It was a fairly simple matter for a man of Nick Costello's general appearance to blend in with the crowd in this part of the world. His beard was already taking shape after three days, his skin tanned from an Australian summer, wearing local dress, his southern Mediterranean dark eyes coupled with his physique, long nose and square jaw easily passing for Arab stock. Since his arrival, he had seamlessly disappeared into the underbelly of this crowded and dangerous capital, managing with only the experience borne of countless undercover operations to attract no attention to himself.

He lived on the streets most of the day, returning to a tiny guesthouse where he flopped for a few hours of solid sleep in the small hours. For years he had trained himself to survive and stay alert with only the minimum of sleep for days at a time, catching up in long stretches of almost total collapse when he returned back home. It almost surprised him how quickly this facility came back; he also noted the distinct pleasure he felt at being back in the life. He didn't really have much of a taste for corporate games to be honest although he was prepared to accept that new career for the sake of his personal life. Yet a stint out in the field again made him recall the buzz of adrenalin he had missed for months now; he realized that in many ways he was only ever really himself when deep in an assignment.

For now he was content to watch for a few days, noting every detail he could of the woman who was under surveillance. It wasn't difficult; Terry was doing nothing to keep out of the public eye and she was never far from him as they spent their days in endless meetings with various government representatives and then were whisked back in armed cars to the safety of their luxury hotel. At night, they appeared to go to ground although Terry appeared alone on one occasion and met some guy in a fairly unremarkable restaurant with an entirely local clientele. Thorne had stood out there like a sore thumb; Nick didn't imagine that Terry didn't have some reason for that oddly visible behaviour. He obviously wished to be observed and Nick could readily pick out the marks who were on his tail so, no doubt, could Terry. He also knew the others didn't figure him for another watcher. The only one around who might scope him was Terry himself and he took pains to keep well out of his range.

Nick considered the negotiation Terry was involved in. The government wanted aid that was denied to them on account of their inhumane internal and questionable external politics. Terry was offering a backdoor method in return for an easing of their current policy towards an ethnic minority group situated on the northern borders; but they were particularly after the release of a few academics who had raised public profile of the regime's atrocities in the world eye. Little of this interested Nick. He knew Terry would work them round eventually, whatever happened.

A little external scandal might even speed things up for him. 

But the danger of the location was not lost on Nick, very much the opposite. He intended to make full use of the fact that while Terry and his team made themselves so visible - and Thorne even ventured out into areas that would never be safe for a European - that the other factions who had no wish to see the regime win any favour with the electorate or world opinion would no doubt regard these Americans (as any westerner would be to them wherever they were actually born) as fair game.

Stavin herself was taking no chances. She wore the burkah whenever she was in public, stayed in the background and never left the hotel complex unless under heavy guard. Nick smiled to himself as he loitered, smoking a rough local cigarette, in an alleyway across from her hotel as she swept from air conditioned limo to air conditioned marble hotel foyer. Clever, lady, but all you will keep away are the mad fools who actually think they have a reason to remove you and your kind, he thought to himself. But no security systems had been invented which could keep men like him out.

Grinding the butt of the cigarette under his heel, he disappeared into the throng that moved along the main thoroughfare and made his way back to his room. Something to eat and a few hours sleep - and then time for his homework.

Terry sat at his desk in the suite and worked through the report of the day's talks. He was knackered, his back aching and a dull sick headache throbbing in his temples. Last night he hadn't slept well, his dreams plagued with fragments of nightmares which he couldn't quite recall but knew involved his family. Standing up and stretching, he walked to the window and drew back the blinds, staring out onto the busy streets far below. It was still warm even if the sky was already streaked with sunset. His eye caught the blue shimmer of the hotel pool set a few floors beneath his vantage point.

On a whim he decided to take a swim; the cool waters were inviting and he always found a dip relaxing on both the body and the mind when he was overwrought. Perhaps some fresh air and exercise would also aid his body to sleep naturally that night. He couldn't purchase any alcohol in this hotel and was trying not to use the black market in case they got wise to it and used it as some trumped up issue to beat him down again in the next round. Anyway, a half bottle of Scotch as a sleep enhancer was not really that wise at his age - or any age for that matter.

Stripping off his clothes, he donned a pair of shorts and threw a robe over. Exiting the elevator on the floor where the sports facilities were situated, he strode over to the empty pool, shrugged off the robe and dived in, gliding weightless underneath the cool blue surface, letting the sensory pleasure ease over his weary body.

He lapped the small pool a few times underwater before surfacing and lazily began swimming back and forth, the rhythm of the stroke and his measured breathing lulling him to his surroundings, aware somewhere in his mind even as he did that, this might not have been a particularly wise thing.

A movement to his left caught his eye as he rotated his head to breathe; he carried onto the end of the pool and then stopped, surfacing quickly to see who was observing him.

Deborah Stavin was sitting in a corner of the pool area by the wall of greenery, dressed in a long skirt and loose blouse, her head covered with a scarf but no longer in full local garb. Terry couldn't help but notice that even in that shapeless ensemble she was a beautiful woman, her light eyes and pale golden hair a welcome relief after days in the company of only dark and swarthy men.

She appeared to have been reading and he imagined she could have been there all along; the corner in which she was seated was tucked away and sheltered.

He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision and then lifted himself smoothly out of the pool, sitting with his back half towards her, his legs still in the water. "You watching me?"

He heard her sigh softly as if in exasperation. "I was here first. Are you following me about?"

He didn't answer her question, merely asking another himself. "What are you reading?"

"A novel. Light reading. I've had enough of formal documents."

"You and me both." He glanced across at her. "You not swimming?"

Deborah smiled over. "I'm not sure they'd even approve of me sitting here but I needed to breathe fresh air. I'm not sure whether a woman being in such proximity to a man who is only wearing pair of shorts wouldn't be considered as khalwat or some such religious offence actually. There's a women's pool down in the basement. But I really couldn't face that. God, I needed to breathe...." She inhaled a lungful of the polluted inner city air; he smiled absently, acknowledging his own similar feeling.

"Yeah, it's a bitch, hey? Specially for women. How do you fill the hours?"

She shrugged. "Read a lot. Go online. Think."

"Oh yeah?" he replied, standing up and strolling over to sit by her at the table. She noticed how the water trickled down his muscled torso and glistened on his chest hair. He was an impressive man for his age and she felt a pang of longing for him. Since she had first set eyes on him, she'd been curiously drawn to this man and the time and events in between had done nothing to change her fascination. His rough lovemaking had still given her more pleasure than any man she had known in a very long time. Deborah knew that Terry Thorne hated her but it didn't stop her longing; she was satisfied even to attract his anger if it meant her presence elicited some sort of emotional reaction from him.

She recognised her own obsession but no longer cared how it made her look. If she'd been like other women she might even have called what she felt love. But for all her failings, she wasn't a woman to lie to herself that she was even remotely capable of such an altruistic emotion. Whatever her warped feelings for Terry Thorne were, she couldn't quite bless them with the name of something as pure as love.

