"The old ways die hard. They, and the military, are fighting a rearguard action to protect their turf--just as your CIA and the U.S.

Department of Defense are doing now. Which is why they are so concerned about this. If they don't get to the bottom of it, they will once again be proved incompetent . . . as well as over-funded." He scratched at his beard. "More to the point, this operation went around them. That's a very bad precedent, if you understand what I'm saying. And the money, Michael, was almost three times what they admitted. In dollars it was over a hundred million."

"Nice chunk of change." Vance whistled quietly.

"Even now, though, I have to admit it was brilliant. Flawless. Viktor Fedorovich Volodin, first secretary of the State Committee for Sakhalin, Far Eastern District, got authority signed off, got his passport stamped vyezdnye, or suitable for travel, and then wired the sixty million rubles not to the district, but to the state bank of Poland, with instructions for conversion. A lot of money, yes, but it was not unprecedented. And he did it late Friday, around two in the afternoon, after all the _nomenklatura_ had left for their weekend _dachas_. By Monday morning he was in Warsaw, to clarify the 'mistake.'

Next the money was sent to my old bank connection in Sophia . . . by then, of course, it's _zlotis ._ . . I just assumed it was something KGB wanted laundered." He paused. "They claim sometimes things have to be handled outside the _nomenklatura_, to avoid the paperwork bottleneck."

"So how much did you end up cleaning?"

"All of it," he sighed. "I converted it to deutsche marks, then bought pounds sterling and used those to acquire British gilts, the long-term government bonds. They're currently parked in a dummy account at Moscow Narodny Bank, in London." The momentary lilt drained from his voice.

"But now, now what can I do? The funds are just sitting there, waiting.

But if I show up and try to wire them out, I'm probably as good as dead."

"The man who's tired of London is tired of life."

"Michael, the moment I'm seen in London, I may not have a life. I think KGB already suspects I was somehow connected. If they find me, they will turn me into sausages. I'm trapped. You've got to help me move it again, make the trail just disappear." He tossed away his cigarette and immediately reached into his overcoat for another.

"Seems to me the first thing you ought to do is try and locate Comrade Volodin. Maybe let a couple of your boys have a small heart-to-heart with him. Little socialist realism. Give him some incentive to straighten it out himself."

"Michael, first directorate is already combing the toilets of the world for him. He's vanished. The ministry of defense, and the GRU--"

"The military secret service."

"Exactly. The minute either of them finds him, the man's a corpse." He shrugged, eyes narrowing. "If I don't find him first."

Vance listened, wondering. "That's a very touching story. You could almost set it to music. Only trouble is, the punch line's missing.

There's got to be more--too much money's involved. So who else is in on this? South Africa? Israel? Angola?"

"What do you mean? I've told you everything I know. Volodin, the bastard, used me as part of his swindle. But now he's lost his nerve and run, disappeared, and left me to face--"

"Sure, that's all there is to it." He cut in, laughing. "Incidentally, you take your standard cut up front? Back at the beginning?"

"Michael, please, I am a businessman. Of course. The usual percentage.

But now--"

"Like you say, it's a problem."

He turned to stub out his cigarette. "A nightmare. Think about it. A hundred million dollars U.S. That's starting to be real money, even for the USSR. Not even the czars ever managed to steal so much."

Vance looked him over. Novosty was telling the story backward, inside out. "Look, whenever somebody gives me only half a setup, I just--"

"Michael, no one knows better than you all the ways money can be moved in this world. Those funds must be made to just vanish from London, then reappear another place with no trail. I have already arranged for a bank, far away. After that the money can be returned, anonymously.

What other solution is there?" He hesitated painfully. "You know, I have no friends I have not bought--the definition of a tragic life. But I remember you always were a man who kept his word. I can trust you.

Besides, where else can I turn?"

"Alex, forget it. I've already got all the fun I can handle." Vance sipped his coffee, now down to the black grounds and undissolved sugar.

It was both bitter and sweet, contradictory sensations against his tongue.

Just like Novosty's tale, part truth and part lie. Alex had no intention of returning the money, for chrisake. He was probably in the scam _with_ Volodin. And now the hounds were baying. The main problem was, who were the hounds?

"Michael, do us both a favor. Help me move it." He pressed. "I'll take care of the rest. And I'll even give you half the two million that was my commission. Just take it. Gold. Tax free. It's yours. You'll be set for life. All you have to do is arrange to transfer the money to another bank I will tell you. I have an account already waiting, every- thing, but I can't do it myself. They're too close to me."

A million dollars, he thought. Christ, with that you could pay off the four hundred thousand mortgage on the boats, free and clear. You'd also be helping Alex out of a jam, and the man looked like he could use all the help he could get. He stared out toward the encircling mountains, now swathed in fleecy clouds. . . .

No. The deal had too many unknowns. The whole point

of working for yourself was you could pick and choose your jobs. If you ever started going with the highest bidder, you were a fool. Guys who did that didn't last in this business.

"Afraid I'll have to pass. There're plenty of other . . ."

That was when he absently glanced down at the early sun glinting off the windows of Athens. In the parking lot below, a tan, late-model Audi had just pulled in. He watched as it idled. "Incidentally," he said as he thumbed at the car, "friends of yours? More art lovers?"

Novosty took one look and stopped cold.

"Michael, I'm sorry, I really must be going. But . . . perhaps you might wish to stay here for a few more minutes. Enjoy the women. . . .

Though I hear you like them better in the flesh. . . ." He reached into his breast pocket. "Think about what I've said. And in the meantime, you should have this." He handed over a gray envelope. "It's the original authorization I received from Volodin . . . when he transferred the funds to the bank in Sophia."

"Look, I'm not--"

"Please, just take it. Incidentally, it probably means nothing, but there's a corporate name there. I originally assumed it was KGB's cover. Who knows. . . ." He continued to urge the envelope into Vance's hand. "I've written the London information you will need on the back.

The account at Narodny, everything." He was turning. "Be reasonable, my friend. We can help each other, maybe more than you realize."

"Hold on." Vance was opening the envelope. Then he lifted out a folded page, blue. "Good name for a dummy front. Nice mythic ring."

"What . . .?" Novosty glanced back. "Ah, yes. From the old story."

"Daedalus."

"Yes, everything about this is a fiction. I realize that now. Of course The Daedalus Corporation does not exist." He paused. "Like you say, it's just a myth."

Vance was examining the sheet, an ice blue reflecting the early light.

Almost luminous. Something about it was very strange. Then he massaged it with his fingertips.

It wasn't paper. Instead it was some sort of synthetic composition, smooth like silicon.

Saying nothing, he turned away and extracted a booklet of hotel matches. He struck one, cupped it against the light wind, and with a quick motion touched the flame to the lower corner of the sheet.

The fire made no mark. So his hunch was right. The "paper" was heat resistant.

When he held it up, to examine it against the early sun, he noticed there was a "watermark," ever so faint, an opaque symbol that covered the entire page. It was so large he hadn't seen it at first; it could have been reflections in the paper. He stared a second before he recog- nized--

"Talk to me." He whirled around. "The truth, for a change. Do you know where I'm headed this afternoon?"

"I confess my people did obtain your itinerary, Michael. But only in order to--"

"When?"

"Only yesterday."