"Yes. I'm sure."

Brancati sighed heavily.

"They are saying it was you, Micah. You know this?"

Dalton's expression did not change, but Brancati could see he was deeply cut by the words.

"Who is saying this?"

He patted his pocket.

"I have a letter, on CIA letterhead, from a Mariah Vale. They disavow any connection with you. They offer no protection to you. The letter is not specific, but reading tra le righe tra le righe, between the lines, it is clear that they believe you killed Galan, that you planted the car bomb, and that you were nearly killed by it-"

"Planted the bomb?" said Veronika, stung. "He saved lives! He got into the car and drove it out of the parking lot! We were both almost killed!" the bomb?" said Veronika, stung. "He saved lives! He got into the car and drove it out of the parking lot! We were both almost killed!"

Brancati lifted a palm, shaking his head.

"Calma te, signorina. Sappiamo, sappiamo. We know this. But there is more. The Austrians have issued an arrest warrant. You, Micah, are charged with terrorist acts, the murder of two policemen and a civilian named Yusef Akhmediar, and the kidnapping of an Austrian official, Miss Miklas here. In the note, sent to the governments of Austria, of Italy, and of Israel-"

"Israel?" said Dalton. "Why Israel?"

"Galan was a Mossad agent. The Mossad have expressed an i nterest-these are her her words, this Miss Vale-the Mossad has 'expressed an interest in a.s.sisting in the inquiry.' On a separate page-my agency had received a copy of an attachment which was also sent to Tel Aviv-is identified your words, this Miss Vale-the Mossad has 'expressed an interest in a.s.sisting in the inquiry.' On a separate page-my agency had received a copy of an attachment which was also sent to Tel Aviv-is identified your macchina macchina, the Mercedes, the plate numbers, and your last known position. As well as pictures and descriptions of both you and la signorina la signorina."

Brancati reached out and gripped Dalton by the knee.

"This is un mandato di morte un mandato di morte, Micah. You have been offered up to the Mossad. By your own country."

Brancati sat back, finished his cigar, and tossed it in the water. He stood up, looking down at Dalton and Veronika.

"Allora," he said. "Now we begin to fight back, yes?" he said. "Now we begin to fight back, yes?"

"We?" said Dalton. "You're supposed to arrest me." said Dalton. "You're supposed to arrest me."

"Buono. Che cosa. If it pleases you, you may consider yourself arrested. Now, per piacere, venite con me."

"Vengo con tu?" asked Dalton, off balance. asked Dalton, off balance. "Dove?" "Dove?"

Brancati shrugged, lifted his hands in a very Italian gesture.

"I do not approve of a.s.sa.s.sini a.s.sa.s.sini in my Venice. I have already told my men to move in and confront the people down at your hotel. They will be in custody very soon. You and I, we will go and take these men who are waiting by Galan's villa and we will put them to the question." in my Venice. I have already told my men to move in and confront the people down at your hotel. They will be in custody very soon. You and I, we will go and take these men who are waiting by Galan's villa and we will put them to the question."

"No. You can't be involved in this, Allessio."

His face clouded and his body stiffened.

"I am already already involved. This is involved. This is my my city. Issadore Galan was not only my friend, he was my security adviser and an official of the Carabinieri. I decide who will do what, my dear friend, stay or go, stand or run. Not you. And I will not allow foreign thugs to wander freely around my city. No. They will be taken in, and I believe the two of us are sufficient for the work." city. Issadore Galan was not only my friend, he was my security adviser and an official of the Carabinieri. I decide who will do what, my dear friend, stay or go, stand or run. Not you. And I will not allow foreign thugs to wander freely around my city. No. They will be taken in, and I believe the two of us are sufficient for the work."

Dalton, knowing the man, did not try to argue with him, but Veronika spoke up. "Oh no. I'm I'm not staying behind." not staying behind."

"No," said Brancati. "Not left behind. We need you as a reserve. If anyone breaks this way, you'll have to stop them. Micah and I will go in. It's not an insult, signorina signorina. Micah and I know the area. We have done this before. We need you here, with the boat."

"I don't believe you," she said, her expression tight. "And it feels like an insult. But I'll do it. And, Micah, you remember what I said."

Dalton smiled at her, kissed her cheek, drew back.

"I remember. 'Don't get shot.' "

"Yes," she said, her expression solemn. "Don't get shot."