"Think about what?" he asked her directly, ringing the bell for the waiter. "Drink?"

"Coffee, please," she replied. "I think about everything. I think about you a lot actually. You fill my days.  But it might shock you to know you fill my nights too..."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh please, don't even go there, honey! I'd rather not know your next little step in the grand revenge plan..." The waiter came over; Terry ordered a fruit juice and the coffee leaving the waiter to withdraw, giving them both a sour look of disapproval. It was common knowledge that the important American was sleeping with this woman who purported to be his translator. Their rooms were adjoining and cleaners had informed management that the connecting doors were always open.

"There is no plan, Terry. I just find it hard to think of you just a door away all night long. I'm lonely, Terry, and I feel a lot for you, whatever you think. I always did."

"Jesus!" He lit up a cigarette and fixed her in his gaze, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her with that intense scrutiny that always made her feel he could read her soul. His liquid eyes took on a deeper colour than their usual pale blue green. She felt her insides turning over at the sight of him. When had a man made her feel so helpless before? "If this is how you show a man you care, love, God knows what you do to those you dislike..."

They fell silent while the drinks were placed down, waiting for the man to withdraw. Then Deborah began again. "When we first met, even before we did actually, I was intrigued - just by your dossier alone. You sounded a pretty impressive man. Our actual meeting confirmed that. I already knew then what my orders were, Terry. I was doing a job! Can't you see that?  If you would have been less resistant I wouldn't have had to show you the photographs. It gave me no pleasure to hurt you in that way, please believe that. But even you must see that this was information you needed to know one way or another. I might be bad news but how many men in this world would want McKenzie for their daughters?"

"His name's Costello. You know that as well as I do."

"Not in a professional sense. I have no wish to blow his cover. I have nothing against the man. He's served his purpose in his time as we all have. Terry, we're in the same game! Can you honestly sit there and tell me you've never used blackmail or other distasteful means to get what you needed at times? How the fuck else does a negotiator swing things in his favour unless he is prepared to do that sort of thing?"

She had him there. He had never delighted in many of the tactics and stratagems he had employed over the years but he had done them without much hesitation. And he had done much the same to men and women before to get them to open up, showing them pictures of a partner committing adultery, shots of themselves with a whore or a lover with the threat of exposure to family or, in the case of more sexually dubious practices, to their employers or government. All she had done was turn those methods on him. Why had he felt such anger directed at her personally? He of all people should have accepted the use of these unsavoury methods and not shot the messenger for doing what they all did.

He rubbed his hands through his damp hair in frustration. "How do you explain the rest then? Behaving like a hooker in front of my daughter? Hitting on my son?"

"You've done your homework, Terry, haven't you? I doubted you'd want to raise the issue with Liam - you've got bigger balls than even I thought.... I told your wife about us as well. Did you know that one? Didn't she tell you? I implied to her we were having an affair..."

Terry shot her a look, his lips drawn into a tight pout as he struggled to take that in. "You spoke to my Annie?" She could hear the note of despair in his voice as he murmured his wife's name. An unexpected feeling of pity took hold of her. He loved his wife so much. What was so wrong about that? She had come along and smashed his entire life into pieces - for what? It didn't change anything. She still wanted Terry Thorne and knew she could never have him.

"I'm sorry. I don't suppose you'll believe me - but I am sorry. When you...when you did that to me...fucked me and just walked out... I was filled with rage. I just wanted to hurt you like you'd hurt me. Terry....for what it's worth, I actually wanted us to have a real relationship. I so wished I had met you under other circumstances..."

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. "I'm a married man, Deborah! Strike that...I was a married man. I should not have touched you. I don't even know why I did it. Which is no excuse at all, but it is the truth. We could never have had a real relationship! It would only ever have been something sordid and illicit. If you take something that belongs to another person, it isn't love and it never can be. It's just greed, love. But when I betrayed the woman to whom I owe everything in the world, it is a much greater crime than anything you've ever done to me. If you knew what my guilt has caused me, you wouldn't feel the need to hurt me further. You could never do anything to me as bad as what I did to them all..."

At that he lurched from the chair and made for the lounger where his robe was lying. "Terry!" she shouted. "I am so sorry....I am not a good person. I'm selfish and calculating and I will step on anyone and do almost anything to get what I want. And I know I despise those who have the things that I never shall...but today, right here, right now, if I could take it all back, I would....I just wanted you to look at me the way you looked at her...that's all..."

He turned and she saw the anguish in his eyes; her heart broke a little bit more. The painful spotlight of guilt at her own behaviour illuminated the blackness she knew lay deep within her soul. This time she could not pretend that it was just the strong triumphing over the weak. That was why this man and she could never have reached any sort of place together. For all the world weariness and jaded cynicism his life had brought to him, inside his soul was still innocent and pure. She wondered how he'd managed to keep that purity and then straight away understood that he had entrusted it to those who loved him to keep it safe - and she had torn that very lifeline from him. She had never felt such a sense of shame in her entire self-obsessed life.

"She won't even let me near her now. Not even in the same room. So, I might not ever look at you that way, but I no longer look at her that way either now. Does that really make you feel better? Was it all worth it?" He spoke quietly but with a natural authority in his tone that only compounded her sense of having failed him.

Deborah mouthed the words, "I'm so sorry..." but she knew he wasn't listening. Terry walked away, biting hard on his inner lip to stop himself from shedding the tears that threatened to come. Everything. Gone. For nothing. Just some whim of a selfish ruthless woman - and the pathetic lust of an aging man.

For he knew then what had really been behind all this, and the answer was even worse than the earlier not knowing had been. He had been attracted to Deborah Stavin, an exquisitely beautiful younger woman, intelligent and fascinating, flattered that she clearly wanted him, and he had been fighting that attraction from the first moment he had set eyes on her. He still was attracted somewhere in his baser psyche, he knew that; he could feel that pull with disgust each time she was near him. Deborah had been drawn to him and the feeling had been mutual. They had both sensed it subconsciously about each other, like animals in season. But he had subverted it into rage at her, using what she had had to do as an excuse to turn the feelings he was ashamed to admit into unrighteous anger instead of desire.

And once he convinced himself enough that she was the she-devil, he had allowed himself to take what he had wanted all along. Yeah, Liam. The only one to blame for it all was your father himself. He had indeed thrown it all away for a quick bang.  And now he couldn't even muster up the energy for a stronger emotion than libidinous dislike towards Deborah Stavin. Somewhere inside he even felt sympathy for the sad woman she really was.  The only person he had the stamina to hate these days was himself.

"Tomorrow, Deborah...bright and early, hey?"

