Samuel Debney piloted his motorboat up Venice’s Grand Canal, wishing he had never heard that word.
Marinth.
He had been only vaguely aware of it before, but in the past two weeks the name had come to mean many things to him. Awe. Wonder. Wealth. Fear. Ugliness. Death.
Marinth.
Had it only been two weeks since it had totally consumed him, wrenching him from his old life? It had been a good life, a comfortable life, but one that was now lost to him forever.
He shook his head. Can’t look back. He would soon have plenty of time to wrestle with his regrets.
He hoped.
The lights of Sestiere di Castello shimmered on the water as he eased off the throttle and turned down Fondamenta San Lorenzo. Three turns later, he was facing the white-plaster back side of an art gallery. He heard music in the distance, but other than that there was only the sound of water lapping against the building foundation. It was deserted and only partially visible from the adjacent waterway.
He cut the engine. Why in the hell had he agreed to this?
He knew why. Because he was tired. Because he wanted it to be over. Because he just wanted—
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Debney.”
He turned. Two men appeared from around the corner of the building. Debney tensed. He recognized them both. Gadaire’s men, whom he’d seen when he’d made the attempt to contact Gadaire. The red-haired man with the narrow face who had spoken was Tad Bekins. The smaller man with gray hair and muscles like a weight lifter was Ralph Johnson. Nasty bastards like all of Gadaire’s goons. This was not good.
Debney tried to smile, and only then did he realize that his lower lip was trembling. “Hello, Bekins, I didn’t expect you.”
“Why not?” Bekins and Johnson jumped off the concrete walkway and landed on his boat. Bekins stepped closer to him. “Mr. Gadaire was intrigued by the information you claim to have.”
“I do have it.” His lips tightened. “And if he was so intrigued, why didn’t he come himself?”
“Mr. Gadaire is a very busy man.”
“So am I. I don’t have time to waste with—”
Johnson slipped around and grabbed him from behind. As Debney struggled to break free, Bekins grabbed his arm and sliced his left wrist. Blood spurted onto the boat deck.
Debney reached for the revolver tucked into his waistband, but Johnson got there first. The man hefted it and struck him on the back of the head. In the next instant, he felt an icy cold shiver of pain on his right wrist. He looked down and saw that Bekins had cut him there, too, and his blood was now pooling at his feet.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Debney screamed.
Johnson pushed him down onto the weather-beaten seat. “You’re losing blood fast. You’ll be unconscious in seven minutes, and dead in twelve. Unless you tell us exactly what we need to know.”
“You’re out of your minds! I had a deal with Gadaire!”
“Deal canceled. This is the new deal,” Bekins said. “Talk. Tell us where we can find the sample.”
He was going to die. Debney rocked back and forth. “Mother of God . . .”
“The sample,” Bekins repeated. “Tell us where—” Bekins suddenly arched, his face drooping. He stumbled backwards toward the side of boat.
Debney stared in bewilderment as Bekins tried to speak. Blood. Blood pouring from his chest. Another step back, and Bekins tumbled into the canal.
“What the—” Johnson spun around to face the walkway.
A man was standing there, a tall, powerful shadow in the dimness. He took aim with the automatic handgun and fired two muffled shots. Johnson collapsed onto the cushion next to Debney, almost as if dropping down to rest.
The man with the gun stepped down onto the boat.
Debney looked up. A fog was creeping up from the back of his head. Must fight it. Must stay awake. Fall unconscious, and he was a dead man. “You . . . killed them . . .”
“Yes. I’m sure neither of us is going to miss them.” The man was powerfully built, a gleam of silver burnished the hair of his temples, and he spoke with a slight accent. Russian? “I’ll offier you the same deal those gentlemen did. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll save your life. The difference is, I will keep my word, which those two had no intention of doing.”
“Who . . . are you?”
“Kirov.” He checked his watch. “Your time’s running out. I suggest you begin talking now. If you