YOU have three-at least three-enemy watchers contained in a small sector. Doctrine indicates that you take the outliers first, in this case starting with the rifleman in the little marina across the ca.n.a.l from Galan's villa. The marina itself was attached to an open area, a have three-at least three-enemy watchers contained in a small sector. Doctrine indicates that you take the outliers first, in this case starting with the rifleman in the little marina across the ca.n.a.l from Galan's villa. The marina itself was attached to an open area, a campo campo, with a ristorante ristorante, closed and shuttered. Wide wooden docks lined the edge of the quay. Perhaps fifty small launches and wooden dories were tethered there, tugging gently at their spring lines, b.u.mping softly together in the mist. It had taken Dalton about fifteen minutes to work his way through the mazes and alleys of Cannaregio, feeling his way through the dark.

Now he was crouched behind a fence at the southern edge of the marina, listening so intently to the sounds of the night that he could hear his own blood singing in his ears. He held that position without moving a muscle for close to twenty more minutes, according to the luminous dial of his watch, his knees and thigh muscles burning and his chest tight, with no sign that anyone was waiting out there by the railing.

And then, the faintest whispery crackle of radio static and the sound of a man's voice, low, relaxed, almost bored, a sleepy exchange between the perimeter man and one of the other watchers.

The sound of it sent a jolt of adrenaline through Dalton's body. He inhaled and exhaled through his open mouth, deliberately slowing his heart rate, calming his body down.

He raised his head above the fence, staring into the fog in the direction that the sound had come from. The light was changing. Somewhere to the east, over Montenegro, a pale sun was rising above gray woolen cloudbanks. He saw a shape huddled up against the fence near the outside corner where the two ca.n.a.ls met.

There was fifty feet of wide-open s.p.a.ce between Dalton and the target, and he'd be a dead man if he made any sound at all as he covered that ground. And he couldn't use the pistol. The man had to be taken in silence. And alive, if possible.

An interesting situation, one more suited to cats than crocodiles, but, there being no other way to get it done, Dalton slipped over the railing and began to drift silently across the cobblestones toward the man, who, if his shape could be read properly in this fog, had his rifle braced on the railing in front of him, the muzzle aimed across the ca.n.a.l toward the doorway of Galan's villa.

Dalton moved slowly, picking his way through the square, setting each foot down carefully, his eyes fixed on the man in the corner. Twenty feet out, and the man stirred, groaning softly. Dalton tried to renegotiate his relationship with the cold wet stones under him. Fifteen feet still to cover, and the man swore softly, straightened himself, and began rising stiffly to his feet.

Turning to face the ca.n.a.l, the man tucked the rifle-from the silhouette, it was exactly what Brancati had guessed, an H&K MP-55-into the crook of his left arm. He then got into the sort of shoulder-hunching maneuvers that usually indicate an urgent response to nature's call. Dalton, no gentleman, allowed the man to get things well under way and then came swiftly up behind him, making no more noise than a leaf falling, got his left forearm across the man's throat. The man was a small but quick, his body jerking in an instinctive effort to turn around. But by then, Dalton had hooked his left hand around his right forearm and had his right hand gripping the back of the man's skull. Dalton squeezed hard, and almost a minute of silent struggle followed. The smaller man was very powerful but not fast enough, his gloved fingers clutched uselessly at Dalton's forearm. Dalton used his heavier weight to keep the man pinned against the railing, his kicking feet restricted by the bal.u.s.trade. Dalton's choke hold was compressing the man's carotids, cutting off the flow of blood to the brain. His struggles weakened gradually, his hands dropped, and his body sagged heavily in Dalton's grip.

Dalton held the choke hold for another thirty seconds and then dragged the man's limp body backward into the park, bringing him to ground by an iron bench. In the growing light he could see the man was wearing black jeans, black rubber-soled combat boots, and a heavy black turtleneck. There were no official markings of any kind.

Flipping the man's body onto his belly, Dalton stripped off the boot laces. He ran a loop around the man's ankles and, bending his legs up toward his back, Dalton looped the cords around the man's wrists, jerking the laces tight and wrapping them around the man's belt.

As Dalton finished the job, the man started to come around. Dalton could feel the man's rapid inhalation as he got ready to shout some sort of warning. Dalton clubbed the man across the back of the skull with the barrel of the SIG. The man's face bounced off the stones, blood sprayed out from a broken nose, and he went flat again. Dalton did a quick search, found a tiny plastic, thimble-shaped object in the man's right ear with a pin-sized aerial.

Turning it in the half-light, he recognized it as a Colla.r.s.et III, a wireless earphone system by TEA made in the U.S. Digging deeper into the man's clothes, he found the tiny microphone that went with it clipped to the man's jacket collar. And the PRESS-TO-TALK switch was in his right pocket. Dalton stripped the gear, along with two spare mags for the Heckler, and, sewn into the side of the man's pants, a narrow black leather scabbard holding a nasty-looking matte-black rib-gripped, double-edged blade tapering to a needle-sharp point-a Fairburn-Sykes fighting knife.