It was the first such junket she had been to since joining Ferrier and Romney. In truth she was probably still too new or too lowly in the pecking order to expect invitations to the more stellar gatherings but the curse of a 'flu bug that had laid low half the office had made Charles Ferrier decide to call upon Annie's singular talents on this occasion . He was no fool; the woman was elegant, highly educated and clearly used to moving in the highest circles. He knew her marriage had recently broken up and before that she had been accustomed to meeting and greeting people of influence. These people wouldn't faze her and her cool beauty would be a further attraction.

Annie herself had no interest in this sort of occasion other than being acutely aware that her bosses had her on display and she was lucky to have such an opportunity so early on in her new career. She had also figured out instantly that they wouldn't have extended this invitation to her if they hadn't been desperate. It might not be repeated so she ought to make full use of it. They would normally keep the workhorses like her out of the limelight; tonight she might just get the opportunity to meet representatives from some of the top agents or even publishing houses. It hadn't taken her long to realize that she would be a fool to simply sit still in this minor position. A woman of her talent could rise quickly if she got the chance. And tonight she had it.

The function was a reception held by a famous publishing house, a gathering of authors and historians to meet and greet with representatives of the London literary scene. Her brief was merely to put the agency's name about, perhaps persuade a few lesser rank authors to change to them and drop the company's cards here and there.

In half an hour she had worked the room enough to realized that the majority were charlatans compared to an academic of her background, few of the editors and publishing executives having any real scholarship to speak of and even many of the writers impressing her not at all. Annie also found to her surprise that she was actually very experienced in schmoozing; the years of embassy and political cocktail parties had certainly honed her skills in this area.

Whilst chatting with a senior executive from Doubleday, a sleazy creep who was obviously pruriently sizing her up, she was introduced to a man whom she recognized within moments. It was Stephen Lessing, the TV guy. He had fronted several important documentary series in the past years, famous for being the 'Thinking Woman's Studmuffin'. Lessing was a handsome, enthusiastic archaeologist with a penchant for innovation and experiment. He could afford to be that rare breed in the classical world, a maverick risk taker, because his popular fame was based on a secure and impressive set of credentials. He had been an Emeritus Professor at Oxford at the early age of forty and  had a string of highly acclaimed academic texts with breakthrough research behind him. Lessing was this generation's highest flyer even before he'd been tempted to bring his skills to the general public. The recent documentaries had been both cutting edge and highly educative, all the while presented with his laid back charm and irreverent enthusiasm for his subject. His following amongst the literate female population was immense nor was he beyond playing upon it; there were already a whole host of stories of his romantic entanglements. But he remained resolutely single, definitely not gay and entirely desirable to women.

"Stephen Lessing.....and you are?"

"Anna Dwyer. Ferrier and Romney."

"Can't say I'm familiar. What's your background?" he asked with a faintly bored air. She surmised he was only giving her the time of day because she was pleasant enough to look at and wondered if he thought she might be up for a bit of a quick one in return for an introduction.

"Ph.D. in Roman history... I wrote...."

"Behind the Veil...Sexual Politics in Ancient Rome..." he grinned and took her hand, shaking it enthusiastically. It was as if a light had been switched on inside his head. "Excuse me, old chap, but I really must ask Dr. Dwyer a few questions in private..." And with that he had steered her away from the old lecher and towards a waiter. She soon had a fresh glass of wine and a table seat by the window.

"I always wondered what had happened to you! That was a great first work! So much promise. I felt you could have really made a breakthrough had you followed up some of those ideas....what happened?" He asked with a bright eagerness, an almost boyish enthusiasm once his interest was caught.

Annie raised her hands as if in apology. "Sexual politics in the 21st century happened, I'm afraid. Not sure much has changed really...."

".....Ah, so you got married and gave it all up for some chauvinist husband who preferred you barefoot , pregnant and in the kitchen....? Good God, you fell for all that, Anna? Shame on you!" But he was smiling broadly and she joined in.

"Yeah, weird, hey? I should have written the sequel. 'The Times Are Not A-Changing...'" It had broken the ice and although he asked her no further questions about her marriage or why she had returned to the world of work after so many years out in the cold, she felt that he had grasped the essence of her situation very quickly. And why wouldn't a man of his incisive intelligence be able to work it all out? She wasn't wearing a wedding ring or using a married name. It wasn't an unusual story.

"So you're relegated to copy editing for writers with half your acumen and little of your knowledge? How the mighty have fallen!" Stephen observed after examining her business card and calling for another round of drinks. He tapped the card thoughtfully against his lips. She noticed he had a sensual mouth, fleshy and wide, ready to smile but also with a hint of sensuality. He was really a very handsome man, thick messy blond hair, shaggy and unkempt, steel blue eyes, a slight blond stubble on his square jaw, tanned and healthy. He dressed with a casual elegance, clothes of expensive but simple cut, worn carelessly.

"Anna? I may call you Anna, I presume?" She nodded, trying to make her mind switch back to the matter in hand and away from his very pleasant countenance. "I might have a proposition for you, my dear. I'm not at all happy with my recent editors. There just don't seem to be many these days who actually have a grasp on the material. Some of them are hard pressed even to cope with complex sentences....okay, that's a bit harsh but... you see, I'm working on a new book and some of it is new ground for me. It's a Greeks- Romans thing. It strikes me you would be the perfect person...."

Anna gasped. "But...don't you have a literary agent already?"

He laughed. "I am in the fortunate position now of being able to choose whom I work with. I never sign multi-book deals these days so that I can move freely if I so wish. If I decided to take my custom to...er...Ferrier and Romney..." he stopped to read the unfamiliar name again...."then you will bring them the stellar account of their careers. It should enable you to negotiate a better deal for yourself, have a much more interesting project on which to work and put your name about where it matters. You never know, we might be even able to resurrect your career, darlin'. You do rather have a face for the screen. I wonder how you'd screen test...?"

Annie frowned and he immediately saw the expression on her face.

"Did I say something wrong, Anna?" His voice dropped; he moved a little closer along the seat. She felt intimidated but also rather excited by his proximity. Yet she kept her head clear.

"I hope you don't take this wrong but...are you hitting on me, Stephen? If you just want to proposition me then do so. Don't play games with my career. I'm a big girl and I know how to say no - or yes - if the fancy takes me."

Stephen put his head back and burst into easy laughter. "Good God, is that what I sound like? I suppose the gossip columns have me down for a bit of a Romeo, hey? No, Anna, that was not a come on. Not that I wouldn't admit to finding you one of the most genuinely interesting and intoxicating women I have seen in a month of Sundays. But I don't operate like that where my academic life is concerned. If I admire your intellect for what it is then I say so. I tend to be a little impulsive though. People often feel overwhelmed by me. But Anna....when I'm right, I'm right. I'm arrogant enough to trust my judgement. Join this project of mine. Handle my book. As for the rest? Who knows? Exitus acta probat..."

"...Fortes fortuna adiuvat, hey, Stephen?" she countered. 

He smiled. "Ah, Terence...!"

