Barely a page had gone by when Bennett heard the key turn in the lock. He looked up to see one of the black suits standing in the doorway. A jerk of the head. “Venez.”

  Bennett followed him along the corridor, through the kitchen, and down a flight of worn stone steps that led to the cellar, which ran the length of the house. Bennett stopped on the last step, taking in a sight that would have given a teetotaler nightmares. Floor-to-ceiling brick compartments had been built along each wall, and each whitewashed compartment bristled with bottles. The various wines had been organized by origin and identified by varnished wooden signs, the black, hand-painted letters on white backgrounds looking formal and Dickensian. Meursault, Krug, Romanée-Conti, Petrus, Figeac, Lafite-Rothschild, Yquem—the great names were well represented, and, Bennett had no doubt, the great years as well.

  “A comforting sight, Mr. Bennett, don’t you think? One of the best private cellars in France, so they tell me.” Poe was sitting at a small table, his leatherbound cellar book open in front of him, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He took them off and stood up. “But I didn’t drag you down here to look at bottles. Come with me. I’d like you to see something equally impressive, in its own way.” He was relaxed and affable; suspiciously affable. Bennett had the feeling he was about to have an unpleasant experience.

  Poe opened a door at the far end of the cellar. As they went through, Bennett had to narrow his eyes against the glare of hard light that bounced off the walls of an austere white space.

  “This is Shimo’s pride and joy,” said Poe. “His personal dojo. He spends hours in here. I’ve asked him to give us a short demonstration, something to divert you from the tedium of captivity. I thought you’d find it fascinating to see what the human body can do.”

  The room was a rectangle, perhaps forty feet by twenty, with mirrored walls and a floor of polished pine. Apart from a narrow slatted bench beside the door, the only fixture was what looked like a diving board standing on its end, its base embedded in the floor, the top twelve inches of its surface covered with a binding of straw.

  “That’s a striking post,” Poe said. “The Japanese name escapes me for the moment, but Shimo says there’s nothing like it for conditioning the knuckles. There are days when he gets quite carried away. I’ve known him to hit it a thousand times without stopping. Ah, here’s the man himself.”

  Shimo came through from the cellar without acknowledging them. He was barefoot, dressed in a white canvas training suit, a black belt tied around his waist. He was carrying a short bamboo pole, two inches thick, which he placed by the bench before going to the center of the room.

  Poe’s voice, still genial, was little more than a whisper.

  “Take a look at the belt. See where it’s worn through to the white threads? That’s from years of use. He’s been a black belt since he was a young man. Now he’s sixth dan. Quite exceptionally gifted, so my Japanese friends tell me.”

  Bennett whispered back. “What’s the bamboo for?”

  “One of Shimo’s party tricks. You’ll see.”

  Shimo began warming up, his feet spread to shoulder width, his movements continuous and fluid, arms crossing and recrossing his body, his face blank with concentration. He could have been a dancer, Bennett thought, graceful and poised.

  And then the tempo changed. Smooth, peaceful movements gave way to blurs of controlled violence as Shimo moved into a pattern of punching, kicking, and blocking, his body staying perfectly balanced, the destructive force behind his feet and fists apparent even from a distance. Bennett changed his mind. That was no dancer. That was a weapon on legs.

  Shimo continued the sequence of disciplined mayhem, moving gradually toward the bench where the two spectators were sitting. A final spin and a head-high kick placed him, crouched and still, in front of Bennett. He looked into Bennett’s eyes, a deep, guttural roar came from his throat, and his arm shot out like a piston.

  It was the sudden blast of noise, as much as anything, that made Bennett’s head jerk backward. When he looked down, he saw that Shimo’s fist had stopped with the swollen, calcified knuckles touching his shirtfront a fraction of an inch from his heart.

  “Lucky he’s such a good judge of distance,” said Poe, as Shimo straightened and moved back. “Another few inches, and that would have killed you. The sound effects are interesting, too, don’t you think? It’s what they call the spirit shout. The idea is to unify the mind and body and shock the enemy while the blow is being delivered.” Poe smiled at Bennett. “Makes boxing under Queensberry rules look rather tame, doesn’t it?”