Well-armed little p.r.i.c.k, aren't you? thought Dalton, a little out of breath. He then pulled out a spare cell phone borrowed from Brancati, hit SEND. thought Dalton, a little out of breath. He then pulled out a spare cell phone borrowed from Brancati, hit SEND.

A hundred feet down, on the other side of the Ormesini Ca.n.a.l, Brancati's own cell phone, the ringer turned off, began to vibrate in his pocket. Brancati stepped out of a darkened archway on the north bank of the Ormesini and began to walk along the quay in the direction of Galan's villa, moving fast like a man with a serious purpose in mind.

As he neared the boat where he had first spotted the watcher, he saw a vaguely manlike shape rising up out of the craft.

Dalton, with the Colla.r.s.et in his ear, heard a man's voice, a spidery rustle but clear enough, speaking English with a strong Boston accent. Six and two, this is one. I have a male approaching. Six and two, this is one. I have a male approaching. Dalton did a double click on the transmitter, usually taken by security units to mean Dalton did a double click on the transmitter, usually taken by security units to mean Heard and understood Heard and understood, but the voice said nothing.

Brancati was less than fifteen feet from the entrance to Galan's villa, doing everything he could to look like Micah Dalton would look in a heavy fog, when the figure stepped out of the boat and onto the quay, facing Brancati, raising a pistol as he did so.

There was a ghostlike flutter of rapid movement behind the man. A second figure appeared and seemed to melt silently into the first. There was a brief but vicious struggle, almost soundless. Brancati moved forward in time to jerk a small pistol from the man's grip as Dalton drove the man down to the stones.

Dalton delivered a sharp blow to the base of the man's skull. The man's body went boneless. Brancati, kneeling, cuffed the man and then began a quick body search while Dalton moved to the door of Galan's villa, keyed the transmitter, and said, in whisper, "Six and two, I got him."

A voice in his earpiece, female, saying, "Good, hold him." Thirty seconds later, a smaller figure, a woman, dressed like the other two, in boots, jeans, and turtleneck, pushed her way out of the entrance gate, saw Brancati kneeling beside a p.r.o.ne figure, made entirely the wrong a.s.sumption, and went slamming down hard onto her belly, with a knee across her neck and the blunt muzzle of an H&K MP-55 jammed very roughly into her left cheekbone.

"How many?" asked Dalton in a low, purring hiss.

"I'm an agent of the U.S. government," hissed the women, struggling, red-faced, outraged. "You're interfering with a Bureau of Diplomatic Security operation. You will be-"

But Brancati cut her off, sticking a large gold-plated, leather-backed badge in her face and saying in a low, grating tone and in English, "I am Major Brancati of the Venice Carabinieri. I have not been informed of any authorized BDS mission. You are undeclared and therefore you you are illegal. are illegal. You You are under arrest. If you are wise, you will shut up now. are under arrest. If you are wise, you will shut up now. Capisce? Capisce?"

A quick search of her uniform revealed, among other things, a set of plastic wrist restraints that Dalton used to truss her up, along with the other man, who was coming around, still groggy. The woman, a whipcord-thin but wiry redhead with a sharp hawklike face, wisely seemed to have taken Brancati's advice and shut up, contenting herself with a glare that she fixed on Dalton, never wavering.

The other man, only semiconscious, was in no state to discuss anything for the moment. Dalton and Brancati lifted the two of them into a kneeling position, stuffed gloves into their mouths, and shoved them face-first against a stone wall.

Dalton left Brancati to cover them with the Heckler while he sprinted back across the bridge, returning a few minutes later with the body of the third man, now wide awake, draped over his shoulder. Dumping the man with a thud onto the cobbles next to the other two, Dalton looked up at Brancati.

"You should go get Veronika and the launch."

Brancati nodded, turned to go, stopped, hesitating.

"Micah . . ."

"They'll be fine. Go."

Brancati headed back down the quay toward the bridge where Veronika was waiting with the launch. As he walked away, the first man Dalton had taken, the one with the silenced Heckler, twisted himself around and started to say something to the woman. Dalton jerked his head backward until the man's face, covered with caked blood from his broken nose, was inches from Dalton's.

He had the Sykes blade pressed against the man's Adam's apple, drawing a thread of blood from the skin as he snarled into the man's sweating face. "Talk to me. Who the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k are you?" are you?"

The man tried to move his neck away from the blade, but Dalton pressed it in harder, opening the flesh, the blood beginning to stream down the man's muscular neck.

"Jeez, man, stop! Stop-"

"I asked you a question. Who the f.u.c.k are you?"