"Pardon?" she snapped back and then realized her mistake. "Sorry...Terentius.... sorry... I was thinking of another Terrence..." She blushed and felt foolish to have responded thus. She also saw in the narrowing of his eyes that he hadn't failed to pick up on her lapse. Damn it! Why did she always find herself with men who never missed a single thing in the subtext of your conversation?

Now why had she immediately put Stephen in the same box she normally only ever reserved for Terry?

"You still haven't given me an answer though. What say I drop into your office tomorrow morning and we talk details then? I'm sure your boss will be arse over tit at the account you could be landing...I think you might even be allowed to stand me lunch on the company as a reward....what do you say, Anna?"

She gave him a roll of her eyes and joined in with his warm laughter. Why not? Great career break, charming guy and a chance to resume her real academic interests? What was not to like?

He raised his glass and touched hers. "To friendship, Anna?"

Zoe had a lot of work on in the days since Nick had left. Her professor had been mostly satisfied with the rough draft of her thesis but that didn't mean he hadn't redlined substantial areas. There were major re-writes and a lot of deeper research required before she was anywhere near done with it all. It passed the time without him. Strangely enough turning down Nick's proposal and establishing some measure of control on the runaway train of her life had helped them both to turn a corner. Nick had been surprisingly easy to let her take the decision, grateful just to have her love. That alone seemed to her to say mountains about the progress he had made of late. It wasn't unusual for a man like him to assume a lead; he was a military man, an ex-officer, an alpha male to the core. What was telling was the fact that he had meekly accepted her point of view and agreed to her terms without any apparent anger or force against her.

Nick truly loved her. He wanted the best for her. He was prepared to wait until she was ready. What more could any woman ask?

As a break from the hours spent at her computer, she decided to do some housework. Nick hated to see her do anything menial and they had a cleaner. They also sent all their clothes to the laundry - the astronomical bills shocked Zoe's sense of prudence. Whilst he was away she decided to change the bedding and clear the washing hamper herself; there was a perfectly useful washer and dryer in the basement and it would be dry in no time in this weather; she intended to sun the sheets outside and get them back on the bed air dried and fresh for his return. Somehow she wanted to do these small tasks for him. Perhaps she was readier for domesticity than she was prepared to admit to herself.

With a bundle of sheets in her arms, she negotiated the steep stairs down to the laundry room below not aided by Stinker insisting on being round her heels all the time. She nudged him out of the way as she loaded the washer and read up on the handbook to work out the appropriate programme. The dog was away to her left, scrabbling at a loose floorboard. Zoe selected the number and sat back on her heels as the washing machine started. Well, at least she could still remember how to do chores like normal people.

"Hey, Stink, whatcha got there?" She sat down and scratched the dog's back fondly. He was still pawing away at the board, quite agitated now. Looking more closely she saw that there was a slight groove as if for a finger hold and placed her hand in it. With a slight pressure she lifted the wood and to her surprise saw a compartment below. The next few planks were also loose and she pried them out carefully.

Underneath was a smooth metal tray or so it seemed until she found the edges and realized that it was no such thing; it was a box of some sort. Searching she found a catch and released it, dragging open the lid - and her heart almost missed a beat. Inside there were a number of firearms. They appeared to be high velocity hand guns of various weights and sizes each set in their own rest; she knew enough about such things to recognize that these were top of the range specialist weapons, possibly even made to specifications. Well, they would be, wouldn't they? They were the cache of an assassin who specialized in the art of death.

Zoe groaned as the full awareness of what such a find actually meant. Nick had never left behind the life of the 'exterminator' as he had implied to her - he'd been doing it all along or at least until his return to Australia, if she could believe anything of what he had said. But his promise to change his way of living had not lasted long. There were two guns missing. What the hell had he really meant when he had said he was going to sort things out as best as he could?

Sitting back, she sank her head onto her knees clinging to Stinker. She tried to think it all through logically. Dad had always kept guns in the house and she knew he occasionally carried arms when working. It had always been understood that this was a requirement for a man working at his level and a purely defensive matter; although she had never doubted that he would make us of a weapon if he had no other choice. That had always seemed acceptable to her. But then she trusted that her father would never abuse the potential power over people that the wearing of a sidearm gave him. Where Nick was concerned, she felt less sure. More than less sure. She knew that he was capable of downright abuse and ruthless cruelty. You couldn't paint it any other way. It was an integral part of his psyche. The army had recognized and encouraged it from the start. Throughout his whole career he had been developing it until he had become a dangerous weapon himself. Taking life was just the day job to him. How could he ever again have the moral compass to draw the line?

His conversation that last night ran through her mind but the words now took on a new and sinister meaning. Two sentences particularly were now doom-laden with foreboding as to what had been his true intention when he left:

I'll do my best to remove any obstacles I can from the issue...
I would kill a man like me who dared to even go close....

Or a woman who had gone too close? Would he really see any difference?

Deborah woke with a start, aware immediately that something was not right in that uneasy state that a disturbing nightmare leaves you. Her room was in darkness; and totally silent. She stared at the ceiling and tried to recall what had made her jump so violently that her heart was still beating fast. Looking to her right, she checked the time- 3.30 am- and took a sip of water from a glass on the nightstand.

Then she felt the slight movement, like a weight on the other side of the bed.

Her head whipped round and she stifled a scream. There was a man sitting on the edge of the bed, silent, still as a statue, staring at her, one leg crossed against the other thigh, relaxed and seemingly at ease. She could not make out any of his face - he was bearded - but his glistening eyes piercing through the gloom chilled her. There was a cold malevolence, a dead expression that again made her think of a sculptured image.

"Who are you? Get out of my room!" She reached for the phone by her bed and picked up the receiver. There was no tone. His hand raised up and she saw the other end of the cord. He had unplugged it already; she saw the white of his teeth as his lips parted in a chilling smile.

"What do you want? I'll give you anything. I have money....if you want sex you don't have to hurt me....just take what you want and go...!"

He laughed. But he didn't move.

Deborah sat up and pulled the sheet around her in some futile defense against the intruder. She tried to breathe steadily, recalling her options. She had to get him talking and try to lull him into a sense of control while she searched for a way of alerting Terry. The door was always unlocked between the two rooms. They both carried alert bleepers to warn each other or the secret service men who accompanied them. They would be within easy reach at all times. Just stay calm, she told herself. This is what she had been trained for even if she had never expected to have to put the skills of Langley into use.

"Do you speak English?" She repeated the question again in Arabic.

Still no response.

"What do you want with me? We can talk things out and I will listen but you have to say something. I don't know who you are..."

"Oh, but you do....think harder, baby..."

"You're American?"

"Nope."

"American educated then?"

"No."

"Then what are you?"

This time his laugh was not soundless but a mocking chuckle. "I think in the movies they answer with 'Your greatest nightmare'..."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I don't make threats. I'm the enforcer. I just do what I say I'll do. And you know I do. I'm the best you had. How does it feel when the tables are turned on you this time?"

