the message, there was still a chance he'd made a mistake. Standard procedure required other sources to corroborate the information before countermeasures could be considered. But there wasn't sufficient time to confirm what Joseph claimed. If the weapons existed and if something wasn't done by tomorrow night, the transfer would occur. The munitions would be distributed. The attacks against Israel would take place. On the other hand, if the weapons did not exist and Israeli planes destroyed the ship... Misha didn't want to imagine the international consequences. "What do you want to do?" his assistant asked. "Drive me back to headquarters."

"And?"

"I'll tell you when we get there." The truth was, Misha still didn't know. As they left the building, he distracted himself with the wish that he could contact Erika and Saul. Erika, your father's alive, Misha wanted to tell her. He was seen in Washington. I'm not sure what he's up to, but from what I've learned, it's important and I can't decide what to do about it. Find him. Help me. I need to know what's going on. Saul, you're not in this alone now. Your former network can't stop you from getting our help. We insist on helping. We're invoking professional protocol. Our national security's at stake. Your search is our search in a way we never imagined We'll back you up. Misha got into his assistant's car. He registered almost nothing of the drive toward Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. But just before they arrived, he made his decision. Do you trust Joseph? Yes. Do you believe his message is true?

On balance? Yes. Are you going to order an air strike? No. Not an air strike. I've got a better idea. It solves a lot of problems. It avoids an international incident Besides, what's the point of blowing up those weapons? We've got better uses for them than the Libyans do.

He must have been speaking out loud. His assistant turned to him, frowning. "What did you say?"

"I always wanted to be a pirate."

With growing dislike for the son of his father's enemy. Icicle sat in a

Rome hotel room, watching Seth read what he called his reviews. The red-haired assassin had bought a copy of every major European, English, and American newspaper he could find. His versatility in languages was considerable, and for the few in which he wasn't fluent he'd asked

Icicle's help. "I knew we'd make the Italian papers," Seth said. "Paris and London, I expected. Athens and West Berlin. But Madrid even picked it up. So did New York and Washington." Icicle didn't bother hiding his mixture of boredom and disgust.

"I admit it isn't front page," Seth said. "I didn't expect it to be."

The newspaper stories were basically similar. The body of an Italian underworld figure known as Medici had been discovered outside Rome, floating in the Tiber River. Medici, who reputedly had ties to international terrorist organizations, had been killed with what authorities suspected was a lethal drug overdose. The results of an autopsy were not yet available. Rome police theorized that Medici's criminal associates had turned against him for reasons still to be determined.

As such, the story would not have had sufficient scope to merit being reported on an international scale. But investigators had raised the question of whether the discovery of Medici's corpse was related to the much more sensational discovery of nine bodies in a villa outside Rome.

Eight of the victims, all shot to death, had been identified as security personnel. The ninth victim, an Italian underworld figure known as

Gatto, had been tortured prior to having his throat slit Gatto, reputed to have ties with international terrorism, had recently retired from criminal activities for reasons of poor health. Reliable but unnamed sources alleged that Medici had taken Gatto's place as a black-market arms dealer. The murders of both men caused authorities to speculate that a gang war was in progress, with obvious international implications.

"As far as the police are concerned, we did them a favor," Seth said.

"Better than that, they suspect the wrong people. We can't complain."

"But what happens when the blood tests on Medici show he died from an overdose of Sodium Amytal?" Icicle asked. "The police will compare that to the knife marks on Gatto and decide both men were interrogated."

"So what? They'll never guess it was us or what kind of information we wanted." Icicle was amazed at how much color his companion's face now had. It was almost as if Seth gained life by administering death, and that made Icicle nervous. For him assassination was a profession, while for Seth it seemed a need. Icicle had never killed anyone he didn't feel morally certain deserved to be eliminated--dictators, drug lords, communist double agents. Seth, on the other hand, gave the impression of not caring who it was he killed as long as the fee was sufficient. If

Seth's father had been anything like his son. Icicle didn't wonder why his own father had hated the man. Granted, both fathers had been

Hitler's primary assassins. But Seth's father had specialized in stalking leaders of underground organizations that protected Jews, while

Icicle's father had gone after Allied intelligence infiltrators and on more than one occasion had begged for the chance to try for Churchill.

The difference was important. Racial extermination was heinous under any circumstances. Political assassination was justifiable if your country's survival depended upon it. But what if your country was wrong?

Icicle asked himself. What if your nation's policy was based on racial hatred? Did patriotism require you to defend an immoral country? Or was national defense merely understandable self-defense? Was my father self-deluded?

Icicle continued to watch the man he loathed. His eyes, Icicle thought.

The more Seth killed, the brighter they became.

"Something troubles you?" Seth asked. "We've got a great body count.

Otherwise we haven't accomplished a thing."

"Not true." Seth lowered a newspaper. "We've narrowed possibilities.

We've determined that terrorism and the cardinal's disappearance aren't related."

"I never believed they were."

"But the possibility had to be considered. Given Halloway's involvement in black-market arms to terrorists--"

"For Christ's sake, what?"

"You didn't know? That's how Halloway makes his living. Munitions."

"You're telling me this is all about illegal weapons?"

"And the cardinal's insistence on a yearly blackmail payment.

Surely you knew about that."

"I didn't object. I thought of it less as blackmail, more as an extended payment for services rendered."

"Well, some of us thought about killing the priest. Account paid in full."

"He did our fathers a favour."

"Yes, one that was in his own interest.

Or his Church's best interest. After more than forty years, the payments amount to a fortune. Eight million dollars."