"We're . . . We're Americans. Bureau of Diplomatic Security. Rome office. The female is Leah Trent. She's in charge-"

"Why are you here?"

The man's face paled and his mouth worked, and then he shook his head, glaring up defiantly at Dalton.

"f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole. You know know why we're here." why we're here."

Dalton shoved a glove into the man's mouth, cramming it down hard, and then whipped the blade tip in a shallow slashing cut right across the man's forehead. As blood sheeted into his eyes, the man began to thrash and struggle on the cobblestones, his screams m.u.f.fled by the glove crammed into his mouth. Dalton stood up, kicked him hard in the stomach, and then dragged Leah Trent over, showing her the man curled up on the quay, face covered in blood. He pulled the glove from her mouth "You're next. Why Why are you here?" are you here?"

Her face went white, and she seemed unable to look away from the bloodied face of her agent. Dalton shook her and she came back, her breathing short and sharp.

"We're here to take you into custody."

"On whose orders?"

"The Justice Department. There's a warrant-"

"On what charges?"

She blinked up at him, clearly wondering how he could not know why they were here in Venice.

"Vienna. You killed a Mossad agent, left his body in a car wired to explode-"

"Why?"

She blinked, tried to swallow, her throat closing up.

"Why-"

"He was my friend. One of the best. Why the h.e.l.l would I kill him? They give you a reason?"

"I . . . Look, I don't . . . This comes from your own boss. Pearson, the DD at Clandestine. Word is, you've gone outside-"

"Horses.h.i.t. I am being set up. I want to know by whom."

She stared up at him, a muscle in her left cheek twitching.

"Set up? Set up how?"

"Listen carefully. Try to remember this. The car bomb in Vienna was placed there by a burn-scarred man, ex-paramilitary, maybe a Serb or a Russian. He's on a videotape, delivering the Saab. I have that videotape. Now, hear me. I did not set did not set that car bomb and I that car bomb and I did not kill did not kill Issadore Galan. I am being set up by somebody who has access to U.S. covert security systems. That means somebody inside your own government. So if you're really BDS, if you're really a pro, get your head around that and do something about it. Now, tell me. Do you know anything about a program or an agency called Issadore Galan. I am being set up by somebody who has access to U.S. covert security systems. That means somebody inside your own government. So if you're really BDS, if you're really a pro, get your head around that and do something about it. Now, tell me. Do you know anything about a program or an agency called Verwandtschaft Verwandtschaft ?" ?"

She blinked up at him, her mouth working like a gaffed fish. Dalton could smell her fear, her warm breath on his face, feel the heat coming off her body. But, above all that, he was very aware that he was fighting against the urge to let his red dog run, to use use the knife in his hand, to punish America for this. How many years of uninterrupted combat, how many years of open and covert killing . . . and the knife in his hand, to punish America for this. How many years of uninterrupted combat, how many years of open and covert killing . . . and this this was his reward? BDS agents in the night. The Mossad given a free hand to take him out. Left to die a squalid little death, branded a traitor, abandoned and condemned by his own agency? This was the was his reward? BDS agents in the night. The Mossad given a free hand to take him out. Left to die a squalid little death, branded a traitor, abandoned and condemned by his own agency? This was the America America he was supposed to risk his life for? he was supposed to risk his life for?

Trent could see the rage moving in his face like something inhuman that lived under his skin and was trying to break through. If she was going to live through this encounter, she had to change the music. She swallowed, swallowed again, found her voice, and said in the kind of tone you would use to negotiate with a junkyard dog, "Mr. Dalton, I hear you. Maybe I even believe you. And I promise you that if what you're saying checks out, the BDS will do everything it can to make things right. About something called Verwandtschaft Verwandtschaft . . . is that what you said? Because I truly do not know what you're talking about." . . . is that what you said? Because I truly do not know what you're talking about."

Something in her tone penetrated the blood-red cloud that was filling his mind. He stared down at her, trying to regain his self-control. "You've never heard of anything anything called called Verwandtschaft Verwandtschaft?"

"It's just a German word. I don't even speak German."

"You've never heard the name used by any U.S. agency?"

She shook her head, closed her eyes slowly, seemed to go away to a far better place, opened her eyes again, and he saw resignation, and the truth, in her face.

He released her, moving back a few feet, looking at her for a long, timeless interlude, while she blinked back at him, her chest heaving as she tried to get her panic under control. "What about my man? He's bleeding out."

"No. He's all right," he said, going inward and feeling himself quite distant from this place and these events. "He'll need some st.i.tches. I just marked him."

"Why . . . Why did you do that?"

Dalton smiled at her, a sideways grimace. His head was a little light, and he felt slightly dizzy, as the anger that had flooded through him gradually receded.

"I was trying to get your attention."