His accent was fairly transatlantic but there was no mistaking the Australian vowels. The way he pronounced 'time' as 'taim'. Jesus Christ, it couldn't be...was this McKenzie himself?

"What am I to you? I didn't do anything! We left you alone. You wanted out, you got out...you can't blame us for checking you out...we just wanted to know who you worked for now..."

"Now? You want to know who I work for now? I work for myself. I never killed anyone in my life for me. I'm shooting for a first here, love. Feels good. Feels kind of noble for a change. I've cleaned up some filth in my time, but, honey, this one is the sweetest. I got a stake in it, you see. That's why I woke you up. Normally, I don't talk to my victims. I put them out of their misery. Like a sick dog - make it as painless as possible. Bang bang. You're dead. No need to be nasty about it. Nothing personal. I'm all heart, y'see? They didn't do anything to me. You, however, are a different animal entirely, love. I want this to hurt. I want you to suffer. For me. Sort of little gift to me on this auspicious occasion. Promise you'll scream. Promise you'll beg. Make it good for me, will ya? And I promise you'll feel every minute of it. The best bang of your life. I promise you'll bleed...you can rely on me to deliver, honey...You scared yet? Because you should be..."

Deborah let him talk, trying not to allow his stream of consciousness to make an impact on him. He was trying to frighten her. It was the usual sort of vicious mind game that men played in this position. Except she could not shake the nagging doubt that this was no game. McKenzie did not play games. He carried out orders with ruthless cold-blooded efficiency and what he was saying made complete sense. This time it was for him. He was looking for a scapegoat and she was it. Right or wrong. It was personal now.

And what in this world was more frightening than a merciless killing machine with you in his sights and a conviction that he was doing everyone a favour by eliminating you?

"Of course I'm scared. Who wouldn't be? I know you can kill me. I'm completely in your power. But what good would it do you? Am I worth the risk of being apprehended? You'd get the firing squad here with barely a hint of due process - and you can forget Alexander Downer stepping in to intercede for you....I'm a White House official..."

"Wooo! Was that a threat...? Now I'm scared too....Isn't this fun....?" He shivered in fake glee. "I told you we could enjoy this. Mutual pleasure. You love to torment people - and so do I. Bit of a turn on, hey? You getting wet? I'm getting hard, love...we might have to do something about that along the way, you know what I mean...? Using a rubber, of course...wouldn't like to leave my DNA....or pick up any little itch from your dirty little cunt....You know about the VD, do you? No? You just a carrier...? Well, you sure have sprinkled your slug trail around, baby...."

That comment floored her. What was he talking about? Did he plan to rape her? She rather hoped he would try. That was one opportunity to get his guard down. Her bleeper was on the dressing table in her makeup box. If she could just flip the button, Terry would be on it in seconds.

"What are you saying? You want sex with me? Look, that's no problem...." She pushed back the covers and lowered the satin straps of her negligee, letting it fall and then slowly, as his eyes followed her, she stepped from the bed and walked a few steps forward. The dresser was only a few feet away.

Turning she allowed the satin to shimmy onto the floor and stood quite naked before him; the pale white of her ivory skin gleaming in the darkness. Nick swiveled his body as she moved, surveying her steadily, his expression giving little away.  Deborah didn't need to see inside his head; he was a man and she knew what would be running through his thoughts. Even the best of them could not resist giving into that chunk of meat between their legs if they thought they could get it for free.

"If you want it...."

"...If I wanted it..." he interrupted, "... I would have had it already. Actually you're not my type, love. I like a bit more flesh on my women. You'd be like fucking a bag of bones. Not that I haven't done plenty of girls like that in my time. But I think I'll pass. You see, I find sex a little passé these days. You've had one, you've had them all, you know? Every cunt's much the same in the dark...but that's the thing about death. It's the ultimate high. Because it's different every time. And there are so many ways to do it..."

Nick had meanwhile stood up and was advancing on her. Deborah took the opportunity of his forward motion to step backwards, her mind staying focused on the bleeper. Keep him talking. Keep him coming. Let him just think my walking back is out of fear of him. She almost smiled at that thought - it sure was. Bleeper or not, this psychopath was frightening the shit out of her.

"I'm a bit of a stickler for a crime scene, you know? I like it to look just right. You see, there's always that tiresome little problem with murder. Someone has to be blamed for it. Obviously that can't be me or I would have been a bit of a one hit wonder..." At that Nick started giggling. "Hey, that was a good one...one hit wonder...I like that one...! Where was I now? You looking for this?" His right hand shot upwards and she saw with horror that he was holding her bleeper. "You don't think I haven't done a sweep of the room, do you? Come on, love, I'm a class act...get with it...By the way, Terry's fast asleep. Oblivious. Apparently someone slipped a sedative in his night time cocoa...or whatever he had for supper...he looked buggered when I saw him earlier...he'll be grateful for the sleep...."

She swallowed hard and began for the first time to feel the rising panic of no way out. This man was the best. He would have outthought them all on every level. That was why he was the best. It felt like she was staring right down into the barrel of a gun. He was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do about it and no one to save her.

"There are secret service men stationed on the corridor. You can't seriously think you can kill me here and walk out and no one will suspect a thing?"

Nick put a finger to her lips. "Shush...I haven't finished yet, sweetheart. Let the man talk, hey? Don't think you're very good at that sort of thing, are you? I don't see you as a natural nurturer. More of an emasculator. Well, you're welcome to try, but I doubt you'll succeed. I'm stronger than you. Smarter than you. Way more experienced. And even nastier. And I'm the one with the balls, like it or not. Oh, I almost forgot...what nature didn't bless me with, science made up for..." He crushed the bleeper in his right hand and she watched as it disintegrated and the shattered remains crumbled into his other hand before pocketing them. "Imagine what I can do to skin and bone if I can do that to tensile polyurethane....amazing, hey? Right, as I was saying...yeah, the problem with murder is how do you get away with it? There are a few options. Most obvious is to dispose of the body in such a way that no one ever finds it. Hard to really make a case without the forensic evidence or proof of an actual crime having taken place....How to best achieve that though? Burn it? Dissolve in acid? Dismember and scatter? Set in concrete? Feed to the pigs? I always like that one...you ever seen that film Snatch? I loved it..."

Deborah said nothing and let him talk, all the while trying to keep her mind active on thinking. Was there anything she could use as a weapon? Even if there was, should she even attempt it? A man of his formidable martial skills would immobilize her in seconds. Find another way out...think, Deborah, think!

"But...even so, that still means you're missing and my experience is that they will still look for someone with a grudge...especially for a woman of your high profile. While I am here incognito, there is always a chance that some clever dick will have observed me along the way. I don't like even outside chances. The next option is one I much prefer. It is all to do with illusion. You create the crime scene that you want. If you know your stuff then you subtly lead the investigators to only one conclusion. Without a doubt. No need even to look anywhere else. And at the end of the day, love, the authorities always want a case neatly stitched up in no time. Particularly when it's an embarrassment like a senior White House aide disappearing. Oh dear....that won't go down very well in international circles, you know?"