  Bennett let out his breath and swallowed. “Does he ever do this seriously—I mean, fighting someone?”

  “There aren’t too many men in the world at his level. Most of them are in Tokyo, which is a long way to go for a scrap.” Poe nodded toward the center of the room. “Watch this.”

  Shimo had taken up his position in front of the striking post, staring at it as though he intended to turn it into firewood. He started to punch, straight-armed blows coming from the shoulder, vicious and precise. The post bent under each impact, sprang back, bent again.

  “That’s called a focused punch,” Poe said. “One shudders to think what it might do to the human head.”

  A hundred, two hundred punches, with no apparent signs of diminished power—and then the final punch, delivered with another explosive roar, half grunt, half shout. The striking post quivered. Shimo stepped back, turned, and came over to the bench. His eyes never left Bennett as he picked up the bamboo pole and held it at arm’s length, in front of Bennett’s face. His body tensed. Hypnotized, Bennett watched the hand holding the bamboo, saw the tremor of concentrated effort as the fingers tightened, saw the bulge of muscle by the base of the thumb, saw, with disbelief, the thumb split and penetrate the wood.

  Shimo’s arm dropped to his side. He handed the bamboo to Bennett, inclined his head to Poe, and left the dojo.

  Poe took the bamboo and ran his fingers over the split made by Shimo’s thumb. “Don’t know how he does it. Of course, this is merely a strengthening exercise. In a combat situation, the thumb would be used to rupture the windpipe, or take out an eye. Not a man to trifle with, our Shimo.” He passed the bamboo back, and smiled. “You might like to keep this as a souvenir.”

  Back in his room, Bennett stared out at the landscape and tried to forget what he’d just seen. It had been the “alternative” that Poe had mentioned, a brutal and graphic reminder of what he could expect if he was foolish enough not to volunteer his services. Bennett fingered his throat and thought of Shimo’s steel thumb. How much longer before he could get out of here?

  ——

  Shimo came for him late the following afternoon. Bennett had mixed feelings as he followed the Japanese, welcoming the prospect of activity but apprehensive about what it might be. They climbed broad stone steps to a part of the building Bennett had seen only from outside, the tower that grew out of one corner of the house. Shimo knocked, then opened a heavy steel door, and they entered an office from the twenty-first century.

  Poe was sitting behind his desk, a thick oblong of polished teak supported by a single chromed-steel column. The wall facing him was entirely covered by the flickering, silent images appearing on a dozen screens. Behind him, a line of smaller screens, for the moment blank, and a matching pair of fax machines. The gray mass of a computer occupied the whole of an alcove to one side. There was a level, barely audible hum coming from the assembled equipment, the sound of electronic breathing. It was a cold, efficient room. No books, no pictures, no softness anywhere.

  Shimo nodded at Bennett to sit on one of the low leather-and-chrome chairs in front of the desk, and they waited while Poe finished making notes on a pad, took off his glasses, and, rather to Bennett’s surprise, smiled and nodded.

  “Well, Mr. Bennett, you’ll be pleased to hear that your period in durance vile is very nearly over. I hope it hasn’t been too uncomfortable. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to let you out of the house during daylight, but as I told you, there are watchers in the hills out there, and it wouldn’t do at all if your face were seen. Most unhealthy.” He smiled again, the picture of a benevolent host concerned with his guest’s welfare. “I must say, it’s gratifying when one’s competitors behave predictably. Puts me in rather a good humor, as you’ve probably noticed.” He leaned back, and smoothed the dark-blue silk of his shirtfront with a tanned and manicured hand.

  “As I thought he would, our Italian friend Tuzzi has succumbed to greed, which is his habit, and he is planning an auction. The bidders are to meet in Cannes, where they will be taken on board Tuzzi’s boat.” The corners of Poe’s mouth turned down in distaste. “The Ragazza di Napoli, if you can believe that. Neapolitan Girl seems an inappropriate name for one of the largest and ugliest gin palaces in the Mediterranean, but that’s Italians for you. Sentimental to the core. Anyway, the auction will be conducted at sea, sailing west. Tuzzi has an estate on Ibiza, and he goes there every summer to play the squire and chase little Spanish girls. Repulsive creature.”