If she screamed, would the noise carry to the corridor outside? How sound proofed were the rooms? Had he disconnected the phone in the bathroom? Did he know about the hidden gun she had taped behind the cistern? Would he allow her to use the toilet if she asked him?

"Then it came to me. Simple really. So neat. God, I love it when everything just falls into place like that. So smooth. This is a dangerous city, love. Westerners are real targets. How often do we hear of them being kidnapped and held - and then the next thing you find them dead in a gutter. It's a tragedy, I know, but these people are barbaric. It was always a risk when you came here..."

"Isn't there a flaw in your logic?" Deborah couldn't resist engaging him. She had few options left, so it seemed hardly to matter which one she took. Buy time at least. You never know what might happen as long as you stay alive.

"Is there? Do tell. I wouldn't like to make a mistake on this, darlin' You know, you'd have a great take on this, being CIA and all. You can look at it from the perspective of running the case. Which would your bosses go for?"

Deborah took a breath to calm herself and stop her voice from shaking. "If some local terrorist cell is to be blamed, they could never have access to hotels like this. They take people off the streets to one of their hideouts. They don't have the skills to carry something like this out. If you kill me here, it will not be believable..."

"Oh! Did you think I meant to do it here? Jesus, I'm sorry...I've been rambling on and on and I forgot to tell you the best bit. I'm taking you out of here. To a safe place. Well, safe for me, that is. That'll put the fear of Allah in them, eh? Top US official snatched from a 5 star hotel? Dearie me, is no one safe?"

At that Deborah scoffed. "You think you can get me to walk right out of here? There are security cameras everywhere! My men are outside. You cannot get me out without risking yourself...!"

"You think? Baby, there is always a way. I got in, didn't I? It's all worked out. Now, what I want you to do is this. Sit down on that stool and relax." He pulled a small box from his pocket and took out what looked like a silver ballpoint pen. "Nothing to worry about...." he depressed it against her arm and she realized too late that it was a form of hypodermic.

"What's that?" she exclaimed.

"It'll make you sleep.  Don't worry. It isn't fatal. Passes out of the body in a few hours. Virtually undetectable unless you're absolutely looking for it. You'll start to feel woozy in a minute. Just let yourself go. I'll see to your clothes...."

Before he had finished speaking, Deborah had fainted away; he deftly caught her, dragged her to the bed and pulled the large sack from underneath. Dumping her unceremoniously into it and stuffing a pile of sheets around, he threw the whole over his shoulder and rested it out on the balcony.

Systematically he then scoured the room for every sign of his presence and began to scatter the circumstantial evidence about to suggest a whole different set of intruders. Then he stepped out on to the balcony and hauled up the bundle. Speedily securing it to the rope curled up on the patio tiles, he let it down gently until it reached the poolside level, some three floors below, releasing the claw that held the sack. In a matter of moments he had shinned down himself and then flipped the switch to release the grappling hook above him.

Catching it deftly, he rolled up the light silken rope and attached it to his belt, dragging the body to the service elevator past the gymnasium where he had left a laundry trolley. Ripping off his jacket, jeans and jumper, stuffing them into the cart, he donned the staff uniform, traveled down to the basement and slowly wheeled the cargo out towards a van parked in a depot loading bay. There were many such activities taking place at that time of the morning, the menial workers clearing the backlog before the chambermaids arrived to make up the rooms. Most of the workers were Bangladeshi or Indonesian and many spoke no Arabic. He blended in easily.

A few moments later he was driving along the dark deserted city streets to his destination.

When she woke, she found herself in a white washed room, bare of all furniture but the dirty mattress she was lying on. Her head was thick and cloudy but she could still remember the horror of the incident in her hotel room and she knew it was not over. Raising her head, she saw a banner slung across the wall over her head, yellow cloth daubed with Arabic slogans. Sitting up she read it and began to work out what was happening. The slogans were fanatical Islamic dogma, the sort that is proclaimed in the videos and pictures sent to the world press to bleat about the latest westerner executed for the crimes of the evil empire.

This was an execution chamber. She was the victim.

Struggling against her bound hands and feet, she looked down on the shapeless orange garb she was wearing; it was also daubed with slogans. Nick had worked it all out perfectly. She sat on the mattress and accepted the inevitable. She was going to die and he was going to kill her. Nothing she did or said would sway him. There was no escape. All that was left to her was to die with some measure of dignity for she felt sure that he wanted to rob her of that if he could.

It seemed hours before the door opened and he stepped in. The heat in the small airless room was intense and the slight rush of a cooler air that the open door afforded was a welcome respite. Deborah guessed it was well into the morning by now and that she had been here for some time. She could smell her own sweat on her body and hunger and thirst were beginning to gnaw at her.

"You awake? G'day, love..." He breezed in cheerfully but his very chipper humour scared her more. He was enjoying this. The man was unhinged.

"Get it over with, McKenzie...!"

".... By the way, the name's Nick. We're intimate enough now for first names all round, I think. Nick...like the devil... Old Nick - brilliant, hey? It's all in a name. Now if my Mama had named me Andreas or some such crap, I'd be Andy and, well, you just can't see a guy called Andy being a hitman, can you? It would never work...It's amusing though. Nicholas means 'Victorious People'. We are the winners. Well, I sure am. I looked up the name Deborah , you know...? Want to know what that means?" He began to laugh. "It means 'bee'. An irritation. Steals honey from flowers. Stings. Leaves an itch. Needs swatting....see? It's all in a name, love....."

Deborah groaned at his mockery. "Come on, Nick! You've had your fun. All this play acting just makes you more vulnerable. The longer you fuck about playing with me the more opportunities you have for something to go wrong..."

He grinned. "Clever girl! For that you get a choice. Okay, let's set an imaginary scenario. You're CIA and you send me to waste some geezer and drop the blame on a fundamentalist cell operating in the area. We have a discussion. What's it to be? Bullet? Decapitation - they love that one, you know? Beat you to death with sticks? Carve you up? Try and be impartial but honest, Debs...what would you go for...? I'm not talking from a preferred way of death point of view but from an operational angle. Which one would look most convincing...be careful, Deborah...it is actually a trick question..."

He crouched down on front of her, and pushed a lock of hair from her eye. She stared straight at him. "Decapitation. Filmed on video and sent to the press."

He took a sharp intake of breath. "Good girl! Right answer. God, you are good. You didn't flinch. Not even one inch. I like that in a person. You might be a worthless little BITCH...!" He raised his voice and shouted down her ear at that point, "...but you've got balls. So, I'm gonna make it easy for you."

He withdrew a hand gun that he had concealed in the back of his jeans and played with it, drawing it over her face and body. "Back of the neck? Under the chin? In the mouth and blow that pretty face off? In the throat and choke in your own blood? Through the heart - nice and quick? In the gut and a slow bleed?" Then he placed it roughly between her legs. "Up the fanny...imagine what a bullet of this velocity could do with that trajectory...? Wildest fuck you'll ever have..."

"You're a terrorist sending a message to the world. They don't operate like that..."

"Correct. So that limits my options unfortunately. Any last requests? Let me just step back. You'll probably piss yourself any minute...that's fear. You can't stop it...once I shoot you, you'll shit yourself as well...God, imagine the stink in this heat?"

Beads of sweat were running down her face, the muscles twitching in spasms as she shook uncontrollably. Dignity was hard to find at such a moment. "Please....I beg you...I was only doing my job...just like you..."

"Yeah, tell that to someone who gives a fuck....you've got two minutes before I start the show and run the video. Gotta make it look good. Want me to send a copy to your Mum?"

Deborah closed her eyes and began to pray. Even now it didn't seem possible that he was simply going to pull the trigger and take her life.

"Nothing to say for yourself? No last confession? No messages for the loved ones at home? Or is there no one there who will actually give a damn?"

She raised her head and opened her eyes. "Just tell Terry, I'm sorry. That the last man on earth I thought of at the end was him. And it helped me through..."

He did not respond but his eyes registered an element of surprise at her words. Raising himself to his feet, he stood behind her, pulled on a hooded cap and struck a pose, using a remote to start the camera. He spoke no words, just letting the lens take in the tableau: Faceless executioner dressed in black, woman kneeling at his feet, tearstained but composed, and the garish banner behind. Then he pointed the gun at the base of the back of her neck and pulled the trigger.

Bright and early in the hotel entrance and Terry was pacing around in annoyance, waiting for Deborah to show. He called her room and cell but there was no answer. Hitting the number for Shaw, one of the secret service men, he barked. "Tell Stavin to get a move on!"

"Yes, sir!"

Moments later he returned call. "I knocked. No answer. She's not there. Her room's empty, sir."

"What?"

"She's gone. She must have gone down already."

"And you two goons didn't notice?" But warning bells were sounding. "Don't touch anything. I'm coming up."

On his floor, he entered her room via his own and surveyed it carefully from the doorway. The bed had been slept in. Her negligee was draped over the back of a chair. The room had been thoroughly ransacked: makeup box emptied and scattered on the dresser, shoes and clothes dragged out of the wardrobe and flung about, her handbag open, the contents spilled, a few books ripped apart and document holders scattered here and there, their pages rifled. Her laptop had disappeared. Chairs and tables were overturned and a lamp had been broken.

Walking inside, he wandered about crouching down occasionally to examine marks or traces on the carpet which indicated dried mud brought in by shoes. In the ash tray he found a cigarette with the sweet clove smell of a local brand.

"She's been abducted from the room."

"Sir? But...but..."Shaw gasped.

"Save it. She's gone. Get the local boys on this and the minister on the phone. I'm gonna play fucking hell with him now..."

"You think someone took her? Who? Is this some terrorist group?"

Terry gave Shaw a withering look. "Well, that's how it appears. Can't see how anyone could come to any other conclusion. All the evidence points that way..."

But his inner thoughts were on an entirely different track. So they let her change into a burkah and laid her nightie neatly over the chair? They stopped for a fag? Before or after they ransacked the place and struggled with her? It was a forensics dream. If they had painted Allah Al-Akbar on the wall it couldn't have been any more clear who had done this.

But there were just a few things that did not add up. How had the sort of raving fanatics who were given to this sort of behaviour able to walk through a five star hotel, pass high level security and evade the secret service agents on the corridor? How had disruption of this level not woken the guy in the adjoining room who was rarely given to heavy sleeping these days? And wouldn't he himself have been the preferred target realistically?

Whatever had happened in this room and wherever Deborah was, he very much doubted that it was anything like what it appeared to be. He even suspected he had been played for a fool and this was a set up either to hamper his negotiations and discredit him or for them to take a new and more US-friendly direction as a sop to exonerate the government from any involvement in this kidnap. Jesus Christ, if there was an agenda going on behind his back, heads would roll. Stavin's first and foremost.

The body was found in the late afternoon. A battered car speeded through a tenement district, screeched to a halt and someone tossed the bundle out onto the dirty street and sped off. At first people ran, half expecting a bomb, but when nothing happened, police were called in and explosives experts arrived, quickly confirming that the body was clean, it was no booby trap and the business of removing the remains began.

International news agencies had already picked up the story of the disappearance and possible abduction of a translator working with a UN mission in the city; pictures of Deborah Maynard Stavin had been flashed around the world and even before the body was recovered to confirm the assassination of this gifted young academic, speculation was rife about the nature of the assignment in which she had been involved.

Annie had been sitting in her office, working through a manuscript with the radio playing in the background about four in the afternoon. She was vaguely listening to the news, something about an American woman kidnapped in a Middle Eastern capital. Poor thing, Annie thought in passing. She won't have much chance there, God help her. The news reporter in the studio introduced some international expert and they began speculating on the whereabouts of the woman and on her purpose for being in such a tense spot. Apparently she was on a mission for the UN - but the experts suspected that this mission might be a front for something more secret.

"According to my sources, Ms. Stavin was rather over qualified for the job of a translator, suggesting that she had more than one role in the mission..."

 

Stavin? Annie's head shot up; she leaned over to turn up the sound. Stavin? It wasn't exactly a common name...

"...The leader of the team appears to be an Australian national by the name of Terrence Thorne. He is a rather shady if legitimate character, ex- SAS, who appears to be something of a back room boy with a history in negotiation....not your average UN delegate..."

Terry? Her heart skipped a beat. What had happened? She knew he had suggested he was going away somewhere dangerous the last time they had spoken. Dear God, what was he caught up in now?

Liam heard the news much later that evening as he switched channels on the TV in the apartment the record company had provided for him in London. The picture of Deborah Stavin stopped his trigger finger dead on the remote and he watched transfixed as the report of the finding of her body, scenes of the location of the discovery and a short resume of her life and career were shown. Then the screen flashed to some ministerial government building and a crowd of reporters fighting to get a word from a man who was being escorted through the throng by bodyguards. It was his father. He watched in stunned silence, his mouth open, as Terry answered a curt: "No comment," before being led to a limousine with darkened windows and driven off at speed.

He stayed glued as the panel of experts scrutinized the little they knew; everyone agreed this was a typical extremist Islamic group execution but the interest seemed more focused on the purpose of the mission the dead woman had been on - and there was a lot of interest in his father's role. His name was obviously well known enough for interest to be high that there was a juicy piece of intrigue here to uncover. Liam imagined his father would be appalled to find himself in the public eye. He also wondered what his internal reaction was to this brutal killing of Deborah Stavin.

Pouring himself a shot of whisky, Liam ran his hands down his face and scratched nervously at his hair. It was too much of a coincidence. Less than a week ago he had asked Nick to intervene and find out more about Stavin. Nick had warned him his methods might not be to his taste. Now Stavin was dead.