  Bennett hardly heard Poe’s comments about Tuzzi’s summer plans; his mind was still taking in the horror of being cooped up on a boat with a bunch of brigands. And he was supposed to outwit them, steal the case, and return to dry land in one piece. The whole thing was a nightmare.

  “You’re looking glum, Mr. Bennett. What’s the matter? Poor sailor?”

  Bennett clutched at the excuse. “The worst. I’ve been seasick in port. Even the deep end of a swimming pool—”

  Poe cut him short. “Take some pills. As I was saying, the boat will be sailing west. Once the auction is over, all the bidders will be put ashore at one of the ports along the French coast, but I have every confidence that you’ll have made the switch by then. If not, you’ll have to stick close to the buyer.”

  “Switch?” Bennett wondered if he’d missed something vital. “What switch?”

  Poe chuckled, enjoying the game he was playing. “Surely you don’t think I’d send you on this important errand unprepared?” He swiveled around in his chair and bent down. When he straightened up, he was holding the identical twin of the case Bennett had last seen in Monaco. Poe placed it on the desk. “This will fit easily into an overnight bag.” He snapped open the lid. “Obviously,” he said, “the contents are counterfeit. The vials are filled with doctored water, and the paperwork is bogus, but it all looks authentic enough, I think. Particularly if nobody is expecting a substitution. Here, take a look.”

  Bennett leaned over to inspect the contents of the case. The top section was taken up by rows of vials set into a bed of foam rubber, each vial labeled in a spidery French hand, corked, and wax-sealed. The rest of the case contained dossiers. Bennett flicked through them: pages of formulae, computer printouts, notes on soil conditions and irrigation, temperature charts—more than enough to deceive anyone who didn’t have a degree in agricultural science. He felt a sense of reluctant admiration at Poe’s thoroughness. “It would fool me,” he said.

  “No doubt,” said Poe. He closed the lid and turned the tumblers on the lock. “It’s set at the same combination as the original. You like women, Mr. Bennett, so it should be easy enough to remember: thirty-six twenty-four thirty-six.” Poe then picked up a small, dark-blue box and pushed it to the edge of the desk. “Your cover.”

  Bennett opened the box and saw the engraved copperplate of a traditional business card, announcing that the Honorable L. Bennett was president of Consolidated European Investments S.A., with an office in Zurich.

  “As you see, I’ve promoted you to Honorable. Italians love titles, and Tuzzi’s a frightful snob—probably comes from being such a vulgarian himself. He’ll be impressed. In fact, we’ve already contacted his people, sent them your card with a covering letter. They’re delighted that the aristocratic representative of a Swiss investment syndicate is coming to join the auction. Any calls or faxes to the numbers on the card will be rerouted via Zurich to us here. Isn’t technology a blessing?”

  Bennett took a card from the box and ran his thumbnail over the surface, feeling the raised letters of the copperplate.

  Poe laughed. “I can assure you they’re the very best quality. We wouldn’t want our noble bidder to be embarrassed by shoddy stationery.”

  Bennett stared at the card with a mounting sense of awful inevitability. He seemed to have no choice but to go through with it. He looked up at Poe, who was watching with a patient, slightly amused expression, and made one last attempt to get himself off the hook that was biting into him more deeply every minute. “Look, it’ll never work. I’m just not the man for the job. I can’t deal with a gang of thugs all by myself.…”

  “Come, come, Mr. Bennett. Where’s your spirit of adventure? In any case, you won’t be by yourself. All the time you’re on land, at least two of my men will be keeping a discreet eye on you. We shall be tracking the progress of the boat. And when you run away to sea, you’ll have an assistant—a most able assistant—to come on board with you. It’s all been arranged.”

  Bennett glanced at Shimo.

  “No, Mr. Bennett, not Shimo. I won’t spoil the surprise for you. All you have to do is meet the Delta flight coming into Nice tomorrow morning from New York. Carry this for identification.” Poe slid a copy of the London Financial Times across his desk, the distinctive pink paper pale against the dark wood. “You’ll be approached. All clear?”