Was he now in fact an accessory to murder?

She waited for him to return, aware that he would have been on a plane within hours of the body being dumped. Her assumption was correct, he was back home by mid morning the next day.

From the window of the upstairs landing, she watched him jump out of the open top sports car, clap his hands at Stinker and swagger up to the door. Nick was in a great mood, relaxed and happy, taking the steps a few at a time and bounding up as eager as the dog himself. She was surprised he wasn't barking.

"Zoe? You in? I'm back....!" she heard him shout from down below. Then he stopped short; he must have seen the luggage in the hallway. "Zoe? You going somewhere?"

She began to descend the stairs slowly one by one, her heart beating in her chest. She had rehearsed what she was going to say all night but now the moment had come and he was standing there before her, it really wasn't as easy as she imagined.

"Zoe? What's up?" His voice, excited and eager a few moments before had fallen to almost a whisper. He could sense acutely that she was angry with him.

At the bottom of the stairs, Zoe stopped and stood looking at him, wondering if somewhere she would find in his eyes just one sign of remorse or guilt. But there was none. He just looked confused. "Zoe? Talk to me....has something happened?"

She sighed. "Where've you been, Nick?"

"You know I had to sort a few things out...."

"What things, Nick?"

He licked his lips nervously. "I had to try and help clear up the mess. I told you I would know more when I'd done a little more work on it..."

"Clear up the mess? Can you be a little bit more precise?"

He dropped his eyes from hers and indicated the luggage all stacked up neatly in the hallway. "Where are you going?"

"You haven't answered my question," she insisted, stepping down from the last tread and standing in front of him.

"What do you want me to say? I stepped in because you and Liam suspected that your father was being set up...I did what I could..."

"Don't you dare try to offset blame onto me and my brother!" she snapped at him.

Nick held his hands up. "Whoah, baby...back off....what's eating you? I'm not blaming anyone....look, I have no idea what this is leading to...will you be more precise, love?"

Zoe took a few steps away from him and then turned sharply. "Deborah Stavin was found murdered. The tragedy bears all the hallmarks of an Al Qaeda-inspired type execution. My father's name has been shot round the world on televisions screens. It is a major international incident. Deborah's body has been flown back to Washington for a funeral with full military honours. Coffin draped in the flag, Committal at Arlington cemetery. Posthumous decoration for bravery..."

"That so?" Nick responded casually, blinking lazily. There was an almost smug expression on his handsome face. He was proud of what he had done.

"Yes. That is so. You don't seem very surprised."

He shrugged. "Shit happens. I didn't like the bitch. Neither did you. Don't pretend you're sorry for her...it won't wash..."

"NICK! Did you kill her?"

"Me? Why would I kill her? Thought it was some Arab wackjobs. Isn't that what they're saying?" He stared at her with his cocky manner, daring her to call him on it further.

"Don't lie to me! I found your stash of weapons. Two guns were missing..."

"You been searching my private things?" He was angry now, a sudden flare of fire in his dark eyes.

"Stink inadvertently led me to it. That is not relevant so don't you dare try and deflect the issue! You took two guns with you and went to sort out Deborah Stavin. She is now dead! You killed her. I know you did. Don't dare lie to me!"

Nick hunched his shoulders petulantly. "So I killed her. The bitch got what was coming to her. You hated her. She destroyed your family. She was still tying your father up in knots..."

"You did kill her? You can stand there and admit you murdered an innocent woman?"

"Innocent? Stavin? She was a queen bitch...!"

"Yeah, she was a bitch. A selfish manipulative home breaker! A thoroughly horrible person. But I am not aware that being a bitch is a capital offence these days. Are you seriously telling me you shot a woman in the back of the head and dumped her body because she had an affair with a friend of yours and broke up his marriage? Are you completely crazy?"

"She showed your father a video of you and me having sex in a public place. She was trying to recruit him to take me out..."

Zoe listened to his explanation and put her hands to her head. "She was CIA. She set Dad up. She's a spook. That is the sort of shit they do. The sort of shit that you do - and no doubt my Dad has too in his day! You of all people should appreciate the irony of all that!"

Nick was simmering now. "Jesus Christ! I do this for you and you are arguing her fucking case! Yeah, I killed Stavin. No, I do not feel in the least sorry. Doubt anyone does. Bet your Dad's celebrating right now. Zoe...I did this for you....for us...to wipe the slate clean so we can all start again..."

"You killed a woman for me? How is that possibly for me?" She put her hands across her face and moaned. "Are you saying that you're going to kill anyone who upsets me in future? Is that how this works. That's how you prove you love me and are worthy for me? My prof might give me a bad grade - shoot him, Nick! My future boss might refuse me a raise!  Let's shoot him! The hairdresser gives me a bad cut...hey Nickie, waste her for me? Are you serious? You think to kill a human being for me is a sign of your love? That's what a cat does when he brings you a dead mouse! Nick, you're an animal not a man....you disgust me beyond words. I stayed here so I could tell you just how much you disgust me. I'm leaving. Going to a friend's place and then back to the States. Do not attempt to come after me. But I didn't want to go without giving you the chance to say your peace..."

"No! No! You can't mean it! No!" Nick ran forward and grabbed her roughly. "I won't let you go. You're mine! I've had it with this naïve shit of yours. The world's a tough place, so get over it. I'm a tough man - that's just the way it is. You're going nowhere....you are staying here with me where you belong..." His grip tightened on her upper arms and she saw the wild rage in his eyes - and the desperate fear. But this time, he couldn't move her or wear down her resistance. This time he had gone too far.

His eyes were blinking rapidly like a computer programme struggling to cope with the amount of input. Zoe tried to shrug off his hold but he would not let her go; he was beginning to hurt her.

"It's my turn now, is it? I'd be even easier to control if I were dead, hey? They all are then. They can't say no or walk away from you when they're dead, can they?"

He was breathing heavily, panting, sweat beading on his upper lip. "I would never hurt you...you know that!"

"No, Nick, perhaps you wouldn't..." she replied softly as his finger eased their hold and she pulled away. "...Just everyone and anyone else who stands between me and you until there is no one left for you to kill.  And you know what you would find then? I still wouldn't want you near me ever again." They both stared at each other, Zoe defiant, with tears of disappointment in him trickling down her cheeks, Nick in a stunned horror. Each word she said made him flinch, he even seemed to have physically shrunk from the man who had run in a few minutes earlier. He was completely speechless, pale beneath his tan, the blood draining from his face and his fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to keep himself from passing out.

"...So you better put that bullet through my brain now because that's the only way you'll ever keep me here..."

She took her cases and wheeled them put of the door, the dog running between the two of them sensing the dangerous undertone of the atmosphere and whining pitifully. Zoe looked back from the door; Nick had fallen to his knees and was staring after her in horror. She walked out and slammed the door behind her.

She heard his howl of anguish as he screamed her name. It was the call of a wounded beast.