  Bennett bowed to the inevitable, and nodded. “There’s just one point. You know, looking on the bright side—you mentioned a bonus.”

  Poe looked at him speculatively. “I do believe you’re entering into the spirit of things at last. Shall we say ten thousand dollars?”

  Bennett hesitated, then decided not to push his luck. “Fine.”

  “Excellent. You’ll be leaving tonight, as soon as it’s dark. Call me tomorrow from Monaco, when you get back from the airport, and we’ll go over your sailing arrangements. And Mr. Bennett?” Poe put his hands flat on the desk and stood up. “Don’t even think of attempting anything foolish. I would take it very badly, after all the inconvenience you’ve caused me.”

  ——

  It was close to midnight by the time a pensive, hungry Bennett let himself into the apartment, to be welcomed by a note left on the hall table:

  Dear Bennett:

  Guess what? I’m smitten! I met this rather divine Frenchman the day after you left, and one thing has led to another. It’s brilliant! And it’s all thanks to you. I’m sure you managed to charm your way out of the little problem—you always do.

  Must dash. Jean-Paul’s taking me up to Paris. He has an apartment on the Île Saint-Louis. Isn’t that romantic?

  Big kiss,

  Susie

  Bennett was too drained to feel any worse than he already felt. He went into the kitchen, found a stale baguette, and opened the fridge. Next to a forgotten pot of Susie’s face cream was a leathery slice of Brie. He chewed without tasting, set his alarm, and went to an unmade, empty, and faintly perfumed bed.

  9

  BENNETT was up at dawn. He stood on the terrace, drinking coffee and feeling sorry for himself as he watched the first layers of light trickle across the surface of the sea. A street-cleaning truck grumbled up the hill below him, spraying and scrubbing the sidewalks so that they would be suitably pristine for the privileged feet of Monaco’s residents. For them, it would be another fine, carefree day, a day of sunshine, with perhaps a gentle stroll to the bank to visit their money before lunch—the kind of day he should have been looking forward to. Then he considered reality: a trip to the airport to pick up some gorilla, followed by danger, a good chance of failure, and an unknown but certainly nasty retribution. His coffee suddenly tasted bitter. He tossed the dregs into a tub of geraniums, and went inside to dress for his ordeal.

  He drove along the coast, the morning air cool and still fume-free, the sun coming up fast over his shoulder, and parked behind the terminal with ten minutes to spare before the New York flight was scheduled to arrive. But it was early, and by the time he reached the gate the first passengers were coming through, gritty-eyed, rumpled, and yawning after spending a night above the Atlantic. Bennett held the Financial Times like a pink banner in front of his chest and made guesses about the man he was going to meet. Poe’s business colleagues were becoming murkier by the day, and Bennett assumed, because of the Italian involvement, that Poe had found a recruit from one of the New York families. A Sicilian equivalent of Shimo, no doubt, handy with knife, gun, and garrote. He scanned the passengers, looking for someone with a blue-black chin and matching suit.

  After five minutes, he had seen nobody who resembled the caricature, and he was hoping against hope that the immigration authorities had come to his aid and arrested his prospective partner, when a tap on the shoulder made him start.

  “You’re Bennett, right?”

  He turned to see a girl—a tall, dark girl, her eyebrows raised as she waited for his reply. “Well? Are you?”

  Bennett nodded, and found his voice. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Anna Hersh. Where’s your suit? You don’t look like one of the usual goons.”

  “Good God. Are you …?”

  The girl smiled, amused by his surprise. “What did you expect? Uncle Vinnie from the Bronx? Didn’t Poe tell you?”

  “No. He just said to turn up with the newspaper.”

  The smile faded. “He loves his little games.” She shook her head. “God, he hasn’t changed.”

  Bennett was still in mild shock. He was looking—staring—at beauty instead of the anticipated beast. Her hair was closer to black than brown, shiny and cut as short as a man’s. The whites of her eyes were startling and accentuated the deep brown of the pupils. A long, fine-boned nose, olive skin, a strong mouth, a succulent lower lip. Dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt and an old leather jacket, she stood almost as tall as Bennett.